Double Reverse

by Tim Green

  "That yo' punk bitch?" Trane mumbled casually.

  Clark had heard Trane in the locker room, bragging alternately to some of the brothers about the prodigious size of his contract and his unit. But this was the first time he'd spoken to him directly. Clark turned and said politely, "Pardon me?"

  "Yd bitch," Trane said, clearly now and offensively.

  "What?"

  "I said, is that yo' punk bitch?" Trane said, grinning. "Yd hand look like it lingered on the man's ass. . ."

  Snickers. Everyone watched with interest. Do Good, some of them liked to call Clark. Would Do Good strike out or would he do good? Clark shook his head in disgust and on the whistle blasted back through the machine. Then he turned and stared. Trane ran through and stared right back, the nickel-size scar on his cheek bathed in sweat and shining like a new button. His dark eyes were flat and challenging, and he tapped the ball in his tongue against the metal bars of his face mask with a steady tang, tang, tang. Clark balled a fist and took half a step back.

  The whisde blew and broke the tension. The running backs jogged en masse to the far end of the field, where the first-team offense gathered in a huddle. Clark was wedged between Trane and Featherfield, the team's shifty flanker. When Clark looked over through his mask the great runner was staring coldly. Clark looked past him as the head coach entered the huddle. Sweat stained Gridley's shirt and the dark hair protruding from his cap was plastered to his forehead. Clark thought about something else, the beach he was at yesterday evening, the cool breeze, the refreshing water. Heat always made him think like that anyway, like a mental mirage.

  Gridley signaled for the rest of the offense to gather around the first team's huddle. "We talked about this already this morning," he began in his usual no-nonsense manner. "But I want everyone to be clear. With about fifty more yards on the ground in the championship game, we could have gone to the Super Bowl. That's the difference between you guys getting your asses on a Wheaties box or being the team that almost got there. This year, we'll get that fifty more yards, and this is how we're gonna do it.

  "This series of plays is gonna be our trademark. That means every other team will study them and know them inside and out. But if we execute these plays, we can't be stopped. As a package they create deception that can't be defended against. Everything builds up to the double reverse. Every play in this package has to look before the snap count like it could end up being the double reverse. The play itself we might run twenty times all year. But just the threat of it, and the plays we can run from the trunk of the double reverse, will kick people's asses. You'll see, it's about execution.

  "What I'm saying is," Gridley snarled, "if you want your ass to be on this squad come September two when we kick off versus New "Vbrk, you better know this package like your girlfriend's ass.

  "Now let's see it work!" he barked, leaving the huddle.

  "Or yd boyfriend's ass," Trane said quietly.

  Clark began to tremble. He fought the rage, but it was too much. He knew the drill with a cocky brother. If he kept letting it go, it wouldn't end, and he wasn't about to go through the coming year like that. He brought his far hand up and under the face mask of the star runner, twisting his own hips like a good fighter throwing a punch from the floor. Trane went up and off his feet, saw white stars, and was on his back before he could react.

  Clark kept the fingers of his left hand clamped tight, put a knee in Trane's chest, and banged his face mask into Trane's.

  "Enough!" he raged. "Enough from you!"

  Trane choked and flailed his arms helplessly. Garvey, the burly center, and Featherfield grabbed Clark under the armpits and dragged him off.

  "Let go, man!"

  "Do Good, chill! Chill!"

  They had Clark up over Trane and still struggling when Trane unleashed a kick to the groin.

  "Fuck you!"

  Clark went crooked in their arms and Trane was up off the ground now and on him like a cat with the fingers of one hand hooked into Clark's mask and the other whipping off his own twisted helmet with a violent jerk.

  More players scrambled into the fray, but not before Trane was able to raise his helmet like a battle-ax and bring it crashing into the side of Clark's head. Clark collapsed in a lifeless heap, and it took four other players and a coach to subdue Trane, who was wailing like a banshee.

  "Kill that motherfucker! Kill that motherfucker!"

  Gridley began chewing out everybody.

  "Goddammit! Goddammit!" He roared and pushed and shoved, and no one, not even Trane Jones, dared to shove him back or answer his curses with anything but sullen glares.

  In less than five minutes they were practicing the double reverse, and no one who hadn't seen it would have known that anything had happened. Clark didn't show it. Trane didn't show it.

  Neither of them said a word to the other. Neither pushed nor shoved. Neither even bothered with a dirty look. That's the way it was in football. That's the way it had to be. It was over.

  They had work to do, plays to learn and run and perfect. Besides deception, the keys to the double reverse were Trane's speed and Clark's blocking ability. With Trane split out to the right like a receiver, the quarterback, Faulkner, would drop and roll to the left. Featherfield would come from the left and take the handoff on what looked like a reverse to the right. From his spot at fullback, Clark would roll out in front of the quarterback. When the defense sensed the reverse, they'd all turn to chase Featherfield. By the time they realized it was a double reverse, Trane would be coming back to the left again with the ball. The defenders would be like spectators at a tennis match, their attention going this way and then that way and then this way again. In the confusion Clark could take the most dangerous defender and lay him out with a blindside block.

  Over and over they ran the play. Over and over they ran a variety of passes and even some runs that all began with the players in the same initial formation that led to the double reverse. Over and over Clark bit into his mouthpiece: the irony of him throwing the key block on this play and so many other plays for a wretch like Trane Jones. But it was football. It was about winning, not personalities. They were in the same backfield, both essential to the running game that they needed to win a championship. Trane was the star, Clark the workhorse. They didn't have to like each other. They could even hate each other. It didn't matter a bit. All that counted was winning--on the field, anyway.

  Chapter 12

  Annie wanted to know. "What's wrong?"

  "No, it's nothing really," Clark told her.

  They were walking along the beach. The tide was out, and so was the moon. Surf hissed against the rocks. The sand was cool underneath their feet. Clark had known it would be that way, so Annie was wearing one of his sweatshirts over her cotton dress. Even pushed up onto her forearms, its sleeves nearly reached her fingertips and their perfect pink-colored nails. He liked the way she looked in his clothes, smaller and more fragile than she did in just her own.

  "It's something," she said. "Look at the moon on the water."

  "That's what I love most about coming here at night. That." "So?"

  "No, I just got into a fight today and I shouldn't have. I witness all the time to guys on the team for Christ and talk about what he's meant to me, how he's changed my life, and then I go and act that way . . ."

  "What happened?" Annie said. She stopped and turned toward him. Her eyes were shining at him in the light of the moon.

  "My God, Annie," he whispered, gently kissing her lips. "You're so beautiful."

  "But what happened?" she said after the kiss.

  Clark sighed and said, "I got into a fight with Trane Jones."

  "You did? What happened?" she asked, an edge in her voice.

  Clark looked away from her, up toward the high bank and the grass waving furiously in the ocean's night breeze.

  "He said some things. I got mad. He said some more things. I got more mad. Then we were in the huddle during team period and I just lost it. I
don't even know. I didn't think about it. I was out of myself I just took him by the neck and threw him to the ground and then everyone broke us up. I don't know, ft was the devil, I guess."

  Annie burst out a choked sound, half a laugh, maybe? Clark looked at her, but she was somber. It was one of those noises that made him wonder if he'd heard anything at all.

  "So then what happened?" she said as they started walking again.

  "Then nothing. That's how it is. Guys fight. It's football. But this guy, this guy is bad. "Vbu've heard of him."

  "I heard about his contract."

  "He's the best runner in the game."

  "But you took him by the neck . . ." Annie gave his hand a squeeze.

  "I shouldn't have," Clark said.

  "Sometimes that's the best way to make sure whatever it was he was saying he doesn't say it again. People like him--not that I know him--but from what I do know, people like him will just keep on you unless you get them by the neck."

  "That's what I thought! Exactly."

  "There were Christian soldiers, too," she told him. "There's a song, isn't there?"

  "It's true," Clark said soberly. "Tom tells us that Christ is strong, not weak, and that we can witness for him by winning battles. Winning big games and getting big contracts isn't a sin as long as you use it for his will. That's what we do, the Christian guys on the team."

  Annie stopped again and looked at him. "How do you use a big contract to do his will?" she wanted to know.

  "We give ten percent of everything to Tom's ministry He uses it for God's will. If we win the Super Bowl, we'll do the same thing with the fame, with the money. We'll use it to tell people about Jesus. People listen when you win the Super Bowl. Did you see Reggie White a couple of years ago when the Packers won their first Super Bowl in years? He witnessed for Jesus, and he was only one guy . . ."

  "You're for real aren't you, Clark?" Annie said.

  "Annie"--he took her face into the V of his hands--"I've been telling you, Annie. This is what I'm about."

  Annie reached up and touched the hands that were on her face, then she touched his lips, then she kissed him.

  "I want to be whatever you're about, Clark," she said to him in a husky voice. She pressed her firm body up against his, and he could feel all the parts of her he wanted to feel. Her chest was against his. Her hips pressed against his, and the blood rushed to his groin.

  Nothing had happened between them. They had kissed and pressed against each other before, but that was all. Clark didn't want that. He thought Annie was special and he wanted to treat her that way. There had been times over the last few weeks when she'd seemed impatient with him, but the feeling passed and it was always just Annie there, smiling tenderly at him.

  It wasn't that Clark was a virgin. He'd had his weak moments in college and even in the pros, moments for which he had to ask forgiveness the next day. But there hadn't been many. And with Annie, he wanted to do it right. He wanted her to know how much he respected her, how much he cared. There were times when he wasn't sure she liked it that way. It was never anything she said, but just a feeling he had. Still, he was determined to show her he was a man of God. How could he expect to lead her to Jesus if he didn't follow His precepts himself?

  But Clark didn't think about any of that now on the beach with the fresh warm breeze and the narcotic sound of the surf and no one anywhere in sight and the soft light of the moon and her hips grinding up against him. Then her hands were on him, soft like silk, stroking him like silk, then her mouth, and Clark's knees buckled and he staggered. She pulled him down into the sand and he let her. Then she was on top of him, with her dress pulled up to the seam of flesh where her bronze thighs met the ghost-white bikini line on her hips. Clark couldn't keep his hands from searching up inside the soft cotton of his own sweatshirt for her breasts, and he couldn't help himself from groping for the feel of her bare flesh. And as she rose and fell he forgot about everything: tomorrow's practice, the devil, Trane Jones, God, even Jesus himself. There was only her flesh and his, and when Clark closed his eyes he didn't know if it was-lightning coming in off the water that he saw through the lids or if it was what she did to him.

  When it was over they lay together in the sand and Clark felt the dry grains in his long hair but didn't care. Annie spent the night with him and was still curled up asleep inside his big Juggernauts sweatshirt when Clark left early the next morning for minicamp. He was quiet so she could sleep, but on the drive to work he felt the heavy weight of guilt for what he'd done. He knew it wasn't right, and he knew that even the guilt couldn't stop him from wanting to do it again. The only way to have it all was to marry her, and that's what he would do.

  Clark struggled to make the right blocks during camp: He struggled to remember simple things like the difference in his assignment when it was a double reverse instead of a double reverse pass. Gridley yelled at him all day and in the locker room. When Webber showed off his purple welts from the tickler, Clark only nodded his head and said, "Oh yeah, I know all about that," without even really looking.

  Chapter 13

  When Madison looked up from her desk she had to choke back a laugh. Chris had cleared his throat, drawing her attention away from her work. She recognized this sound, but was totally unprepared for the behemoth that filled the doorway directly behind her partner. On top of the giant's melon-sized head was a small sprout of Rastafarian locks. One of his eyes was foggy, like you sometimes saw in an old dog. There was no hint of a smile on his face, and he looked twice as imposing with Chris standing there in front of him throwing off the scale.

  "Hello," Madison said, coming out from behind her desk and extending her hand to the giant.

  "Yo," he rumbled and took Madison's hand in that awkward handshake that so many athletes used instead of the conventional straight-on job that she was accustomed to with the rest of the world.

  "Madison, this is Amad-Amed Muhammad, who I'm sure you recognize," Chris said.

  "Of course," she said cheerfully. She vaguely remembered Chris talking about a U of T kid who many were predicting would be next year's number-one pick, an offensive lineman of enormous proportions who could dunk a basketball and was as fast as a linebacker. Dunking the basketball she could imagine. Tall as he was, he didn't have far to go. The speed was another matter. Slabs of fat hung off his sides, hiding the waist of his red nylon sweatpants, and the only thing that marked where his face ended and his shoulders began was a large doughnut of blubber. He was big, but his appearance was far from athletic. If the bus in front of her could move as they said, like a racecar, then he really was something.

  "How are classes going, Amad? Finals must be coming up."

  Amad-Amed gave Chris a hard look.

  "It's Amad-Amed," Chris said with a wounded smile that told her she'd been forewarned.

  "Of course," she smiled. "Forgive me, Amad-Amed, I had a ... I had a . . . there was a guy I knew in law school, a friend of mine whose name was Amad. I guess you reminded me of him . . . sort of."

  Amad-Amed seemed to soften.

  " USA Today is doing a big story on Madison in this Friday's edition, Amad-Amed," Chris said to bolster his partner's importance. "You'll have to look for it. Big color picture and everything."

  "So you done Luther Zorn's last contract before he got hurt?" the player said in his low thundering voice.

  "Yes. I did."

  "The man," Amad-Amed said, shaking his giant head from side to side in what looked like amazement. "My man was hog- phat. I told my homeboys I was gonna talk to what agent was Luther's agent an' they all say, 'yeah boy, you do dat.' So . . . here I am.

  "Boy was so bad," the giant lineman added.

  "Yes," Madison replied. "He was very good."

  "What I said," Amad-Amed mumbled with an affirmative nod.

  "People are saying you'll be the offensive version of Luther Zorn," Chris said, looking up at the big man with a patronizing smile.

  Madison hated this part o
f it. A big fat angry-looking kid in her office and the two of them, experienced, competent, respected lawyers turned into ass-kissing sports fans. It was time for her to get back to work.

  "Well, would you like me to have Luther call you, Amad- Amed?" Madison said, not missing Chris's covert nod of approval. "I'm sure Luther would be happy to talk to you about our capabilities."

  Amad-Amed's brief smile said it all. Madison made a mental note to call her old client, a former NFL superstar whose contract she had negotiated and whom she had also successfully defended in a murder trial.

  "Well, Amad-Amed," she said, extending her delicate hand his way, "it was a pleasure meeting you. I hope we can be of service to you when the time is right."

  "b," said Amad-Amed. He jerked his hand toward his face in some kind of sign that looked more friendly than obscene.

  Madison walked them to her door. Everyone up and down the hall was gawking at the star lineman, and when he turned to go Madison silently shooed them all back to work.

  "Big boy," Sharon, her secretary, observed quietly as she slid back behind her desk.

  Madison was halfway into her next file with any thought of Amad-Amed Muhammad light-years away when Chris came barging back into her office and slumped down in one of the wing chairs facing her desk.

  "Man!" he said.

  "Tough one?" Madison asked, finishing the sentence she was reading before looking up to receive his answer.

  "The Washington brothers are breaking my ass with this guy"

  "The Washington brothers usually do," Madison said, stealing a look at the next sentence in her file. They were talking about two brothers from Detroit, African-American lawyers who'd graduated number one and two from Harvard Law School.