Naked Came the Florida Man

by Tim Dorsey

  A few rows over, Coleman also lay on his back. Eyes shut tight.

  Ribbit. A bullfrog crawled out of a chest pouch and hopped away.

  Serge got up and raced about, obsessively not giving up. But then it became just too dark. “Coleman! We have to head back to the car! . . . Coleman! . . .”

  Coleman roused from an anesthesia fog. “Wha—? What is it?” He raised his head. “Oh, hello. It’s another of my little nature friends.” While Coleman had been unconscious, something had crawled onto his chest and found his girth, warmth and breathing to be a soothing elixir. He began stroking its back. He sat up and snuggled it under his chin, gently slipping it down into his chest pouch. “I’m coming, Serge!”

  Over at the road, kids began jumping back into the pickups that had brought them. Most had sacks and makeshift chicken-wire cages with rabbits. Serge collapsed empty-handed over the hood of the Satellite.

  “Jesus!” said Cheyenne. “You look like you’re about to have a heart attack!”

  “There’s no other way to do a job than to end up looking like you’re nearly in cardiac arrest. But you’re a witness: I gave it my all.”

  “And then some,” said Cheyenne.

  The truck beds were noisy with animated tall tales from the cane fields. Then they went silent, all looking in the same direction.

  Coleman strolled ho-hum out of the cane field, petting his newest furry friend. He looked up to see all eyes upon him. “What?”

  Kids jumped down from the trucks and gathered around the plump, stumbling stranger. “What’s your secret?” “How’d you catch a jackrabbit?” “You must be super fast!”

  There was a banging sound. Serge’s forehead against the hood of his Plymouth. Accompanied by fists.

  “Easy,” said Cheyenne. “You’ll catch one someday.”

  “You’re right.” Serge stood and collected himself. “Besides, the big game is tomorrow. We need to be heading for the hotel to get our rest.”

  The gang piled back into the Plymouth and turned south on Main Street.

  “Serge, why are you pulling over?”

  “Just one last stop of the day on the way to the inn.”

  The Plymouth pulled around behind a government building.

  “What is this place?” asked Cheyenne.

  “Used to be the library,” said Serge. “Now a museum.”

  Three people headed for the doors. One went another direction.

  “Serge,” yelled Kyle. “The entrance is this way.”

  “We’re not going in the museum,” said Serge. “Follow me . . .”

  The foursome soon stood on the lawn on the north side of the building. All staring up at the same thing.

  “This is just like our hotel,” said Cheyenne. “I’ve driven by a thousand times but never stopped to really take a look.”

  “One of the most emotional historic monuments in all the state,” said Serge. “Statues of a family of four: father, young son, and mother cradling an infant, all running for their lives and looking back up at the sky in terror, the parents raising futile arms to shield their heads. And on the monument’s base, a stone-relief sculpture of giant waves washing away homes and snapping palm trees. And if you look real close in the water, there’s a bunch of tiny people drowning beneath a simple inscription: ‘Belle Glade 1928.’”

  “Whew,” said Cheyenne. “What can you say?”

  “You can’t,” said Serge.

  The monument was too much to take in at once, so they didn’t.

  “Every now and then, being at a place pulls at me in a way I don’t understand,” said Serge. “I get an odd feeling.”

  “Who wouldn’t at a monument like this?” said Cheyenne.

  “It’s not the monument,” said Serge. “Another kind of feeling. My bones again, but different this time. Like something big is looming just around the corner.”

  They all became quiet again, respectfully taking in the sight as the sun departed.

  Chapter 37

  Game Day

  There had been talk of rain, but it never came. Instead, the departing clouds over Lake Okeechobee left the night air cool and crisp under the stadium lights. The faint smell of smoke from the surrounding cane fields competed with sausage grills in the concession stands.

  Spectators had started arriving at the gates when the sun was still high. You had to for this one if you wanted any kind of decent seat. Those who arrived late were still more than happy to stand or watch from outside the fence, fingers clinging to chain link.

  Twenty-five thousand were expected tonight. Insane for a high school. But the Muck Bowl was no ordinary game. The number of college scouts in the stands confirmed that. They always came out for the annual battle of the rabbit chasers.

  The hype had been building for weeks among the nearby communities. Signs outside restaurants and dry cleaners and lube shops cheered on the Blue Devils and the Raiders. They talked about it in the post office and the supermarket lines. Tailgate parties were planned with the logistics of military campaigns. And now it was time.

  School buses arrived after the ten-mile drive up the rim of the lake from Belle Glade, and the players streamed out. Bands played, police directed traffic. The Blue Devils were already on their home-field sideline. Their uniforms were slightly different from the usual. It was the players’ idea. On the front of each of their jerseys, just above the numbers, a strip of tape with lettering in Magic Marker: Calhoun. It was unauthorized, but all the coaches looked the other way.

  The cheering from the stands was like a jet taking off. And this was only the warm-ups . . .

  . . . A gold Plymouth Satellite rounded the bottom of the lake.

  “You sure we got tickets?” asked Serge.

  Kyle nodded. “Coach Calhoun said they’d be waiting for us at the booth, but it might be standing room.”

  The Plymouth continued north. Even if they hadn’t known there was a big game, they would’ve been able to tell something was definitely up. Everyone in motion, piling in cars, honking, good-natured yelling in traffic, making last-moment dashes into stores, well-wishes painted on the windows of homes and offices.

  “This is what I’m talking about,” said Serge, gripping his fingers against the steering wheel. “Small-town pride. The fabric of the community coming together like a Kevlar vest.”

  They left Belle Glade behind and then it was just an empty stretch of cane fields that connected destinies. The sun finally set over Pahokee, draping the town in darkness, except for the strings of headlights pouring in from all directions.

  “There it is,” said Serge.

  The brilliantly glowing football field stood out in the surroundings like Yankee Stadium.

  “Looks like we have a bit of a walk,” said Cheyenne.

  They parked down the street from the overflow lots and hiked to the entrance booth.

  “Coleman, you let the jackrabbit free,” said Serge. “Why are you still wearing the chest pouch?”

  Coleman reached inside and pulled something out to show his buddy. Then put it back inside.

  “Why are you carrying a doughnut in your pouch?”

  “Emergencies.”

  Tickets were waiting as promised. This time Kyle took charge, leading them along the fence in front of the home section until they reached the area behind the Pahokee bench.

  “Coach Calhoun!”

  Lamar turned. At first there was a lack of recognition.

  “It’s me, Kyle.”

  Then Calhoun brightened, and a reunion hug. “I heard about your dad. Sorry.”

  “Heard about yours, too,” said Kyle. “They were good men.”

  “Coach!” A hand extended to shake.

  “And you must be Cheyenne.” Lamar lowered his right palm to the height of his waist. “Last time I saw you, you were this tall.”

  “The years fly by,” she said. “So you’re back home coaching now?”

  Calhoun rested a forearm on the top of the fence. “That’s a compl
icated story.”

  “Where’s this kicker I’ve been reading about?”

  “Chris? Right over there. She’s quite something.”

  They all looked down the bench at a slender girl with a ponytail, leaning forward with spring-wound intensity.

  Then more coiled intensity from another direction. “Coach! I’m Serge! Huge fan!”—shaking hands vigorously—“Can’t tell you how much all of this means to our nation! Connective tissue from Stetson to Zora! This is Coleman . . .”

  Coleman waved. “I caught a bunny.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” said Serge. “So what’s the big plan for tonight? Razzle-dazzle, Statue of Liberty, flea flicker, fumblerooski, triple-reverse sting operation, bark at the moon to confuse the blitz?”

  Calhoun glanced over at Kyle. “You know these people?”

  “Actually, yes,” said the young man. “But they’re harmless. Maybe not to themselves . . .”

  Cheyenne pointed at the color guard marching out onto the field. “Looks like we’re starting.”

  After the national anthem, thunder from the stands as the Devils took the field to kick off. They formed a rigid line. A referee blew a whistle. A ball sailed high under the lights.

  The Belle Glade receiver took it on the fifteen and charged straight up the field, waiting for his wall of blockers to form. Then he abruptly swung left, and used ridiculous speed to curl around the end and race up the sideline. The blocking wall held. One by one, the defenders were picked off. The path to the end zone now clear.

  Well, almost clear. The kicker was left, outmatched by at least eighty pounds and staring in headlights. Normally a tackle would have been impossible. But the receiver was running down the sideline. It wasn’t necessary to tackle, just knock him out of bounds. So the kicker, as they say, took one for the team. He ran as best he could toward the edge of the field, left his feet and laid out. Which meant just diving and sacrificing his body horizontally in front of the runner.

  It was a wincing collision, but it did the trick. Out of bounds at the thirty. The kicker didn’t get up. Coaches ran over. They held fingers in front of his face. They gave him a pop quiz.

  The referee leaned in. “What’s the story?”

  They shook their heads. “Concussion. He’s out.”

  A rare moment of silence in the stands as medics wheeled the stretcher toward the waiting ambulance that had backed up through the gates. Then an eruption of applause from both stands as the player, still prone on the stretcher, raised a fist with a thumbs-up.

  That bit of drama was the first of many. Key fumbles and interceptions. Lead swings. Fourth-down pass completions. Safety blitzes and trick plays. Spectators held their stomachs and hearts, not sure how much more they could take . . .

  . . . Police officers kept an eye on the darkened parking lots. Every space was taken. Even spaces that weren’t spaces. Vehicles up on curbs, in no-parking zones, blocking fire hydrants. It was the unwritten fine print of a small town: no parking tickets during high school games.

  Just after halftime, a pickup truck arrived and drove up and down packed rows until parking on the grass behind a dumpster. The driver bought a standing-room ticket and stood as Pahokee kicked off. But the new spectator wasn’t watching the field. He was looking at the bench.

  Chris wasn’t hard to spot. The players on the bench had their helmets off. Just look for the only girl.

  Captain Crack Nasty reached into his pocket and rubbed the gold coin he had just purchased at the pawnshop. He smiled to himself and decided to enjoy the rest of the game . . .

  With five minutes to go, the Blue Devils were down 27–21 and driving inside the five. But play stalled on a third-down shot out the back of the end zone. They were too close to risk another touchdown attempt and give up the sure three points. They sent out the kicker, who made good: 27–24.

  The kicker trotted off the field as teammates slapped his pads in congratulation. Then he suddenly began hopping on his left foot and dropped down on the bench. His helmet came off with a grimace. The trainer arrived, then other staff.

  “What is it?” asked the head coach.

  The trainer rotated the leg slightly, and the player almost screamed. “Looks like a pulled groin.”

  “So how’s he going to be?”

  “He’s in no condition for even an onside kick.”

  “Are you kidding me?” said the coach. “Can’t you do anything? Tape it up?”

  A headshake. “He might even need surgery.”

  Teeth gritted; then: “I know, I know. Shouldn’t have even asked. Their welfare comes first.” A frustrated kick in the dirt. “But why in a three-point game? One field goal to tie and send it to overtime? What am I supposed to do?”

  “I guess you’re just going to have to try for the touchdown and the win.”

  They carefully took off the kicker’s jersey.

  Chris was leaning way forward, trying to make out the commotion at the other end of the bench. She saw them removing the shoulder pads of the second-string kicker, who was in obvious agony. She leaned back. “Shit.”

  The Devils defense made a clutch stop on third down in enemy territory, and the Raiders had no choice but to punt. The Pahokee offense took the field. Time was running short, so they had to manage the clock. Which meant passing. And Belle Glade knew it. They loaded up deep and played soft for the short, underneath stuff. Pahokee started with a sideline route that went out of bounds for a four-yard gain. Then another for five yards. Then a short pass over the middle for a first down that stopped the clock at just over a minute. It was working, but it was taking far too long.

  Chris would have been biting her nails if she did that sort of thing. Instead, her right knee nervously bounced up and down. She glanced over her shoulder at the roaring overflow crowd. She did a double take. She jumped off the bench and ran to the fence. “Coach Calhoun!” She hugged him over the top of the chain link.

  “Easy now.”

  Chris let him go. “What are you doing here?”

  “You kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

  She hadn’t noticed because of the excitement at seeing the coach, but someone was standing with him. He was home for a break from college.

  “Reggie!” Another hug.

  “Chris,” said Calhoun. “There’s time for this later. You need to get your head back in the game.”

  “Did you see what happened to our kickers?”

  Calhoun nodded.

  “What should I do?”

  “I suggest you start warming up.”

  Chris nodded and dashed off. She found a spot behind the bench away from the others and began stretching.

  The Blue Devils continued a consistent march down the field. But it was all still more short stuff, eating up way too much time. Both sides knew what was coming. The quarterback took the next snap and dropped back farther than before to give the receivers time to extend their routes. He looked right and saw tight coverage. He ducked and stepped up in the pocket as a defender leaped and flew by. He reached back with everything he had and launched a perfect spiral with plenty of air. It couldn’t have been more on target, arcing down toward the back corner of the end zone. But Glades Central had time to shift an extra defender, and now the Pahokee receiver was double-teamed. The ball was swatted away.

  Fourth and long. At the outer edge of field-goal range. The clock stopped at ten seconds. The head coach glanced at Chris, warming up at the practice net. “Time out!”

  The roar of the crowd was a rattling blare of sheer white noise. Nobody had taken a seat for the last fifteen minutes. Even the cops were cheering.

  The teams went to their sidelines, panting, gargling water and spitting it out. Nobody could say they weren’t leaving it all on the field. Both sides had nothing left, and that’s when the boys at the lake always found more. The head coach called the play. The players ran back onto the field.

  Chris stayed behind the bench at the practice net.

&
nbsp; Pahokee lined up identical to the last play. Spectators grabbed their heads and pulled their hair. The ball was snapped. The fastest receivers streaked down both sidelines. The quarterback dropped back deep. He cocked his arm to launch another long one. Then he pulled the ball in. It was a delay play. The tight end threw a block on the right tackle, then slipped over the line five yards. The quarterback stepped forward and hit him running full speed. The defense was covering all the long routes and had left the middle open. Bedlam in the stands. The end raced up the clear middle of the field. Ten yards, fifteen, twenty. The defenders converged. The end tried to get around the left side, but one of the Raiders dove for a perfect ankle tackle. The runner went down right on the hash mark at the fifteen-yard line. A second later, a horn on top of the scoreboard blared. No time on the clock. Final score: Glades Central 27, Pahokee 24.

  One side of the field jumped in ecstasy, the other in furious protest. The referees were already huddling. They already knew they had a serious mess on their hands. They realized the implications of what they had to do, and in the back of their minds were thinking how to get out of the parking lot as fast as possible when it was all over. The runner was down, but the scorekeeper up in the booth hadn’t stopped the clock in time. The refs all nodded in agreement, and the head official broke their huddle and signaled to the booth to put a single second back on the clock.

  Now emotions reversed in the opposing stands.

  The Pahokee coach yelled at a ref and made a T with his hands. “Time out!”

  Then he turned. “Chris!”

  There wasn’t need for any strategy discussion. It was a straight field goal. If she made it, then overtime. If not . . .

  “You got this one, Chris,” said a teammate, slapping her on the butt. “Oops, sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  The crowd was apoplectic. Spectators dug fingernails into each other’s arms. Some gasped for air. Others grabbed their hearts. Coleman reached in his pouch for the doughnut.

  The intermission ended, and the players trotted back out under the bright lights.