Paydirt

by Paul Levine

  "Hey!" Crew Cut yelled. "Where do you think you're going?" He kicked Bobby in the ribs and sent him sprawling.

  "Wait till right after the final gun, George, when people are pouring out of here. It'll be dark, so just take him up top and give him the heave ho into the parking lot. Then come down to the locker room and have some champagne."

  "I wish to hell I'd never said the damn thing. [Winning isn't everything; it's the only thing.] I meant the effort. I meant having a goal. I sure as hell didn't mean for people to crush human values and morality."

  — Vince Lombardi

  46

  Shades of Gray

  Halftime was a blur to Christine. First, the field was covered with Disney characters, singing syrupy songs. Then the Petaluma show horses high-stepped and pranced across a specially made tarp so that a diving wide receiver wouldn't get a facemask full of poop in the third quarter. Finally, there were the Black Eyed Peas, Usher, Slash, and Madonna.

  "Damn halftime show is lasting longer than most guys' playing careers," said one of the guys from personnel.

  Her father had disappeared just after the half ended. He'd been whispering into a walkie-talkie, then walked out of the suite with a crooked grin in place, slapping backs and exchanging "howdys" with friends and league officials. He came back just before the second half kickoff, looked down at Christine and said, "Do you know the difference between Robert and me?"

  The words swirled through her head. Integrity, honesty, sensitivity. But she didn't answer.

  "I'm a man who always does what has to be done," he said, answering his own question. "Nothing's changed about that, and it never will. Someday, you'll appreciate it, and you'll know it was for your own good and for Scott's."

  After he'd taken his seat, Scott said, "What did Pop mean?"

  "I'm not sure." The father she once knew so well had become a mystery, full of threats and innuendos.

  "Is it bad to do what has to be done?"

  "Not if it's the right thing."

  "But Pop…?"

  "He always thinks whatever he wants is the right thing. And it isn't."

  On the field, Denver had received the kickoff and ground out three first downs. The ball sat astride the mid-field stripe, sneaking a peek at Dallas territory.

  "What are we going to do, Mom? The Mustangs have the spread covered."

  "We'll wait until the fourth quarter. Your father will be angry if we go through with it."

  "I know, but it needs to be done and doesn't the good outweigh the bad?"

  "I think so, Scott, but morality is funny. We'd be breaking the rules, and your Dad believes in sticking with them. When we used to play tennis, he'd give me every shot that was even close to the line. What you and I are going to do isn't black and white. It's like so much of life, a shade of gray. Does that make sense?"

  "He's open!" Scott yelled, his eyes on the field.

  Christine turned just in time to see the two Denver receivers crossing in the center of the field. One of the Dallas cornerbacks got tangled up and fell, and as a receiver broke open, Mike Skarcynski lofted a high, soft pass that nestled into his receiver's hands at the twenty. He ran untouched into the end zone, lifted the ball high in the air as if offering it as a sacrifice to the gods, then slammed it into the turf.

  "Where's the flag!" Kingsley screamed from the front row. "Illegal pick! Where's the goddam flag? Dammit, they never make that call! We're getting screwed, blued and tattooed by the refs."

  Others rumbled about the unfairness of it all. Had Nightlife Jackson been in there at cornerback, he never would have fallen down.

  "Hell, he would have intercepted the pass," one of the loyalists said.

  "Jeez, it's like losing two players, Nightlife being out," another whined. "Our best cornerback and our best wide receiver all rolled into one."

  After the extra point, Denver was only three points behind, and Christine felt some relief. "Maybe we won't have to do anything," she told Scott. Even though trailing 10-7, Denver was one point up on the four-point spread. If the game ended this way, Bobby would win his bet.

  After the kickoff, Dallas began a methodical march down the field. The offense seemed more determined as often happens after the other team scores. With Nightlife missing, Coach Krause was calling more running plays, and the Mustangs chewed up yardage and the clock, finally petering out at Denver's twenty-nine yard line. After Craig Stringer overthrew an open receiver on third and nine, Boom Boom Guacavera lined up for a forty-six yard field goal attempt.

  "Make it, you little wetback," one of the P.R. guys ordered.

  "Yeah, keek a touchdown," another said, mocking the foreign kicker who wasn't fully aware of the game's terminology.

  Miss it, Christine prayed.

  "He's gonna nail it," Scott said. "In warmups, he was hitting from sixty yards out. I've never seen him so strong."

  Stringer barked signals from his position as the holder, and Christine could not help but think of Bobby. He was so proud of having played college football, even if all he ever did was hold for the kicks. "I never dropped one," he told her many times. "Never even bobbled a snap in three years." Now, she thought, he held her heart in his hands.

  Don't drop it Bobby.

  With the serenity that comes from endless repetition, Stringer cleanly handled the snap, swung the laces away from the kicker, and placed the ball on the ground in precisely the right spot. Boom Boom kept his head down, planted his left foot, and swung his right leg as smoothly as a championship golfer wielding a three iron. The ball rocketed through the uprights with a good ten yards to spare.

  "Attababy!" Kingsley yelled from down front.

  "He tucked his free hand away, just like I told him," Scott said, regretfully. "He gave me grief, but he did it. Mom, we gotta do something."

  "Not yet," Christine said.

  After the kickoff, Denver bogged down and punted after one first down. With the ball once again in their hands, the Mustangs tried banging away with running plays but with little success. Christine kept glancing at the clock as the teams played conservatively and traded punts, and as the seconds ticked down like a beating heart, Dallas led 13-7 at the end of the third quarter.

  This game should be called the Snore Bowl," Crew Cut said. "Jesus, there's no offense, and I bet the over."

  "How much time is left?" Bobby asked. His knees were stiff, and his wrists were numb from being locked behind his back.

  "Still early in the fourth quarter. Dallas ahead by six.

  "How about letting me watch through the window?"

  Crew Cut shot a look at him.

  "What am I going to do? Spoil your day by diving through the glass and committing suicide early?"

  "All right. Get up here, but if you try any shit, I'll stomp you right here."

  Bobby struggled to his feet and stretched, flexing his shoulders, feeling the inside of his swollen jaw with his tongue. Then he joined Crew Cut at the small window. overlooking the field from a height Zeus must have observed mankind. The electrical closet was five stories above the highest row of seats, even above the press levels and the luxury suites.

  Somewhere below him, Bobby thought, Chrissy and Scott were watching the game, oblivious to his plight. While he'd been sitting there, contemplating his own mortality, he decided he was not afraid to die. What ate at his gut was the thought that he would never see Chrissy or Scott again. He imagined the pain they would feel. Then he vowed to fight. If he had a chance, he would claw his way out of here.

  "Damn, Denver's moving," Crew Cut said.

  Bobby watched as Skarcynski dropped back, avoided a sack by sidestepping Buckwalter Washington, then calmly stepped into the pocket and hit a wide receiver twenty yards down the field.

  "That fat-assed Washington is sucking eggs," Crew Cut said. "He's gassed."

  "He's been pigging out at buffets since the first round of the playoffs," Bobby said. "Looks like he gained fifteen pounds."

  With a first down on the Dallas
thirty-two yard line, Skarcynski peered over his line at the Dallas' defense where Washington scratched at the turf like an angry stag. Just before the snap, the linebackers moved up, filling the gaps between the linemen, knees bent, bouncing on toes, prepared to pounce like jaguars through the slightest crack in the offensive line.

  "Gonna blitz!" Crew Cut shouted.

  "Get rid of it quick," Bobby urged Skarcynski, as if he could be heard through the window, several stories above the field, and over the din of seventy thousand voices.

  Skarcynski backpedaled into the pocket, and with an avalanche of Mustangs flailing at him, calmly flipped the ball underhanded to Shamar Pitts, the running back, who had feigned blocking for the quarterback.

  "Shovel pass!" Bobby screamed, igniting the ache in his damaged jaw.

  "Oh shit," Crew Cut said.

  There is a sublime moment in football, Bobby thought, when an offensive play works on the field just as it was diagramed on the blackboard, when the "o's" are arranged as precisely as the stars in a constellation and the "x's" are scattered in useless disarray. Once the linebackers had committed to an all-out blitz, the defense was outnumbered on its side of the ball. As he crossed the line of scrimmage, Pitts headed upfield behind a phalanx of blockers who picked off the remaining corners and safeties. He scooted into the end zone untouched.

  "TD!" Bobby cheered, trying to raise his shackled arms like an official and nearly tearing his shoulders out of their sockets.

  Crew Cut slammed his fist into the window. "Bullshit!"

  After the extra point, Denver led 14–13. It would not last, though, as the pace of the game had just changed. Falling behind seemed to ignite the Dallas' offense. Stringer led them down the field in six plays, scoring himself on a quarterback draw from the eight, making it 20–14 Dallas. Now, it seemed that the offenses had taken over, much to the delight of the fans.

  With five minutes left in the game, Skarcynski began another drive, bringing Denver down the field with a deft mixture of runs and passes, tossing a 12-yarder to his tight end for the score and with the PAT, a one-point lead once again, 21–20..

  "Looks like you might win the over after all," Bobby said.

  "I don't care about that," Crew Cut said. "It's just twenty bucks. All I want is for the Mustangs to win."

  "Why?"

  "What kind of a question is that? They're my team. Always have been, even before I worked for Mr. K. Always will be."

  With the time remaining now crucial to the game, as it is in life, a sense of urgency filled the stadium. Players hustled quicker back to the huddle. Fatigue was forgotten, and linemen fired out of their stances with ferocious purpose. Great waves of noise rolled through the stands along with a sense that the finale of the game would hold surprise and excitement.

  Stringer guided Dallas into Denver territory yet again, needing a field goal to take the lead but a touchdown to cover the point spread. After three first downs, the drive stalled, and with just over two minutes left, Boom Boom Guacavera lined up for a long field goal that would give the Mustangs a two-point lead.

  "Jesus, the line of scrimmage is the thirty-eight," Crew Cut said as the teams broke the huddle for the kick. "That makes the kick…"

  "Fifty-five yards," Bobby said.

  "Oh shit, he'll never make it. They should have gone for the first down."

  "I wish you were right, but he'll make it," Bobby said. "He was banging them in warmups, and he's had the best week of practice of his life. He doesn't think he can miss."

  Holding his breath, Bobby watched as Stringer barked signals while crouched just over seven yards behind the center. The snap came back high and wobbly, and Stringer stretched overhead, coming off his knee to catch it one-handed. He smoothly came back down and placed the ball on the pre-ordained spot. Boom Boom's powerful leg swept through the air with a motion as immutable as the pendulum of a grandfather clock, and he connected solidly. Bobby watched as the ball sailed end-over-end, descending as it crossed the goal line, looking as if it wouldn't make it, fluttering toward the goalpost where it bounced off the crossbar and fell over.

  "Good!" shouted Crew Cut. "Holy shit! Good by a public hair."

  Bobby gritted his teeth. It was a mixed blessing, a bittersweet symphony. Dallas led 23–21 but still hadn't covered the spread. Denver would get the ball and try to get in position for a winning field goal. Unless they turned the ball over and Dallas scored again, Bobby should win his bet.

  But who'll be there to collect? A lawyer for my estate?

  To hell with it. He wanted to live long enough to see Kingsley lose the bet, but nearly as important, he wanted Denver to score again. He wanted them to win the game, over and above the point spread.

  After the timeout and the requisite commercial, Dallas kicked off and the crowd roared, even corporate CEO's appreciating the artistry and courage of the twenty-two gladiators. Watching the ball fly toward the returner, Bobby was struck by a revelation about the power of the game. Here he was, kidnaped and beaten, likely awaiting his own death, and he was cheering for a football team.

  I must be crazy.

  Not only that, the guy who would kill him was cheering, too, though for the other team. He'd seen something like it in sports saloons, two men who didn't know each other-a banker and a truck driver maybe-men who would never exchange hellos on a city street, huddled together like praying monks, as they dissected the strategy of going for it on fourth and one.

  Sports distracts us, Bobby knew. It makes us forget our own problems as we throw our hearts and souls into something utterly meaningless on a cosmic scale. But it also brings us together. At the moment, he and Crew Cut were not captive and captor. They were just feuding fans. But in a few minutes, Bobby knew, the game would be over and unless he came up with a plan, the final whistle would signal his final breaths.

  47

  A Knock on the Door

  Martin Kingsley could not hear the voice on the phone. In the owners' suite, the team officials and corporate sponsors were hooting and hollering and noisily congratulating him, but every word, whistle and cant sounded like the executioner's song.

  Don't these morons know we haven't covered the spread? Don't they know that winning isn't enough!

  He was yelling into the phone at Chad Morrow, the Mustangs' director of game day operations. Just as he did at the NFC Championship Game in Green Bay, Morrow was standing behind the bench, relaying messages to Coach Krause from on high. "You heard me!" Kingsley yelled. "When we get the ball back, tell Krause not to sit on it. We need another score."

  "But sir, there's no reason to-"

  "Do you hear me! Do you goddam hear me?"

  "Yes sir."

  But before the Mustangs could think about moving the ball, they had to get it back, Kingsley knew. On the first play after the kickoff, Skarcynski had an open receiver over the middle, but Buckwalter Washington batted down the pass at the line of scrimmage. The play took them to the two-minute warning and another television commercial.

  While all the other Cowboy fans-at least the ones who didn't bet-praying that the clock would tick away-Kingsley tried to will it to stop. When play resumed, Skarcynski hit a short pass over the middle, then brought his team to the line of scrimmage without a huddle. On a quick count, he rolled out of the pocket, took his time and launched a rainbow down the sideline. His wide receiver made an acrobatic catch in Dallas territory barely getting his second foot in bounds. First down Denver at the Dallas forty-six.

  God damn it to hell!

  Suddenly, the point spread wasn't all that mattered. Denver could move into field goal range and win the game! But then, football can be a baffling game, and the oblong spheroid doesn't always bounce straight. After an incompletion and a quarterback sack that had the Mustangs' fans going wild, Skarcynski tossed a bullet to across the middle to his tight end, who reacted a fraction of a second too slowly. Late in bringing up his hands, the ball ricocheted off his shoulder pads and straight into the hands of a Dall
as linebacker. Interception at the thirty-eight with fifty-three seconds left.

  We have the ball back! We can score again and cover!

  Pandemonium in the stadium. The Dallas faithful were on their feet, confident in victory. Denver fans moaned and shook their heads. Kingsley, however, was on edge.

  What if Morrow didn't deliver the message? Or what if Krause doesn't follow orders? What if just runs out the clock? We win the game, and I lose the bet.

  With the clock stopped for the change of possession, Kingsley bolted from his seat and headed toward the door that led to the concourse. He was consumed with one thought.

  My Mustangs must score!

  Either a field goal or a touchdown and they'd cover the spread. He'd win five million dollars and get Houston Tyler off his back and out of his life. He was already at the elevator when it occurred to him. There were two empty seats when he passed the last row of the suite. Where were Christine and Scott?

  The horses whinnied and high-stepped nervously from side-to-side in that peculiar equine show of discomfort. Nostrils flared, eyes darted, ears perked at every thunderous sound from above, the noise increasing as the game reached a crescendo of its own.

  "Where is she?" Scott asked.

  "Right in the middle of the Petaluma show horses," Christine said.

  They were in the cavernous staging area beneath the north stands. There, amidst the groundskeeping tractors and the half-time floats were the sixteen horses from the famed Petaluma troupe and one Appaloosa mare with distinctive leopard spotting.

  When she came up with the idea this morning, Christine doubted she'd have time to carry it out, but she found an Appaloosa stable in Davie, west of Fort Lauderdale. Once there, she found Temptation. Or at least an Appaloosa mare with similarly striped hooves, the white sclera around the eyes and a black-on-white leopard spotting. She didn't have Temptation's two-tone mane, but a quick Clairol rinse took care of that, and a fast application of black spray paint added the distinctive map of Texas on her haunch.