Hometown Legend

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  “Is she saying things?” I said, knowing that was unlikely. It just wasn’t like Bev. Maybe I didn’t know her as well as I thought.

  “Of course not,” Kim said. “She wouldn’t.”

  “Well, that’s what I thought. So what’s the problem?”

  She motioned me to follow her out and by the time we got to the parking lot, we were among the few left. “You just don’t really know her, Cal,” Kim said. “And that’s your loss, especially after all the years she’s worked for you.”

  I had to admit Bev and I weren’t what you’d call friends. We didn’t go to each other’s homes, didn’t see each other outside the office or church. But that was the way I thought it ought to be. She worked for me and you’ve got to keep a certain distance, right? “I feel like I know her well enough.”

  “Well, you don’t, and it’s not right.”

  “So tell me something I ought to know about her.”

  “I shouldn’t have to tell you. You should ask her.”

  “Ask her what?”

  “Like what she does outside the office, Cal.”

  I shook my head. What was this about? I almost caught myself admitting I didn’t care. I figure if Bev wanted me to know what she did outside work, she’d tell me. “I don’t know that I’d ask her, Kim. Or that she’d tell me.”

  “Just as I thought. Why don’t you try?”

  I wanted to ask why. I shrugged and Kim gave me that look again.

  “All right,” she said, “do you know how much volunteer work she does?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me,” I said.

  “But you don’t know.”

  “I know she does a lot here at church.”

  “That’s not the half of it. She’s on the go almost every night, doing stuff for people.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “Did you know she spent as much time in my guest room as she did at her own home the last six years of my dad’s life?”

  I felt stupid. I’d had no idea. “She was helping out?”

  Kim was through with me. She got into her car and rolled down her window. “That’s the understatement of the year, Cal. She saw me one day at the grocery store and noticed I was crying. She’d been praying for my dad, but she didn’t know how bad he was. She came home with me that day and just started doing stuff without asking. Did a lot of shopping for me, talking with Dad, keeping an eye on him in the night. You never knew any of that?”

  Bev worked in my office and I hadn’t known she was doing night duty half the time with Kim’s father. I didn’t know what to say. “Who was watching her cats?”

  Kim looked at me twice. “Her cats?”

  “If she was at your place so much, I mean—”

  “Does she talk about her cats, Cal?”

  “She used to.”

  “But not for years, right?”

  I shrugged. “I guess. I wouldn’t ask after her cats. I’m not a cat guy.”

  “No kidding.”

  “It shows?”

  “Bev’s cats have been dead for years.” I tried to look surprised but I don’t think I convinced her. “Nobody expects you to care about her cats,” Kim said. “But it seems you’d know something like that.”

  “Not if she doesn’t tell me.”

  “She probably didn’t think you cared. She was right.” She started her car.

  “Would you just tell me one thing, Kim? Is this something you’ve noticed, or does Bev feel like I don’t really know her?”

  “I told you, if you knew her at all you’d know she’d never say a word. She thinks the world of you.”

  “Well, the feeling is mutual.”

  “Calvin,” she said, “you just proved that’s not true.”

  9

  I divided my time between figuring out how to keep the company running and working through plans with Coach. Finally, one August morning, it’s time. I’ve got a printout from the school office that tells who’s coming out for football—way more than we could keep, of course, but that’s what that scholarship and a returning legend’ll do for ya. I recognize most of the names, cept the newcomers, and I figure I’ll get a bead on them today, the first day of tryouts. Just like Coach Schuler, he announces it for early in the morning the first eligible day, Thursday the sixteenth. People think it’s cause he wants to see who’s committed and ready to work, but I know he just can’t wait.

  I wake up in a bed damp from sweat and know that even after my shower, I’m gonna have that humid shine all day. Coach and I meet at Sweet Tee’s Diner for early morning coffee. The owner, Sherman Naters’s ma, Tee, is a big woman with a soft heart and a smile from the waist up. I’m wondering where she is. Shazzam, her on-again-off-again boyfriend, is holding down the fort and he’s got the TV going full blast with some Hollywood entertainment show that’s reminding everybody this was the day The King died at Graceland in 1977.

  Shazzam, who always looks like he’s got about a week’s worth a beard and wears a full camouflage jumper and rubber boots, pulls from his bald head a grimy cap with fishing lures hanging from it and puts it over his heart. “I say he’s still alive, boys! I seen him, I have!”

  He pours us some tea and tells us Tee is setting up a little stand at tryouts. He becomes solemn all of a sudden. “An honor to have you back, Coach Schuler, sir. You’ll remember I played for you, in a manner of speaking, when you was first head coach here.”

  Somebody hollers for Shazzam to change the channel, and he finds Sports Center. Next thing you know, our story comes on and the place goes nuts. There’s a woman with a microphone strolling in the end zone under our scoreboard, telling our history and showing pictures of Buster in his fedora. Shazzam shushes everybody and turns it up.

  The reporter, all serious, looks into the camera and says, “Athens City, Alabama, once the high school football capital of the south, sixteen state championships since 1923. Legendary University of Alabama coach Paul Bear Bryant once called it the mother lode of all-American football players.

  “Nearly a hundred students try out for the Athens City Crusaders football team each year in hopes of landing the Jack F. Schuler Scholarship to the University of Alabama. None of those scholarship winners has ever won so much as a spot on the bench at Alabama, but as the town pays for the scholarship, the high school standouts get a free college education nonetheless.

  “The scholarship is named in honor of the quarterback who was killed in the state championship game in 1988. Football in this town has seen better days. They haven’t had a winning season since that infamous game, and county cutbacks have doomed the school for closure at the end of this academic year.

  “If there was ever a glimmer of hope for this town, it comes in the name of coach Buster Schuler. The legendary coach who retired after the death of his son is now returning for Athens City’s last year. When a legend comes out of retirement, the football world takes notice.”

  I look to see what Buster thinks of it all, and he’s gone, like I shoulda figured. I find him waiting in the car.

  We head over to the field and pull up behind the packed stands. Coach tells me to go on ahead and make sure the guys are ready to pay attention and follow instructions and he’ll be along in a minute. Well, I knew that. I’d never seen him a second late to anything, and he’d already waited long enough for this moment. I want to say something profound or clap him on the knee or pray for him or whatever, but he already has his eyes closed and is rubbing his forehead. His clipboard and whistle are on the back seat, so I just leave him.

  I pass by Rachel and Josie handing out flyers for a meeting in the gym a few weeks later, something designed to somehow keep the school alive and keep the kids from having to go to Rock Hill next year. Josie says, “I don’t know why so many people come just to watch tryouts.”

  Rachel says, “One word: scholarship.”

  Josie says, “Two words: no life.”

  I spot Bev in the stands by herself and wonder why she’s here. Neither of us had
ever mentioned the scolding I got from Kim, and I’m glad she’s nowhere to be seen this morning. I don’t wanna suspect everything Bev does, just because of Kim’s crazy ideas, but course Bev doesn’t have a relative on the field, at least that I can think of. I tell myself she’s just showing support to her boss. And the town. And the school. Course. That’s it.

  Tee Naters has a folding table and a bunch of pitchers of her famous tea set up under a sign that offers it for a dollar a glass. Rachel makes a beeline for her, passing people who appear to be trying to move as absolutely little as possible. Hardly a head is hatless, and the men’s caps have heavy sweat rings.

  Tee is watching her son on the field. “Show em what you got, baby! Let the bone roll!”

  So she’s done her homework. She’s trying to earn points with Schuler, wherever he is.

  Rachel greets Tee and asks if she can put a stack of pamphlets in the diner. Tee’s warm smile fades. “Sweetheart, it’s a dead end, and I don’t want my customers to have a daily reminder of it.”

  “Aw, come on, Tee, you’ve been here forever. This town’s given you a lot. What’re you gonna give back?”

  Tee cocks her head and pours Rachel a free glass of tea. Rachel purses her lips. “Thanks.”

  I amble across the track to the field where the players show curious interest in me. But we all know who they’re looking and waiting for. Stocky, olive-skinned Sherman Naters looks up and waves to his mother. “Hi, Mama!”

  Yash Upshaw, the lanky black receiver I’d coach personally if we were employing a passing game instead of the wishbone, says to Naters, “She dress you this morning too?”

  Sherman pushes a ball into Yash’s gut. “I’ll see you when we do tackling drills, huh?”

  Abel Gordon, the biggest kid on the team at about three hundred pounds, lumbers by and grabs Sherman and Yash in headlocks. “None of y’all gonna be laughing when I win that scholarship, boys!”

  Brian Schuler, the coach’s squinty-eyed nephew and returning quarterback, says, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Abel! Before you throw it out, give me a little puffy puff on whatever’s making you hallucinate!” Brian carries himself with the confidence of a senior. He licks his fingers and snaps off a long pass.

  Suddenly the crowd falls silent. The players stop, and everyone looks to the tunnel. Buster moves from the shadows into the brilliant morning sunlight and stops, fighting a smile, just surveying the field. I can’t believe the difference in the man. It’s as if he’s grown three inches taller and ten years younger. The shoulders are back, the chest out, the whistle in place around his neck over the tie, and those perfect teeth are showing out from under the shadow cast by the brim of his hat.

  Cheerleaders stand still in their practice outfits, people quit moving in the stands, and players hurry into a makeshift line. I stand there at attention, finally accepting that this is really happening and almost as excited as Coach Schuler.

  Buster approaches the players, then suddenly turns to address the crowd, removing his hat and holding it with his clipboard. “I want to thank y’all for your time and your spirit. But right now, I want anybody not wearing a jockstrap to get off my field! Don’t want anybody out here but my dawgs!” Nobody moves. “I said get off my field now!”

  The cheerleaders look at each other and scowl, reluctantly beginning to disperse. The crowd in the stands stays seated. The coach looks up and, with a wide sweep of his hand, says, “That goes for all of y’all too! Thanks for coming, now bye-bye!”

  It’s clear people are mad, but nobody’s gonna make waves while their kid is trying to make the team that might win him a scholarship. They shake their heads and trudge down out of the stands while Schuler watches until the place is empty of everyone but football players and coaches. He turns to the players, replaces his hat, and hands his clipboard to me. “Coach Sawyer, line em up.”

  Once everyone’s in place he unbuttons his sport coat and puts his hands on his hips, striding to the front row of players. He wrinkles his nose and sniffs. “You smell that?” he hollers. Yash turns his nose to his shoulder and lifts his arm. “What is that?” Coach says. He squats and pulls up a few blades of grass, holding em under his nose. “Yeah, that’s it,” he says, rising. “Everybody on your faces!” A few of the veterans and a new kid in a red stocking cap drop to the ground. The others hesitate, and Schuler shows them who’s in charge. “Down on your faces!” he shouts, and the rest drop. Sherman Naters whispers to Yash, “Old man’s crazier’n we heard.”

  “Now breathe, deep! Do you smell it? That, dawgs, is the smell of death! Over a decade of dead hopes and dreams, buried right here! The curse of individualism grows like a weed on this field—the curse that we call the Jack F. Schuler scholarship!” He plants his foot atop a player’s head. “I didn’t say lift your head, son. Keep your face in the grass. The scholarship fosters visions of grandeur, dreams of personal glory! It guarantees disunity and prideful individualism! And worst of all—worst of all—losing seasons! Hear this, dawgs! I am the cure to this curse!”

  • • •

  I didn’t know who was who yet, but course it didn’t matter. Coach whispered, “Let’s see if we can’t get about three dozen of these pretenders to cut themselves today.”

  “Three dozen?”

  “I’m gonna cut this group to forty-eight by Monday, and there’s got to be near a hundred here.”

  I looked at my printout. “Ninety-nine, Coach.”

  “No sense cutting more’n I keep if I can get em to do it themselves. I can spot the druggies and the boozers from fifty yards, so we’ll start there.”

  I knew what he was fixing to do. I’d been there with him and with Bear. You think you’re a football player until you find out what kinda shape a real coach expects you to be in. We got those boys hitting, running, and whatnot, and before you knew it, guys were just flat leaving the field. They left with their heads down as if they didn’t want to face us, but Coach didn’t put em down. He called out to em, thanking them for their time and their effort. “Just leave your equipment in the field house, and please support us in the stands this season, ya hear?”

  Some guys were in good enough shape but just too small. When they went flying from some pretty good licks, Coach would pat em on the shoulder, thank em, and send em packing. “You play an instrument?” he’d ask. “Band practice is in the gym.” One guy couldn’t run the tires to save his life. Coach told him, “Soccer team needs help.”

  While Coach concentrated on weeding em out, I was looking for guys with promise. I knew Coach wanted tough, fast, hard workers. One new kid was pale enough to be a Yankee, so I listened for an accent. Only thing that worried me bout him was he looked a little light. He was cut and tough, but he seemed to take hits personally, his serious, light blue eyes glaring from under a sticking-out brow at whoever gave him a good shot. I liked the way he worked and sweat and moved, but I kept fearing Coach would see his size or his attitude and cut him on account of one or the other.

  When the guys line up to hit the inflated blocking dummies, they’re sposed to fire off and bang one, then hit the ground, roll past one and hit the next. Well, the sun was riding high by then and a lot a guys had staggered off to quit, but Yankee smacked harder’n a guy his size ought to have been able. He made the suckers pop and everybody kinda looked up. Danged if Schuler didn’t stop the drill and get in the kid’s face. “Son, thanks, but unless you can kick, I don’t want anybody under one sixty-five.” He turned to the rest. “This is varsity competition. I want boys raised on meat and potatoes.”

  As Coach moved away, Yankee grabbed his arm. That’s a no-no sure as you’re standing there, and I figured the kid was history. “I like my steak rare and my potatoes mashed,” he said. A northerner for sure. “And I weigh one seventy-three.”

  As if he’d forgot he had just cut him, Coach took the boy’s hand off his arm and said, “Son, don’t ever, ever stick your paw in this cage. You’re gonna pay for that in sweat.” He nodded toward the stadium s
teps, and the boy took off. Far as I knew, that was the first player Coach ever cut and then welcomed back just so he could punish him. I watched the boy run up and down and up and down, never losing steam. I couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t six feet tall, but he ran with long, springy strides. When he rejoined the others, he led the way in push-ups, sprints, and loose ball drills. I got to dreaming we might’ve actually found us a player.

  The sixty-five or so survivors were finally cut loose to head for the field house. “Pads off and don’t get a drink till after you’ve been weighed,” Schuler said. “I’m not recording no water weight.”

  I told the boys to line up in alphabetical order, which might sound kinda dumb when they didn’t all know each other, but if you think about it, it makes a crazy kind a sense. It forced em to talk to each other and it told us which of em knew the alphabet. Gotta have smart players.

  I read names off my list, and if nobody stepped up, I knew they’d already been cut or cut themselves. It was hard to see Coach cut boys for just not weighing enough, and I found myself hoping Yankee hadn’t sweat off too much of his 173. I mean, there was no way a boy that size woulda lost more’n eight pounds, even in the Alabama sun, but there was also no way that guy weighed 173.

  When he was next in line, I was past the H’s and I’s. I couldn’t believe the next name on the list. “Are you kidding me?” I said to Coach. “Elvis Jackson?”

  “That’s me,” the boy said, hands clasped in front of him at the waist. “And yeah, the middle name’s ‘Presley.’”

  “Says here today’s your eighteenth birthday,” I said.

  He nodded and stepped onto the scale and I started sliding the bar. “Born on the anniversary of the king’s death,” he said.

  “That so?” I said, keeping my eyes on the scale. I wasn’t gonna let him distract me.