“Amen” was followed by silence. I let it remain silent for about a minute, and then I had to change the mood.
“I told Mr. Redwine we’d have our coach in place by Monday,” I said. “So what are we looking for?”
“A man,” said Miss Ruth Mary. Then she smiled. “I told you I know nothing about football.”
“Actually, that’s probably about all we can hope for in two days,” Mr. Durr said.
“Yes, we need a man,” I said. “But just as important, he has to know football. Should we require experience?”
“Not much,” said Mr. Grassly. “The way I see it, he has to understand the game, know the boys, and not make any changes. Can’t be starting from scratch with the opener just two weeks away.”
Mr. Grassly was smart and practical, and also right, in this case.
“Agreed,” I said while opening the local telephone book. “Any suggestions? Names?”
“Bobby Ray’s uncle might make a good coach. He hasn’t missed a game in twenty years,” said Mr. Beekner, who had graduated with Bobby Ray’s uncle, Lester Brashears, and had remained friends in the years since.
“But does he understand football?” I asked. “Any reason to believe he can coach it?”
“I know he played it. He was a noseguard, or tackle, or something on the line back in the twenties,” Mr. Beekner said. “He may not know much about the skill positions, though. Could be a stretch to consider him, but why not?”
“I’ll put him on the list and talk to him later this evening,” I said. “Anyone else?”
“I reckon Andy, the tall fella who works at the hardware store, played football. Not sure, but he’s got the look,” Miss Ruth Mary said.
“The look?” I asked. “What’s the look? All I know is he’s big, and he never smiles.”
“He never played,” Mr. Durr interjected. “He’s just a mean fella. Don’t put him on the list.”
“How about Alex Munroe?” Miss Ruth Mary asked.
Alex and I had graduated from high school together, although by then, I had known him for several years. I met Alex when we were both ten years old and sat beside each other by chance at a Lions’ football game. By halftime, we had engaged in a battle of football wits. I had held my own, and in the years since, we had become great friends. He played for the Lions when we were in high school. He wasn’t a star; he was a student of the game and has always loved it as much as I have. I was certain Alex would make an excellent coach, but he and his wife, Judith, had moved to Abilene, where last year Alex had accepted an appointment teaching history at McMurray University. He also had his weekends booked—traveling throughout the state as a college football referee. Because he had remained one of my dearest friends, I knew without a doubt that he had no extra time.
One by one, we ran through the telephone book and reviewed names.
He knows football, but he works an eighty-hour week.
He travels for work. Out of town too often.
He’s more of a basketball man. Loves football, though. Can’t coach it.
He enlisted two weeks ago.
He enlisted a month ago.
He enlisted yesterday.
An hour later, the telephone book had more red ink scratched across it than a ninth-grade essay. I walked to my office holding an unreadable phone book and one piece of paper. Scribbled across the top, it read: Bobby Ray’s uncle, Lester.
I grabbed my purse and walked toward the school’s exit. I was about to pass the trophy case, when, like I had the day before, I stopped to reminisce. Through smudged fingerprints on the glass, I glanced at a pair of well-worn cleats, yellowing newspaper clippings, and bronze trophies commemorating former athletes and seasons. I saw the 1919 and 1920 schedules and results—the only two seven-win seasons in school history. As I was about to turn to leave, the corner of my eye drew me back. I zeroed in to get a better look. Front and center, number 42. I crumpled the sheet with Lester’s name on it and tossed it into the trash just before leaving the building. I jumped into my truck and headed to see Moose.
“MISS TYLENE,” MOOSE said as he welcomed me into his modest clapboard-sided home, its chipped wooden floors creaking with each step. “Sorry about the mess. You know I’ve been looking for work. Hasn’t left much time to tidy up.”
I ignored the living room clutter, though I couldn’t help but notice the newspaper pages strewn on the sofa, beer bottles on the floor, and dirty dishes on the coffee table. Moose cleared a spot for me on the sofa, an old Louis XVI that I was certain his grandparents must have purchased at the turn of the century.
“Moose, it’s been what, a few years since you played Brownwood football?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Best days of my life.”
He then asked me if I’d like a glass of water, and I accepted. When he returned, I had cleared a space for him beside me.
“Have you ever thought about coaching?”
“Coaching?”
“As you know, the season’s been canceled, but maybe it doesn’t have to be. Not if we find a coach.”
He stroked what appeared to be about a three- or four-day growth on his chin, looked at the floor, and then stood up and began pacing slowly, his limp pronounced from little more than an arm’s length away.
“Why me?”
“I passed the trophy case as I was leaving work today, Moose. I was reminded of what you’ve meant to Brownwood football.”
“I’m flattered, Miss Tylene, but I ain’t never run a practice. Wasn’t much disciplined when I played, neither. I’d love to help; you know I would. But I think you’re talking to the wrong man.”
“Moose, I’m talking to the only man.”
He remained silent.
“Sometimes in life,” I said, “we find ourselves in situations we never anticipated, and we end up asking ourselves exactly what you just asked: ‘Why me?’ But you know what, Moose? The boys need to play football, and they can’t do it without you.”
I waited.
“Canceling. Wouldn’t be right by the seniors,” Moose said. “But if you need an answer now, I got to say no. I just ain’t prepared for that. Never ever thought of coaching.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“I never said I was afraid. I just ain’t no coach.”
“No, you’re afraid. I’m sitting in your house, Moose, and I see it in your living room. I see the beer bottles. I see the clutter. And now, I see it in your face. Tell me why you are afraid.”
We stared into each other’s eyes.
A long pause followed his words. Finally, Moose said, “Look at this place. It’s a mess. I’m a mess. I’m no leader, and I ain’t never been no role model.”
I got up and stood in front of Moose.
“I’ve never gone off to war,” I said. “I’ve never been injured at war. I’ve never come back home hurt, alone, and scared. But now that I’ve been in your home, and with God as my witness, Moose, I believe you need the fellas just as much as they need you. If you trust me, you’ll be fine.”
“No disrespect, Miss Tylene, but what makes trusting you good enough to turn me into a football coach?”
“I know football,” I said. “Learned it from my father. I love and respect the game, and I’ll support you in every way.
“How about this?” I asked. “Run practice this week. Each evening, we’ll sit down and talk. Let me know what’s working and what isn’t. If you like what you’re doing and if you don’t. Can you make that work for five days? Five days, Moose? All I ask is that you give me five days.”
“Five days? I suppose that’s not unreasonable,” he said, scratching the back of his right ear. “But I still ain’t ready to commit. I got to think about this. To be honest, your knock at the door woke me up. I still need to clear my head and take this all in.”
“How much time do you need?” I asked.
“You need a coach by Monday?”
“Look, give me a call when you’re ready. But, Moose, I’m pl
anning on meeting you at the field house Monday morning, eight o’clock sharp.”
I HEADED HOME, and when I arrived in my neighborhood and rounded my street corner, I found comfort in the view of my three-bedroom white wood-sided house. I slowed down as I entered the dirt driveway that led to the garage in the back of the house so I could peek at my redbrick-framed petunia flower beds. Satisfied that my favorite flowers were in fine shape, I parked in the garage and sat in my truck for a moment. I wanted to be alone, to think about Burl, and to collect myself after such a stressful day. A few minutes later, I stepped out of the truck, closed the garage door, and entered the house through the kitchen.
Once inside, I realized I was not only emotionally spent but physically exhausted and yet, surprisingly, also energized. Though the day had taken a toll on me, in the end, the possibility of having Moose on board left me with hope that the boys would get their season. I was focused only on putting my house shoes on and getting dinner started, when the smell of barbecue ribs reminded me that I had the “night off.” Although John and I had acknowledged the big day earlier that morning, I had since forgotten that it was our eighteenth wedding anniversary.
Traditionally, John cooked ribs for each anniversary, his specialty, taught to him by his father. I loved the sauce John whipped up for the barbecue. He wanted to keep the sauce his gift to me, so he had been steadfast in his refusal to share the recipe. Knowing that, I’ve never pressed him for it—at least not after having tried the first few years we were married to get him to share the secret.
I freshened up and joined John in the backyard, a sprawling area of mostly dirt—nothing ever seemed to grow there—but with a gorgeous view. John had made it more inviting four years ago by building a covered porch with enough space for a table and four chairs. The backyard faced west, and we more often than not enjoyed summer and fall evenings watching the sunset.
John was tending to the grill while we talked about the day.
“You and Walt did a fine job with the tables,” I said. “The burial and reception went off without a hitch. I’m sure it took a lot of pressure off Mena.”
After having discussed the day, our conversation shifted to Moose. And though John had never gotten to know Moose particularly well, he expressed his admiration for Moose’s service. John was seventeen during the outbreak of World War I, and he had tried to enlist but was rejected because of his eyesight. He couldn’t see a thing unless he was doing his schoolwork. He scrolled through books using a soup can with a magnifying glass taped to the bottom. It wasn’t until John was in ninth grade that Doc Morten, who examined eyes and sold glasses, moved to town. When John got his first pair, wire-rimmed with lenses thicker than a stack of quarters, a whole new world opened up to him. That’s when he took to fixing cars.
“So you think Moose will do it?” he asked.
“It’s hard to tell, but I’m optimistic.”
What I was thinking, though I didn’t say, was that we really needed to get Vern McSorley on board. Because Vern carried so much sway in town, I had little doubt that if he were to ask Moose to coach the boys, Moose would coach the boys. But Vern, despite our friendship, never did a favor for anyone without expecting something in return, and it usually involved money. I did not want to be beholden to him, so I never seriously entertained the notion of speaking to him about Moose. I was, however, certain that if Moose became coach, Vern, as well as the rest of the town, would support him.
I then took my first bite of ribs.
“Gets better every year,” I said.
SHORTLY AFTER DINNER, John went to bed, and I got to work. Despite the taxing day, the adrenaline was flowing, and I knew I was good for several more hours.
I sat at the kitchen table gathering my thoughts as I prepared to draw up plays, something I hadn’t done since I was a child. Before I began, I thought about Burl’s funeral, about Joseph Francis and my fears for his safety, and about all the brave men who had chosen war over the comforts of home, whose sacrifices were selfless and noble.
I considered John’s suggestion that I coach the boys, but then I shook my head and smiled. Then I got to thinking about how I had learned the game. In the beginning, my father would explain the difference between offense and defense. He’d explain the roles of the various positions and taught me what those positions were called. I was nine years old when he began to teach me the nuances of the game. He pointed out the popular Wing-T offense and explained what types of plays could be run from the formation. He explained the differences between zone and man defenses.
By the time I was ten, I could call plays from the stands. My father listened proudly as I’d suggest formations and plays that could be run from them. Sometimes, when I would get a hot dog during the game, I would tear the bun into small pieces, place the bits on the wooden bleachers, and use them to draw up plays. I would explain that if the halfback were to run off the edge just a yard behind the quarterback, a fake pitch would draw the linebacker in, and the quarterback could easily pick up a first down even on third-and-long.
Sometimes the men in the stands would join in on the conversation. They’d ask me what would happen if the defense was prepared for the play and was ready to stuff it behind the line of scrimmage. Easy, I would say. Using the same formation, just hand off to the fullback and watch him dash straight through the line of scrimmage before the defense knew what hit them.
The men would laugh. I could tell it was partly because they thought I was cute, but mostly because they knew I was right. But those days and those men were long gone.
So that night, as I began drawing up plays, I realized in that moment that I was preparing to share something with Moose that I had grown up expecting to share with someone else—my own child. I realized how much it meant to me to pass along to my child what my father had passed along to me. Football, and its joys, was supposed to be my family legacy—at least, that was my dream.
I put my pencil down and began to relive my cherished but brief moments with my only child, a son born prematurely who lived long enough for me to embrace him. But just once. He died in my arms, the arms I then looked down at, the arms that once held him so tightly—when I knew he was slipping away and I could do nothing to prevent it. So that night, I cradled my empty arms to my chest, bowed my head, and whispered: This is for you.
And then I got to work. I drew up more than a dozen plays out of the T formation. Although I knew the plays, I was not familiar with the language the coaches had used to name each play, so I came up with my own—a numbering system. A cross buck was a 101, curl a 110, hook a 200, draw a 502. I allowed myself to have fun with one name. Because I knew my favorite author had played high school football, I drew up my go-to play and named it the Great Gatsby. The play required two flankers, one on each side. The ball would go to the flanker lined up on the right. He would run hard for ten yards, then make a sharp right turn toward the sideline. At that moment, he would look back at the quarterback, who would pump-fake a pass to him. Expecting the defensive back to bite, the flanker would watch the defender’s hips, and once his hips turned—committing to one direction—the flanker would turn left, hightail it at a thirty-five-degree angle, and catch the ball on the fly. The pass would cover thirty yards from the line of scrimmage and leave the flanker with nothing but open field. It was a play designed to score.
Once I had completed my list of plays, I sequenced them for practice. After that, I drew the defensive schemes from the 7-2-2. Once I had my starting lineup set for both offense and defense, I scratched out a depth chart for substitutes. Finally, I put my pencil down and went to bed.
Chapter 3
Saturday
I had never been one to sleep in, but after such a long night, I found myself startled and awakened when the telephone rang at 7:00 A.M.
“Miss Tylene, can you talk?” Moose said from the other end of the line. I knew he didn’t own a telephone, so I asked, “Where are you?”
“A phone booth outside the Und
erwood Café,” he said. I told him I preferred to meet and talk face-to-face. He said he’d be right over, but I insisted on meeting him at his house. I figured if he was within the comfort of his own home, he might be more likely to agree to coach. I slipped on a dress, asked John to keep his fingers crossed, and jumped into my truck.
I arrived at Moose’s house, and he immediately offered me a cup of coffee. My stomach was churning, but I accepted. We sat on his living room sofa. The room was oddly tidy, a sharp contrast to the day before.
“I haven’t slept,” Moose said. “Tried a couple times, but couldn’t stop thinking about what you said . . . about trusting you.”
“Why’d that keep you up?”
“Because I kept asking myself, ‘Why would I trust you?’”
“Moose, I know what you see when you look at me. A woman. In her forties. A dress. Pearls. Is there anything about this picture that speaks to football? I understand. But let me give you something.”
I reached into my handbag, pulled out my play sheets and depth charts, and handed them to him.
“Here, take a look.”
He flipped through them for what seemed like hours, and then he looked up at me.
“Where’d you get these?”
“I didn’t get much sleep last night, either, Moose.”
“You?” he asked, eyebrows shooting up, revealing that he finally realized I knew what I was doing.
“Yes, me, Moose. Me. And like I told you yesterday, I couldn’t have done it without a father who spent countless hours teaching me the game despite knowing I’d never play.
“And even though I can’t play it, I love football, Moose. I love what football gives to the boys, I love what football gives to a school, and I love what football gives to a community. We’re in pain, and we might not all know it yet, but we need football. And we need you.”
When the Men Were Gone Page 4
