Sudden Death Page 3

  “What’s that?” Mary Frances Quinn, Mrs. Hunsinger’s companion, woke with a start from her nap.

  “It’s Henry again, Mary Frances.”

  “What’s he done?”

  “Gotten into another fight.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Quinn sighed. “Well, I suppose boys will be boys.”

  “You know, Mary Frances, I used to worry a lot about Henry when he was growing up. He had a habit of going about with undesirable companions. God knows, my dear husband—God rest him—was not wealthy, though he left us as well as he could.”

  “I know.”

  “And we tried to send Henry to good schools. I just don’t know what gets into that young man."

  “Now, Grace . . .” Mrs. Quinn adjusted her recliner chair into the upright position. “You’re just not feeling well this afternoon. You know Henry is a good boy. He’s certainly been good to you. And he’s in an honest profession. At least there’s nothing criminal about it. And all of the papers say that he’s one of the best players in the league. He’s earning all that money, and he will surely be able to secure a good position for himself after his playing days are over . . . what with the name he’s made for himself.

  “Come on, now. All will be well. We know that everything is in the hands of God. And that God is good.”

  Mrs. Hunsinger looked at her companion sharply. “Yes. I suppose that’s true. Oh, but look.” She gestured at the TV screen. “What’s going on now?”

  “Why, it looks like that man with the striped shirt is escorting Henry over to—what do you call it?—the sidelines. You don’t suppose Henry is hurt, do you?”

  Mrs. Hunsinger leaned forward and stared intently at the screen.

  “He’s outta there! Done for the day!” the referee declared to Coach Bradford.

  “Now, wait a minute, Red. My boy could have been provoked, you know.”

  The referee couldn’t suppress a grin. “Coach, believe me, the Hun started it. And the other guy finished it. They’re both out of the game. That’s it; they’re outta there." The referee trotted back to the field of play.

  “Brilliant, Hun.” Bradford looked disgustedly at his player. “A fine lot of good you’re doing the team on the bench."

  “Screw the team!”

  Blood gorged Bradford’s face and neck, “I’ll see you in my office tomorrow morning.” He had never been closer to striking one of his players.

  “Well, Eddie, with the Hun out of the game and the two unnecessary-roughness penalties offsetting each other, the ball remains on Chicago’s 49-yard line, where it will be a first down for the Cougars. And there’s just a minute, twenty-five seconds to go.”

  “That’s right, Lou. Coach Bradford has established his pattern now in these closing seconds. He’ll keep it on the ground, hoping to grind out the yards, maintain possession of the ball, and hang on to win this one.”

  “Right you are, Eddie. Now, back to live action. The Cougars break their huddle and come out in an I-formation. The Towers have a five-man defensive line with everybody bunched up close. Boy, a pass just now would sure surprise them! But, it’s not. Cobb takes the ball and hands off to his fullback, who goes over right tackle and— hold it: There’s a fumble, there’s a fumble! The Towers are claiming they’ve recovered it. And the referee agrees with them. The Towers have the ball on their own 46-yard line!”

  “Well, this is just the break they’ve been looking for, Lou. Remember, all they need is a field goal to win."

  “That’s right, Eddie. And Chicago quickly breaks out of their huddle. They line up in a spread formation. The Cougars have added a fifth defensive back, so they are in the nickel defense with three men rushing. Morand takes the ball and fades to pass. He sets up in the pocket. Now he moves up. He spots his wide receiver, Finnegan, in right flat. Finnegan’s got it and he steps out of bounds, killing the clock. The head linesman places the ball at the Cougar 47. A pickup of eight yards. It’ll be a second and two for a first down and just fifty-five seconds in the game.

  “Now Chicago breaks from its huddle again and lines up in the shotgun formation, with Finnegan split to the right, Thomas to the left. The ball is centered back to Morand, who scans the field as the pass patterns begin to develop. Robinson, the big tight end, is wide open over the middle. Morand sees him and hits him. Robinson avoids one, two, tacklers and wisely steps out of bounds, again killing the clock.”

  “The Towers are playing heads-up ball. They’ve got a first down now at the Cougars 30, with just forty seconds to go. They’re already within Tom McAnoy’s field-goal range, but they’d like to get a bit closer. They’ve got time for two, maybe three more plays, and that’ll be it. My guess is that they’ll keep it in the air. Though they could run it with all of their timeouts left. Now, back to Lou and the next play."

  “Right you are, Eddie. Okay. Chicago comes out of the huddle. They’re in a spread formation again. They might just try one in the end zone. There’s the snap. Morand fades back and—oh!—it’s a draw to the fullback, Markham. The Cougars are really caught looking. Markham gets by the line of scrimmage and stiffarms a linebacker. Now the cornerback and strong safety have him hemmed in. Markham reverses his field and picks up a couple of blockers on the way. Now he breaks downfield again. Two good blocks and he’s got only one man to beat. He’s at the 25, the 20—and Conor Bannan, the free safety, nails him with a sure, solid tackle at the knees. Markham immediately signals for a timeout, with just three seconds left and the ball at the Cougar 17. Wow, what a run!”

  “What a run, indeed, Lou. While Markham almost ran the Towers right out of time, he accomplished what he set out to do. He’s got the ball in easy field-goal range. Of course, it’s a bit much to say that any field goal is easy when the outcome of the game depends on it. And now we are down to the last play of the game. Talk about your cliffhanger, this is it. And here comes Tom McAnoy trotting onto the field. Lou, in his long career, this guy has put many a foot into many a football.”

  “That’s certainly right, Eddie. But none of them—not all his field goals or extra points—was ever more vital than the one coming up. The game hinges on his next kick, and even with all his experience, he must be feeling the pressure.

  “Well, here it comes. The two teams line up. The Cougars’ defensive backs are charging around, jumping up and down, trying to distract the kicker. The fans are screaming their heads off. It’s bedlam. I don’t know if the players on the field will be able to hear the signals. But, okay, here we go. Morand is kneeling on the 24. McAnoy is standing perfectly still, his arm swinging gently back and forth, establishing his rhythm. Hold on, this is it! There’s the snap! Morand spots the ball. McAnoy moves into it. It’s up—and right through the middle of the uprights! The back judge and the field judge have their arms raised. It’s good. No flags are down. And time has run out. . . time has run out for the Cougars this day."

  “Lou, the Towers are delirious over their 35-34 victory. But the Cougars are a discouraged bunch of athletes. Both teams are headed down the tunnel to their respective locker rooms. And the fans—I think the fans are in a state of shock. A moment or two ago they were raucous and confident, but now they can’t believe their eyes. I wouldn’t say you could hear a pin drop in this gigantic stadium, but they’re sure a lot quieter than they were."

  “Right, Eddie. And we’ll be back to wrap things up right after these commercial messages."

  The door to the Cougars’ locker room was closed to everyone save players, coaches, trainers, administrative staff, and, of course, the owner.

  In the breezy tunnel separating the home and visiting teams’ locker rooms, and leading into the stadium in one direction and out to the parking lot in the other, stood the ladies and gentlemen of the media.

  The members of the Chicago-based media, along with some wire-service personnel and a few Detroit newspaper people, were in the Towers’ locker room. Chicago had no reason to embargo the media. The Towers were winners, at least on this Sunday afternoon, and they were in an ebullient and communicative mood.

  The Detroit television people were clustered outside the Cougars’ door. They were becoming more restive by the moment. Along with film clips of the game, which would be easy enough to come by, the TV reporters were expected to bring in hard-hitting, insightful, exclusive, controversial, and perhaps damning interviews. But between the reporters and those interviews was a locked door.

  “What do you suppose is going on in there?” asked one TV cameraman of another.

  “Whatever it is, if we put it on the eleven o’clock news, we’ll have to precede it with one of those warnings, ‘Parental discretion advised.’”

  “Yeah, ‘Parental discretion advised’—but not expected.”

  “Let’s just say that in this case, the boys were not in a jocular mood in the locker room after the game.”

  The two chuckled quietly. Cameramen could be jovial and laid-back. They were not the ones who, at approximately eleven-fifteen tonight on all three network-affiliated stations, would be seen, on tape, asking questions of tired, angry, and very large athletes.

  At long last, the door was opened and, like the Israelites spilling through the dry bed of the parted waters of the Red Sea, the reporters entered the Cougars’ dressing room.

  Having been ejected from the game, Hank Hunsinger was a trifle ahead of his colleagues in the transformation to civilian life. He had showered and, now clad only in boxer shorts, was seated before his locker. He was a man of compulsive ritual. Many a reporter had become nearly mesmerized during an interview with the Hun, simply from watching his meticulous, unchanging rituals—clothes or uniform always donned in the same order, pads in a preordained sequence, each shoelace lying flat against the shoe, tape removed in exactly the same way, al
ways.

  Most of the initial attention was focused on Hunsinger, the only Cougar ejected from a game so far this season. Reporters crowded around his open wire locker and the stool on which he sat. The TV sungun cast its unreal illumination in the area; questions came seemingly from everywhere.

  Hunsinger—like those of his fellow players experienced in being interviewed—was cautious in his statements. Television, with its relentless closeups, could reveal not only answers and comments, but also the interviewee’s attitudes, whether he was serious about a statement, or lying. The print media had three options: They could quote correctly, and in context. Or they could misquote. Or they could quote correctly, but out of context.

  It was akin to Woody Hayes’ opinion of the possibilities of the forward pass: It could be either complete, incomplete, or intercepted. In both the interview situation and the forward pass, two of the three outcomes were bad. But there were times when there seemed no alternative to talking.

  “How about it, Hun, did you get hurt out there today?”

  “Football’s a rough game.” Hunsinger mopped a perspiring brow.

  “Come on, Hun, you were mixed up in two fights this afternoon. That’s extracurricular rough. You hurt?”

  “You wanna see the bruises?”

  “It wouldn’t help; I couldn’t tell the new ones from the old ones."

  “What we wanna know, Hun,” interjected another reporter, “is, are you gonna be ready for next week’s game?”

  “Of course. You know what they say: You can’t make the club from the tub.”

  “You took a real beating out there today, Hun. Make you think about hangin’ ‘em up? Think this might be your last season?”

  “Nah.” Hunsinger very carefully adjusted the cuffs of his shirt. “I’ll know when the end’s in sight. I got some good years left. Besides, the club is depending on me."

  Several reporters choked back guffaws. It was common knowledge that Hunsinger, probably more than any other player in the league, ranked the welfare of his team rather low on his list of priorities, a list that had himself at the pinnacle.

  In another part of the room.

  “Was that the longest field goal you ever kicked, Niall?”

  “It was.” Arra, he thought, they could’ve looked it up.

  “And your biggest thrill?”

  “Well, now, I don’t know about that. I suppose it would be pretty close.” Murray paused in toweling off his back. “Actually, there was that time I scored the winning goal, as well."

  “Winning goal?”

  “Winning goal in a match with Cork a few years back."

  “Cork? You talkin’ about soccer?”

  “Indeed.”

  “No, football. Your biggest thrill in football?”

  “Oh, yes. Indeed. By far.”

  “Niall, you seemed especially calm out there today. How’d you manage to stay so calm?”

  Murray’s blush almost seeped into his neck and shoulders. “Ah, now, that would be my utile secret. We’ve all got to have some secrets, don’tcha know.”

  And in another part of the room.

  “You don’t have many closed-door meetings, Coach. What did you tell the guys after the game?”

  “Well, we pointed out a few of the mistakes we made today.” Bradford had closed the emotional door to his anger when he had ordered the opening of the locker-room door. Now he was putting on his drawling good-ol’-boy Texas charm. “Don’t want the boys to ferget. Strike while the iron’s hot, and all that.”

  “Was there any one play or player that turned the game around, Coach?” The obvious target of the question was the fullback and his fumble that had given Chicago the ball for its final, victorious drive.

  “No. Now I know whatcher drivin’ at. But we’re a team. We’re a family. We win together. And we lost together. No one player’s more responsible than anyone else for either outcome.”

  The reporters all knew that there was one glaring exception to the coach’s claim of togetherness philosophy.

  “Coach, if you had it to do over, would you play that last series as conservatively as you did?”

  “Fellas, if I ’llowed myself to second-guess myself, I’da strung myself up by the neck until dead long ago.

  “No, that was the way to play it. Put the ball up and you’re just beggin’ for an intercept. You keep it on the ground. You don’t look for the fumble. I reckon we’ll be doin’ some work on ball-handlin’ this week.”

  And in still another part of the room.

  “What’s this loss do to the Cougars’ season, Mr. Galloway?”

  “It’s not the end of the line. Don’t bury us too soon, fellas.”

  The owner prized all media coverage. But he had a special place in his heart for television. Not all that many people read newspapers, and radio had a comparatively small sports audience. But everybody watched television. Every time he was on, friends went out of their way to mention they had caught him on the tube. It was an important way of his becoming Somebody.

  “But it evens your season at five and five—and now Chicago is one up on you.”

  “Let’s just not call the season over when we’ve got eight big games to go. And one more with Chicago. I’m confident at this point that we’ll make the playoffs.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Galloway.” The TV lights were extinguished; the crew headed in another direction to interview someone else.

  Galloway felt an impulse to call them back. They hadn’t talked to him nearly long enough. He had lots more to say. He would wait right where he was in hopes another crew would set up here and ask him some questions—interesting ones for a change.

  And in another part of the room.

  “How did you feel in that last series, Bobby, keeping the ball on the ground? That’s not the Bobby Cobb style.”

  “Look, they pay me pretty good to toss the ball around. For the same amount of money, I’d be glad to throw in a little thinking. But, as it stands, all they want is a strong right arm and a loud voice. You guys want to talk strategy, go see the coaches.”

  “You missed on that big third-down pass to Hoffer, Bobby. What went wrong?”

  “Just a matter of timing.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all, my man. He’s a rookie, and he’s faster than the average tight end. We haven’t had a chance to work much together yet. But give us a chance. He’s got all the tools. He could be our next pheenom.”

  “Playing behind Hunsinger?”

  “The Hun can’t play forever.”

  “The Hun’s got a no-cut contract."

  “Not with Father Time he doesn’t.”

  “Seriously, Bobby; how’s Hoffer going to break into the lineup and get regular work, let alone a starting position, as long as the Hun is around?”

  “You know, it’s like that old song: Old tight ends never die; they just fade away.”

  “That’s soldiers.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Now, you know that Hunsinger is, in a manner of speaking, the franchise, Bobby. As long as he’s on the team, Coach Bradford’s got to play him. I mean, everybody knows the coach is under orders from Galloway to play the Hun. If the Hun doesn’t play, the Silverdome isn’t filled. And that hits Galloway in his most sensitive area, the wallet.”

  “Now you’re talkin’ about the Man and the Man. And both of ’em are right in this room right now. I suggest you gentlemen go right over and ask them your questions.”

  Most of the reporters did just that, leaving Cobb to peel off a perspiration-soaked jersey. Generally, he was among the last to leave the locker room.

  Elsewhere in the room.

  Kit Hoffer sat alone.

  His locker was only one removed from Hank Hunsinger’s. It might as well have been a mile. No sungun had illuminated Hoffer’s space. No strobe lights had flashed to blind him briefly. No reporters had asked him a single question. No coaches had said anything to him. He sometimes thought Jay Galloway knew him only because his paycheck helped to drain the owner’s finite resources.

  Hoffer’s uniform, clean and dry aside from some nervous perspiration, hung from its hook. He shrugged out of his athletic supporter. It fell to his ankles. He removed his left foot and, in a well-practiced move, propelled the strap into his locker. Naked, he stepped into the shower area.