by Paul Levine
She pulled away from him. "What do you want?"
He figured he had five minutes to convince her, five minutes to change his life. "Bear with me, Chrissy, please. There's something you've got to see."
She regarded him suspiciously. "What is it?"
She was wearing a long, A-line dark skirt that emphasized her height and a short-sleeve jersey. Her Super Bowl credentials hung around her neck, competing for space with a simple strand of white pearls. He grabbed her by the elbow and guided her toward an editing booth.
"Don't pull me," she said, twisting out of his grasp. "What's your big hurry?"
"You've got to see this now. Our future depends on it."
"Our future is in the past," she said.
"I refuse to lose you to that phony, Bible-quoting bull slinger."
"You lost me all by yourself with no help from Craig or anyone else."
Bobby refused to let her resistance discourage him. He guided her into a small editing booth with two monitors and a control panel with a jumble of wires. He popped a video cassette into a slot, pushed a button and waited. A sizzle of static criss-crossed on of the monitors, which then went to black and then color bars. Then Murray Kravetz' TV baritone could be heard in a whisper. "The place, a balcony of the Fontainebleau, the date, February 2, the event, the Super Bowl of Fornication. Now, let's get up close and personal with our contestants."
"Bobby, what is this?" Christine protested. "Did you drag me in here to see some stupid porno film?"
In that moment, the screen came to life with a blurry creaminess. A second later, a woman's naked body was visible from the waist down.
"That's Shari Blossom," Bobby said.
"Really?" Christine asked, archly. "How would you know?"
"Aha," Kravetz whispered on the tape as Shari's tapered blonde bush filled the screen. "Now here's a commercial for Gillette that could really sell some shaving cream."
"Bobby, this is disgusting!" Christine said. "You're acting like a college sophomore."
"Hold on. This is important."
"Why? How?"
"As we say in the law, 'I'll tie it up, Your Honor.'"
The audio track rumbled as Shari opened the sliding glass door to the balcony. "There we are hon," she cooed to someone in the room. "Just feel that salt air. Ain't it refreshing?"
She turned and twirled her pink headband around her hand, directly in front of the camera, then headed toward the bed, pausing a second to give a little butt wiggle.
"Oh, for God's sake," Christine muttered.
Okay, okay, so Shari isn't Meryl Streep.
A man's bare legs flashed across the screen in the background, then disappeared. "Shari, turn out the lights," said the faraway male voice.
"There!" Bobby shouted. "Did you hear that?"
"Yes. So what?"
"Did you recognize the voice?"
"No."
Bobby did, or thought he did. Of course, he knew who it was, and that made it easier. But Christine couldn't tell. Maybe the sound was too distant and was competing with the slap of shore break and noises from the pool deck bar far below the balcony.
"Aw sugar, doncha wanna see my face when I come?" Shari sang out in a little girl's voice.
"I think I'm going to be sick," Christine said.
"Already seen it," the man said. "Your eyes roll back like you got a concussion from a helmet-to-helmet collision."
"Did you hear that?" Bobby asked, excitedly. "He's talking football."
"So?"
"So, it's Craig Stringer!"
She let out an exasperated sigh. "Bobby, there are eighty thousand football fans in town plus all the players. That's not Craig."
The screen went dark and Shari's voice could be heard, but her pout only imagined. "Oh, all right, party pooper, but I know garage mechanics from Galveston who are more romantic than you."
After that, there were a number of sounds. Bed sheets rustling, bedsprings groaning. A feminine, "Don't stop now!" A masculine throaty growl. A few intermixed shouts and whoopty-dos, and finally silence. Then, after a moment, with his voice rising and falling in the sing-song of a country preacher, the man called out, "The lips of a strange woman drop as a honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil."
"What's that you're saying, sugar?" Shari asked.
"It's from Proverbs. Read your Bible, girl."
"That's Stringer!" Bobby shouted. "You know it is. It's your home-fried, holier-than-thou theology expert who thinks he's the fourth member of the Trinity."
Christine pursed her lips, and her forehead wrinkled in thought.
C'mon Chrissy. You know I'm right.
"Proverbs or adverbs, I still don't get it," Shari said on the tape. "How can I be strange to you, Craig?"
"There! There it is! She called him Craig!" Bobby hit the stop button. Now he had the proof. "Do you want to hear it again? It's Craig! Craig the country boy, Craig the preacher, Craig the quarterback, Craig the unfaithful."
He wanted to hug Shari Blossom for coming through. He wanted to scoop Christine up in his arms and comfort her in her time of need. But most of all, he just wanted a reaction from her.
"Let me hear it again," she said, calmly.
Does nothing perturb you? C'mon Chrissy, show some emotion.
He rewound the tape several seconds and played it again. Christine closed her eyes and listened to that voice, the voice that must have whispered endearments into her ear. What must she be feeling? Shame? Anger? Despair?
I'm here for you, Chrissy. I've always been here and I always will be.
For a moment, Bobby thought he had her. For a moment, her eyes flickered with doubt about her fiancee. But we all are capable of repressing what we fear is true, he knew. We are all capable of seeing what we want to see. Her eyes flared to life like golden tigers. "Bobby, you're despicable! My father was right about you all along."
"What are you talking about?"
"Do you think I can't spot a scam? I saw you with Miss Pink Headband at Media Day and then again at the press party. I don't know who you have playing the role of Craig. Maybe it's you with that god-awful impression of a Southern accent, or maybe you recruited one of your low-life friends from the race track, but it's not Craig. He wouldn't have been there. He wouldn't have done that. It isn't him."
"Yes it is. I swear on a stack of that bastard's Bibles."
"Tell me," she said calmly. "Is it possible for you to sink any lower?"
Without waiting for an answer, Christine turned and rushed out of the editing booth.
"No," Bobby said to himself, watching her go. "This is as low as it gets."
"If Jesus were alive, he'd be at the Super Bowl."
— Norman Vincent Peale
"If Jesus were a football player, he'd play fair, he'd play clean, and he'd put the guy across the line on his butt."
— Barry Rice, former football player, Liberty University
34
That Voodoo You Do So Well
Murray Kravetz claimed that his second cousin Morty was a ham radio operator with the skills of a computer hacker. "He could jam the signals transmitted from the Dallas bench to Craig Stringer's helmet," Kravetz said excitedly, self-consciously touching his toupee. "Then, we send in our own plays, really screw them up, make 'em quick kick on third and long."
"Nah," Bobby said. "If the play doesn't make sense, Stringer will just call his own or check off at the line of scrimmage. At most, they'll get a delay of game penalty."
"Okay," Murray said, stirring his rye whiskey with an index finger.
" Stupido!" fumed Jose Portilla, the chef, shaking his head. "Really dumb, Murray." Dressed in a white cook's smock stained with duck grease, he gobbled honeyed peanuts by the handful, unmindful that his bulging belly was hanging over the tabletop.
"All right, already," Kravetz said. "I'm just trying to help.
"Let him alone, Jose?" Bobby said. He was nursing a Samuel Adams beer and looking glum.
Bobby had
brought his cronies into the plan. Figuring that none of them had done an honest day's work in years, he hoped they could come up with some scam that could tip the game toward Denver.
It was a desperate move, he knew, and already he was regretting the idea. For a bunch of losers, the guys were incredibly competitive.
"If you prayed to the warrior god Zarabanga, you would have a better chance of winning," said Philippe Jean-Juste, looking up from a glass of Scotch on the rocks.
"Oh great," Kravetz moaned, "the ex-con witch doctor has an idea."
"I never went to jail," Jean-Juste said. "The deity Olorun protected me."
"Actually, it was Judge Irving Fishbein," Bobby said. "He bought my argument that the First Amendment allowed you to behead goats in Bayfront Park."
They were all crammed into a red Naugahyde booth at The Fourth Estate, conjuring ingenious schemes to torpedo the Mustangs, and with each round of drinks, the plans became more fanciful and less likely. The only perfectly rational person there, Bobby thought, was his son. Scott was unusually quiet, occasionally swiping sips of his father's beer, but mainly focusing on his own burger and fries. Bobby sank further into depression as he listened to one bizarre plan after another.
Who are these guys?
Other than Goldy, a successful bookie who had never filed a tax return and kept his mattresses stuffed with cash instead of springs, they were born losers, the gang that couldn't bet straight. They would be considered half-wits, nitwits, or lunatics by nearly everyone else, he figured.
But they're my best friends. Jeez, maybe my only friends. So what does that make me?
"I could slip Ex-Lax into their food at the Fontainebleau," de la Portilla offered. "I know a sous chef who would let me in for a small bribe."
" Oy vey," Goldy said.
"You can't be serious," Bobby said.
"I could make them crap their guts out the day of the game," he added.
"Gross," Scott said, chomping on a bacon cheeseburger with onions.
Chagrined, de la Portilla hunched over the table and dipped a tortilla chip into a bowl of salsa.
"You are all lost," Philippe Jean-Juste said as he swirled his Scotch, the ice cubes clicking like dice at a craps table. He was a tall, slim black man with a shaved head and the sing-song accent of the islands. He wore an immaculately pressed white linen suit over a black silk shirt open at the collar. Around his neck was a beaded necklace studded with cowrie shells and pennies, the jewelry of a Santeria priest.
"I saw in the paper Stringer's leading a team prayer meeting tonight," Kravetz said.
"He's a born-again hypocrite," Bobby said.
"I will disarm his Eleda, his guardian spirit," Jean-Juste said, squeezing his eyes closed, as if communicating with the gods. "I will place a spell on him that will cross his eyes and strike him dumb."
"Why not just make him color blind?" Bobby suggested. "Maybe he'll throw to the guys in the blue jerseys."
"The only curse I know is in Yiddish," Goldy said. " Zoll vaksen tsibiliss in zein pupik! Onions should grow in your navel."
"If you make light of the gods, the orishas may use their black magic on you," Jean-Juste said. "I am offering my help. Do you want it or not?"
"Of course I want it," Bobby replied.
"Good. Now, this Stringer. Is he a religious man?"
"Yeah, he worships himself," Bobby said.
"The kicker Boom-Boom Guacavera is religious," Scott said. "He's into that voodoo, just like you, Mr. Jean-Juste. He nearly got thrown out of the Fontainebleau for sacrificing a rooster on his balcony."
"It's not voodoo," Jean-Juste said, offended. "I practice Santeria and make offerings to Olorun and his orishas, his emissaries to mankind."
"You leave cakes on the courthouse steps is what you do," Kravetz said.
"The cake sweetens a judge's disposition when I am unfairly brought before the court.. A dead lizard with its mouth tied shut will silence an unfriendly witness. It is all quite logical when you think about it."
"This is more complicated," Bobby said. "We need Boom Boom to miss his field goals."
"I am also proficient in the witchcraft of Palo Myombe. So, if you want a magic spell, a nsarandas curse, just tell me."
"Let's forget the curses," Bobby said. "I'll just take a good 20 knot crosswind when Boom Boom lines up to kick."
"I could do that," Jean-Juste said, but Bobby just waved for the check and got up to leave.
35
Pre-Game Jitters
Jeez Dad, you can throw better than him," Scott said, watching Mike Skarcynski bounce a pass to the tight end.
"Your Mom can throw better than that," Bobby replied. "Hey Murray, what gives?"
Murray Kravetz lowered his voice into an unintentional parody of a color announcer. "Looks like pre-game jitters to me, Bobby."
"That's so Captain Obvious," Scott said.
"Plus he's gripping the ball too tight, hanging on too long," Kravetz continued in his basso profundo tones. "Aiming, instead of throwing."
"Thank you, Brent Musberger," Bobby said.
They were at Denver's' practice, courtesy of Murray Kravetz. Scott knelt on one knee and aimed his Nikon with the long lens at the quarterback. A photographer's press pass, procured of Murray, dangled from his neck. Bobby listened to the click-click-click as Scott snapped off several shots. On the field, two assistant coaches clapped their hands and blew whistles.
"Maybe we can analyze Skar's throwing motion and help the dude," Scott offered.
Bobby wondered what else could go wrong. Denver's veteran quarterback looked like as skittish as one of Craig Stringer's spindly-legged foals. Even though it was a no-contact drill, Skarcynski had a case of the happy feet, stutter-stepping before releasing the ball, throwing off the wrong foot.
"His fundamentals are all out of whack," Bobby said, dejectedly. "His footwork is messed up, there's a hitch in his throwing motion, and his timing with his receivers is way off."
"Just nerves," Kravetz said, hopefully. "He'll settle down."
On the opposite sideline, Denver head coach Harry Crenshaw shook his head disgustedly while huddling with his offensive coordinator.
It was a glorious South Florida day with a soft breeze from the ocean, a deep azure sky with puffy white clouds casting shadows as they scudded across the field. The humidity had fallen, and the colors-the green grass, white yard lines, blue practice jerseys-were as clear as fresh-cut flowers. It was a day to luxuriate in the sheer act of being alive, of breathing in the sweet air…but Bobby was as melancholy as autumn waiting for the winter snow.
"Something's wrong," Bobby said as the trio-sportscaster, bookmaker, and son-moved out of the knot of reporters and across the practice field. "Skar's been in the league half a dozen years. No way he should be feeling that kind of pressure."
"It's his first Super Bowl," Scott said. "He's stoked to the max. Maybe he'll settle down."
"I don't know," Bobby said, feeling powerless. "What good will it do if we foul up Dallas but Denver can't score?"
No one answered. Scott snapped off a few more photos, and Kravetz scratched some notes on his pad. This would be the last Denver practice open to the media, and they wanted to check on their team, which at the moment appeared incapable of beating Slippery Rock State.
Bobby had considered stealing the Mustangs' playbook and delivering it to Denver's coaches but had rejected the idea. Denver had tapes of all the Mustangs' sixteen regular season games plus the playoffs, so there was nothing new to be gathered. Besides, he doubted that Harry Crenshaw, the dean of the league's coaches, would even accept the tainted gift. It would have been too much like cheating. When Bobby stopped to think about it, he felt the sharp pangs of a guilty conscience.
I'm trying to fix the Big Dance, tampering with Americana.
If he succeeded, it would rank up there-or down there-with the most egregious sports sins of the century. Like the Black Sox scandal or point shaving in college basketball.
> Say it ain't so, Bobby.
He could rationalize it. Martin Kingsley was a crook who didn't deserve to win.
But who in the name of Vince Lombardi appointed me the sport's avenging angel?
No one. It wasn't some universal good he sought. No, to be truthful about it, he wasn't corrupting the country's biggest sports event for some notions of higher justice. He was doing it to save his own skin and to protect Scott from the tentacles of the boy's avaricious grandfather. He would do anything for Scott. He would do anything to win…which, upon reflection, was a sobering thought.
So just what is the difference between Martin Kingsley and me?
Crossing the field, Bobby paused to watch the long snapper rocket hard spirals between his legs to the holder, who spun the ball around and held it at the proper angle for the field goal kicker to blast a long one through the uprights. The least appreciated play in football did not escape Bobby's notice. Like so much of life, perfection came from precise repetition and hard work.
The snap, the hold, the kick.
Each should be identical to the one before and the one after, as alike as sparrows perched on a line.
"At least the kicking game looks solid," Bobby said.
"It's easy when there's no rush coming," Kravetz replied.
"Yeah," Bobby agreed. "That's why it's so strange that Skarcynski can't hit the broad side of a barn. They're playing touch out there. What's gonna happen in the game?"
"Hey Dad," Scott said, "isn't that Mr. LaBarca?"
Bobby looked into the lower stands. Dressed in a warm-up suit was a stocky man in sunglasses. Two other men in sport coats with open-collared shirts flanked him.
"I don't know," Bobby said, squinting into the sun. "I can't see him from here."
Scott raised the Nikon with the telephoto lens and peered through the viewfinder. "It's him, Dad. Plus that dweebis Dino Fornecchio and someone else I've never seen."
"What the hell's LaBarca doing here?" Bobby asked.
"Maybe checking on his investment," Kravetz said. "What do you think, Scott?"
