Al Trunk Mahoney, Defensive Line

by Jean C. Joachim

  The sound of snowplows broke through the frosty air. Emmy was eating scrambled eggs in front of the television, watching the news. She piled some, along with bacon, on a plate and handed it to Carla. They watched Monroe clean up after the storm. The newscaster spoke about all the trees down and the lack of electricity in various spots.

  “You’re not going home until you have power.”

  “But tomorrow is the Super Bowl. I’ve got to get ready.”

  “Nothing you can do without electricity, is there?”

  Carla had to agree. Still, she was antsy, anxious to get back to her place and get the meat back in the freezer. She prayed it was still frozen and intact. The women played cards, watched the news incessantly, and ate.

  One call to the police confirmed that Carla’s power hadn’t yet been restored. So, she spent another night with Emmy. She didn’t know the Carruthers’ well. Before he’d married, Buddy used to come to The Beast all the time, often looking for a hook up. But once he’d married, that’d stopped. She admired the change in the man. When he came in with his wife, he was all about paying attention to her. Emmy was beautiful, with hair so dark it was almost black and perfect, porcelain skin.

  Carla had noticed how they interacted. Emmy was always touching Buddy, holding his hand, resting hers on his arm, shoulders brushing. Their love was evident in small, but unmistakable ways.

  At ten Sunday morning, when Carla thought she’d jump out of her skin, Officer Gordon called her with the all clear. He drove by and picked her up. She and Emmy shared a hug, as much as Emmy could. Carla petted Blitz, thanked Emmy again and again, then piled into a police car. They pulled onto the road.

  The bar looked the same, except that every light in the house was on. She and the officer had a chuckle about that.

  “I hope you unplugged your appliances. Sometimes, there’s a power surge when they get the power going again,” he said, waving farewell.

  “Thank you. You saved me.”

  “Just doing my job. Gotta keep our Kings happy.” He drove away.

  Once inside, she turned off all the lights. Then, she bundled into clean clothes and headed for the side yard, where she had “buried” the meat. The snow had begun to melt. Everything should be okay.

  But as she hit the bottom step outside the kitchen door, her heart sank. Surveying the wreckage, she gasped. She’d never thought about animals. But something wild had gotten into the meat. Whatever it was had dragged away most of it and eaten some of it on the spot, leaving a few half-eaten, still frozen burgers strewn across the yard.

  What hadn’t been stolen had been rendered useless. There was very little of that anyway. She had fed the entire population of coyotes, raccoons, and foxes. Now, there was nothing left for tonight’s Super Bowl crowd. Will there even be a Super Bowl crowd?

  She seized on an idea and dug out her car. She sped to the supermarket, being careful to tread lightly on the slippery spots in the road. But as she ran to the meat section, disappointment set in again. It had been well ransacked before the storm. She scooped up the few pounds of ground meat still there plus other supplies and checked out. She wondered how the things she’d left in the fridge had fared. When she got home, she found that the milk was still good, barely, and the veggies were okay.

  But when she opened the freezer, she was appalled. It was dead. The power surge? Or just old age? Her freezer was broken, done, finished. It wouldn’t turn on. By the plug, she saw what looked like a little black soot. Power surge. Burned out. Crap! She’d have to get a new one or go out of business. She knew it was beyond repair. And on Sunday? No way to get a new one now. After a few calls, she discovered that the appliance stores were either closed or couldn’t deliver until Monday, earliest.

  Tonight was the Super Bowl. She had enough food to feed a dozen people, maybe two dozen. That’s it. Her big money-maker was a bust. She sat on a stool and, even though it was early, poured a glass of wine.

  Doodles came in, chattering away. He put on his apron. She heard the fridge door open then silence. He came into the bar wearing a hangdog expression. “The fridge is busted.”

  “It was just working!” Carla jumped off the stool and stormed into the kitchen. She kicked it, swore at it, and kicked it some more, but the motor wouldn’t start and the light didn’t light.

  “I’m sorry. Let’s put everything in the freezer,” he said.

  “Can’t. It’s busted too.” She sank down again.

  “Oh, fuckin’ A. Pardon my French.”

  “Yeah.” She nodded. Tears filled her eyes.

  “Tomorrow, you get a new fridge and freezer. We’ve been needing them for a long time.”

  “Yeah? Since that’ll cost me all my savings, maybe you’d better look for a new job.”

  “A new fridge isn’t that expensive.”

  “You have to buy professional appliances or lose your license. I’ll save the want ads if they ever deliver the newspaper again.”

  Doodles slung his arm over her shoulders. Carla turned into him and cried.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Super Bowl Sunday was a slightly cloudy day, keeping the temperature at a mild sixty-five degrees in Miami. The Kings remarked about the weather as they gathered for breakfast in the luxurious hotel where they had been swimming, sunning, and beach-combing for the past two days. They spent afternoons at the stadium working out in the gym and running plays. The Delaware Demons, their opponents, had use of the facilities in the morning.

  Now that Carla was safe with Emmy, Trunk relaxed. When he’d seen the blizzard on the news, his heart had raced. Helplessness was not a familiar place for Al Mahoney. But stuck in Florida, there had been little he could do. At mealtime, the storm had been all the talk. Most of the men had their wives with them. Those with kids had stayed in Connecticut. Calls had been made and worried minds eased when they spoke to their loved ones and had been reassured everything was under control. But not Trunk.

  He must have called a hundred times, each going to voicemail. The Savage Beast was surrounded by trees, all close to wires. He had chewed a nail, gluing his eyes to the screen during meals, hoping for some good news about conditions in Connecticut. Unable to reach Carla, he had grown frantic. Finally, Devon Drake had taken him aside and gave him the police phone number.

  Trunk had called, and in his most charming manner, begged for their help. The officer had confirmed that a tree was down, and Carla was probably without electricity. Trunk had gone to his teammates, and a rescue plan had been hatched.

  Now, he stretched out on a lounge chair in the shade, sipping an iced tea and staring at the ocean. He ran through his mind again the info Coach Bass had given them on the Demons. Mark Davis was a Super Bowl winning quarterback. He’d be tough to beat, but Trunk knew he and Tuffer were up to the task.

  Demson walked by. Al called to him, patting an empty chair. “Sit down. Relax.”

  Tuffer lowered his big body slowly.

  “Something on your mind?”

  “You mean besides the fact that I’m going to be playing in the biggest game ever played?”

  “Yeah.” Trunk chuckled.

  “Nothing much. Coach Bass brought his daughters along, but left his wife home.”

  “She’s pregnant. I hear she’s not feeling well.”

  “I’m glad I can’t get pregnant. Geez. So much can go wrong.”

  “So, your girlfriend is here?” Trunk asked.

  “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Aren’t you two dating?”

  “We’ve gone out a couple of times. No big deal.”

  “I hear she’s got the hots for you. She wants to fuck you in the elevator.”

  Tuffer narrowed his eyes then laughed. “You guys. I never know when to believe you.”

  Trunk laughed. “Damn. Had you going for a minute, though. What’s up with her?”

  “She’s real nice. Pretty too. Like a model. What’s she want with a guy like me?”

  “You’re big stuff
now. You’re gonna be a guy who won the Super Bowl.”

  “So what? She could have anyone. Why me?”

  “Better ask her, not me. Let’s talk about that last play. The zigzag move?”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Here’s the waitress. Want anything?”

  Tuffer ordered a lemonade, and the two defensemen hatched a strategy. Trunk refused to think about anything except football. He needed to keep his focus. So, topics like what he was going to do about his relationship with Carla when he returned to Connecticut were off limits. He had no answers he liked. But the one that kept surfacing was to tell her the truth, take his lumps, and let her walk out. He didn’t like it, but didn’t see any way around it.

  The morning of the big game, he arose at eight, showered, and met the team for breakfast in the private dining room at nine. Half the players had already eaten. He plopped down next to Buddy Carruthers and across from Griff Montgomery. Harley Brennan joined them.

  “Any last words of advice, Harley?” Trunk scooped a grapefruit segment into his mouth.

  Harley sipped his coffee. “I shouldn’t be telling you this…”

  The three teammates trained their eyes on him as they ate.

  “Go ahead. Probably won’t mean shit,” Griff said.

  “Mark likes to go to his left. He writes lefty, but throws a football righty.”

  Devon Drake joined them.

  “Good to know,” Trunk replied.

  “His favorite receivers are on his left, your right. He’ll throw to them every chance he gets. They get more practice that way, so it’s smoother. He rarely misses when throwing to his left.”

  “Got that, Drake?” Al asked, picking up a piece of bacon.

  “Yep. I’m on it.”

  Trunk slapped Harley on the back. “Thanks.”

  “Mark’ll understand. He’s been cagey with me since I came here. Not wanting to say too much. I get it. So does he. He’s a pro, all the way.”

  “Still your best friend?” Buddy asked.

  “That goes way beyond football.”

  * * * *

  In the locker room, tension filled the air. Faces wore serious expressions. The men dressed in silence, until Griff Montgomery spoke up.

  “Fuck the Demons.”

  The shuffling of feet and snap of gear stopped. The men looked at him.

  “Yeah, fuck ’em. Horny Devils,” Buddy said.

  “Kick their asses,” Bullhorn Brodsky bellowed.

  “Fuckin’ dickwads,” Devon Drake added.

  “Dickless pussies,” Trunk put in.

  Tension melted under the heated curses hurled at their absent opponents. Stern faces morphed into smiles as the language got cruder and more creative.

  “Fuck their mothers,” Tuffer Demson shouted.

  “Fuck their sisters,” Harley Brennan added.

  “Fuck their grandmothers!” Lawson Breaker yelled.

  “Grandmothers?” Griff Montgomery raised his eyebrows.

  The team laughed.

  Griff started a clap to accompany the profanities. As each man dressed, he joined in. By the time Coach Bass entered, the sound was deafening. Between the applause reverberating off the cement walls and the men hollering, the air was crackling with energy.

  “Way to go!” Coach Bass hollered, raising his hands to the players, who quieted down. “A couple of things. Quick reminder about penalties. Some you can’t avoid, but if we lose the Super Bowl over a couple of big, stupid, fuckin’ penalties, I’m gonna kick some ass. Got that? No unnecessary roughness. No unsportsmanlike conduct. No roughing the passer.” Coach turned his gaze to Trunk. “And keep the pass interference to a minimum. By now, you should have figured out how to do that shit without getting caught. Okay? Losing by penalties hurts like hell. Especially when I know, for sure, that you can win!”

  A shout went up. The guys put their hands in together, gave their Kings chant louder than ever, and then ran out onto the field. The fans cheered as loud as if it had been a home game. Al noticed several teammates close their eyes and utter a quick prayer as they rested their hands over their hearts for the national anthem. His voice joined with those of the other Kings’, accompanying Katy Perry in the traditional song.

  Trunk was pumped. Adrenaline flowed through his veins. All eyes were on Griff as he ran out on the field for the toss. He won. The men applauded as their team captain elected to kick off to the Demons. He shook hands with Mark Davis and returned to the bench.

  Trunk shot a glance at Demson. “Let’s go, Tuff. This is our time, buddy.”

  The two players trotted out onto the field and took their positions. The run back after the kickoff landed the Demons with possession of the ball on their own twenty-five yard line. The teams set for the next play.

  Trunk eyeballed the right side, Davis’s left. He spotted a short guy, number twelve, maybe five foot ten. He must be fast.

  Before he could blink, the ball was snapped, and the little guy took off. Trunk and Tuffer charged the offensive line, trying to get to Davis, who was well protected. He pulled his arm back and rifled off a bullet pass to number twelve, who ran for ten yards before a linebacker brought him down.

  Catch and run? I’ll fix that. He whispered to Tuffer then crouched down on the line of scrimmage. The ball was hiked. Trunk saw the little guy take off again. Tuffer headed for the quarterback, but Trunk cut to the right, running straight for number twelve. He’d just about caught up with him, when Davis let go a pass. Trunk leaped into the air, using his height advantage, and batted the pigskin out of bounds. He cursed himself out for not catching it.

  “Next time,” Tuffer said, joining his teammate at the line of scrimmage.

  “Better be.” Trunk shook his head.

  Davis ran the ball the next two plays. Tuffer took the runner down for a loss of three. Trunk sacked Davis once, being most careful not to get a penalty. At the end of the run, the Demons had to go for a field goal. Their kicker made it, and they were on the scoreboard.

  After the kickoff, Griff, Buddy, and Harley Brennan took the field. The Demons quickly grasped the fact that the quarterback would be passing to Buddy every chance he got. While Marquel Johnson was amazing at plucking a ball out of the air, Buddy was their fastest offensive player. The Demons shut him down twice, once knocking the wind out of him.

  Coach Bass took Buddy out for a brief rest. Griff mixed things up by using Harley. He could snake through a defensive line, avoiding a tackle like nobody in football. They had been lucky to get him to fill their one offensive hole—a magical running back. And Harley did his best. The fact that he was playing against the team that put him on the map didn’t matter. He ran his heart out, faking to the right then racing up the left field line. Shaking off defenders, turning, twisting, pushing, or simply breaking the hold of those trying to take him down was a piece of cake for Brennan. He was on fire, scoring two touchdowns by the half.

  The score was fourteen to ten when the teams retired to their locker rooms for the break. Coach Bass shared a few observations. Then, it was pep talk time.

  “They’re tough, but we’re tougher. We can take ’em. Keep doing what you’re doing. Bravo on the penalties. They have more than we do. Keep it up, guys. I know you can do it.”

  The heat made Trunk thirsty. He guzzled water, juice, and Gatorade. The men sat quietly looking at each other until it was time to play. The pressure was on, and the Demons weren’t going to give an inch. It was the Kings’ turn to receive.

  Buddy was back in the game and raring to go. Bullhorn Brodsky was ready to block for the wide receiver. The ball was kicked. It bounced right into Buddy’s hands. Bull charged ahead, with Buddy following in his wake. They made it to the thirty-five yard line before a linebacker took Buddy down.

  Griff returned to the field. After a quick huddle, they lined up. Griff mixed up his calls, stopping and starting, and sure enough, he faked out a defender who broke the line of scrimmage and went off sides. The five yard penalty put
them on their own forty yard line.

  Trunk watched his team. Bull and the other linemen gave Griff great protection. He looked relaxed as he searched for the open man. Catch and run had been their favorite play all year. But the Demons’ cornerbacks dogged the receivers, making completing a pass harder and harder.

  Griff faked a pass and handed the ball off to Harley Brennan. The running back wove his way through the defenders for a gain of ten and a first down. The Kings advanced down the field first down by first down, until they hit the red zone.

  The Demons redoubled their efforts, keeping the Connecticut team from scoring a touchdown. Robbie Anthony was sent out to kick a field goal. He kept his streak going by making it with ease.

  Trunk and Tuffer loped onto the field.

  “Davis knows we’re onto him. He’s not going to go left for a while.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Keep your eyes open. Follow number eighty-one, and I’ll take number twelve. Let Carter shut down Davis.”

  The Demons fought their way down the field. Then, Davis pulled a new play. He lateraled the ball to number twelve, who passed it back to Davis and took off. Mark went for the Hail Mary pass and connected with twelve on the three yard line. He was in the clear and practically strolled over the goal line for a touchdown.

  Trunk was pissed, the small guy had gotten around him and faked him out. The defenseman was gunning for the quick receiver. Al glanced at Coach Bass, who paced and chewed gum a mile a minute. The Demons kicked for the extra point, tying the score at seventeen all.

  The rest of the third quarter was push and pull—a fumble here, an interception there. Up and down the field they went with no scoring. Trunk noticed Griff’s demeanor change. He appeared as frustrated as the defense was. The Demons were the toughest team they had played all season.

  Time was running out. The men were tired. No one wanted overtime, but each team was determined to win.

  The Kings tried a change-up. Harley ran and Griff drew his arm back. He faked to Buddy then sent a shot right to Brennan instead. No one expected the running back to get a pass. Harley caught it and ran like hell. Three defensemen took off. The cornerback caught up with him. But before he could take Harley down, a big man raced up from the side, like a runaway locomotive. He put his head down and charged Harley.