by Peter Gent
If I left now I would have just enough time to make my ten o’clock meeting with B.A. I decided to smoke a joint. Puffing on it slowly, I got dressed, left the front door unlocked for Johnny my maid, jumped in the car, and headed for the North Dallas Towers and the team offices on the tenth floor.
The week before, B.A. had called me in because I had attended the week’s practice sessions in a false beard, a wig, and a top hat. By the end of the week several other players were attending practice in costume.
Jim Johnson, the defensive coach, went nuts. Johnson had cornered me at the weight stations while I was wearing the beard. “I don’t know who you think you are, but if I was the head coach here, your ass would be gone!”
“You ain’t the head coach.” I had stroked the beard thoughtfully.
“You son of a bitch!” Johnson choked and reached for my throat.
Just then the whistle blew, signaling the start of exercises. I dodged his outstretched hands and raced to the other end of the field, the beard trailing over my shoulder.
The steel and black-glass building, housing the team offices, loomed up on my right. I turned off the expressway, pulled in front, and parked in the fire lane. My brain was short-circuited by the day’s first joint and my body was beginning to feel the delicious numbing effects of the full grain of codeine.
The elevator doors opened at the tenth floor. The walls were covered with giant action photos, larger than life, halftone screens of fear and pain, stained brilliant magentas and cyans. I had been delivered to football land, where your wildest dreams had an option clause.
“Tell the coach I’m here.” I was standing at the reception desk.
The receptionist dialed B.A.’s office. “Phil Elliott is here to see the coach.” There was a pause. “Ruth wants to know,” the receptionist looked at me, “do you have an appointment?”
“No,” I lied. “But tell her I have an item in my briefcase no American home should be without.”
It was marvelous how they ran the front office. Forty men on the team, and at least one secretary and a receptionist stood between you and the head coach.
I danced a clumsy soft-shoe to the Muzak from the overhead speaker, my boots rasping against the short-pile blue carpeting. The codeine numbness had flooded my body, and my mind, released from pain, darted gleefully from thought to thought.
Bill Needham, the business manager, came out of the back offices.
“Hey, Phil,” he said, holding up a finger as he waddled toward me. “I need to talk to you. I got a bill from the hotel in Philly. You charged fifteen beers and ten chicken salad sandwiches to your room.”
“I know,” I said, frowning.
“You can’t do that.”
“I already did.”
“You get per diem. You’re supposed to eat off that and besides,” Needham paused for a breath, his huge stomach heaving with excitement, “fifteen beers and ten sandwiches. Did you eat that much?”
“Gotta keep my weight up.” I smiled and did a short dance.
“Clinton will have your ass.”
Clinton Foote was the general manager and director of player personnel.
“Tell Clinton,” I said, “that the chicken salad tasted like shit and not to pay the bill. Goddam city slickers, figured a hick like me couldn’t tell good chicken salad.”
Actually, Maxwell had ordered the food for a card game he had organized in our room and had forged my name on the bill. No sense telling management the truth. Ultimately, they would deduct the charge from my paycheck.
The reception phone rang.
“You can go in now, Phil.”
“Thanks.”
“You’d better get this straightened—” the door closed, cutting off Needham in midsentence.
I walked past the square little offices, full of razor-cut executives and action pictures of NFL stars on the walls. Each office was identically furnished, with stainless steel and an outside window. Business. Public relations. Player personnel. Assistant general manager. General manager. The next office was B.A.’s. Beyond, the hall opened into a large bullpen with small cubicles for the assistant coaches. At the back was the film room.
“Hi, Ruth. Should I just go in?” I did a quick tap step, ending on one knee with my arms extended toward her.
“Just have a seat.”
I sat in one of the two straight-back chairs. On the low table there was reading material to ease the wait. The Care and Treatment of the Outside Sprain, Vol. 1, No. 11 and The History of the Forward Pass.
“Fantastic,” I said.
“What?” Ruth looked up.
“The reading material.” I held up the piece about ankle nerves and ligaments. “It’s fascinating.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
The door to B.A.’s office opened and out walked Clinton Foote, general manager and director of player personnel.
“B.A. said to go on in,” Foote said, without looking at me.
Clinton Foote was an incredibly ugly man. His face, corrupted with pimples, pits, and blackheads, was indicative of his pride in his personal appearance. Clinton’s whole countenance looked rotted and it was a point of continuous conjecture why he seemingly cultivated his gruesomeness. The popular theory held that he didn’t want anyone looking in his eyes when he made contract promises.
Part of Clinton Foote’s job was to oversee the scouting and signing of draft choices and free agents. He was totally without honor or integrity, and stories comparing what Clinton promised with what he actually delivered rivaled fuck stories as training-camp time passers. He supplied the one true rallying point of the club. He was unanimously hated.
A former accountant, Clinton was a wizard at negotiating contracts—players’ and television. He was the most successful general manager in the game. After my first encounter with Clinton I learned one of pro football’s elementary corollaries—reading a contract is vastly more important than reading a blitz. A great negotiator makes much more money than a great running back.
B.A. had his back to the door, writing on the blackboard. Hearing me enter, he turned, pulled a movie screen across the board, brushed the chalk from his hands, and indicated I should take a seat.
His eyes were cold, half-lidded, and his face, deeply tanned, was expressionless. A former quarterback, B.A.’s six-foot frame was still in superb condition. The coach prided himself in never neglecting his daily calisthenics. There was just a slight bulge at the waist of his form-fitting blue polo shirt. “Dallas Coaching Staff” was embroidered on his heart.
He began shuffling through a pile of Personnel Grading Sheets. The assistant coaches compiled the Grading Sheets by watching the game films and scoring each individual’s performance. A running total was banked in a computer downtown. Complete printouts of any individual’s performance for any game or combination of games were available instantly, no tendency overlooked. B.A. selected a sheet and studied it for a full minute.
“Well, Phil,” he said, not taking his eyes from the sheet, “what do you think?”
I considered the question, running my thumb and forefinger nervously down my upper lip as if I still had a moustache to smooth. I sensed a trap.
“What do you mean, what do I think?” I said, finally. “You called me up here.”
“About things in general, I mean.” He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands in front of him. He smiled warmly.
I fought off the urge to tell him and leaned back, my eyes down, looking into my lap. “Well, B.A.,” I said, “what can I say? I hate sitting on the bench and don’t think I should be there. But it’s what you want. So,” I shrugged elaborately, “I’ll wait my turn.”
“Phil, I know you don’t like the bench.” He narrowed his eyes. “I wouldn’t want a man that did.” He paused. “But a man has to learn to adjust. I’ve had lots of players in here in the same position. Why, look at Larry Costello.” He pointed off to his left at nothing. “He didn’t want to sit on the bench w
hen I first put him there. Just like you. But when I explained to him what was best for the team, he adjusted. Why, I’d even say he likes to sit on the bench now, if that’s possible.”
“Well,” I said, slowly, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to sitting on the bench, but I’ll accept it now and wait my chance. I think I can help the team by starting.”
“Remember,” B.A. held one finger up, “we can’t all be stars. I know you like to consider yourself special, but if I was it your place, I’d try and humble myself a bit.”
There was a long pause as B.A. attempted a deep stare into my eyes. He failed and the gaze ricocheted off my cheekbone.
“Do you ever pray?” he asked.
“Not very often.” I was confused. I frowned and shook my head.
“None of us are so big that we can’t humble ourselves before the Lord.” He tried another warm glance and I ducked my eyes, letting it hit my forehead. “I often find the answers to a lot of my problems in the Scriptures. Aren’t you a Catholic?”
“No, my wife was. I was kicked out of Sunday School in the sixth grade.” Why did I say that?
B.A. was angered by my flippancy. His face flushed slightly.
“Okay, let’s put all the cards on the table, shall we?”
“By all means,” I said, reminded of Seth Maxwell’s constant comparisons of life with a giant card game.
“Now Phil.” B.A.’s tone told me that, like it or not, I was in a card game right now. “You’ve had your share of trouble. Your wife, the divorce. Now, I don’t hold it against you. It’s the setbacks of life that make us strong. But last week I had you in here for playing Halloween.” He paused and stared hard at me. “In training camp you kept writing ‘Clinton Foote is a transvestite’ on the bulletin board.”
I started to protest that they had never proved I had written that line.
“Let me finish,” B.A. insisted. “There’s a theme that runs through all of this—and it’s immaturity. You just don’t take life seriously enough. I would have thought that your divorce would have settled you down.”
I considered questioning the logic of the last sentence, but instead sat silent.
“Your teammates,” he continued, “come to me complaining that you laugh in the locker room before games and tell jokes in the huddle. This has got to stop. You can’t continue to clown through life.”
“You’ve got the Grading Sheets in front of you,” I said. “Check and see how I compare with Gill, or anybody.”
“I know how you compare. I told you three weeks ago you grade higher statistically than anyone. But ...”
I exhaled loudly, causing B.A. to stop in midsentence.
“I won’t stand for that,” he yelled. “Now, it’s like I was saying, you grade higher, but, and I mean but, Gill has that ungradable something that makes a seasoned professional. And part of that something, Mr. Elliott, is maturity. Looking at the shambles you’ve made of your life so far, I think it is something you need. I know you’re gonna need it to continue to play for me.”
There was a long pause as I stared down at my hands and nervously picked at my fingernails. I exhaled slowly, trying to relieve some of the tension.
“B.A.,” I said finally, sitting thoughtfully still, “if my immaturity has offended you, I’m sorry. I’ll honestly try to do better. I don’t like to sit on the bench, but I’ll gladly wait my chance and when it comes you’ll be glad I was around.” I stopped and looked at him. “Is there anything else?”
He seemed confused by my apologetic manner and picked up my Grading Sheet to disguise his loss for words.
“Well,” he said, scanning the sheet, “I think you’re losing a little speed. You need to lose about five pounds.”
I nodded.
“I appreciate what you just said,” B.A. continued. “Keep playing like you have the past weeks and you could really help us. And remember, you don’t have to be a star to help the team. On the field at one today.”
I turned and walked out. He was right. I am immature. I am also crippled and growing rapidly older. And there is nothing I can do about any of it.
Driving to the practice field, I thought about the meeting with B.A. and my future in football.
My attitude was definitely a problem—the meeting had illustrated that—but my real problem was injuries: five major operations, plus numerous muscle tears, breaks, and dislocations. I could see the computer printing me out now. I had already taken precautions to jam the diagnostic machinery by faking minor injuries to cover more severe, chronic problems. The less truth the computer knew about me the better.
The clubhouse parking lot was about half full. It was 10:45 A.M.. The films were scheduled for 11:30. I had enough time to get into the whirlpool, loosen up, and convince the trainers and coaches I was in the prime of my life. The pain shooting through my back and legs as I slid out of the car convinced me differently. I stopped at the bulletin board and read the ancient message.
NOTICE
ALL PLAYERS WILL KEEP THEIR COATS AND
TIES ON IN THE HOTEL LOBBIES AND AIRPORTS.
THIS IS A TEAM, LET’S LOOK LIKE ONE.
CLINTON FOOTE
General Manager and
Director of Player Personnel
Five blacks, in jocks and T-shirts, sat on the blue-carpeted locker room floor. They were playing cards, as they did almost every day. No money changed hands but, slapping palms and laughing a lot, they seemed to have great fun. The blacks always seemed to have more fun.
I had to walk through their circle to reach my locker.
“Hey, man, whatcha doin’?”
“Sorry,” I apologized for disrupting their game.
“That’s okay, man, you can stomp them hearts and clubs, but don’t you lay your sole on no spades.” Their howling and laughing was punctuated by the fleshy slap of palm against palm. They sure had a good time. Natural rhythm, and all that.
I sat down in front of my locker and undressed, picking at ingrown hairs and scratching my testicles. I stared into the bottom of my locker at the pile of soiled and damp equipment, several discarded game plans and a few pieces of old fan mail. I had lived in front of this locker for years. I grabbed a clean supporter and T-shirt, pulled them on, and walked out the opposite end of the locker room into the training room.
The dull roar of the whirlpools, the crackling blare of the trainer’s radio, the voices straining to be heard, and the constant motion of people gave the room a surreal quality. It was a room that starved some senses and overloaded others. It was a violent, tactile room full of carnal feelings. The physical body was distracted by analgesics, soothed by narcotics, and emotions seeped out through pores opened by warmth and massage. The air literally surged with unrestrained energy.
Both whirlpools were full. I waited my turn, reading the wall signs.
WHAT YOU HEAR IN HERE
WHAT YOU SEE IN HERE
LET IT STAY HERE
WHEN YOU LEAVE HERE
Nothing, except an occasional case of clap, or crabs, seemed worth mentioning.
REQUIRED TRAINING ROOM DRESS:
CLEAN JOCK AND T-SHIRT
THIS MEANS YOU!
I walked to the medicine cabinet. The pill drawer was locked.
“Hey, Eddie,” I called to the head trainer, Eddie Rand.
“Yeah?” Rand looked up from a half-taped ankle.
“I need some pills,” I said. “Codeine Number Four.”
“Just a minute.” He turned back and quickly finished the ankle.
“You can just throw me the keys,” I offered.
“I did that last week and had to have all the prescriptions refilled.”
“Oh.” I smiled sheepishly and began dancing to a static-filled Loretta Lynn coming from the radio.
“Great artist,” I said, still dancing as Rand approached.
“Who?” Rand had his keys out, fumbling for the right one.
I nodded toward the radio. The trainer frowned and shook hi
s head.
“I’ve met some strange people in this game, Phillip,” Rand said, turning the lock and pulling the drawer open, “but, undoubtedly, you have to be the—goddammit, quit dancing— how many do you need?”
“Enough to get me through Saturday. I’ll get more from you for the game.” I held out my hand. He dropped a sterile gauze wrapper into my open palm. Inside were twenty Codeine Number Four.
One of the whirlpools ejected a cumulation of pink flesh. I set the pills on the tape counter, pulled off my jock and T-shirt, and stepped into the hot, swirling water. It took a minute for my balls to crawl to the back of my throat, but soon I was up to my neck in tonic heat, taking a long, relaxing piss. The hot water began to distract agitated nerve endings, to thaw numberless minor knots. The dull ache in my lower back remained, untouched.
“Hi, men.” Conrad Hunter issued a blanket salutation from the doorway. He came by daily to check the stock, pat butts, and shake hands.
The football club was owned by Conrad Hunter. Ten years ago Hunter had paid a half million dollars for the franchise, now valued in excess of fourteen million dollars. The corporate offices of his CRH Holding, Incorporated were on the thirteenth floor of the CRH building downtown. A big “13” painted on the outer-office doors testified that Conrad wasn’t superstitious. With two hundred million dollars, who needs to be?
Conrad Hunter viewed his team as family. During training camp his five children lived on the same floor with veteran players. Conrad lived one floor below. He considered the dormitory a family residence and admonished children and players alike in matters of personal behavior, dress, and hygiene.
A two-year veteran of the squad automatically qualified for membership in the family; no player personally disagreeable to Conrad or to any of his children ever lasted more than two years. I had passed quietly into the family several years back, but avoided its privileges whenever possible. I preferred climbing an extra flight of stairs and rooming with rookies to living near his megalomaniac children. I often saw them in the hallways, listening at someone’s door for something to tell their father.
