“The black one?” Tamela asked.
“Yeah … Zurich Robinson. I’m going to try and get him to come and talk with my kids if I can figure out a way to contact him,” Hank Senior said.
“Just call their public relations department. I’m sure they can help out. We saw him yesterday at the Bennigan’s on Michigan Avenue. Desiree is all in heat about him. And guess what, Daddy? She wrote him a letter and sent him a picture of herself!” Tamela laughed.
“What kind of picture is that girl sending out?” Hank Senior asked with fatherly concern.
“I’m sure it was strictly legit, Daddy.”
“I hope so. But maybe I should have taken Desiree to the game since she’s so interested in the players,” he said.
“Oh, she knows as much about football as I do, and our interest level is about the same. She would only be watching that quarterback,” Tamela said.
“Now, daughter of mine, don’t tell me you don’t know something about football. After all these years, something had to seep into that pretty little head of yours. What are you gonna do when you have a future Bear or Cougar?”
“Daddy, come on now, don’t spoil the day by talking about something like children,” Tamela said.
“Yeah, you’re right. You got to have a husband first,” Hank said.
“Daddy. Just find a parking spot, please.”
Hank Senior parked in a large remote lot near McCormick Towers, and they caught a shuttle bus to Soldier Field. Once they entered the stadium, Tamela grabbed her daddy’s warm hands and whispered in his ear, “Thanks for bringing me, Daddy. You know how much I look forward to being with you.”
“Me, too, pumpkin, me, too,” her daddy said as he stopped and gave his daughter a big hug. “Maybe this time you’ll learn something about the game.”
Zurich Robinson walked into the Cougars’ locker room a bundle of contradictions. He was calm but nervous, excited but tranquil. This was a day he had dreamed of since the first time he’d thrown a football and his father said, “Boy, you got an arm on you. If you keep that up one day you might end up playing in the NFL.”
Now that day had arrived, and Zurich was concentrating on staying focused, on making the butterflies populating his stomach work for him and not against him, as they had in the past. Like the time when he was in the tenth grade, playing for the varsity, and his first three passes were off the mark. “You’re just nervous,” his coach had told him. “Make those butterflies work for you. Don’t lose your cool,” he’d added.
Zurich looked cooler than an ice cream cone on a hot summer day, dressed in white pleated gabardine slacks, a white oxford shirt accented by royal blue suspenders, Italian loafers without socks, and carrying a black leather bag. Zurich found solitude sitting in front of his locker as he reached into his bag and turned off his portable CD player. He took out the Warren G disc and placed it in a protective plastic cover.
It was almost an hour before the kickoff, and he slowly removed his clothes and carefully put them in his locker, placing his pants and shirt on wooden hangers he’d brought from home. He folded his underwear and removed the silver loops from his ears, dropping them in his loafers.
Wearing only a pair of black compression shorts and his teal and gold jersey with the number 12 and the name ROBINSON on the back, Zurich put his body through several stretches to loosen his tight, tense muscles. The locker room was filled with the sounds of slamming locker doors, all types of music, from rap to country, and the voices of several Cougar players shouting things like, “Let’s go kick some Bear ass,” and “Let’s not self-destruct, Cougars.”
Moments later as Zurich was tightening the strings on his gold football pants, Mario walked up, smiling and comically moving his head from side to side, as if he was dancing to the latest pop tune.
“Whatsup, Gee?” he asked as he exchanged slaps with Zurich with a cupped hand.
“You the man, Mario. You the man,” Zurich responded.
“You nervous, Gee?”
“Naw, I’m ready to go,” Zurich said as his stomach began to churn with a reservoir of anxiety.
“Gee, just get me the ball,” Mario said while he positioned his arms as if he were waiting to catch an invisible football.
“And you know it,” Zurich said as he cocked his arm in a passing motion.
“It’s all good,” Mario said, and walked back toward his locker.
Zurich started lacing up his shoes and several of his teammates stopped by his locker to wish him good luck. When he was completely dressed in his Cougar uniform, Zurich found his way into a private stall in the bathroom, locked it, and kneeled and prayed. In his silent prayer he asked the Lord to give him the strength to do his best, and that every player, both Cougars and Bears, would leave the field in the same condition in which they began. When he left the stall, he was calm, no longer nervous, relieved and ready.
The first half flew by and a few minutes after the third quarter started, the sun disappeared and a cool wind blew into the packed stadium. Tamela suddenly wished she had brought her nylon sorority jacket; she had forgotten how close Soldier Field was to Lake Michigan. She looked at the scoreboard and tried to estimate how much longer she would have to sit on the aluminum bleachers as goose bumps appeared on her arms. The game was close, 14–14, at halftime, and Tamela knew her daddy would not want to leave early. So just as she’d done when she was a little girl and the minister became a little long-winded, Tamela whispered to her daddy, “I’m going to the ladies’ room.” Without moving his eyes from the field, Hank Senior mumbled, “Okay, pumpkin.”
Tamela found her way to the crowded ladies’ room and decided she could wait until she got back to her own apartment. As she walked from the place where so many women had sought refuge, she smelled popcorn, hot dogs, and strong coffee. Tamela went to the concession stand and purchased two cups of coffee, a hot dog, and some popcorn and started back toward the stands. While trying to balance the cardboard box that held her food, Tamela accidentally bumped into a hard male body in a blue uniform. When she looked up toward the tall stranger, she noticed a shining silver bar with the name TAYLOR engraved on it. Then Tamela heard a baritone voice say, “Looks like you got your hands full.”
Tamela realized that she had bumped into one of Chicago’s finest. A straight-standing and sinisterly handsome policeman who looked vaguely familiar as he smiled boyishly down at her.
“Excuse me, Officer,” Tamela said.
“No problem, miss,” Officer Taylor said. As Tamela walked away the officer’s thick eyebrows arched as he tried to figure out why Tamela looked so familiar. “Excuse me, miss, but have we met?” he said. Tamela turned around. “Are you talking to me?”
“Yes. Have we met before?”
“I don’t know, but you do look familiar,” Tamela said.
Tamela was trying to figure out where she had seen this man as she took note of his clear complexion, the color of heavily creamed coffee. His skin was flawless, and his full lips barely moved under his thick light brown mustache.
“My name is Caliph Taylor,” he said as he extended a neatly manicured hand toward Tamela. She glanced to see if his fingernails were clean.
“Caliph … Caliph. You’re the busboy!” she said, suddenly realizing where she had seen him.
“And you’re the fine lady in the fancy gown with the stuffed-shirt boyfriend. I think the dress was blue,” he smiled.
“No, he’s not my boyfriend. And yes, my gown was blue,” Tamela said.
She could smell his aftershave as he moved closer to her, trying to avoid being bumped again by other fans. That’s when Tamela noticed his eyes were light blue-green, as though he had mixed the colors himself from a child’s watercolor paint set.
“So, do you mind sharing your name?” Caliph asked.
“What?” Tamela asked, as she suddenly heard the roar of the stadium crowd. Somebody must have scored, she thought.
“Can you hear me?” Caliph said as he raised his
voice. “What’s your name?” The cheering had subsided and this time Tamela heard him perfectly.
“Tamela Coleman,” she replied.
“Is that Ms. or Mrs. Coleman?” he asked.
“My mother is Mrs. Coleman, and I’m Ms. Coleman,” she said.
“Oh,” Caliph said, placing his left hand to his chin. No ring, Tamela thought as she looked into Caliph’s eyes. Tamela felt a sudden rush as if her insides were a bowl of ice cream just covered with hot fudge.
“So, are you a busboy or a policeman?” Tamela asked.
“Who says I can’t be both?” Caliph smiled.
“So you’re a smartass! Come on, tell me, are you a busboy?” she asked.
“Would that make a difference?”
“A difference regarding what?”
“A difference if I was to ask you for the digits,” Caliph said.
“The digits?” Tamela asked coyly. She knew full well what he was talking about. He had asked in that mack daddy tone she loved and despised. Loved when men like Caliph talked that way, but hated when nerds like Tim tried to use the tone to impress a woman.
“Excuse me. May I have your phone number, Ms. Coleman?” Caliph asked politely.
“I tell you what. Why don’t you give me your phone number? I’ll think about whether or not I want you to have my number and I’ll call you,” Tamela said. Tamela knew that if he gave her his phone number without hesitation, it meant he really was single. If he stumbled, it would warn her to stay away.
“You got a piece of paper?” he asked.
“No. Don’t you have the paper you write tickets on?” Tamela asked.
“Yes, but that’s property of the city,” he smiled. “Oh, here, I see something I can write it on,” he said as he reached for the top flap of Tamela’s popcorn box. “You don’t mind, do you?” he teased. She was happy she had bought the box instead of the bucket of popcorn. He couldn’t write his number in a bucket.
Tamela responded with a half smile. Caliph took a pen from his shirt pocket and wrote down his phone number, including a beeper number. Tamela looked at the home number and realized his exchange was the same as her parents’.
“So you live in Hyde Park?” she asked.
“How did you know that?” he asked.
“I’m psychic and my date is probably getting worried about me,” she said as she smiled again and started toward the tunnel.
“You sure are cold. But I like that!” Caliph shouted after her.
When she reached her father, the coffee, hot dog, and popcorn were cold, but since Hank Senior was into the exciting finale of the game, Tamela set the cold food down on the concrete and cheered along with her daddy. Only Tamela had no earthly idea who she was cheering for or who was winning. She simply felt she needed to cheer. She let out a high-pitched scream that even took her daddy’s eyes from the field for a moment. “What are you so happy about?” he asked.
“I’m just happy to be here with you,” Tamela said as she grabbed her daddy’s arm. She squeezed it tightly and laid her head on his shoulder.
Spectacular. That was the only word that could describe Zurich Robinson’s NFL debut. In a game that shocked the 77,000-plus people packed into Soldier Field, the Chicago Cougars defeated the Bears 38–31, thanks to a last-minute eighty-six-yard drive engineered by Zurich Robinson. The game was tied 31 all with fifty-three seconds remaining, when the Bears were forced to punt. Like a seasoned NFL veteran, Zurich led the Cougars down the field with the skill of a heart surgeon. Sure it was only an exhibition game and the Bears used a lot of rookies, but a win was a win. And this win was big!
Zurich had completed his first eleven passes, including a seventy-seven yarder to his friend Mario. He finished the day with 483 yards passing, completing 27 of 33 attempts, a new NFL record for a rookie in a debut, exhibition or regular season. In addition, he rushed for 92 yards, eluding a Bears defender for a 44-yard run in the final drive. A run that prompted one of the announcers covering the game to remark, “Zurich Robinson was faster than a hiccup; this kid is going to be a great one.”
Zurich could not believe how well he had played and how solidly his young offensive line had protected him, especially during the game’s winning drive. He could not wait to shower, dress, and get to a phone to call his father and MamaCee. But first he had to meet the press. Under the lights of the camera Zurich’s shaved head gleamed. The scene was chaotic. More than twenty reporters crowded around, nodding and smiling as they held tape recorders and microphones under his mouth and shouted out questions.
“How did you start your day, Mr. Robinson?” a reporter asked.
“I went to early morning church services and prayed that I would have a great game and that my team would win. And that no one would get hurt,” Zurich added as he flashed a big smile.
“Looks like your prayers worked. Are you going to do that for every game?” the reporter asked.
“I pray every day,” Zurich answered confidently.
“What about your chances against Atlanta?”
“How many games do you think the Cougars could win?”
“Is this sweet revenge against the NFL for not drafting you out of college?”
Zurich’s eyes were darting around the locker room looking for help; finally he shouted, “Fellas, fellas, one at a time, please.”
The questions were coming fast and furious, as though all the reporters in Chicago had gathered around Zurich’s locker. Mario’s 157-yard rushing effort and his other teammates’ hard work didn’t seem to matter. When he gave his teammates and coaches credit for the win, the reporters simply thought Zurich was being modest.
“Will you always be this modest, Zurich?” a plaid-shirt-clad sports reporter asked. Zurich waited for a moment and was surprised at the silence. Clearly, this was a question the other reporters wanted him to answer.
“There is no room on this team or in this game for arrogance. Football is a team sport and no one person can be successful alone,” Zurich replied.
“A humble quarterback. What will they think of next?” the reporter joked.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” said a familiar feminine voice. Zurich looked over the reporters and cameramen and spotted Mia Miller pushing her way toward his locker. It did not dawn on Zurich that he was standing in front of his locker naked as a jay bird, having removed his uniform and jock en route to the shower, until Mia stood directly in front of him, moved her eyes downward, and then quickly lifted them and stuck a microphone in his face.
“So how does it feel to have such a fantastic debut performance, Mr. Robinson?” Mia asked.
“Zurich. Please call me Zurich. But it feels great,” Zurich said, suddenly feeling a little uncomfortable standing completely nude before a woman he had just had lunch with. As MamaCee would say, showing the world all your stuff.
“Ted, my man, would you get me a towel?” Zurich said to one of the locker room attendants. Zurich caught the white towel in mid-air and quickly wrapped it around his waist. The towel was not big enough to cover him entirely. His left hip was still partially exposed despite the efforts of his left hand.
“Thank you,” Mia mouthed.
The moment was a little uncomfortable for Mia also. She had been in locker rooms before while in Jackson, but there the rules were different. Female reporters covering college sports had to wait until after the players had showered and dressed before asking questions. But the NFL and the Chicago Cougars would have none of that double standard, so Mia and a couple other female reporters were allowed in the Cougars’ locker room at the same time as their male counterparts.
The atmosphere in the packed room was upbeat, as if they’d won the division title in their first year and were on their way to face the Dallas Cowboys or San Francisco 49ers in the Super Bowl. Players of all shapes and colors were playfully engaged in butt slapping with wet towels and exchanging high fives with a youthful exuberance. The locker room smelled of old footballs and funky masculine sweat. Mia cring
ed at the slamming of lockers and inhaled the sexy scent but tried not to enjoy it. That was hard especially while she was standing in front of Zurich. She was impressed with the way he was handling all the attention, although at times his dark brown eyes moved quickly from side to side, like a small trapped animal, caught between the proverbial rock and hard place. Mia seemed to have developed a fan club of her own. One of the Cougars’ offensive linemen, also buck naked, had noticed her when she walked in and followed her over to Zurich’s locker, shouting, “Hey, Miss Sports Woman. Let me take you out to dinner?” He was a big guy, muscular, with a slight gut and dark short hair. His face had a sleepy, dumb look and his mouth hung open as though he was surprised. He fully expected Mia to acknowledge his presence and question. He was making her extremely nervous. But she realized this was part of her job, and she had to remain calm and professional.
“I’m sorry, this is my first game covering you guys. What is your name?”
“Darnell Pickens,” he said. Mia could have sworn that Darnell was getting an erection. It wasn’t that she was looking, but from the ribbing Darnell’s teammates were giving him, she knew she’d better not look.
“Hey, big guy, Ms. Miller is talking to me right now. Your locker is down on the other side, right?” Zurich asked.
“Yea, Z-man. You know where it is,” he said.
“I tell you what, Darnell. Why don’t you go and take your shower, get dressed, and when Ms. Miller finishes with me, I will bring her down to your neck of the woods. How does that sound?”
“Cool, but be swift, Z-man,” Darnell said as he gave Mia a toothy grin. Mia felt slightly uncomfortable and dwarfed by Darnell’s thickness. Darnell turned his naked ass to Mia and Zurich and started toward his locker, taking his teammates with him. Some of the other reporters followed the naked brigade of players, and Mia was left standing face to face with Zurich.
“Thank you. I think you saved me from something,” Mia smiled. She loved the way Zurich had leaped to her defense.
“No problem. Darnell is harmless. I’m kinda surprised to see you in here,” Zurich admitted. He grabbed a bigger towel from the top of his locker and quickly replaced the smaller towel with it, hanging the smaller one around his neck.
And This Too Shall Pass Page 10
