Fantasy League

by Mike Lupica

  “You listen too well, Mr. Boy General Manager.”

  Charlie said, “Assistant boy GM.”

  “One thing you can see today from Sack Sutton,” Joe Warren said. “He’s not afraid of the occasion. You look at some of these guys, both teams, you’d have trouble pulling a needle out of their backsides with a tractor.”

  Just trying to picture it made Charlie laugh. When he stopped he said, “You know he’s never made the playoffs, either. This might be the best chance he’s ever going to get.”

  It was as though Jack Sutton could smell the playoffs and was determined to carry the whole team on his back if he had to. Which is what made what happened next so hard to watch.

  Seahawks driving, third-and-eight from the Bulldogs’ thirty, Colt Marley passing from the pocket for a change, or trying to, before he was flushed out by defensive pressure.

  Jack Sutton was the one chasing him, running in that moment as if the season was making him younger rather than older.

  Marley, running to his right, turned upfield to evade the pass rush and saw he had a chance to make lot more than eight yards and a first down.

  Marley cut back suddenly toward the middle of the field, clearly seeing he could pick up a block on Jack from his tight end.

  Everything was happening at once now, the tight end crashing into Jack and taking him down just as he was reaching for Colt Marley, Ray Milner flying in from the other side like it was Marley’s blind side in that moment, knocking the ball loose.

  There was a big scramble for the ball, a huge pileup in the middle of Bulldogs Stadium.

  At the bottom of the pile was Ray Milner with the ball. The crowd was going crazy.

  That’s when the television camera focused on Jack Sutton, still on the ground, five yards from where the play had ended.

  Reaching for his knee. Writhing in pain.

  • • •

  The television cameras showed the golf cart coming out of the tunnel about two minutes later, showed Alex Beech and Chuck Stoner, the other Bulldogs’ linebackers, helping Jack onto the back of the cart. Every football fan watching knowing that a golf cart never meant anything good for the player about to get a ride on it out of the game.

  “Same knee,” Charlie said. “Same stinking knee.”

  The camera stayed on Jack Sutton and the cart until it disappeared into the tunnel, out of sight, as the old man said, “He was the one always telling me you never know how many Sundays you’re going to get.”

  Joe Warren paused and said, “Goes for all of us, doesn’t it, Charlie boy?”

  Anna called as soon as the half ended, Tom Pinkett having moved the Bulldogs into field goal range after Jack Sutton’s injury, making the score 13–10.

  “This stinks,” she said.

  “At least we’re ahead,” Charlie said.

  “Sack getting hurt, I meant.”

  “I know what you meant,” Charlie said. “But it doesn’t mean we still can’t win the second half without him.”

  “His season wasn’t supposed to end like this.”

  “We just gotta make sure ours doesn’t end, too.”

  Anna said, “I’m not calling again until we win, I’m afraid I might jinx us.”

  “Not gonna be anything to jinx.”

  “How’s Gramps doing?”

  “A lot better than me,” Charlie said. “A couple of times I thought I should be the one attached to his heart monitor.”

  “Let’s see if we can get through the third quarter with a lead,” Anna said.

  They didn’t. The game went sideways on the Bulldogs’ first series of the quarter, a blocked punt in the end zone putting Seattle ahead 17–13. Only a few plays later, the Seahawks got a pick six when Silas Burrell, coming out of the backfield, broke inside on a play he was supposed to take outside, nobody even close to the linebacker who took the gift pass and ran thirty yards down the sideline, straight into the end zone.

  24–13, Seahawks.

  Neither team scored the rest of the quarter. The Bulldogs opened up the fourth quarter with the ball, still trailing by eleven, their season on the line.

  There was a knock on the door then, one of Mr. Warren’s nurses poking her head in and asking if they wanted some company.

  Then she was opening the door wide and Jack Sutton said he didn’t need her help, he could wheel himself in. Jack Sutton wearing a Bulldogs sweatshirt over his hospital gown, his bad leg stretched out in front of him, ice taped to both sides of it, Jack explaining that the doctors had said all the pictures they wanted to take would be no good until they could get at least some of the swelling down.

  “They think it’s about half the alphabet,” he said. “ACL, MCL.” Gave a long look at Mr. Warren and said, “I’m done for good this time, Mr. Warren. I don’t need the doctors to tell me the score.”

  The old man smiled at him. “But we’re not, are we?”

  “You sure?” Charlie said.

  Jack Sutton moved his wheelchair to the left of Joe Warren then, Charlie staying where he was on the old man’s right.

  “It’s like Mr. Warren keeps saying,” Jack Sutton said to Charlie. “This is Hollywood. We all know how the movie’s supposed to end.”

  Forty-Two

  BOTH DEFENSES HAD REALLY SETTLED in now, neither offense able to generate more than one first down before punting. Bart Tubbs had replaced Jack and was playing the game of his life.

  “Finally,” Mr. Warren said.

  “Finally what?” Jack said.

  “I can finally remember why my son was so hot to draft the young man in the first place.”

  “Amen to that,” Jack said.

  And the old man said, “Is it time to resort to prayer? Because I can do that.”

  Tom Pinkett was limping a little himself now, having gone down hard a few minutes before on a safety blitz. But with two and a half minutes left, he somehow fought his way out of a defensive lineman’s grasp, refusing to be sacked, and threw a prayer himself down the field toward Mo Bettencourt, who turned, leaped, and grabbed the ball out of the air. From there he simply fell forward, reaching out with the ball as it crossed the goal line. The side judge threw up both arms. Touchdown.

  The extra point made it 24-20, Seattle.

  “Onside kick?” Charlie said, thinking out loud.

  “I don’t think so, Charlie boy,” the old man said. “I believe our coach is going to trust his defense. It’s one of the things that has turned us around: Trust. They’ve started trusting each other again. I truly believe Coach Fiore will trust the defense to get him a stop now.”

  He was right. The kickoff went sailing right through the uprights. Coach Nick Fiore, they both knew, still had all his timeouts. If the Bulldogs could get him a stop, they could get the ball back with enough time to still win the game.

  But if Colt Marley found a way to get his team a couple of first downs, the game was over, the season was over, no playoffs for the Bulldogs again, good-bye. So much had changed since September for the L.A. Bulldogs. But if they couldn’t make something happen, and right now, they would finish out of the money again, as the old man liked to say.

  And in that way, would be the Same Old Dogs.

  On first down, the Seahawks ran the ball up the middle for a yard. Two-minute warning.

  Nobody saying much of anything in Joe Warren’s hospital room until Jack Sutton spoke.

  “Blitz,” he said when Colt Marley got under center, facing a second-and-nine.

  “They’ll run it again and make us burn a time-out, won’t they?” Charlie said.

  “The kid’s going to run that pistol of his, make it look like a run, but he’s going to throw for it,” Jack said. “Get that first down and then make us burn all our time-outs. If he’s gonna go for it, so should we. Throw the kitchen sink at him.”

  And tha
t’s exactly what the Bulldogs did, sending all three linebackers, do-or-die, Bart Tubbs leading the charge again as Marley recognized the blitz and scrambled as hard as he could to his right. But Bart was on him before he could even throw the ball away, seven-yard loss.

  Third-and-sixteen. Minute and forty-eight seconds left. The Bulldogs called a time-out.

  “Yes!” Jack Sutton yelled as he high-fived Joe Warren, maybe a little harder than he’d planned.

  On third down, Colt Marley took the snap and fired a slant to his favorite receiver, Rashad Silver. Silver turned upfield and stretched as far as he could as the Bulldogs swarmed for the tackle.

  He wound up a yard short. Fourth down.

  Coach Nick Fiore called his last time-out with a minute and twenty left. The Seahawks punted.

  Bulldogs’ ball. Tom Pinkett’s ball, no time-outs, seventy yards to go, just over a minute left at Bulldogs Stadium.

  “Time to bring it home, old man,” Jack Sutton said.

  Charlie not sure in that moment whether he was talking about the owner of the Bulldogs or their quarterback.

  Tom Pinkett wasted no time, looked like he had been waiting for this moment all game. The Seahawks were in a prevent defense, giving the Bulldog receivers chunks of yards in order to prevent a long pass for a touchdown. But after three first-down completions in a row, Tom had moved the ball all the way to the Seahawks’ nine-yard line.

  First-and-goal. The end zone, and the game, within reach. Twenty-four seconds left. The Seahawks’ strong safety knocked down the pass intended for Mo Bettencourt over the middle on first down, Jack Sutton screaming that there should have been interference.

  Second-and-goal. Eighteen seconds left.

  Charlie jumped up out of his seat when Tom threw to Mo Bettencourt in the corner of the end zone on the next play, but Tom was just a little high and wide with the throw, the ball barely deflecting off of Mo’s fingers.

  Third-and-goal.

  Thirteen seconds left.

  Tom Pinkett worked out of the shotgun, took the ball, but nobody was open. He had to scramble to his left even on what was clearly a sore knee.

  “Throw . . . it . . . away,” Jack Sutton said.

  Charlie thought he might try to run for it, even though the game would be over if he didn’t make it. Like he had an idea about turning up the field and diving for the pylon.

  Yet at the last second, he did what Jack wanted, throwing the ball over everybody.

  Fourth down.

  Five seconds left.

  One play for everything.

  “Who?” Jack Sutton said.

  “Mo,” Joe Warren said. “It’s gotta be Mo. He’s been our go-to guy all season.”

  “Agree,” Jack Sutton said.

  “No,” Charlie said.

  “No?” Jack Sutton said.

  Charlie said, “Sometimes you go to your best guy, no doubt.” He smiled and then quoted the last thing Tom Pinkett had said to him that day in the film room. “And sometimes you gotta throw them a curveball. Just to keep them on their toes.”

  “Boy sounds sure of himself,” Jack Sutton said.

  “Hasn’t steered me wrong yet,” Joe Warren said.

  Without looking he put his hand out for Charlie, and Charlie squeezed it for all it was worth.

  The old man’s hand not feeling cold at all this time.

  Tom was in the shotgun again, but the pocket seemed to collapse around him almost as soon as the ball was in his hands. The Seahawks came with their own all-out, do-or-die blitz.

  But Tom Pinkett, even on a bad leg, cleared the pocket, looking at Mo the whole time on the left side, like it was Mo or nobody.

  Then at the last second, as the game clock hit zero, just before he got absolutely buried, he turned, squared up, and threw across his body to the right corner of the end zone to Harrison Mays, wide open, for the touchdown pass that finally put Joe Warren and the Bulldogs into the NFL playoffs.

  The only one in the room who could jump up was Charlie Gaines.

  He came out of his chair as if he’d been shot out of it, and hugged Joe Warren, burying his head into his shoulder while Jack Sutton just kept yelling “Oh yeah!” over and over again.

  Anna called then, Charlie’s phone, doing a whole lot of yelling of her own, like she was trying to drown out Jack Sutton, Charlie feeling in that moment as if they were all together at Bulldogs Stadium after all.

  “We did it we did it we did it!”

  “We did it,” Charlie said.

  “We’ll get there as soon as we can,” Anna said. “For now, hug Gramps for me.”

  “Already did.”

  Jack Sutton said he’d be right back, he wanted to go get his phone, see if he could find a way to start calling the locker room, see which one of his teammates picked up.

  Just Charlie and Joe Warren in the room now. The old man in his lucky chair, Charlie still next to him.

  “Well, Charlie boy, if my heart can take that, I’m pretty sure it can take anything.”

  Charlie grinned. “Same,” he said.

  “We got the ending we wanted, didn’t we?”

  Charlie said, “We did. For now.”

  Then they were talking about the first-round of the playoffs, next Saturday or Sunday, Bulldogs Stadium, against the Packers, and how, if they could get by the Packers . . . well, anything was possible now, wasn’t it?

  “Like I kept telling you,” the old man said. “You can’t make it up, can you?”

  And Charlie said, no sir, you sure couldn’t make it up.

  Not any of it.

  Not even if you were the Fantasy King.

  Forty-Three

  THIS WAS THE AFTER-PARTY NOW, in Joe Warren’s hospital room, visiting hours having been extended for his family, Joe Warren having told the nurses on duty that both Anna and Charlie were family.

  It was just the three of them now, Anna’s mom having gone home, saying she’d had all the fun she could handle for one day.

  Matt Warren and Tom Pinkett had also left by now, but not before they had presented the game ball to Joe Warren.

  The doctors had taken Jack Sutton downstairs for an MRI when the game was over even though there was still swelling around the knee, just so he could go home for the night. But Jack told the doctors that no amount of swelling was going to change what he knew had gone on inside his knee—that his career was really over this time.

  Before he left he had stopped by the room one last time, on crutches now, to shake Joe Warren’s hand and tell him that the Bulldogs weren’t just making the playoffs, they were going all the way.

  “Thanks for the opportunity, sir,” he said.

  “No,” Joe Warren said. “Thank you.”

  So now it was just Joe Warren, Anna, and Charlie, the old man still sitting in his lucky chair, Anna on one side and Charlie on the other, all of them watching one postgame show after another, cheering every time Harrison Mays caught the winning pass.

  “I was wrong about that last play, I thought he’d go back to Mo,” Joe Warren said. “Never happier to be wrong in my life.”

  “I love it when Charlie is right, don’t you, Gramps? Sometimes I love it sooooo much.”

  “Okay,” Charlie said, “I’m not a dope. I’m missing some kind of private joke here, right?”

  “What private joke could there be,” Joe Warren said, “about an ending even more perfect than you know?”

  “More perfect?” Charlie said. “Not possible.”

  He saw Anna smiling now, ear to ear. “Gramps, do you want to tell him, or shall I?”

  “You mean, tell him that not only did Harrison win the game for us, he helped us win our league?”

  “As in fantasy league, Charlie,” Anna said. “For a little thing we like to think of as the Dream Team.”

&
nbsp; Charlie felt his mouth open, and then close. When it opened again he said, “No way.”

  “Way,” Joe Warren said. “I told Anna at the start of the year it was about time to see what I was missing.”

  “I had to see if I could beat you just one stinking time,” Anna said. “Head-to-head. And even though I would love to take credit, Gramps pretty much took charge.”

  Joe Warren said, “If Mo caught the last pass, I believe you would have won that league, Charlie boy. My heart nearly did stop when Tom gave that one last look to him. But then things ended exactly as they were supposed to.”

  Charlie thinking that to the end, the very end, he’d trusted his instincts this season, in big moments for both his teams. Because of the two big things Tom Pinkett had told him that day in the film room. Once, for the Culver City Cardinals, Charlie was sure the other team’s quarterback would go back to his favorite receiver with a game on the line. And somehow today, Charlie had known that Tom was going to throw his curveball, go the other way, a curveball that became a perfect strike for the Los Angeles Bulldogs.

  Joe Warren high-fived Anna then, who looked as cocky to Charlie as she ever had, which was saying something.

  “Like I kept telling you in those e-mails all season, you will never beat me,” she said. “Or beat us.”

  “You’re the Dream Team,” Charlie said, shaking his head.

  “Well, yeah,” Anna said. “Who’s more of a dream team than Gramps and me?”

  “Owner and girl general manager,” Joe Warren said. “I mean, who knew how much fun fantasy football could be?”

  “If I’d known it was you,” Charlie said to Anna, “I would have figured out a way to win.”

  “Now you’re the dreamer, Gaines,” she said.

  Why not? Charlie thought. It was all one big dream by now.

  It was then that Joe Warren said he’d forgotten one last promise he’d made to Charlie, and asked the two of them to help him out of his chair, unhook him from his monitor, just for a moment.

  When he was standing Anna said, “You sure you’re good, Gramps?”

  “You have no idea,” he said.