North Dallas Forty (24 page)

“You always seem to think people want to hear what you have to say.” B.A. held up the crumpled paper. “I suppose most of you have seen this?” He held the sheet up for the boys in the back. “Obviously there exists a player who seems to feel that the individual is more important than the team.”

The gravity of B.A.’s tone frightened me. I had seen other players, maybe less talented or unfortunately black, disappear for transgressions as minor as this one.

“... any man who puts himself above the team ...”

The fear started to bubble slightly in my stomach. But I was still holding the card, since I knew who put the sheet up, and if things got much worse for me I was certain Richardson would step forward. At least, I hoped he would.

“... no need for anyone who ...”

The last time B.A. used
no need
Don Webster vanished.

Webster’s disappearance covered one of B.A.’s larger perversions. It had been against Detroit in the championship game. With only seconds to play, no time-outs, and the ball fourth and goal on Detroit’s five, Maxwell quickly called a roll out option to the right. The play required Alan Freeman, who substituted for Delma Huddle at split end on the goal line offense, to come down to a tight position and block Detroit’s outside linebacker. This would allow Maxwell either the option run or pass to that side. As we broke the huddle, the clock ticking off the last few seconds, B.A. returned Delma Huddle to the game. No one knows why. Huddle, because of his relatively small size, never played on the goal line, didn’t understand the play, and didn’t stand much of a chance blocking a two-hundred-thirty-pound linebacker. The linebacker smothered Maxwell, who threw the ball away in desperation. Detroit intercepted and the game ended with the Detroit free safety jumping up and down in the end zone clutching the ball to his chest. Detroit won by seven.

In his postgame press conference B.A. made no mention of the final play, but did point out that three plays earlier Don Webster had jumped offside. That, B.A. reluctantly announced, cost us the game. Nobody thought to question B.A.’s premise that a five-yard penalty nullifying an incomplete pass was the deciding factor of the game.

For the next six months Webster was the star of every highlight film. Slow-motion shots of Webster jumping offside, telephoto shots of Webster jumping offside, isolated replays of Webster jumping offside, end zone shots of Webster jumping offside, learned comments of ex-pros over shots of Webster jumping offside, closeup shots of B.A. grimacing, supposedly, as Webster jumped offside. No need for Webster. The team has no need.

“We’ve got the biggest game of our careers coming up and this kind of talk ...” He laid the sheet down and leaned forward over the podium. “Boys, I’m not a political man, you all know that. When I’ve got a problem I can find the answer in the Scriptures, but I’m concerned, as I’m sure you all are, about the trouble that is filling this great nation of ours. Drugs, permissiveness, lack of respect, violence. Some people believe it’s part of a Communist plot. Now I don’t necessarily agree, but when I find something like this on our bulletin board.” B.A. scanned the room. “Well anyway, this kind of talk just doesn’t belong here. We are a team and the man who did this—” he held the wrecked piece of paper high above his head, “—should have to guts to stand up and apologize to the team.” B.A.’s face remained calm; his vacant eyes traveled the room, deftly avoiding the corner where I sat.

“B.A.,” I said, sliding down in my seat, lowering my head, and alternating a sideways glance between the expectant head coach and the floor.

The vacuous face turned slightly in my direction and a sudden life leaped into his watery blue eyes. B.A. nodded and turned the assembly over to me to plead for forgiveness. He planned to forgive me. It was to be a morality play, a disciplining for the benefit of the whole squad.

“B.A. I’m not sure I understand what has happened here. I mean I read the paper and all.” I hesitated, not at all sure what would come out of my mouth next what with all the Dexamyl and codeine floating around inside. “I mean, I read it and all ...”

“You already said that,” B.A. interrupted.

The men laughed nervously.

“I mean,” I continued, unable to shut up, “I don’t think it’s all that bad in the first place but—”

“It’s not up to you to judge what’s good and bad here, mister,” B.A. interrupted again.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” I said, sitting back in my seat and repressing a smile as the solution to my problem popped into my head, “but when Seth and I arrived this morning, the thing was already up. I can’t imagine who did it. Can you, Seth?”

Maxwell coughed and his chair skidded noisily on the tile floor. He shook his head and kept his eyes riveted on his stockinged feet.

Crow’s-feet appeared at the corners of B.A.’s eyes as the skin tightened over his brow ridges. He sensed it had all gone awry. He tried to detect collusion between Seth and me but it was hopeless. The good thing about B.A.’s bovine indifference toward the people around him was you could lie your ass off and he couldn’t tell the difference. The only thing B.A. knew about the men who played for him were percentages and statistics, whether it was height and weight or results or psychological tests.

Once I involved Maxwell, the disciplining became complicated. If there was one person B.A. tried to understand and empathize with, it was his quarterback. They wanted the same things out of football, power and success. To reach their goals they both manipulated the team, differing only in technique. They both needed team success to assure them of personal triumph. So while they were ultimate adversaries for final power and control, they were also allied as masters against me and the rest of the players. They were co-conspirators, and B.A. knew Maxwell wouldn’t let me or anyone else undermine the power structure they both needed. I knew that once I had involved Maxwell I was home free.

I turned around to smile at Jim Johnson. He glowered back at me and left the room, slamming the door. B.A. glanced at the departing defensive coach and then resumed speaking.

“Well,” he said, wadding up the piece of paper, “I didn’t call this meeting to have an open discussion of who might have done this. If no one else has anything to say, we’ll consider the matter closed.”

A feeling of relief rolled over me, leaving me weak but somehow elated.

“Okay,” B.A. said, “we’ll take a five-minute break.”

Goddam, what a way to earn a living.

Alan Claridge plunged through the training room door and down the hall to the telephones. Someone had told him about his mother’s letter. Thomas Richardson flashed me a big smile and Andy Crawford signaled me to meet him in the locker room. Along with Delma Huddle, Art Hartman, and Maxwell, we congregated in front of the equipment manager’s cage. Nearby was a pile of footballs to be autographed. Maxwell picked up a felt-tip pen and a football and began signing. We had to sign fifty balls a week and got ten cents a signature. The club sold the balls to men’s clubs, orphanages, and hospitals for twenty-five to fifty dollars a ball, the price increasing as our win-loss record improved. Each ball cost the club about six dollars, including signatures. I grabbed a pen and started earning my dimes.

“The police or somebody called B.A. last night,” Claridge said “He called us in this morning, really pissed, but we didn’t have to pay no team fines or anything. Just damages.”

“You left with Beaudreau’s girl, right?” Crawford said to me.

“Uh-huh,” I nodded, giving little attention to the question and continuing to sign.

“Beaudreau was really mad,” Crawford elaborated, “screaming and crying, saying that you’d betrayed him.”

“I’d betrayed him? I hardly know the asshole.”

“Hey, man,” Crawford said, “come on, he’s a good guy.”

“He’s still an asshole.” I was sick to death of sad little people who thought some bond was welded between us because they knew my height, weight, and jersey number. It was frightening to think that my life was woven into the lives of people like Beaudreau.

On the way back to the meeting I asked Maxwell what he thought of B.A.’s reaction to the incident at Rock City.

“I already heard it all,” he said.

“When? I was there and I didn’t know it all.”

“B.A. came down here this morning around eleven or twelve and told me. I dunno ... you were asleep or somethin’.”

The assistant coaches had returned to the meeting room, singly and in pairs. B.A. came in alone, a suitable time behind the last assistant, and closed the door.

“Did he ask you anything about the paper?” I asked, my voice dropping to a whisper as B.A. reestablished himself behind the portable podium.

“Yes.” Maxwell’s whisper was barely audible.

“All right,” B.A. instructed, “let’s break up. Backs and ends stay here. Defense with coach Johnson. Linemen go with your coaches.”

We had just finished seeing the New York kicking reel. Now we would divide up into our particular coteries and discuss the part we would each take in Sunday’s game. The kicking film seemed to point up New York’s biggest problem, organization. Twice as they lined up to punt only ten men were on the field, and once the center forgot to stay on the field for a field goal attempt. Their soccer-style kicker had a strong leg, but seldom got within field goal range or had the protection to get off a kick.

“Okay,” B.A. said as soon as the room was cleared of everyone but quarterbacks, receivers, and running backs. “Take out pencil and paper. We’re going to have a test. As soon as you finish you can get ready for workout.”

Tests on the game plan were a regular part of B.A.’s coaching technique. They were a pain in the ass, but they assured him everyone had studied the plan and they made for at least one short meeting a week.

The mimeographed test questions were passed around and after a few scattered moans and pointless questions the room fell silent. The athletes bent to the task most had spent four years of college trying to avoid.

On the first page were the standard questions: List the depth chart of the New York defense. What is their blitz frequency on third and long? What is their favorite zone and in what field positions and down-yardage situations do they most frequently employ it? What players are replaced in short yardage situations? On the goal line? Against what formations will they shift to an odd defense? What are their tendencies against a split backfield? A set backfield? A triple wing? A double wing? A slot? What is your adjustment on a sixty-seven pass against a twenty-one roll zone? Safety zone? A thirty series defense?

I answered the questions as quickly as possible, marveling in spite of myself at the ingenious complexity of B.A.’s theory of multiple-offense football. It was devastating and unstoppable if properly executed. I breezed through the goal line and short yardage and arrived at the final question. It was essay. I giggled softly. The receivers had one question, the running backs another, the quarterbacks had to answer both.

“Seth. Seth.” Art Hartman’s whisper came softly from the seat behind me. “Number six. Is it a twenty or a thirty?”

Maxwell dropped his hand beside his chair and held out two fingers.

“Thanks.”

Maxwell nodded.

I read my last question: Who do you plan to get deep on and how? List characteristics of backs you think can be beaten deep.

Hurrying to finish first, I quickly wrote:

“LHB Ely: looks into the backfield too much can be beaten with double move if qb will pump fake on first move i.e. zig out, out and go, square out and go, turn in and go, sideline and go. If he feels you going by him he will try and knock you off ... is big and strong and can knock you down, try and get your shoulder down and into him when he tries to hit. He lays back but tries to cover everything, set him up with down and ins—square out and turn ins to get him coming up fast, qb is vital on the deep double move.

“RHB Waite: good speed but like Ely looks into backfield and is easily set up. zig out is good because of his fast close on down and in move, qb pump is important again. Also sharp breaks are important. He is slow to deep coverage on zone and is possible to run by him on safety zone.

“WS Lewis: best athlete but likes to force end runs and come up and hit. beat him deep with play action passes and run split routes between him and weakside cornerman.

“SS Morris: good, experienced ball player, smart competitor but small always strong safety, no speed ... tight end could beat him deep on a 67 corner by releasing inside linebacker making short inside move and then back underneath flat to the corner, flanker must clear out deep to keep cornerback from dropping off and intercepting.”

I quickly reread my answers. I had covered everything B.A. had mentioned during the week. The
i.e.
would irritate him, but beyond his pettiness and lack of empathy, B.A. was predictable and to that extent approached fairness.

I groaned out of my seat, careful not to straighten up too fast, and walked to the podium. B.A. had his eyes down, reading from the playbook. I leaned over and looked at the book. His eyes came up to my face.

“It’s a good book,” I said, smiling, “but everybody gets killed in the end.”

His face seemed to get blanker. I slipped my test paper onto the podium.

“If that doesn’t get me a scholarship,” I said, already striding for the door, “I’ll have to drop out of med school.” The others were still finishing.

I went to the phone and called Lacota information and got the listing for John Caulder. I reached the number but there was no answer. Walking back to the training room, I met Maxwell coming out of the meeting.

“Hey, man,” I asked, “how come you didn’t cover for me with B.A. when you talked to him this morning?”

“He just said Johnson had this paper and was pissed. Besides, he told me he planned to use you quite a bit this Sunday.”

My heart jumped.

“I talked him into letting me call for you from the field.”

“Fantastic!!!” I yelled, not able to control the grin that spread across my face. My eyes were watering.

“So don’t let me down,” Maxwell instructed, at once becoming stern and paternal.