Kill and Tell Page 30

On the field, the Towers had used up little more than a minute’s playing time in moving the ball from their 25-yard line to their 42, where their drive, stalled. They were forced to punt to the Cougars, whose punt-return specialist caught the ball at his 10-yard line and advanced it to his 35. At that point, two minutes remained in the game. The automatic timeout was called as the two-minute notice was given to both teams.

  The Cougars’ offensive team began to gather on the field. Kit Hoffer, on the assumption that Hunsinger was still disabled, trotted onto the field, pulling on his headgear.

  Near the Cougars’ bench, Hunsinger approached Coach Bradford. “I can play,” Hunsinger informed him.

  Bradford wordlessly looked over his shoulder at the trainer. Brown, who had expected the query, nodded. Bradford looked back at Hunsinger and nodded.

  Hunsinger trotted out to where his teammates had loosely gathered. The crowd, noting his reentry to the game, cheered loudly.

  “Get outta here, kid,” Hunsinger said to Hoffer, “the Man’s arrived.”

  Disappointed at not being allowed to continue, and angry at the cavalier manner in which he’d been dismissed, Hoffer left the field red-faced.

  Orders from the Cougars’ coaching staff to Bobby Cobb were to play conservatively, chancing as little as possible. If the Cougars could grind out a couple of first downs, using up the remaining two minutes, they would be two-point victors.

  The strategy reflected neither Cobb’s style nor his liking. He had experienced too many stupid mistakes happening with this type of thinking. The Towers would guess that the Cougars would be playing close-to-the-vest football. So they would bunch up, “dogging” and shooting the gap, trying to stop the run, and trying to strip the ball from the carrier. But orders were orders.

  Two consecutive running plays gained four yards. It was third down and six yards to go for a first down—the classic third and long.

  A guard brought the next play in.

  Cobb slid into the huddle. “Okay, gentlemen, we’d better make this one work or we may be in a lot of trouble. I-formation! Left! Twenty-five! On two! Break!”

  The play called for the halfback to run off left tackle. Hunsinger was to block the linebacker.

  They settled at the line of scrimmage. Cobb crouched low, hands tucked under the center’s crotch. He viewed the defensive formation and decided this play had two chances to work: very little and none.

  “Three!”

  It was a different snap count than he’d given in the huddle. He was changing the play. This would be an audible. He had each teammate’s undivided attention. In a split second, a number would give each of them an entirely different task to perform and in yet another split second they would have to adjust to this new play.

  “Ninety-two!”

  It had changed from a running play to a play-action pass. The offensive linemen would appear to be blocking for a running play by pulling, and giving the appearance of leading a sweep around end. Cobb would fake a handoff to the fullback, who would continue, emptyhanded, through the line. If the linebackers bought it, they would be pulled into the line of scrimmage, thus opening up some of the short zones.

  “Three! Ninety-two! Hut! Hut!”

  The ball was centered; everyone was galvanized.

  In the “pit,” bodies crashed in a heated push-pull contest. The fake sweep began to the left. As Cobb retreated, he pretended to tuck the ball into the fullback’s gut. The linebackers fell for it and crashed into the line. Hunsinger found the vacated zone.

  Cobb retreated only four steps, then quickly released the ball. It was a perfect pass. Hunsinger gathered it in and broke straight for the goal line. However, before he could get completely clear, the fleet free safety nailed him with a desperation shoestring tackle.

  And then the fun began.

  “Boy!” exclaimed the TV play-by-play man, “that just goes to show you what experience will do for you, Eddie. Hunsinger gathered that pass in and immediately headed upfield. Like a horse heading for the stable, he knew where that first-down yardage was, and went for it.”

  “He certainly did, Lou. We’ll see it on the instant replay—wait a minute. Something’s happening on the field. Hunsinger did something after the whistle blew. I think he kicked the defensive player who tackled him. Now, a big lineman from Chicago—I can’t get his number yet—but that Chicago lineman jumped on Hunsinger and began punching him. Now they’re rolling around on the turf— they’re really laying into each other.”

  “They sure are, Eddie. The officials are trying to separate them and, at the same time, keep the other players out of this scrap. You hate to see a game end like this . . .”

  “Oh, dear. Oh, dear.” Grace Hunsinger shook her head as she peered at her large-screen color console. “If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. Now, that’s the second bit of trouble Henry’s been involved in this afternoon. I don’t know what gets into that boy.”

  “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, always.

  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.”