The Rivalry (19 page)

Middleton paused. “He also said this: ‘The most desperate team wins the Army-Navy game.’ So think. We’ve beaten these guys eight years in a row. Can you imagine how desperate they are? We know they’re good this year. And
I
know that we are better. But we also have to find a
way to be more
desperate
on Saturday. That’s what’s going to make the difference.”

When he finished, the entire team stood and formed a circle around the captains. “On three,” Middleton said. “One, two, three … BE DESPERATE!”

Then the team fell into handshakes and embraces with the two captains.

“Wow,” Susan Carol said.

“You said it,” Tamara said.

Two hundred miles north, Stevie was at West Point for one of Army’s last practices. It was the last day of full hitting. Thursday would be devoted to making sure they knew Navy’s schemes and to special teams. By 6:30 the sun was down and it was getting very cold, and Rich Ellerson blew his whistle and called everyone to the middle of the field.

“Get ready for this,” Tim Kelly leaned in and said quietly to Stevie.

Stevie was prepared for a speech.

“There are twenty-four first classmen on this football team,” Ellerson said. “To say that every one of them is a special person sounds like a cliché, but we all know what it takes to play four years of football here. I wasn’t here for their first year, but I’m told that at the first practice that August, one hundred and eight plebes reported to play football. These are the guys who stuck it out.”

One by one he called each senior to stand next to him.
As each player came up, Ellerson talked about him—told a funny story, talked about a big play he had made, quoted something one of his teammates had said about him. There were lots of laughs, a few tears, and a lot of applause for each player. Ellerson didn’t call the players up in order of importance or based on whether they were starters; he brought them up alphabetically.

The last senior was Jim Zopelis, a special teams player. Stevie knew Zopelis was famous for his imitations, and the one he enjoyed doing most was of Doug Pavek, one of the officer reps who had been a cornerback twenty-five years earlier at Army. Pavek liked to give pep talks to the team, and apparently he always began them by saying, “Guys, I played in TWO bowl games while I was a player at Army … TWO bowl games.”

Ellerson asked Zopelis to do Pavek for everyone one more time.

“Coach, so far I’ve played in NO bowl games,” Zopelis riffed. “None, zero, not one. But by God, I’m going to win ONE game against Navy before I go. ONE GAME!”

The whole team roared their approval.

Ellerson said, “Okay, guys, let’s line up.”

Then everyone except for Stevie and Dean Taylor, the former team doctor (who was visiting for the week but technically a visitor too), and the twenty-four seniors walked to the far end zone, where the players entered the field for games. They formed a cordon—players, coaches, trainers, doctors, everyone. Once they were lined up, the first classmen, one by one, made their way along the
cordon. There were handshakes and hugs for each as they passed through their teammates. When the last of them—Zopelis—had shaken the last hand—Ellerson’s—the coach and everyone else simply turned to the seniors and applauded.

Stevie’s story poured out:

Stevie leaned back in his chair. He wondered if what he had written was too corny. But Kelleher had once told him that nothing was too corny if it was true. So he pressed send and filed the story.

“W
elcome back,” said Tamara when Stevie arrived at the
Post
offices on Friday afternoon. He felt like he’d worn a path up and down the East Coast the past few weeks, from West Point to Philly to DC to Annapolis—he was glad to be on his last trip. This was it. Army-Navy game weekend—at last.

“Susan Carol is upstairs writing. And Bobby went over to see Pete Dowling. He should be back soon.”

As they rode the elevator up to the fifth floor, Stevie asked if the meeting with Dowling was just a routine update or if something new was up.

“I’m not sure,” Tamara answered. “But Pete called Bobby.”

Stevie was still pondering that when they reached the sports department and Susan Carol, dressed in jeans and
(hallelujah) sneakers, ran up to give him a hug. “I saved some extra copies of the paper for you,” she said.

Stevie looked at the sports section she was putting in his hands and there were their stories, side by side at the top of the page. There was one headline for both of them that said:
FAREWELLS IN ARMS
. A photo underneath showed Ricky Dobbs being hugged by two of his teammates.

There was yet another meeting to discuss plans for game-day coverage. Stevie and Susan Carol, in addition to working with Kelleher and Mearns on the security story, had what Matt Vita called “party duty.” There was an official party that night at the convention center. If there was any news, they’d file a story for the Sunday paper on what was called “the scene.” Stevie was jaded enough to roll his eyes at that one.

“What’s the matter with you?” Susan Carol hissed in his ear.

“Party reporting is for girls,” Stevie whispered back.

“There will probably be
lots
of food,” Susan Carol said, after kicking him under the table. “And you’ll be my date. Does that sound so bad?”

Actually, it sounded pretty good. Stevie decided to shut up.

The convention center party was enormous. There were banners and bunting, and everything was decked out in Navy blue and gold and Army black and gold. Stevie had
never seen so many people in military uniforms in his life. Kelleher pointed out a few big boosters. Apparently even Army and Navy had boosters.

“They need boosters,” Kelleher explained. “Their athletic departments aren’t government-funded. They’re private nonprofit entities. Basically, they have to make enough money off football and from donations to fund all their other sports.”

They pushed their way into the party, meeting and greeting as they went. Everywhere Stevie turned, another celebrity bobbed into his line of vision: Gary Williams, the Maryland basketball coach, was there, and so was Roger Staubach, who had won the Heisman Trophy while playing for Navy before winning two Super Bowls as the quarterback of the Dallas Cowboys.

Tamara and Bobby went to get them drinks, and Stevie saw a table with food heaped high in the middle of the room.

“
That’s
where I’m going,” he said.

“How gallant of you to offer to get me food,” Susan Carol said, her voice dripping with both her southern accent and sarcasm.

“I’ll get you something,” he said. “Find some space and I’ll get the food and find you.”

“I know you’ll get the food,” she said. “I’m just not convinced it will make it to me. But it’s okay. I don’t want to wait in line anyway.”

She pointed to a life-size cutout of Roger Staubach that was part of the decoration for the party. “I’ll be over there with Mr. Staubach. You won’t be able to miss me.”

“I
always
miss you,” he said with a smile, and turned in the direction of the food.

Susan Carol watched him go. He was looking very handsome in the same jacket and tie he had worn to the White House.

As she walked toward the Staubach cutout, she ran into Tony Kornheiser, the former
Post
columnist turned TV host, and Phil Mickelson, the star golfer.

“Susan Carol,” Kornheiser said. “Good to see you. Have you met Phil Mickelson?”

“No, I haven’t,” she said, shaking his hand. “It’s certainly a pleasure.”

“Tony says you’re only fourteen and that you write better than anyone at the
Post
or the
Herald
,” Mickelson said.

“Oh, that’s not true at all,” she said, blushing. “Why, Bobby Kelleher and Tamara Mearns and Sally Jenkins—”

“Are hacks,” Kornheiser said. “Okay, not hacks. They’re all my friends. I love them all. But they’re all so unfair to Dan Snyder.”

Mickelson turned to Kornheiser. “I hear you’re about the only person in town who likes Dan Snyder.”

Kornheiser paused. “Not true. His wife likes him … I think.”

“Why don’t
you
write anymore, Mr. Kornheiser?” Susan Carol asked.

“I’m a yodeler now, a minstrel, a circus act.”

“Michael Wilbon still writes,” Susan Carol said.

“Yeah, well, he’s younger than me. And he can write a column in five minutes. I need more time than that.”

They chatted for another moment before someone dragged Mickelson off. Apparently one of the local sports anchors was going to “die” if she didn’t get to meet Mickelson. “Never seen Army-Navy before,” he said as his PR person tugged on his arm. “I loved the stories in today’s paper. Keep it up.”

Susan Carol could see that Stevie had gotten to the point in the line where he had a plate in his hands and was waiting for people in front of him to put salad on their plates. She knew all he wanted to do was get to the guy carving the red meat.

She had spotted two more Heisman Trophy winners in the crowd—Navy’s Joe Bellino and Army’s Pete Dawkins—before Stevie made it back to her with some food. Just in time: the three Heisman winners were all introduced to the crowd, and honor was paid to Army’s two other Heisman winners, Doc Blanchard and Glenn Davis, who had passed away.

When it was Staubach’s turn to speak, he thanked everyone for being there and talked about how great it was that Army-Navy was being played in the nation’s capital and how proud he was to be part of the Army-Navy rivalry.

“I can still vividly remember being introduced before my first Super Bowl as a starter thirty-eight years ago,” he said. “As I ran out of the tunnel, I heard the public address announcer say, ‘And at quarterback, from the United States Naval Academy, Roger Staubach!’ ” He paused. “Hearing him say ‘from the United States Naval Academy’ was the proudest moment of my life.”

The entire crowd—Army people and Navy people—gave him a standing ovation when he finished.

Once the official program was done, everyone went back to mingling and the noise level shot through the roof. Stevie went off for seconds at the buffet, and Susan Carol was debating getting refills on their drinks when a short man in a dark suit walked up to her. She recognized the face, but she wasn’t sure exactly why.

“Susan Carol Anderson,” he said. “What a pleasure to meet you.”

Susan Carol knew sarcasm when she heard it. He wasn’t smiling, and he didn’t offer his hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Do I know you?”

“You should know me, shouldn’t you? After all, you’ve slandered me and my colleagues in the newspaper repeatedly the last two weeks.”

Now she recognized the face. It was Mike Daniels, the referee from the Notre Dame game.

“First of all, Mr. Daniels, if I’d written something about y’all that was untrue, it would be libel, not slander,” she said, trying to deal with this on a technical level and avoid the emotional.

“Look, kid, don’t get smart with me. Do you have any idea of the trouble you’ve caused? Sure, it’s easy to watch from the sidelines and review things in slo mo and second-guess the calls. But
you
try being out there with the play unfolding fast and getting every call right.”

“I did point that out in my story—”

“Oh yeah, right before you called me and my crew
criminals.” Daniels moved closer to her. He was no more than five foot seven, so Susan Carol was looking straight down at him. But she still felt herself shaking a little bit. “You called us all cheaters,” he went on, poking his finger in her face, “and we don’t have to put up with that. We don’t get paid enough for this kind of harassment, and—”

Susan Carol was about to answer when she heard a voice behind her. “Is there a problem here?”

It was Stevie.

“Who the hell are you?” Daniels said.

“I’m the guy who is going to knock you across the room if you don’t leave my girlfriend alone.”

Daniels eyed Stevie, looking at his name tag. “You’re the other kid reporter those idiots at the
Post
and
Herald
are letting write this week.”

“That’s right,” he said, moving in front of Susan Carol, pushing Daniels backward in the process. “And if you don’t back off right now, I’m going to write about how you spent the night before the big game getting drunk and threatening young girls.”

“Why, you little—”

Daniels was cut off as two guys came up from behind him and tried to pull him away.

“C’mon, Mike, it’s not worth it,” one said.

“Calm down, or you’ll blow everything,” said the other.

Daniels shook off his friends’ restraining arms, but he did step back.

“You two. You’re the perfect … couple,” he said.

Then he and his friends disappeared into the crowd.

“Well, he finally got a call right,” Stevie said.