Just as they had been doing for the entire second half, the defense forced the Raiders to punt, this time to our 19-yard line.
Before Jesse trotted onto the field, she said, “You want to get in on this, Coach?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why don’t you and coach Engram call the plays.” It was so sweet. She was grateful that we left her in, and she was thinking of us, of what the game meant, and how we’d feel if we were more involved. I could hear laughter in her voice. She was so happy—enjoying herself so much—I was suddenly elated that we hadn’t taken her out of the game, no matter how sensible that would have been.
I called two running plays. Mickens up the middle for 8 yards, then the Green Bay Sweep around the left end for 12 more. We were on our 39-yard line. Jesse called time out and came to the sideline. I asked her what the hell she was doing wasting a time-out.
“Excuse me, Coach,” she said. Then she spat a huge gobbet of blood at her feet. “I didn’t want to do that on the field.”
“Jesus, Jesse.”
“Just keep calling the plays,” she said.
“I’ll let Coach Engram do that,” I said.
Coach Engram glanced over and half smiled, hearing me say that. He might even have winked at me, for all I can remember. “Leave it to Jesse,” he said. He meant it. She gave a bloody grin, waved at him and ran back out onto the field. That’s what happened. There was no argument on the sideline as depicted in that movie. Coach Engram didn’t yell at her to let him call the plays. She did call her own plays but that was exactly what Coach Engram and I wanted.
“It’s your game, Jess,” I said into the transmitter. “Go get ’em.”
She called a shallow slant to Anders that gained 8 yards. Then she hit Exley on a crossing pattern for 14 more. The noise of the crowd at this point was unbelievable. Absolutely thunderous. Now we were on the Raiders 39. I was like anybody else in that stadium, cheering as loud as my voice allowed, wondering what the hell she would do next. We weren’t coaches anymore, any of us. We were just fans, watching Jesse work her magic.
Jesse called a quick pitchout to Mickens and he gained 17 yards around the right end. On the next play, she faked a handoff to Mickens and hit Gayle Glenn Louis for a 22-yard touchdown. This time he held on to the ball, holding it up over his head in triumph as he ran into the end zone.
Jesse kicked the extra point, putting us ahead now 31–20.
Champions to the last, the Raiders took the ensuing kickoff and tried to make a game of it. I know the final score is misleading, and it was good of the filmmakers to make the ending more dramatic. The Raiders did drive all the way down the field, used the clock as well as they could, and made it all the way to our 5-yard line. They did make four tries to get the ball into the end zone, and that stop by our defense was accurate. The only problem is, the game was almost over by then, and even if they had scored it wouldn’t have changed much but the final score. What the film left out was what happened when we took over at our 5-yard line with 3 minutes left. Jesse engineered another drive, this one 95 yards in seven plays. She hit Anders for 31 yards on the first play from scrimmage at our own 5. Then she ran a fake draw play with Mickens going up the middle and hit Gayle Glenn Louis for 28 yards down the middle. She was like a magician out there. Nobody knew where the ball was once she got it in her hands. When she faked the draw play to Mickens, all of us watched him thinking he had the ball.
On second down, at the Raiders 36-yard line, Jesse hit Darius Exley with a perfect pass up the right sideline and he took it in for another touchdown.
I know it makes a better story if Jesse is in agony, bleeding out of her nose and barely able to remain upright as she struggles onto the field and rescues us at the last minute, but it just isn’t what happened. For one thing, it’s pretty hard to convince anybody that when you beat a team 38 to 20, you’ve been saved by some late miracle.
For the day Jesse completed 19 of 23 passes, for 336 yards—and of the four she missed three were dropped balls. She threw three touchdown passes and ran for two more. Only Doug Williams of the Redskins, years before, ever had that kind of Super Bowl. The rest of the team was at peak performance as well. Mickens ran for 167 yards on 16 carries. Our fullback, Jack Slater, rushed for 72 yards on 12 carries.
We were Super Bowl champions, and Jesse was named Most Valuable Player.
My god, what a year that was. I still get tears in my eyes remembering it.
Forty-Five
So there it is. The legend of Jesse Smoke. Except it’s no legend. It is the true story of Jesse Smoke’s first year in the NFL as it actually happened. In her rookie year that young woman took us to the Super Bowl and led us to victory. She did call her own plays in the fourth quarter of that last game, and those men played for her as if she were Joan of Arc herself.
In a way, she was a saint. She showed all of us a thing or two about being a person; about forgetting just a little bit, our notions about gender; we were all stronger, both as individuals and as a team, for knowing Jesse and playing with her. The men on that team came away from their time with her more determined, courageous, and willing to change and learn. Her one sin—the lie she told to the Alouettes and, indirectly, to me—is completely forgivable when you consider what she was up against, what she wanted for herself. And isn’t it what all of us want for ourselves—to make use of our talents? Jesse wanted to earn her bread doing something she loved. And she believed she could earn it, if people would just give her the chance.
Was she a hero?
To me, of course she was, and always will be. Okay, she didn’t save any lives; she didn’t rescue anyone or prevent the suffering of others. She didn’t pluck anyone out of a fire or dive into deep water and drag a child to safety; she never took a bullet for anyone. She played a game—a beautiful game, one that approaches all the values of our culture in times of frightful extremity, only without most of the real dangers of life and conflict, the real potential disasters; a game that calls up that little spot of heroism that might just be necessary in real circumstances. It allows us to act like heroes, even when what we are engaged in isn’t really heroic. That is at least part of why the sport—perhaps any sport—is so beautiful.
A week after the Super Bowl, she went into surgery and had a small polyp removed from the back of her ethmoid sinus. It was the cause of all her bleeding episodes and, thank god, it was benign.
She showed up the following year in minicamp, ready to lead the team. The two years she played were some of the most eventful in Redskins history. We went to a second Super Bowl with Jesse at the helm, but in that game she tore up her right knee pretty badly. Both the anterior and posterior ligaments were torn. All of us knew it was a disastrous injury. It didn’t even matter that we lost the game.
Jesse had to sit out a year, and when she tried to come back the following year she just didn’t have the footspeed or strength in her legs to keep playing. She knew it, too. It was one of the most tragic days when she came to me and said she’d have to give up the game.
“I will be grateful to you for the rest of my life,” she said.
“It’s funny you should say that,” I told her. “Because everybody I know is thankful they had a chance to play on the same team with you, or, hell, to see you play.” I had tears in my eyes.
Coach Engram and I retired a few years after that. We never made it back to the Super Bowl, but we had some good years. When we hung it up, Dan Wilber, who had retired after Jesse’s first year and got into coaching, took over as head coach and won two Super Bowls on his own.
Jesse was still the most famous woman in the world when I quit coaching, but by that time there were three other women in the league: one defensive end named Alley Howell, (6’ 2", 288 pounds), who played for the Vikings, and two kickers—Justine Brown of the Cardinals and Delia Harmon of the Jets. As for the women’s leagues, they are much more popular now than they ever were before Jesse. All eight of the current women playing
in the NFL, as I write this, came from one of the women’s leagues.
I still see Jesse now and again. She and her mother are best of friends now—and when we get together they both like to gang up on me and point out all my faults. As you no doubt know, Jesse’s married to Darius Exley and they have a beautiful little girl they’ve named after Jonathon and me: Jonna Granger Exley. They are both teaching her how to play football and, thanks to Darius, she already has the largest collection of action figures on earth.
Jesse coaches for the Washington Divas, and Darius is with a Washington law firm. Both of them are in the Hall of Fame, and so are Orlando Brown, Drew Bruckner, Talon Jones, and Sean Rice. For sure, Gayle Glenn Louis will be there and I think eventually Rob Anders, and our strong safety Doug Harris will make it too.
All of those guys played for one of the best teams in history and one of the best coaches. No team ever played with more spirit or unity than that first one, though. And that was because of Jesse. What started out as a dreamy sort of halfhearted practical joke turned out to be one of the best things I ever did with my life; the principle reason I am remembered in my profession.
Not long ago, we all got together to celebrate Jonna Exley’s third birthday at their huge Victorian in Potomac, Maryland. Most of the old gang was there—Darius, of course, Rob Anders, Mickens, and Rice. Doug Harris, Gayle Glenn Louis, Dan Wilber, and Orlando; most of the players were there with their wives and children. Jonathon Engram and his wife showed up a little late. The players cheered. We were all in the backyard on a bright, sunny Sunday afternoon in May. Everybody gathered around a long picnic table covered with a white tablecloth dotted with Redskins insignias. Jesse and Darius had rented a twenty-foot-long canopy that shaded the table.
On that day Jesse and I walked up a slight hill in her yard, some distance from the gathering, and I told her I was going to write this book. She sort of grimaced and turned those blue eyes away from me. We’d just sung happy birthday to Jonna, and the kids were all sitting at the table, devouring cake and ice cream. Jonna had followed Jesse and me up to the top of the hill. “Where’re you going, Mommy?” she said.
Jesse knelt down, licked her fingers, and started wiping cake from Jonna’s mouth. The little one struggled against her. “Mommy, don’t.”
“Hold still,” Jesse said, wiping her hand clean in the grass.
“She’s beautiful, Jess.”
“She’s spiky and stubborn is what she is.”
“Inherited.”
Jesse looked up at me. “You really going to write another book about me?”
“Not just about you. About all of us.”
Jonna pushed Jesse’s hands away. “No, Mommy.”
Jesse brushed the little girl’s hair back, kissed her on the forehead, and stood up. “Go on,” she said. Jonna ran back down to the table. I watched the curls in her hair bounce as she ran.
“God, she looks like you,” I said. “Your hair bounced just like that when you ran.”
“Doesn’t everybody’s?”
“You don’t want me to write about you?”
“Oh, I don’t care, Coach. It’s just all so long ago.”
“Don’t you think about it sometimes?”
“Only when I try to get up with this knee,” she laughed. Then she stared right into my eyes. “Coach, it was a great year in my life—all my time playing was terrific. But nothing compares to …” she stopped. She tilted her head a little, still gazing into my eyes. “Look, the other day I came home from the grocery store, two full, heavy bags in my arms. Jonna was underfoot, following me into the house, jabbering the way she does. I can barely understand her sometimes when she gets going. I kind of stop listening. Anyway, I put the groceries on the counter. Jonna was at my feet, and I had to step around her to put the groceries away and I felt myself losing patience with her. I just wanted her to be quiet for a minute, stop pulling at my slacks and leave me alone, for god’s sake. I was so frustrated. Then, I just sat on the floor, leaned back against the counter, and looked at her. She came running into my arms, and I forgot the groceries, the open refrigerator. I just held her there, and I realized I was happier at that moment than when we won the Super Bowl. Just looking into my little girl’s eyes was better than all of it.”
I never had children. I didn’t know how that felt. I was kind of sorry I didn’t.
“So, if you want to write about me,” she said, “don’t forget to include that. I’m happier now than I’ve ever been.”
“Sometimes,” I said, “remembering your first year, I can get to feeling pretty happy myself.”
Coach Engram strode up the hill to us now, bouncing Jonna on his hip. “Three years old already. And isn’t she cute?”
Jonna smiled at him, her hand on his cheek. Once again there was cake all over her face.
“Are you married yet?” he said to her.
“Noooooo.”
“What kind of car do you drive?”
“I don’t have a car,” Jonna said, laughing. “You’re silly.”
Jesse was laughing, too. It was a nice sound—one I didn’t hear very often when she was playing. There was something softly feminine about it. She stood there with her arms folded in front of her, looking at her little girl fending off Coach Engram’s attempts to tickle her under the chin. I could see that Jonathon Engram was a pro around children. He’d raised a few of them himself.
“Skip’s going to write his own book about us,” Jesse said. She held out her arms and Jonna sort of fell into them. “Wow, you’re getting so heavy, little girl.” She gently put her down.
“Can I have more cake?” Jonna said.
“It’s your birthday, sweetie. All you have to do is ask.” Jesse took her hand and started off back toward the picnic table where all the other children were still gathered. I watched the two of them walking down the hill, Jesse towering over this little version of her.
“You going to write the thing yourself?” Engram asked.
“Won’t be too hard, I think. It’s all still so fresh in my mind.”
He nodded.
A cheer went up as Jesse and Jonna approached the table again. Jesse waved to the guys, like she was leaving a football field, weary and exhausted, wearing the bruises of yet another triumph.
Appendix:
Roster, Schedule, Final Standings
Redskins Schedule in Jesse’s First Year
* * *
Week One (Aug. 28) Miami Dolphins W 17–14
Week Two (Sept. 4) Detroit Lions L 0–17
Week Three (Sept. 11) at Philadelphia Eagles L 9–21
Week Four (Sept. 18) Dallas Cowboys W 31–0
Week Five (Sept. 25) at New York Giants L 14–24
Week Six (Oct. 2) Oakland Raiders W 35–33
Week Seven (Oct. 9) at Los Angeles Rams W 28–3
Week Eight (Oct. 16) Kansas City Chiefs W 35–10
Week Nine (Oct. 23) at Mexico City Aztecs W 24–10
Week Ten (Oct. 30) Bye
Week Eleven (Nov. 6) at Cleveland Browns W 49–3
Week Twelve (Nov. 13) Philadelphia Eagles W 14–6
Week Thirteen (Nov. 20) at New York Jets L 10–17
Week Fourteen (Nov. 24) at Dallas Cowboys W 35–21
Week Fifteen (Dec. 4) Cincinnati Bengals W 52–14
Week Sixteen (Dec. 11) Tampa Bay Buccaneers W 17–13
Week Seventeen (Dec. 18) at San Diego Chargers W 17–6
Week Eighteen (Dec. 24) at Green Bay Packers W 48–0
Week Nineteen (Dec. 31) New York Giants W 10–6
Playoffs (Jan. 15) San Francisco 49ers W 27–21
(Jan. 22) Arizona Cardinals W 45–10
Super Bowl (Feb. 5) Oakland Raiders W 38–20
Final Standings, Jesse’s First Year
* * *
Division/Team W–L PF PA PCT
NFC East
Y*-Washington Redskins 14–4 445 218 .777
X-New York Giants 13–5 336 183 .722
Dall
as Cowboys 8–10 332 351 .444
Philadelphia Eagles 7–11 340 485 .388
NFC North
Y-Minnesota Vikings 13–5 485 291 .722
Green Bay Packers 8–10 365 394 .444
Detroit Lions 8–10 364 456 .444
Chicago Bears 4–14 256 560 .222
NFC South
Y-New Orleans Saints 10–8 344 356 .555
Tampa Bay Buccaneers 9–9 379 388 .500
Carolina Panthers 7–11 256 418 .388
Atlanta Falcons 5–13 234 444 .277
NFC West
Y-Arizona Cardinals 14–4 495 244 .777
X-San Francisco 49ers 14–4 458 198 .777
Los Angeles Rams 8–10 377 296 .444
Seattle Seahawks 2–16 239 588 .111
AFC East
Y-Buffalo 15–3 468 290 .833
New York 8–10 423 409 .444
Miami 7–11 344 456 .388
New England 1–17 209 545 .055
AFC North
Y-Cleveland 12–6 388 246 .666
Baltimore 10–8 413 342 .555
Pittsburgh 5–13 316 394 .277
Cincinnati 4–14 308 512 .222
AFC South
Y-Jacksonville 14–4 523 216 .777
X-Tennessee 14–4 558 277 .777
Indianapolis 9–9 412 344 .500
Mexico City 4–14 290 378 .222
AFC West
*-Oakland 16–2 596 334 .888
X-San Diego 13–5 435 278 .722
Kansas City 10–8 457 313 .555
Denver 1–17 258 435 .055
PF = points for; PA = points against; PCT = winning percentage; * = home-field advantage throughout playoffs; Y = division title; X = wild card team
A Note on the Author
Robert Bausch is the author of many works of fiction, most recently the novel Far as the Eye Can See. He was born in Georgia and raised around Washington, D.C., and received a B.A., M.A., and M.F.A. from George Mason University. He’s been awarded the Fellowship of Southern Writers’ Hillsdale Award for Fiction and the John Dos Passos Prize, both for sustained achievement in literature. He lives in Virginia.
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