Sudden Death fk-7

by William X. Kienzle

  So did the officers.

  At about the 10-yard line, Cobb and Hoffer stood approximately six or seven yards apart, roughly where they would be had the rest of the team been in playing position.

  Cobb, holding a football in his right hand, turned toward Hoffer. “Okay, let’s try a dragout. Right. On two.”

  Cobb hunched as if crouching behind an imaginary center. Hoffer assumed a three-point stance.

  Cobb called out, “Hut! Hut!” and slapped the ball against his left hand as if it had been thrust there by the center. He retreated rapidly, four, five steps.

  Hoffer began a pattern, swinging slightly to his right, and continuing downfield. Abruptly, he broke for the sideline, looking over his right shoulder.

  The ball was thrown behind Hoffer. He tried to twist his body in the opposite direction; his legs became tangled and he fell, rolling over and over.

  Cobb cursed. One of the assistant coaches returned the ball. The others shouted either correctional advice or encouragement. Coach Bradford stood silent and motionless, arms locked across his chest, face expressionless.

  Hoffer, obviously feeling as graceful as a puppy whose legs are its worst enemy, returned to the imaginary line of scrimmage.

  The two players conferred with one of the assistant coaches, then set up for another play. This time, Hoffer lined up to Cobb’s left.

  “Okay, Hoff! Gimme a dragout and go! Left! On one!”

  Cobb crouched. Hoffer balanced on his toes and the knuckles of his right hand.

  “Hut!” Cobb slammed the ball and backpedaled.

  Hoffer slanted slightly to his left, heading downfield. He abruptly broke toward the left sideline, then, just as abruptly, headed down-field at full speed.

  Koesler thrilled to the exuberance of it: Hoffer, like an animal, seemed to run for the joy of running.

  Cobb sent the ball in a high, deep arch. Hoffer slid to a halt, keeping his balance with one hand on the turf. He returned several yards and caught the pass just before it touched the turf. Clutching the ball to his chest, he fell and rolled over several times. Then he lay on his back, holding the ball up as high as he could, like a trophy.

  “Bobby!” an assistant coach yelled. “Tell me what the hell good it is to outrun the safety and have to come back for the ball!”

  Coach Bradford might have been carved from stone.

  “Okay, Hoff. Let’s try a little curl! Right! On one! Hut!” Cobb retreated.

  Hoffer ran straight downfield ten to thirteen yards, then stopped and curled back toward scrimmage. The ball was delivered just as he turned. He barely saw it. He dropped it.

  The assistant coaches shouted.

  What seemed to be a frown appeared on Bradford’s face.

  At twenty-five, Kit Hoffer was young by anyone’s standards. Yet he was a little old to be a rookie. The cause of his retarded career might have been buried somewhere in his background.

  Hoffer had just missed the 1950s, the decade many say was America’s last age of innocence. Born in 1960, he would live through the age of power explosions: student power, radical power, black power, drug power, fem-lib power, consumer power, rock power, rocket power.

  Much of that had taken place beyond his awareness. He was only a teenager during Watergate. And Vietnam was over before he would have been forced to go.

  Actually, despite growing up during a time of turmoil, Kit Hoffer had had a comparatively tranquil youth.

  An only child, he had worshiped his father, Harold. And the affection was returned. Kit wanted to grow up just like his dad. Fortunately for that wish, he took after his father in that they were both mesomorphs with an abundance of bone, muscle, and connective tissue. Harold was, and Kit would grow to be, a muscular athlete with a large skeletal frame. And, as was so often the case, the son would far surpass his father in both size and athletic ability.

  Harold Hoffer had grown up in New York City. He had attended Catholic schools, and had been an outstanding athlete from grade school through college. But while his scholastic career had been exceptional, he was not quite up to the standard of a professional in any sport. He went into sales for American Airlines. He was highly successful, using many of the contacts he had made during his life as a sports hero. He was transferred to Dallas-Fort Worth, the once and future headquarters of American.

  Harold had married while living in New York. Kit was born there. When they moved to Texas, Kit was too young to know that everything about him would have been perfect if he had been Baptist. That anomaly diminished significantly as Kit grew and grew and grew.

  He attended public school. But his parents made certain that he also attended catechism instructions faithfully. By so doing, he learned the Commandments, the Sacraments, and the Creed, over and over. His parish was not in the catechetical avant-garde.

  For a while, young Hoffer toyed with the notion of becoming a priest. But he discovered two effective barriers to that vocation. He liked girls far too much to go through life without a wife. And his grades never reached a level that would encourage an academic career demanding scholastic achievement.

  By no means was he stupid. He could have become a serious and successful student. But his desire to follow in his father’s tracks forestalled that.

  His parents would have been pleased enough had he wanted to be a priest. But his father would have been convinced that his son had missed a vocational vehicle. So father and son played endless catch, shot numberless baskets, hit countless baseballs. At the proper time, Kit began to invest regular hours in pumping weights and working out on exercise machines.

  It worked. In senior high school, he was all-state in football, baseball, and basketball. Most major colleges tried to recruit him. The best package was offered by, in effect, his hometown university, Southern Methodist.

  He had it all. All but luck.

  College baseball and basketball have their value. But neither attracts the publicity nor garners the income for the school that football does. Considering Kit’s build and natural talent, Harold and his son put all their chips on intercollegiate football. Kit became fullback for SMU. The best fullback in the conference. Perhaps the best in the nation.

  But almost every time SMU would play one of its traditional rivals-a Notre Dame or a Texas A amp; M-on national television, for one reason or another Kit Hoffer would be sidelined. An injury, the flu, once, unbelievably, housemaid’s knee. Thus, he gradually earned a reputation for unreliability. The word went round that Kit Hoffer could not be counted on for the big ones.

  It was unfair. Kit Hoffer played, and played well, against Notre Dame, Texas A amp; M, Texas, Oklahoma, but generally not when national TV covered the event. Unlucky.

  He should have been chosen in the first round of pro football’s draft. He went in the eighteenth, to Chicago. Just as training camp opened, his mother died. He was late for camp. Unlucky. By the time he got there, he had fallen hopelessly behind in learning Chicago’s system. Two veteran fullbacks were well ahead of him. The coach decided to go with the two veterans. Unlucky.

  His father got Kit a job in sales with American Airlines. His was a very big name among sports fans in the Metroplex area. Many travel agents and business people wanted to be seen in the company of the big, if former, college football star at the Fairmont, or the Pyramid or the Carriage House. Kit did well for American Airlines. But his heart wasn’t in it. His heart was in football.

  The next season, as a free agent, he was invited to Tampa Bay’s training camp. On the first day of contact drills he injured a knee. Because he was unable to participate in any further drills or practice, he never did catch up-and failed to survive the final cut. Unlucky.

  He returned to Dallas, where he continued to please influential people who reserved a lot of space in air travel. American Airlines was pleased with his work. But he and his father shared a common disappointment. They knew it was all a matter of bad luck. However, there seemed to be nothing either could do about it. Kit stayed in shape, work
ing out regularly at the Y.

  The following season he contacted no one. And no team contacted him. But he continued to maintain his excellent physical condition. He played softball, basketball, and touch football with amateur groups, while keeping in mind that he could not afford to forget to hold back. Otherwise, he would be likely to injure someone.

  He married. He and his childhood sweetheart had agreed to wait till his career in pro football was well established before marrying. That they went ahead with the marriage was a tacit admission that he had given up hope.

  Then the phone call came from Coach Bradford. The coach wanted to reinforce the position of tight end. He was certain Kit could master the new position. Yes, even if he made the team he would be playing behind Hank Hunsinger. But nobody lasts forever. And he would finally attain his dream of playing professionally.

  Kit, his wife, Grace, and his father agonized over the decision. They even went to their parish priest and had a Sunday Mass offered for guidance. They decided to take the chance. Actually, Harold and Kit had known from the start what the decision would be. The agonizing had been for Grace’s benefit.

  For once, he sailed through training camp uninjured and unencumbered. He more than mastered the position of tight end. But there was that brick wall: Hank Hunsinger. A no-cut contract, and orders that he play every moment he was capable of playing. Unlucky.

  Kit had practically no opportunity to even work out with the first string. In practice, he was on the squad of reserves that ran the plays of the coming week’s opponent for the benefit of the Cougars’ first-string defensive team. Kit had little more than a nodding acquaintance with Bobby Cobb, the perennial starting quarterback.

  And so it would go, he was convinced. The recipient of one bit of rotten luck after another.

  Unless. . unless he could make his own luck.

  Bobby Cobb and Kit Hoffer had reverted to the simplest pass patterns. Little more than playing catch. But as they grew increasingly successful, Hoffer grew increasingly confident. The shouted encouragement of the assistant coaches became more sincere. Coach Bradford watched the progress intently but impassively.

  Hoffer jogged back to what passed for the line of scrimmage.

  “Okay, Hoff, let’s just try that curl again. Right! On two! Hut! Hut!”

  Hoffer left the scrimmage line driving and at full speed. As he reached a point just behind where the middle linebacker would play, he planted his right foot and curled back toward scrimmage. At the moment he turned, the ball was there, in a tight spiral, thrown hard and aimed at his chest.

  By now, Hoffer was becoming accustomed to the quarterback. Kit anticipated the ball, the spot, the velocity, the tightness of the spiral. He opened his large hands and “looked the ball in,” letting the spiral drive itself into his hands. No sooner had he made the catch than he spun away and was driving downfield, the ball securely tucked in the crook of his left arm.

  Perfect.

  Koesler looked over at Coach Bradford. He didn’t smile. But he did something with his lips. Perhaps it was the suppression of a smile. The assistant coaches were going wild. They sensed the new combination was beginning to jell.

  Hoffer trotted back, his fine blond hair bouncing as he jogged. He wore a wide, self-satisfied grin.

  “Okay, Hoff! Let’s go for the big enchilada. Let’s try for the flag with a one-step fake inside. And, Hoff, when you make your break, turn on the afterburners. I’m gonna lay this sucker dead over your right shoulder. Right! On one! Hut!”

  Hoffer drove from the line, running low, moving toward some invisible target. After some fifteen or twenty yards straight down-field, he planted his right foot, took one feinting step to his left, immediately planted the left foot, and broke for that corner of the end zone where the small red flag was planted. As he broke, Cobb lofted a high, deep pass downfield.

  Hoffer glanced back as Cobb released the ball. Instinctively, the tight end knew where the pass would come down. He extended himself, lengthening and quickening his stride. As he neared the goal line, he knew the pass was too long. He would never be able to get both hands on it. He would be lucky to get one hand on it. He stretched every fiber of his being as far as possible. The tips of the fingers of his right hand made contact with the descending ball. He wiggled it toward his palm. Stumbling, he crossed the goal, the ball firmly, triumphantly held in his right hand. None of those watching had ever witnessed a better effort or a better catch.

  The assistants went wild. Bradford kicked the turf and shook his head.

  Harris, Ewing, and Koesler approached Bradford.

  “Nice catch,” Harris understated.

  “I don’t believe I’ve seen better.” Bradford shook a full head of unruly salt-and-pepper hair. His accent was an Oklahoma-Texas mix. His permanently tanned face was creased by too much sun and wind.

  “Looks like Hoffer could be an adequate substitute for Hunsinger,” Harris offered.

  “Adequate?” Bradford raised an eyebrow. But for a few extra pounds around the middle, Bradford could have been the image of the classic cowboy. “Adequate?” he repeated. “Better than adequate, I’d say. He’s bigger, heavier, faster, and younger. The Hun had a few moves it’ll take the kid a couple of years to learn. But he’ll learn ’em. ’Sides, most of the Hun’s moves lately have been for self-preservation. He was gettin’ a bit long in the tooth.”

  “So why didn’t you play Hoffer?”

  Bradford’s eyes, for one brief moment, lifted to the owner’s empty box. “Orders from upstairs.”

  “Management tells you who to play?” Harris, having judged the coach to be as tough internally as he appeared on the surface, was surprised.

  Bradford’s sigh spoke volumes regarding long, heated arguments over who had final control over the game itself. “They sign the checks,” he commented simply.

  “But why? If Hoffer could be better than Hunsinger was?”

  “They’re convinced the crowd comes to see Hunsinger. Nothin’ I could say’d change their minds.” He looked sharply at Harris. “Now, don’t get me wrong. Hunsinger was plenty good and he was popular, and a great many people did come to see him play. But you can educate fans. They’ll turn to sumpin’ better if you give ’em a chance.”

  “Hmph.” Harris stored this information with the rest he was gathering. “We’ll need to talk to Hoffer and then to Cobb.”

  Bradford nodded. “I figured you wanted to talk to somebody when I seen you come up the ramp. You got your work to do. I’ll cooperate much as I can.”

  Cobb and Hoffer were standing together surrounded by smiling assistant coaches.

  “I think,” said Cobb, “I got it figured out now: I throw the goddam ball far as I can and Hoff runs under it and catches it. Man,” he cuffed Hoffer playfully on the shoulder, “we got some fine times comin’ up. We shall overcome!”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Hoff.” Bradford called, “these gentlemen wanna talk to you.”

  Hoffer dropped the prized football to the turf and trotted over. Bradford performed introductions, then left.

  Ewing led Hoffer through the questions that were becoming all too familiar to Koesler. Yes, Hoffer was well aware of Hunsinger’s compulsions. Even though Hoffer was a rookie with the Cougars, it had taken no time at all to learn to keep clear of Hunsinger’s obsessions. And there were lots of them. Hoffer guessed that not only his own team, but everyone in the league talked about Hunsinger’s endless routines.

  Yes, he was aware that Hunsinger had a sight problem; he wore corrective lenses, didn’t he. Nearsightedness, maybe. Hoffer seemed not to be aware of any further vision problem Hunsinger might have had. Just needed glasses.

  It was when they reached the subject of Hunsinger’s having strychnine in his apartment that Hoffer’s information caused the officers to perk up.

  “ Shoot, yes. . I knew he had that poison in his apartment. I was with him when he got it.”

  “Oh? How and where did he get it?”


  “Well, it was when we were in Houston for an exhibition game. Well, it wasn’t, you know, during the game; it was, like the night before the game. And the Hun took me and Murray-that’s our kicker-out to supper.”

  “Just a minute,” Harris interrupted, “why would he do that? Doesn’t the team usually eat together before an out-of-town game?”

  “Basically, yes. But different teams, you know, do it different ways. We always eat together the day of the game. But when it’s, like, not game day and we’re on the road, well, you know, we get expenses.”

  Funny, thought Koesler, how even fairly well educated college grads took on the contemporary speech patterns so prevalent in pro sports.

  “We want to get this straight from the beginning,” said Harris. “Why would Hunsinger take you and. . uh. . Murray to dinner? Did he take you often? Were you especially close to him?”

  Hoffer snorted. “I don’t rightly think you could call us close. Basically, I think he wanted to, like, dominate the people on this team. And he’d, you know, start with the rookies. The night we were in Houston, I think he maybe wanted to introduce me and Murray to, like, the world of booze.

  “We went to La Reserve, which they tell me is like the best restaurant in Houston. The Hun had the money. No doubt about that. Well, from the time we sat down and all through the meal, the Hun kept ordering whiskey neat-no ice, no water; just, you know, whiskey. He put ’em down one after the other. And poor Murray matched him drink for drink.”

  “And you?”

  “I been there. I knew what that booze would, you know, do. After a couple, I just turned ’em down. The Hun could hold booze by the quart. So he was okay the next day for the game. Poor Murray was sick as a dog. But the Hun pulled him through for the game. Got him kind of sobered up. Threatened him if he should so much as, you know, york on the field. . made him very dependent, you know. . just like he wanted.” Hoffer shook his head. “That’s the way the Hun was.”