by Paul Levine
"You don't want the money?" Kingsley got to his feet, drew a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his eyes. "What the hell does that mean? I lost everything betting on this game just to pay you off, and you don't want the money."
"I wanted to see what you would do, Martin," Houston said, hacking out a cough. "You never understood that money don't mean nothing. I thought there was a chance you'd self destruct, but frankly, I never knew how big the bang would be."
"You bastard," Kingsley said, more with resignation than anger.
"Even now, I wonder if you've learned your lesson," Tyler said. "All that matters is how you live your life. Did you do more good than evil? Did you earn people's respect? Is the world a better place for your having lived? I've asked myself those questions, and I don't like the answers. Now it's your turn. Know this, Martin. You'll live out your years just like me. You'll be a pariah, an outcast."
Tyler walked away, fading into the crowd.
"I underestimated you, Robert," Kingsley said. "I never would have thought you could have pulled off something like this."
"I couldn't. But there are people who care about me who could. And you, Martin, you were your worst enemy."
"Go ahead, Robert. Have your say. Gloat about it."
"I have nothing more to say. You're old and stubborn, and even now, you can probably justify everything you did."
"I did it all for my daughter and grandson."
"I'm sure your believe that, Martin. It's helps you mask just how selfish you really are. You didn't do it for anyone but yourself. Somewhere your wiring got crossed and you re-wrote all the rules to suit yourself. You had to win at all costs. You had to crush everyone in your path. Look what it's come to, Martin. You lost your daughter, your grandson, and your team."
"For someone with nothing to say," Kingsley said, "that's a mouthful. You done?"
"Yeah, except for this, Martin. You're fired."
"The greatest accomplishment is not in never falling, but in rising again after your fall."
— Vince Lombardi
Epilogue
Togetherness
Friday, May 4-Irving, Texas
Goldy's eyes swept across the oversize office, taking in the framed team photos, trophies, and game balls from victories past.
"Nice," Goldy said, "but what's with the two desks?"
"Chrissy's the CEO, and I'm the general manager. For the first two months, we kept running in and out of each other's offices all day long. Finally, we just moved in together."
A wide smile cracked Goldy's leathery face and he put down the cup of tea Bobby had served him. "You're a happy man, eh Bobby?"
"I wake up every morning and think I must be dreaming. Chrissy and I have never been closer. Scott is a delight. I have great friends like you, and we're molding a football team we can be proud of, both on and off the field."
"All life is three-to-one against, boychik, but you beat the odds."
"I owe you a lot, Goldy."
"That's the emmis. You still owe me a bundle for backing your bet."
"Now that Chrissy and I own 51 per cent of the team, that's no problem. You want a check?"
"Either that or next season you can give me some tips. Injury reports, game plans, that sort of thing."
"Aw Goldy, you know I can't do that. We're doing everything straight. Fifty per cent of the profits go into the shelter for abused women and scholarships for inner-city kids."
"I know, I know. Like every reformed sinner, you're a pain in the tuches with your righteousness. Meanwhile, did I tell you they're making a movie about Vinnie LaBarca?"
"What?"
"Sure. HBO is doing the story of his life, 'Diary of a Mobster.' Should be on the air about the time he gets out of Eglin, which will be about 24 months. And guess who says hello? Your old girlfriend. She says if you'd have asked, she would have married you."
"What? She knows I'm marrying Chrissy."
"She means she'd have performed the ceremony. She's a judge now."
"Angelica Suarez? No way."
"Yeah, a couple of circuit court momzers got convicted of bribery, and there was a big push to find some judges with ethics."
"So the governor appointed Angelica?"
"They wanted a minority woman, too."
"Goldy, in Miami, Cuban-Americans are the majority."
"Don't blame me. I'm just telling you the news.
"Okay. Anyway, thanks for coming all the way here. Chrissy will be happy to see you, and Scott loves you almost as much as I do."
"I wouldn't miss it for anything. After all, how many times are you going to marry the woman?"
"Twice, Goldy. Only twice."
"Yeah, but who ever heard of a bookie getting married on the first Saturday in May? It's the Kentucky Derby, for crying out loud."
"I'm not a bookie anymore, Goldy."
Bobby was grilling chicken on the gas barbecue and arguing with Scott when Christine joined them on the backyard patio.
"Hi Scott. Hi sweetie," Chrissy called out.
She came to Bobby and they kissed gently. "Hello, my once and future wife."
"I love you, too, sweetie."
"I'm gonna hurl chunks," Scott said.
"Sweetie," Bobby said, "will you tell our son that we're not making him personnel director of the team?"
"Listen to your father," Christine said, glancing at the grilling chicken. "Better lower the heat, honey."
"You offered me the job, Dad. How can you back out?"
"I meant after you graduated from college, or at least junior high."
"Didn't I help in the draft?" Scott said, turning to his mother.
"A lot," Christine said.
"Didn't I come up with a radical mathematical metric system by position?"
"You did that, too,"
"And didn't we steal Lavar Long out of Penn State in the third round because of me?"
"Okay, okay," Bobby said. "You can be the assistant personnel director after you finish your homework."
"I want a written contract," Scott said. "I'll have my lawyer call your lawyer."
"You're pushing it, kid," Bobby warned him.
That seemed to quiet Scott for a moment, and Bobby turned to Christine. "All ready for tomorrow?"
"I've been ready all my life," she said, dipping a finger in the barbecue sauce and tasting it. "What about you? You have seventeen hours and thirty minutes to back out."
"No way. I want a long-term contract, just like our son."
When Christine didn't smile, Bobby gave her a long, inquiring look. Between lovers, he had learned, words are often unnecessary.
"We got a telegram today from Daddy," she said, answering the unasked question.
"We?"
"Actually, yes. Wedding best wishes, that sort of thing."
"Is he still in Saudi Arabia?"
"Bahrain. He says he's on the verge of a huge oil strike and he's in tight with the sheiks."
"Where's Bahrain?" Scott asked.
"Outside the jurisdiction of a federal grand jury," Bobby said. He turned to Christine. "Are you okay?"
"It's just a strange feeling. He's still my father, and I still care for him."
"Nothing wrong with that." He gestured toward the window ledge leading to the kitchen where a glass pitcher sat, sweating. "Say, are you thirsty? I made the margaritas."
"Not tonight, Bobby."
Their after-work ritual always consisted of a kiss followed by a margarita. So she was bothered by the telegram, he thought. How bittersweet to have a wedding without your father, no matter what the history. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.
"No, it's not that. I'm fine, really."
"Uh-uh," he said, unconvinced.
"Guess who I ran into in the doctor's office today?" she said, changing the subject.
Bobby didn't know. He didn't even know she'd been to the doctor.
"Who?" he asked, trying to mask his concern, which now extended to her emotional and physic
al well-being.
"Shari Blossom. Or I should say, Shari Stinger. She and Craig are very happy. I think they were in love with each other for years, but neither could let down their guard and admit it."
"That's great," Bobby said, "but why were you at the doctor's? Are you sick?"
"Anyway, she's pregnant. Twins! Can you believe it?"
"A pair of little Stingers. If they have her brains and his teeth, they'll be little beavers."
"Bobby! Be nice."
"Okay, but why were you at the…"
Omigod.
It struck him them. Of course. They'd been trying, after all.
"My OB-GYN," she said, with a smile like sunlight on a spring day.
"Why were you at the OB-GYN?"
"Why do you think, silly?"
"Oh wow! Holy cow! Oh boy!"
"Or girl," she said.
"Oh, Chrissy!" A thousand thoughts swirled through Bobby's head. His life had become a sweet potion that overflowed the glass, and he was drunk with happiness and excitement. "Scott, get your mother a chair. Chrissy, are you too warm? Too cold? Do you need anything?"
"Bob-by," Christine sang out, melodiously.
"Yes?"
"Relax. And don't burn the chicken."
"Right. The chicken. Scott, do you have anything to say to your mother?"
"Sure, Dad. Hey Mom, I'll give you two-to-one I'm gonna have a sister."
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