by Tim Green
"So, why don't you stay the night? Sara's already asleep in the girls' room. You and Rachel could sleep in the front room downstairs. Ma always keeps that room nice in case you decide you might stay; dusts it every week. Like maybe you'll just pop in unexpectedly. Why don't you just stay for once and make her happy?"
Hunter lifted his beer to his mouth and finished it off. He set down the empty bottle and reached into the cooler positioned between them, opening another before he spoke. He chose his words carefully. "Henry, this is your house. You live in it with your family. I know no matter what Ma wants, you don't want me here ... so, I stay down at the inn to keep out of your hair as much as I can."
"Don' t feed me that shit, brother," Henry said, his voice suddenly angry. "This fucking place belongs to you and we all know it."
Hunter stiffened in his chair. His insides felt cold. It was happening again, and there was nothing he could do but watch, like a third-party observer, as the scene played itself out. He knew just how it would go, no matter what he tried to say or do.
"You know I don't mean it like that. I've told you that for ten years now, Henry. What I did is what Dad would have wanted. This place belongs to you; I never had a problem with that growing up. You know that. So I made my own way. I did what any of us would have done."
"Like hell you did," Henry said flatly.
Hunter knew they were both drunk, and the alcohol-induced venom in his brother's voice made him think maybe this time they would fight. That was something he would have welcomed, anything to help extract the poison that had infected their relationship.
"You did what was good for you, Hunter," Henry continued. "You always did. When it was good for you to throw that fucking ball through the tire, that's what you did. When it was good for you to go to college, that's what you did. And when this family really needed what you had, you did what was good for you. You played Mr. Ail-American at school and didn't want to put yourself out for your family. Then, when it was good for you to buy the home you could have saved in the first place just by staying here, that's what you did. My, brother, you didn't do what any of us would've done. You never did what we did. You never did your share. You did what you had to do to leave here, because you couldn't take being second. You couldn't take being the younger one. And when you saw it all being taken from me, from Dad, from Mom . . . you just played your games, and went to your parties, and looked the other way."
"You got no right talking to me like that! You got no right!" Hunter said, standing and glowering over his brother, his fists clenched and shaking.
"Sit down," Henry said. "Sit down. I ain't gonna fight you. I ain't gonna give you the satisfaction of thinking you can settle something like this by having me kick your ass. You think you're such a hot-shot athlete. I'm just as strong as you are. I might not lift weights, but I work, and I'm a lot meaner than you'll ever be. No, I'm not fighting you. You gotta live with what you did. I won't help you."
Henry looked off into the distance and took a slug from his bottle like Hunter wasn't there. Hunter stood for several minutes, wishing, just hoping that his brother would stand and fight. But he knew Henry believed what he was saying, and that he'd never fight. Hunter took his seat and picked up his beer.
"All you had to do," Henry continued as he stared out into the night, "was use some of that influence, that recognition that you loved so much. What did it ever do for you? Sure, you're rich, but that's 'cause you can throw. But the influence? You never used that, did you? What in hell were you saving it for, Hunter? What? Everyone between here and Pittsburgh knew Hunter Logan. They loved Hunter Logan. They had Hunter Logan days and Hunter Logan parades. You met them all, the politicians, the news people, and the millionaires. You knew them all, and all you had to do was go to bat for us. All you had to do was use some of that influence to save this farm, but you wouldn't. Not couldn't . . . you could have done it, but you wouldn't. . .
". . . and then you let this family go broke and you stepped in at the last minute and bought us from the bank. Not the farm, though, that was gone. They'd stripped that bare. They raped our land and they raped us.
". . . So you think you saved us by buying this house? Shit! Living here is just a reminder of what we've lost. It killed Dad. And now it's hell on Mom, and it's hell on me. Julia and Marjorie, they got husbands to take them away and give them new lives. But me? I got nothing. I put everything I had into this place, and now I work at a fucking gas station."
Hunter was silent. His insides wrenched, partly from anger, partly from sadness. He'd said it before, and he wondered how many times he would say it again. "I was a junior at Pitt, Henry. A fucking junior in college. Yeah, I was a star! But that didn't mean I could change the world. I was a college football player. I didn't have any money. All I had was my arm, and those big shots liked to have me around, yeah. But sure as hell no one was going to stop what had to be done for me! You don't know what it was like. You never knew anything about what was going on in my life. You just figured because everyone knew who I was that I could do something about it. I didn't have that power then. Hell, Henry, I don't even have it now.
"Don't you understand what happened?" Hunter asked. 'There was an oil shortage. People needed coal. They had the leases to take that coal. They stripped the land to get it, yeah. It was wrong. They ruined us. They ruined everyone like us. They didn't care, Henry. They didn't care about this farm, or this family, or you and your inheritance, or even me, Hunter Logan, the All-American. You're not living in reality.
"You don't think I didn't try?" Hunter pleaded. "I told you. I tried. I talked to people. You think they listened? You think a kid that plays football can change things like that? Just because I didn't come back here and lay myself in front of a 'dozer to make the national news doesn't mean I didn't try. I did ... I did what I could, but it wasn't any better than what you could do. Face it, Henry. Face it, man. It's gone. It's not my fault. I didn't sign those mineral leases. I did all I could."
Henry rose abruptly and walked into the house, slamming the door as he went. Hunter continued to sit and rock. It happened every time. But every time Hunter would try. He didn't know why. Maybe it was because part of what his brother said was true. Hunter didn't think so, but maybe.
The front door squeaked as Rachel came out onto the porch. Hunter stood, but continued to stare out at the mountains and the sky.
"Let's go," he said, pulling the keys from his front pocket. "Sara's OK. We'll get her in the morning before we go."
"Don't you want to just--" Rachel stopped. Hunter had turned to her. She saw the tears and the pain on his face. She wouldn't ask. She understood.
I'll drive," she said, taking the keys gently from his hand. Together they got into the car. It rolled down the hill, crunching the gravel beneath its big, thick wheels.
In a dark window on the second floor of the old house, a tall figure watched them go. His hands and forehead were pressed against the glass, and he stood there, watching the taillights from Hunter's car weave through the valley and up the opposite side. He remained until the tiny red dots disappeared over the other ridge.
Two days later Hunter showed up at the Titans facility at eight-thirty in the morning. It was much earlier than he was used to, but the Titans players were required to report for a three-day mini-camp just like every other team in the league. To the players, mini-camp was an exercise in control, coaches and management flexing their might, reminding the players just who was in control of whose life. The real work would begin in training camp in July, but this was a good warm-up, a harbinger of the evils to come.
The players would attend meetings and go out onto the practice field twice a day to run through agility drills and plays that the coaches had concocted in the confines of their offices. The team wore none of their normal equipment except for their helmets. The reason for wearing helmets was supposedly to protect the player from breaking his nose or jaw. There wasn't supposed to be any contact. This was one of the longest-r
unning jokes in the NFL. Coaches inevitably got out of hand and started instructing individual players to turn up the intensity a few notches if they wanted even to be invited back to training camp. These tactics worked best on the rookie linemen who, to a veteran, were wide-eyed with bewilderment. Each of them was on the verge of making their childhood dream come true, and there was nothing short of suicide that any of them would not do if ordered by a real-life NFL coach.
The older vets had no use for this nonsense, but even they would rise violently to the occasion because inevitably some rookie, wet behind the ears, would ram into one of them at full speed and tear their jersey or bruise their body in some way. By the end of the three days, practice was a melee. Players would drop like flies because they were going at it without the protective gear that normally kept them safe. Coaches would snicker among themselves because they knew their men had a good eight weeks to heal before training camp began.
Amid all this tumult and expression of anger and resentment, Hunter Logan's position as the Titans quarterback was being challenged by a rookie, at least as much as a rookie could challenge an established quarterback of the Super Bowl champions. The Titans' personnel department had taken it upon themselves to draft for the future. While Hunter was in West Virginia, the team had chosen a young quarterback out of Stanford University in the first round of the draft. Everyone on the team knew that Hunter's position was safe, everyone except the young rookie.
Blake Stevens had a mouth that befitted a quarterback. He loved to talk, and the thing he loved to talk most about was himself. In fact, since Hunter's return, the only thing he had heard or read about concerning the New York Titans had something to do with the team's new young quarterback. He was calling himself "Broadway Blake," and making one outrageous statement after another. Stevens was actually telling the press and anyone else who would listen that he was brought to New York to replace "the aging Hunter Logan."
Of course Hunter was being asked to respond.
"We'll just have to see how it goes," was all he would say to the press.
In private he was incensed. "Broadway Blake" had struck a nerve. Hunter knew that he was old and didn't have too many more years to play. That a rookie was calling him out and reminding him of it was pissing him off. He was angry with the Titans organization for picking a guy like Stevens. If they were going to bring in a protege, the least they could have done was bring one in who had sense enough to keep his mouth shut.
When Hunter walked into the facility, he was glad to see that the rookie's locker was nowhere near his own. Bert came up to him immediately, already taped and dressed for practice.
"Did you catch a load of that punk yet?" Bert asked, pulling up a free stool and planting himself next to Hunter, who was stripping off his street clothes.
"Nope," Hunter said.
"You read about him, though, didn't you?" Bert asked.
"Yup."
"Well . . . aren't you going to say anything, like what an asshole this little fucker is?" Bert said.
"Nope."
"You know," Bert huffed, "you're really starting to annoy me, Hunt."
"I just don't want to talk about it," Hunter said, sitting down and pulling on his practice socks. 'The best thing I can do to shut that kid up is go out there today and show him what it means to be a QB in the NFL. It's got nothing to do with talking."
"Yeah! That's what I'm talking about!" Bert whispered fiercely. "Ha, ha! I love it! You're just laying low. Now when you get out there today, you'll just. . . you'll . . . What are you gonna do?"
Hunter shrugged. 'Just show him what a real arm can do. Show him what timing really means. Show him that when a blitz is on, you better know which receiver is hot or else you end up wearing your ass for a hat."
"Oh, yeah!" Bert said. "That's good thinking. I mean, he's not gonna know what the hell is going on. He's gonna look like a damn fool! That oughta shut him up for a while."
"Especially if you guys on defense turn up the intensity . . . just a little," Hunter said with a small smile, "as kind of a welcoming to the NFL. Who knows? Someone might even call a few blitzes by mistake."
Hunter could see the light in Bert's eyes, it was sheer delight.
"Why didn't you tell me that in the first place?" Bert said. "I love this idea!"
"I'm telling you now," Hunter said simply, and flipped his helmet off the hook just as the whistle called them to the practice field.
One thing that surprised Hunter was the size of Broadway Blake. He was enormous, standing almost six and a half feet tall and probably weighing as much as a good-sized linebacker. His hair was long and blonde. His chiseled features were accented by diamond studs in each ear. Hunter thought he looked like a biker prince. He was holding court among a group of rookies who were out on the field early. Hunter jogged right by the rookie, planted himself next to the bag of balls, and began warming up with Bob Dunham.
Other players were broken down by position. Linemen were crashing into padded bars of steel that were dressed up like opposing players. Linebackers and tight ends were busy with ball drills. Running backs were high-stepping their way through an obstacle course of tires. Wide receivers and defensive backs were doing one-on-one pass coverage's. Coaches watched, barking, slobbering, and blowing whistles. Amid the flurry of activity, Broadway Blake ambled over to the ball bag and pulled out a ball. He stood next to Hunter, looked his way, then hurled a football down the length of the football field as far as he could. The ball landed in the opposite end zone, a good hundred yards away, and Blake hadn't even gotten a running start. It was an amazing throw.
"I'm Blake Stevens," the rookie said in a low smooth voice.
Broadway Blake then planted his feet shoulder width apart and stared intently at Hunter Logan, waiting for his response. Hunter smiled, looking straight ahead, and continued to throw warm-up passes to Dunham as if the rookie didn't exist. The rookie snorted in disdain, then walked away from Hunter and began tossing a ball with another free-agent QB from Tampa Bay. In a few minutes, the whistle blew and the team lined up for stretching exercises.
"I saw that shit!" Bert exclaimed, taking the time to jog over to Hunter's place in the line.
"Hell of a throw, wasn't it?" Hunter said calmly.
Bert grumbled and made his way back to the ranks of the linemen. Martin Price took the opportunity to introduce himself to his new team and give them some rah-rah college bull about how everybody would be starting from scratch with him and how he didn't care if they were world champions, that this was a new season coming up and they'd have to do it all over again if they wanted real respect. Most of the veterans secretly rolled their eyes at one another.
After stretching, the team broke down again into groups to work on positional skills. Price attached himself to the quarterbacks and the receivers, who worked on the timing of their pass routes. Hunter went first and he put on a display of accuracy that made even Price smile. When Dunham stepped up to take his turn, however, Price spoke out.
"I want Blake running the second team," he said.
Dunham stared at Price in momentary disbelief. He had been Hunter's backup for three seasons now. A rookie didn't just step in and take that kind of thing away without ever throwing a pass. It was not the way things were done, or at least it hadn't been. The move miffed Hunter as well. It made him feel as if the rookie had just crawled onto his back. Broadway Blake rose to the occasion, throwing his balls with incredible accuracy.
Hunter's stomach began to knot up. He had been looking forward to a nice relaxing summer, the first time in his career when he wasn't going to have to worry about his position with the team. He was returning as a champion and an All-Pro. There shouldn't be anything at all for him to think about. But he knew he would spend a lot of time on the beach in the Hamptons thinking about how this young rookie was right behind him, and how easily people could forget what you did for them only the season before. He'd seen it happen to quarterbacks time and time again. Jeff Hostetler, Do
ug Williams, and Mark Rypien all came immediately to mind. They were all Super Bowl champions who had come back the very next season only to be criticized and challenged for their jobs. Just when Haunter was looking forward to enjoying his last few years as king of the hill, the Titans had to go ahead and bring this guy in. Worst of all, it looked like the kid was good.
It might turn out that the rookie couldn't hold up under pressure, but that wasn't likely in mini-camp, and that would do nothing for Hunter's peace of mind. There would be a big difference in training camp. The crashing of heads and the violent fury of the pocket as a quarterback tried to seek out his receivers was a distraction that some quarterbacks could never overcome once they got to the NFL. The defensive players were bigger, faster, and much meaner than they were in college, and up here they thrived on punishing quarterbacks. The more punishment a defensive player could dish out to the opposition's quarterback, the more likely it was he would be signing one of those multimillion-dollar deals in the off-season. Blake Stevens would get some heat in mini-camp, but it would be all bark and no bite. The bite would come when the pads went on.
After almost a half hour of drills, the team came together to work as offensive and defensive units. There was supposedly no contact, although the linemen would butt, grab, kick, and punch each other as though they were in a bar fight. Rookie running backs would get butted down to the ground when some veteran defender jammed his shoulder in the rookie's gut, but veteran running backs were simply tagged with two hands. Receivers and defensive backs rarely hit one another during practice, with or without pads. Quarterbacks, too, were never hit during practices of any kind. They were too valuable and would even wear special red jerseys to insure that no one made any mistakes.
Hunter stepped into the huddle of the first-team players and got the unofficial scrimmage started. The offensive starters were up against the defensive second team. Hunter was perfect in everything he did. The season hadn't really ended all that long ago, and his timing on everything from taking snaps to handing the ball off to throwing passes was right on the money. On the sixth play, however, House mixed up the pass protection and let a rookie defensive end come barreling through the line. The rookie, completely surprised to find himself in the backfield, and confused after all the pounding he'd taken in his first hour as a pro player, lost all sense of where he was and plowed into Hunter's back. Hunter went down like a white-tail deer shot through the heart.
