The Education of Giacomo Jones Ch. 06

Possum Dick.

A nickname he got in his first weeks at Fulbright, but damned if anyone had any clear memory of why and how he got the appellation that somehow seemed to fit, that was unique and that, somehow, Adcock seemed to like, even though it belied his keen, well-read mind. It stuck, at least with his teammates if not the broader Fulbright academic community.

Maybe that unfortunate nickname would follow poor Elmer through his remaining seasons at Fulbright, into the early years of whatever livelihood beckoned him, into his years as a dad and a granddad. And sure, maybe on some game day decades hence in Fulbright Stadium or at a tailgate in the Reserve, a graying teammate might introduce a graying Adcock to his wife, children, perhaps his grandchildren as "Possum Dick" Adcock.

But from now on, this moment in which he proffered his concern about the nickname to his coach and his teammates would live forever in the lore of this 2022 Fulbright Generals football team, often to be repeated and always to evoke warm laughter. It's something nobody outside this brotherhood could comprehend. It's strictly an inside thing, something shared only by this bonded group. And to those who don't get it, these long-ago players will say, with full honesty, "You had to be there."

As these players were. This instant. On this cool, late November afternoon on a practice field largely devoid of grass from a full season of cleats and practice when the soul of the greatest football team ever to take the field wearing Fulbright green and gold was improbably, magically restored.

It was Mojo Hale who grasped that point and, as he had done so many times in this wild and tempestuous season, was the first to stand and put it in words that only Mojo could speak.

"Y'all, you know how Saturday did me. Y'all seen me in the locker room cryin' like a baby 'cuz the chance we had to play for a championship was gone. I wanted that. Y'all wanted that. Wanted it bad. But that don't undo all the great things we did this year! We won that first game nobody give us any chance to win. Every week, muhfuckers kept doubting us and talkin' shit, and we just kept provin' 'em wrong," Mojo said.

"We won nine games so far, and that's something this school ain't done since like the 1960s, and that included winnin' a bowl. Yeah, I looked that shit up," he said. "This weekend, we got the chance to win 10 in a regular season for the first time ever and then win an eleventh in a goddamn good bowl. Til this fall, I ain't never won more'n five in a season all the way back to middle school."

"Now I know most of us come out here this afternoon wondering why we even here, what we got to play for," Mojo said, his words now measured. "Well, coach said it pretty good just then — only thing he could say that's real. What we got is ... us. We got all of us, and all the sweat, all the pain, all the fear, all the sadness ... all the happiness we got from winning and just from being together."

"Y'all know I stuck around here for this year 'cuz I wanted to win, something I ain't never got to do. We ain't won 'em all, naw, but we done damn good, and I wouldn't take nothing in the world for it, for the chance to do it with y'all — all of yall. You mean everything to me to me and I love y'all."

Heads nodded. Some players swallowed hard. Tears formed in the eyes of others. The players, the coaches and the staff all listened to this passionate giant bare his soul and speak a redeeming truth desperately needed in the moment. Other than the sniffling from some players, the field was silent and wholly attentive.

"And I gotta tell y'all one last goddamn thing," Hale said. "Y'all look around you right now. Look at the guys to the left of you, to your right, in front, in back. Take a picture of it in yo mind and remember it, OK? 'Cuz 'fore you know it, this all be gone. This is November the 21st. We lookin' good for a New Year's Eve or New Year's Day bowl, something else this school ain't done in like a ... century. That means that in about a month and 10 days, we gonna be all done as a team — this team right here. We will have played our last game together."

"Y'all think about that. Think real fuckin' hard. And if that don't give us enough reason to want to go stomp the shit out of Florida this Friday and tell the world again who we are, then you might as well get yo ass on up and in the dressing room. I ain't give up on y'all, ... on this team. And lookin' around, I don't see nobody else who has, either."

The Fulbright Generals football team sprang to its feet and roared. Had they been asked to run through a cinderblock wall at that moment, they could have.

Perry Hemphill and the coaches had quietly, unobtrusively retreated well outside of the circle, wisely realizing that this was — as it had to be — the ultimate players-only moment. But as they stood there, they could not help but be moved by the truth and power of Mojo's words. Tears streamed down the faces of grown men who had given up on wiping them away. Well back from the crowd, even beyond the orbit of the coaches, Gia Jones turned away and wept openly.

The equipment staff member with the air horn and the responsibility to watch the clock and keep the written practice timetable on schedule looked down at his grid and the clock on his iPhone. This team's heart-to-heart had consumed nearly 20 minutes and counting. Already, it would push the conclusion of practice past sunset, but he wasn't about to hit the horn and rupture what he recognized as a profound moment in the story of the 2022 team.

It was another three minutes before Perry Hemphill walked back into the midst of his players and asked for their silence.

"Guys, ... that was the most special moment I've ever seen a team have and this is why I don't think I will ever have a season that will mean more - a team that will mean more - to me than you," Hemphill said, his voice faltering. "Greatness will always be your legacy."

"Now, I don't know where we are on the practice schedule, but let's get back to it. We got a game to win, and by God we're going to play to win it," he said, and with that the air horn blew and the offense and defense segregated themselves onto different practice fields. The renewed intensity and sense of purpose was unmistakable.

Every coach on the field that afternoon, their combined experience totaling well more than 100 years, would say for the rest of their years in coaching that this 25-minute disruption and the leadership these players showed may have been the most productive use of practice time they would ever know.

●●●

Gia rode in Rance's SUV to her residence hall in a strange silence. They walked hurriedly inside after Rance parked. All of which had Rance's antennae up.

"So much going on, right now, Rance, and all of it pretty consequential," Gia said. She had opened the drawer to her study desk searching for something. When she found the envelope she was looking for, she handed it to Rance. "Read it and tell me what you think."

Rance sat down on the love seat as his eyes darted across the letter from Caroline Agostinelli of "60 Minutes." About 20 seconds later, he exhaled, set the letter down on the cushion beside him and shook his head.

"Well, we already knew Whitaker was out," Rance said. "So I suppose what matters is how you feel about this. We'll do what you want."

"You might have known about Whitaker being out, but this was the first I heard of it. Did you know Whitaker was out? How did you know? Who told you?" Gia said, clearly irritated.

"Didn't I tell you? I thought I told you ... last week," Rance said. "Oh my God, I can't believe I didn't tell you. Shit! How did I overlook that? I am so sorry, Gia. I ... I just ... I dropped the ball. I fucked up bigtime."

"When did you find out," she asked.

"It was last Monday or Tuesday, I think. Glazer caught up with me as I was walking onto the field for practice and told me. It pissed me off and he was giving me some bullshit song-and-dance about maybe doing some media for 'GameDay' on ESPN since it would be live from the Reserve, and I blew him off. He had all day to tell me and here it was the start of practice and I had my mind on the Tennessee game," he said. "I guess I just put it out of my mind during practice and never put it back on my mind during that week."

Gia stood against the counter of her kitchenette, her arms folded across her chest, listening to and looking at Rance, nodding noncommittally. Her gaze wasn't as accusatory as it had been but it still lacked that loving quality he was accustomed to.

"It's frustrating, Rance," she said. "This is a bit of info highly material to me — to both of us — and I don't like getting blindsided by it. I mean, there's no real damage done, but I need to know that you'll be sharing what you know about this for ... however long until it's not a thing in our lives anymore."

Rance nodded, his head bowed, seemingly in penance. She had him dead to rights and he felt awful about letting her down. He certainly didn't mean to relegate her to anything less than his top priority, but the consequences made her feel that way and that is what pained his conscience far more than he thought was possible.

"I am so sorry I fucked this up, Gia. It hurts me to know I let it happen, and I don't have any rational or acceptable explanation for it. But I promise to you, nothing like that will ever happen again," he said.

Gia could see from the contrition etched on his face and the sorrow in his eyes that he was contrite and that he was sincere in his promise. After all, he hadn't lied to her. He hadn't cheated on her. He just forgot something. Her face softened. She nodded.

"Thank you," she said, picking up Caroline Agostinelli's full-page letter and sitting on the spot it had occupied beside Rance. "So ... this. What do you think? I was sold on Bill Whitaker, but I can't go back and stream old episodes of Caroline on-air. I am impressed with her letter and it sounds sincere. But I just don't know ..."

Rance shrugged. "She put her cell number right there. Why don't we call her? Talk to her — what's the term? — off the record?"

"Now?" she said.

"Why not?"

Rance pulled his iPhone from his pocket and entered the number on the screen. He showed Gia the phone. "Push the button if you want to do this now."

She looked at the phone, back at Rance, and then back at the face of the phone. Tentatively, her finger moved to the screen, tapped the red icon and they could hear the muffled sound of Caroline Agostinelli's phone ringing. Rance hit the speakerphone button.

"This is Caroline," a voice answered.

"Hi ... this is Gia - Giacomo - Jones at Fulbright University. I got your letter today ..." she said.

"Oh thank you so much for calling so promptly, Gia," Caroline said in what Gia recognized right away as a north New Jersey accent, setting her somewhat at ease. But then, Geno Millions also shared that accent.

"What questions can I answer for you regarding this segment, that I hope I can persuade you to do, on New Jersey's juvenile justice system abuses? Clearly, yours is the most recognizable story about the horrible consequences of mismanagement and negligence that go all the way to the top levels of state government here, but the problems go far beyond the Gennaro Millientello case."

"Well ...," Gia said tentatively, "... I think you did a pretty good job explaining the broad parameters of that and introducing yourself in your letter. As you know, Bill Whitaker has a body of on-camera work that we could watch and find a comfort level, so we're sort of starting over with a new reporter."

"I very much understand, Gia," Caroline said.

"Hi Caroline, this is Rance Martin, Gia's friend. She and I have sort of gone through this together and I think what we're looking for is a way to get to know more about you both as a journalist and a person. Our sports information director, Mitch Glazer, was an old friend of Whitaker's. They knew each other from their days in New York when Mitch was at Sports Illustrated. They used to go to Giants and Knicks and Yankees games together, and Mitch vouched for Bill. We also watched a segment he did recently and liked his manner, so we decided to make this the one interview we'd do," he said.

"Clearly, this is still a very big, very important and very difficult thing in our lives, Gia's in particular, and so I think what we're saying is we want to get a better sense of who you are and see if we can develop the right, you know, ... trust?" he said.

Caroline's answer surprised them both.

"You know what, a phone call is OK, but I think you guys deserve to look me in the eye and see me for who I am. I can fly down there tomorrow if need be and spend as much time with you as you need. I am happy to do that," she said.

Rance and Gia looked at each other, eyes wide.

"Well, this is a pretty tight week, Ms. Agostinelli," Gia said. "We're both involved in the football program, as you may know, and we have the last regular season game a day early in a holiday week, on Friday at Florida, and as soon as we get back that evening, we're driving to Charleston to spend what's left of the long weekend with family."

"What works best for you? I can be there early next week if you like," the correspondent said.

Gia was scrolling through the appointment app on her phone. Finals would commence the week after they returned from the Thanksgiving break. Football practice would probably not resume until Wednesday or Thursday of that week — maybe not until the following week — and then it would most likely be light conditioning and fundamental skills drills until after the bowl pairings were announced the weekend after that. Other than classes and a lot of studying, Gia had no hard appointments scheduled.

"Give us a moment to check out schedules," Gia said and hit the mute button on Rance's phone. "My schedule's clear pretty much all week except for classes. You?"

Rance scrolled through the same app on his phone and nodded. "Same," he said. "But let's not set anything up until at least Tuesday of that week so we don't have to bust our asses getting back here from Charleston."

Gia nodded and unmuted the phone. "Hi, Ms. Agostinelli?"

"Caroline. Please. Mrs. Agostinelli's my ma," she said. It brought a smile to Gia's face hearing her use the same term for her mother as she used for Callie.

"OK, Caroline. I think we're clear after Tuesday afternoon, the 29th, except for classes. Afternoons are good because that's time usually taken by football practice and I don't expect we will have any of those until late next week at the earliest."

"OK, what would you think of maybe meeting for dinner on Tuesday, the 29th somewhere in Fallstrom? Or we can meet someplace more private. I think it's easier to meet somebody like me, who nobody knows from Adam, in a public place than it would for a famous face like Whitaker," she said.

Rance and Gia nodded. "I think that works, Caroline. What say we get back to you with a location and a time?" Gia said.

"Perfect. It's your town. When in Rome ...," Caroline said.

"OK, we'll be in touch and plan on seeing you a week from Wednesday," Gia said.

The call ended and Gia leaned into Rance and kissed him for the first time that entire day. "Thank you for pushing me to do that," she said.

"My pleasure. So my failure to tell you about Whitaker is forgiven?"

Gia looked at him with an impish smirk. "Forgiven yes. Forgotten, no."

"Fair enough," Rance said as he wrapped her in his arms, pulled her into him and kissed her forehead.

●●●

Florida and Fulbright had played 43 times since Fulbright moved into the Southeastern Conference in 1963. Over the course of that series, Florida has won 39 games. During the 1970s and the early '80s, when neither team clad itself in glory, it was among the lowest-rated conference games every year, but those are the years in which the Generals notched their four victories over the Gators. Since the 90s, when Florida began matching and even besting in-state Atlantic Coast Conference rivals Miami and Florida State — first under head coach Steve Spurrier and later under Urban Meyer — playing the Gators had been an annual exercise in futility.

Florida had slumped noticeably under head coach Dan Mullen, considered a brilliant hire when the Gators lured him away from Mississippi State. But the fairy dust he used successfully in Starkville didn't work in Gainesville, and he was fired. His successor, Billy Napier, supposedly had a top-10 recruiting class committed for his 2023 signing class, depending on how much credence you accord the distasteful online recruiting ranking rags that attempt to handicap high school boys the way a racetrack tout grades horses and assuming the commitments held until signing day in February.

None of that mattered to the Fulbright Generals on this balmy, sunny early afternoon on Black Friday in central Florida. What had been a team dispirited and in disarray at the start of the short week after its upset loss to Tennessee and the destruction of its SEC championship dreams was now a team intent and focused, a team packing the emotional equivalent of a thermonuclear bomb about to explode and incinerate the Gators and their fans making those ridiculous "chomp chomp" signals with their arms in the stadium they smugly call The Swamp. (Get it? Alligators? Swamp?)

Florida's players, succumbing to their own hubris, made their plight worse by taunting the Generals during pregame warmups, strutting and preening at the end of a mediocre season that would net them a forgettable late December bowl if they could win their finale. But that was better than Mullen's Waterloo season that ended with no bowl. Gators players, cocky in the conceit that the long string of beatdowns over Fulbright would continue merely on its own momentum, would saunter into Fulbright's end of the field saying shit like, "Y'all ready for a grown-man ass-whuppin?" and "We fixin' to finish the grudge-fuckin' Tennessee put on y'all."

As usual, the Gators had some impressive athletes, but not the quantity or quality that Tennessee or Georgia had. They were green and dumber than a bag of hair. Anyone with more than a marsh hare's IQ or emotional intelligence should know that the latter statement about the painful Tennessee loss was like rubbing lemon juice into a paper cut. Not these self-satisfied Florida players. And they would be punished for their stupidity.

Fulbright was a team with lots of bumps and bruises and sore muscles from the brutal clash six days earlier with Tennessee. But by the time Philando Fernandez took the game's opening kickoff from Florida and ran it back a school record 102 yards for the game's first touchdown only 10 seconds into the game, all those aches were history.

"Yeah, we spotted y'all sissy boys an easy one to make it interesting," the Gators mouthy wide receiver said as he lined up for Florida's first offensive play from its own 25. Unfortunately for him, Hal Donovan heard it.

On the opening play, it was this receiver's misfortune to be the target of a slant pass across the middle and then to catch it long enough to count as a possession before Donovan exploded into him, burying his shoulder against the receiver's right arm and sending the ball squirting back toward Florida's own line of scrimmage where the Generals recovered it. It took Fulbright three plays — two of them the 38 read option — to cover the 28 yards into the end zone and expand its lead to 14-0.

Florida's ensuing possession also began at its own 25. This time the receiver, clearly favoring the left arm Hal Donovan had battered, was silent. The Gators picked up two first downs for a total of 24 yards before they punted almost from midfield.