North Dallas Forty (41 page)

“That’s not what I mean,” he protested. “You must live by the rules that have been built up over the years by people who love the game and sacrificed for it. You just can’t come in here and disregard those traditions and change what you want.”

“That’s really funny, B.A.,” I interrupted. “You people change everything, a game becomes a corporate enterprise for one thing—money. Look at you all,” I pointed around the room, “pinstripe suits, hundred-dollar shoes, and razor cuts. And now you tell me I’ve got to be Bronko Nagurski.”

B.A. frowned and shook his head. He scanned the paper, his forehead furrowed in thought. Finally he looked up.

“You think you’re so smart,” he said. “I’ve heard all those tired arguments about professional football corrupting and I don’t believe ’em. And furthermore, I know about you.” He dug into the stacks of papers and came up with several sheets of psychological tests that had been administered to me and the rest of the team. He held up one of the papers and read from it.

“You’re a high achiever who is totally self-reliant. You have no close friends or loved ones. You need nothing but yourself. You are dangerous to organization for the same reason you are desirable. As a high achiever you tend to be violently frustrated and will, if not controlled, destroy that which frustrates you.” He put down the paper. “Don’t you see? We must have a way to control people like you.”

“How about a frontal lobotomy?”

“You refuse to understand,” he continued. “You resent my coldness, my logical approach to problems. Well, I have a job to do and I can do it best without my personal feelings being involved. But
you
can’t. You refuse to submit to the rules.”

“Don’t you see?” I was beginning to crack. I saw no escape from the inevitable. “You control my life, but don’t feel any need to become involved with me as a person. Don’t you understand how frightening that is for me? To have absolutely no human rapport with the people who, as he said,” I pointed at Clinton Foote, “own me. You own me but you don’t want to get involved with me. What the fuck does that mean?”

B.A.’s face remained unresponsive.

“I fully understand your objections to the way I run this team,” he said dispassionately. “I just don’t agree with you. You have a job to do and you should do it. Your personal life is something else. We have a difference of opinion and you refuse to keep it out of your work. Well, I’m in the business of winning football games, not clearing troubled consciences. I can’t have you constantly questioning my authority. I don’t care if you like me, but I insist you respect me.”

“B.A., you can’t order people to respect you. As a man who wins football games you don’t have a peer, but you seem to think that qualifies you as an exceptional human being full of personal and Godly grace.” I stopped for a moment to catch my breath and control my voice, which had been rising markedly as I spoke.

“You think that there is something wrong with winning and I won’t tolerate that.” B.A. pointed a finger at me, his face masking the emotion that was obvious in his voice. “Winning is
the
most important thing. The sacrifice and responsibility that must be shouldered in order to win are what make men. It’s what makes this country the greatest in the world. Feared and respected. Sticking to the rules and winning. You’re just not willing to pay the price.”

“If the price is thinking like you, then I won’t pay it. But if you think it’s
merely
a difference of opinion you’re a very silly man.” I sank back in my seat, suddenly worn out from a battle that hadn’t even taken place. I knew it was hopeless to argue, but I had to do something.

“Well,” B.A. answered, his voice calm and his eyes frosted, “you make your existential quests on somebody else’s time. The issue is simple. People must, and I mean must, submit to control at some level. You refuse. So, you must leave.” He looked down and began sorting and stacking the piles of papers in front of him. He placed the papers in a manila file folder and laid them back on the desk. He kept his eyes down and leaned back in his chair. Nobody moved until he finished.

Ray March pulled a folded paper from his inside coat pocket. He studied the paper carefully, then looked at me.

“When the commissioner was first made aware of the charges against you—”

“Charges?” I interrupted. “I haven’t heard any charges. Just the week’s calendar of a fat voyeur.”

“Mr. Elliott, you continually seem to think this is some sort of court proceeding. We are not concerned with semantics or strict interpretation of the law. There is no record being kept. What we are concerned with is conduct unbecoming professional football. That is what you stand accused of, and I might add, pretty well convicted of.”

“You still haven’t said what the conduct was,” I insisted.

“Smoking marijuana for one,” March said.

“What else?”

“The girl,” March replied, looking apologetically down the table at Conrad Hunter.

Hunter never looked up from the pencil he was twirling between his thumb and forefinger.

“The girl? She’s not even married.” I knew it was hopeless.

A long pause followed, as the officials exchanged weary glances; tired to the bone with the charade, they wanted it ended. The chilling realization of what was to come crashed down on me. My chest constricted and I lost control of my breathing.

“Listen,” I pleaded, inhaling deeply and trying to collect myself, “listen, there has got to be more to it than this. I’m truly sorry if I caused anyone any difficulty. But goddam, the girl wasn’t even engaged until last week. And the marijuana, I mean, Christ, I take stronger shit than that just to get on the field. You people give it to me. We all know marijuana is hardly—”

“Marijuana is against the law,” Clinton Foote interrupted.

“Oh come on,” I moaned. “You know plenty of guys in this league who use it, and LSD and mescaline.” I was pleading. “That kid in Boston said he played a game on it. And the girl. You got guys on this team screwing each other’s wives. And each other—”

“We’re not concerned with other people’s behavior,” March interjected, “only yours has come to light.” His face was drawn into a frown. I was becoming tiresome.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I begged. “It’s not what you say. I know. And you know I know. What is it? You could be wrong.”

“We’re not wrong!” Clinton Foote leaped to his feet. My contract was crumpled in his hand. He had lost patience with his own charade and was anxious to have it ended. “You were seen doing these things and according to the Standard Player’s Contract the commissioner has the right to suspend you, which he has already done as of eight o’clock this morning.” He tore the contract into pieces and wadded them into a ball. He dropped it in front of him on the table. His voice turned soft and a smile contradicted the look in his eyes.

“You’re on the street, fella.” The general manager sat down and looked around the room, pleased with his performance.

O’Malley the lawyer unwadded the crumpled, shredded contract and sorted the pieces, then he slid a legal-sized paper across the table to me.

“Sign this if you would, Mr. Elliott. It’s a release absolving us from any further responsibility for you. We would like to get this all done as quietly as possible for all concerned.” The fat lawyer smiled slightly. “You wouldn’t want all this to become public.”

“Clinton, you can’t do that,” I protested.

“It’s already done.” Clinton tapped his pencil lightly against the edge of the desk, then he stopped and pointed the eraser end at me. “And I would advise you that Mr. Rindquist already has an extensive police file on you. If I were you I’d vanish.”

“Goddammit, I haven’t done anything that half the guys, management included, haven’t done and you know it. It’s my legs, isn’t it? You don’t want to pay my contract.”

“Mr. Elliott,” March’s indifference was agonizing, “I’m sorry that you feel that you have been treated unfairly, but you should have considered your actions more carefully.” His eyes fell back to the paper.

“When the commissioner was first made aware of the charges against you, the first concern of his office was to make sure your rights were protected. When the commissioner was satisfied that your protection was guaranteed, he authorized an investigation and collection of facts ...”

March droned on, but I shut him out, squeezing my eyes closed and fighting the flood of emotion that surged behind my eyelids. I sank submissively in my seat and exhaled loudly, regaining control and beginning to think clearly again.

“... the commissioner has asked me to make a statement on his behalf.”

The ex-FBI man began reading.

“As commissioner it is my duty to preside over and guarantee the integrity of the league from attacks from inside as well as outside our structure. This case, as all cases, has been judged solely on its merits. It is not the position of the commissioner’s office that criminal action by legal authorities be initiated before we consider a person’s behavior detrimental to the well-being of the game. It is, in fact, desirable from the standpoint of the good name of professional football that undesirables be weeded out and removed from out of our midst with as little public notice ...”

I quit fighting and accepted the insanity of the situation. The whole affair seemed morosely funny. Sitting there trying to talk to men who purposely deceived themselves. Like so many people, they weren’t concerned with the truth. They wanted an arrangement of facts that coincided with their present needs and wishes. And because they were powerful, it was relatively easy for them to rearrange the stuff of daily experience to correspond with their current views and desires. Once they rearranged it all, they attacked the situation with a moral zeal and believed they were doing the right and just thing. And maybe they were. They wanted me out of football with no legal claims and this meeting had been arranged to convince me of the futility of a legal fight. I signed the release and pushed it back to O’Malley. The fat man smiled and nodded.

“You may feel that your personal rights have been abridged since judgment was passed before you were allowed to speak in your own defense. As commissioner, I must point out that you are in a position of privilege, giving you certain responsibilities to your employers and the public. You violated this privilege and cannot expect the same rights and protections as an ordinary citizen. It is my considered opinion that your insidious behavior is detrimental to professional football and all those principles and values that we hold inviolable... .”

Suddenly a great weight lifted from my mind, a mental tightness releasing, a runaway concentration relaxing. I felt myself opening and I saw this room as if for the first time. I was no longer fighting, trying to control these things and people around me. I was just observing them. The game was finally over. I would no longer fear defeat and failure. I had been trapped on a technicality that explained the ultimate pointlessness of the life I had been living. The game wasn’t on the field, it never had been. It was here. I hadn’t been beaten and I hadn’t quit. I had been disqualified. I had forgotten to sign my scorecard, but that still didn’t mean I hadn’t shot a sixty-seven and broken the course record. It just meant that if I did they wouldn’t accept it and ultimately that was their problem. Because the only part of the game that is real is me and only I can judge. It was over. I didn’t have to compete for the right to exist. From now on I would just be. I would leave this office, ride down the elevator, and walk to the parking lot and crank up my car. I would race to Lacota and see if Charlotte wanted to be with me. I was free.

“You are as of nine
A.M.
eastern standard time suspended indefinitely from performing as a professional football player. Your Standard Player’s Contract is hereby declared null and void and you are advised that this office rules that no further disbursements of contractual monies or benefits accrued will be made by the Dallas club.”

Actually it wasn’t me they were after in the first place. It was my three-year contract that had to be dealt with. I was just a necessary prop. They had no further need of my presence. Once the commission had ruled and the appropriate officials were convened to notify me, I ceased to exist. There was little chance to reincarnate myself through the courts. The meeting was designed to point that out clearly to me. I wondered why they went to all the trouble; if anybody in the world knew how really worthless the Standard Player’s Contract was to the standard player it was this group of men. They could terminate a player for anything and just say not good enough. Who was going to argue? My only choice was acceptance. I wouldn’t cut much of a figure in court and only a true believer would file a civil suit in Texas against a government-protected monopoly.

Ray March finished reading and looked up as I pushed my chair back and started for the door without saying a word. I pulled the door open and turned back to look at this room full of men who lived their lives manipulating other men like cattle and who hoped someday to be able to dictate a directive like the one just delivered to me. I smiled at them, shook my head, and stepped through the door.

“It’s signed by the commissioner,” March yelled after me.

There was a low-pressure area somewhere in the Panhandle near Amarillo and the air was rushing out of Dallas west at about thirty-five miles an hour. The wind blew my jacket open as I stepped out into the parking lot of the North Dallas Towers.

The cold December wind was startling, but its omnipotent violence was reassuring as it roared around the concrete building. There was a change coming, I could feel it in the air.

I put my head down and headed into the bluster and toward my car. I was leaning to unlock the car door when Maxwell’s blue convertible pulled next to me.

“Hey, Seth.”

He rolled down the electric window on the passenger side without moving from his position behind the wheel. His right arm was draped across the wheel, his hand hanging limp from the wrist. His eyes were hidden behind wraparound sunglasses. He stared straight out the windshield and said nothing.