Twelve Men in the Huddle, page 10
“I’ll pop your head like a pimple, Blatt,” said the brute.
Mr. Tubbs began to laugh. His cackle was sinister, as if amused by the show. The other teammates joined in on the chuckle.
“Let him go,” said Pete while getting up. “I’ll get the beer Beef. I know where it is.”
“Sit down Swagner,” said Tubbs. “Eugene will get it. That’s his job. Everybody on the team has a specific job.”
The lineman continued to clutch the punter’s skull.
“Let him go Beef,” said Pete. “You’re hurting him.”
The punter’s face was now turning a bit blue, the oxygen being reduced to his brain. A feeble squeal came from his lips.
“I said, let him go!” Pete raised his hands and placed them on the lineman’s massive arms. “You’re hurting him. He’s suffocating.”
The lineman shoved Pete aside, yet did not relinquish his death grip on the punter. The pushback flipped a mental switch in Pete’s mind, prompting him to spring back towards the lineman. Uncharacteristically, he unleashed a punch at the football player’s head, which was deflected by his massive trapezius musculature. The impact produced an audible slap.
“Swagner!” yelled Tubbs.
“Sissy fight!” yelled a bystander.
“What the…” cried the lineman as he tossed Eugene’s body aside like a rag doll. “I’ll break your neck pretty boy!”
The brute began a rush towards Pete, honed by weeks of practice in the Badlands. His body crashed into Wagner, sending the fellow down to the ground. Pete quickly stood up, but was met by a smashing blow from the football player’s right hand, dropping him to the ground for a second time. His right temple area immediately began to swell.
“Beef!” screamed Tyrone while jumping up. “Stop it!”
The behemoth grabbed Pete by the shoulders and lifted him into the air. His rampage would have continued, if not for the combined effort of Eugene, Mr. Tubbs and a few other players. They swarmed the lineman, causing him to release the surgeon from his grip. Once released, Pete recoiled backwards while checking his head for bleeding.
“Don’t ever hit me again!” cried Beef. “So help me God!”
“Swagner! What’s the matter with you?” asked Tubbs.
“He was going to hurt the kid,” said Pete. “Leave him alone already.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” screamed Beef with another step towards the doctor, again held back by his teammates.
Eugene walked over towards Pete while holding his neck. Without speaking the dejected duo left the warden’s office, heading down the hall.
“Swagner! I love ya!” yelled Tyrone followed by a hearty laugh. “The Swanger!”
“Thanks doc,” said Eugene. “I really appreciate what you did.”
“I dig you Swagner!”
“They have no right to treat you like that Eugene,” said Pete. “Enough is enough.”
Upon entering his cell, Jamal immediately noticed the bruise on Pete’s head.
“What the hell happened to you?” asked Jamal.
“I tripped,” said Pete. “Hit my head on a pipe.”
“Is everything all right? You haven’t been yourself this week Pete.”
“I know,” said Pete. “Maybe it’s the heat. I haven’t been in a fight since grade school.”
“A fight!”
“I don’t know what happened. I just went into a rage.”
“With who?”
“Beef. He was choking Eugene to death, and I flipped out.”
“Oh my God,” said Jamal. “You’ve got to get off this island Pete. It’s killing you. Look at yourself.”
That evening Pete Wagner sat in his bunk awake, with a bag of ice on his head. The torrential rain continued outside. Despite the late hour, he couldn’t fall asleep. A sense of depression overwhelmed him while thinking of Chloe. He loved her so much… how could she have done such a thing? The visual of catching her and the dashing cardiologist in the middle of crazed fornication haunted him. Why? Earlier in the day they were making wedding plans! Maybe it was his fault? She complained of him being ‘boring missionary’ all the time. Certainly the cardiologist wasn’t. The distraught doctor was still awake as daybreak arrived, thankful it was already Friday, the team’s last day in the Badlands.
The rooster crowed three times, followed by Coach Hayes over the intercom system. His morning prayer thanked the Lord for four glorious weeks in the Badlands. A ‘time to focus,’ said the coach, and ‘purge the body of weakness.’ As a sign of appreciation, the coaching staff scheduled a six-mile run in the rainstorm, just after breakfast. Several moments after his final words, two gunshots were heard outside.
Pete and Jamal ran to an open area in the cell block, offering a view over the main prison yard. There, in the middle of the driving rain, stood two persons in civilian clothes. One was a male, the other a female, surrounded by guards in yellow rain gear. Each sentry held a shotgun in his hand, pointed towards the sky. A third warning shot was fired in the air, causing the female to scream and recoil reflectively.
“Pete,” said Jamal slowly. “Who does that look like? The woman that is, on the left?”
“Holy crap,” yelled Pete. “It’s Heather! What’s she doing here?”
“And Hal Green,” said Jamal.
Pete bolted back to his cell to put on his clothes and shoes. Within a few minutes he was running into the courtyard, the ground full of puddles. Surrounding the duo were a group of sentries and several members of the coaching staff. He heard Heather speak first.
“Athletic director Foster,” said Heather. Her hair was flat from the rain. “He gave permission.”
Suddenly Bubba Tubbs appeared on a golf cart, squinting in the rain. “I tried to stop them,” said Bubba. “But they ran the gate!”
“Who the hell are you again?” asked assistant coach Avery. “I’ve never seen you in these parts.”
“Hal Green,” said the reporter loudly. “I suggest you put down your weapons, before somebody gets hurt.”
“Don’t tell us what to do Mr. Green,” retorted the coach while circling the detainees. “You’re on private property. Trespassing! Didn’t you see the signs along the roadway?”
“Yes, we did see them,” said Hal.
“How do I know you’re not a spy from Southern State?”
“Athletic Director Foster granted us permission to visit the island on the last day of summer camp,” said Heather. “He spoke to Coach Hayes about it. Didn’t the coach alert anyone of our arrival time?”
Coach Avery continued to interrogate the intruders, during which time Heather made eye contact with Pete. She mouthed in shocking fashion, “what happened?” while touching her skull area. Pete just shook his head in silent reply, the cranial swelling now generating a massive headache. The group suddenly heard the rhythmic steps of an approaching horse.
Coach Hayes was in full gallop on Ole Whitey as he traversed the broad prison yard. He wore green rain pants and a waterproof top, along with a broad rimmed hat. Water kicked up from the mudder’s hooves as the duo approached, seemingly too fast for conditions.
“Whoa Ole Whitey!” yelled the coach. “Whoa!” The steed came to an abrupt halt in front of the commotion. Hayes led the stallion directly in front of the two visitors, some visible mist emanating from the horse’s mouth.
“Miss Jackson,” said coach with a tip of his hat. Some rain rolled off the brim onto his shoulder. “Morning.”
“Morning coach,” said Heather. “I hope you remembered Mr. Foster telling you about our visit today.”
“Sure I did Miss Jackson,” said Hayes. “My memory is still good. Welcome.”
“Coach Hayes, it’s truly a pleasure to be allowed into your summer camp,” said Hal Green. “I would like to thank you and…”
“Show them to the main practice field Coach Avery,” said the head coach. “The team will be out there in about three hours, after their run. Give Miss Jackson an umbrella if she’d like one. They can wait there.”
“Right coach,” said the assistant.
“Coach, is there any way I can have a few words with you this morning?” asked Green. “I’d really like to get your perspective on the so called Badlands, perhaps see some of the historic buildings on this property, and let my readers …”
“Make sure they don’t have any cellular phones on their bodies,” said the coach in disdain. He gave a forceful tug on his horse’s reins, and galloped away. The sentries led the visitors on a short march over to the main practice field, where they were allowed to wait, in the rain.
Two hours later Pete Wagner made his way out to the main field. Hal notified him Heather was politely escorted to one of the main guard shacks, for some dry clothes and coffee. She had no intention of returning to the practice fields. Standing beside Hal Green under a golf umbrella was Clint Benson, with a bottle of Harper Cider in his hand.
“The team has been drinking this stuff for the past four years Mr. Green. It’s nectar from the gods. Made from all natural spring water here in Louisiana. Here, take a swig.”
“I see,” said a shivering Hal Green. Despite the warm ambient temperature, the reporter was soaked to the skin. He deferred on taking the product from the pitchman.
“Doc Harper developed it,” barked Benson. “It seemed to work on a bunch of the freshman players, so he decided to test it out in the lab. It prevents cramps and dehydration. Trust me, it’s the next big thing. I just gave Miss Jackson a complimentary supply. Perhaps you can mention it in your next article.”
“I see,” said Green, thankful of Pete’s presence.
“Even the young doctor likes the stuff. Isn’t that right Dr. Wagner?”
“You bet,” said Pete. “Has a good taste to it. Keeps me hydrated.”
“You see,” said Benson. “And that’s coming from a medical professional.”
“But Jamal doesn’t care for it,” said Pete. “I mean, for the sake of full disclosure I have to mention that – as part of the scientific process.”
“I see,” said Benson with dismay. “But he’s from California. That’s important to note.”
“When is the team coming out Pete?” asked Green. Up until that point he had refused an umbrella and offers to be seated. The coach wasn’t about to break him.
“Who knows? It’s their last day here on the island. They’re getting mandatory rub downs now, after the long run. If anything, I’ve learned that Coach Hayes is unpredictable.”
“Rub downs? What is this, a massage parlor? Are there happy endings too?”
“No,” said Pete with a laugh. “It’s part of the whole regimented process. These players are well taken care of, from sunrise to sunset. Take a look at them, there isn’t an ounce of fat on their frames.”
“What about alcohol or women on the island?” asked Green. “I’ve heard stories of some pretty wild parties going on after sunset. True?”
“Mr. Green,” interrupted Benson. “What kind of den of iniquity do you think Tulsa Valley is running down here? Coach Hayes is a deeply religious man, with strong morals and conviction. He wouldn’t allow such shameful behavior to occur in summer training camp. I can guarantee you that. He’s like a father figure to these boys. Down here, they get a good dose of discipline and religion, whether they like it or not.”
“Dr. Wagner, tell me about their strength training process?” asked Green. “What they eat and drink? How do they approach weight training so close to the season?”
“Well,” said Pete. “I may defer those questions to Lance Tucker, the head trainer. He’s been down here a long time. He developed the strength and conditioning program, along with Doc Harper.”
Just then, the rain stopped. The clouds parted and the sun appeared, much to the delight of everyone. Within ten minutes the team hustled onto the field. The final practice of the summer began in front of the sports reporter. Coach Hayes trotted out on horseback, surprised to still see the newsperson exactly where he told him to stand.
“Coach,” said Green with a smile. “Thanks for allowing me to stay.”
“That was some rain,” said Hayes. “Heck, the animals were starting to pair up.”
“Hah, hah,” laughed Green, aware of the coaches unique vernacular flair. “How’s Connor Kelly coming along?”
The question seemed to irk the old ball coach. He stared down upon the visitor. “That’s Connor Kelly’s business Mr. Green, not yours.”
“But Coach Hayes, I was just…”
“Listen here Mr. Green, I didn’t invite you down here for a whole season. Come to think of it, I don’t know who the hell did. But regardless, you’re my guest, and I’ll extend appropriate hospitality.”
“Thank you coach, but…”
“So enjoy the practice. But please understand, no one here will be answering any of your questions.”
“Yes I do Coach Hayes. I’m only…”
“I suggest you enjoy your stay here Mr. Green,” said Hayes. “But do take care as to what you say about Tulsa Valley. We’re one big family with a passion for the game of football. We don’t like rabble rousers. Understand?”
“Yes coach.”
“Good day Mr. Green. Miss Jackson will be escorting you back to campus immediately after this afternoon’s session. Understood?”
“Yes.”
Hal Green stood his post for the next four hours, trying to make sense of the controlled chaos before him. Ironically, he felt like a leper on an island, yet was somehow shunned by the colony itself. At six o’clock in the evening he waved at Bubba Tubbs from the passenger seat of Heather Jackson’s car. They had just passed the last guard outpost on their way back to town. In the back of the vehicle was Pete, who had been summoned back to see Doc Harper.
“Well that was a waste of time,” moaned Green. “No one spoke to me.”
“Consider it an honor,” said Heather. “It’s been decades since the last reporter crossed over that bridge.”
“History in the making,” said Pete.
“Why are you coming back with us Dr. Wagner?”
“Don’t know. Doc Harper sent word for me to pack my bags and bug out. Summer camp is over. I have to report to him ASAP at the HPC.”
“Why does everyone talk military down here?” asked Green, while looking down an embankment at an alligator.
“It’s a Louisiana football thing,” said Heather with a twang. “You’ll get used to it.”
Pete Wagner double-timed it to his mentor’s office. He found Jordan Harper sitting alone, looking out the window towards the stadium. On his face was a look of concern. Upon seeing Pete, he spoke first.
“Pete, what do you know about a Doctor Schmeckle, back in Scranton?”
“Schmeckle? Old Doc Schmeckle? He’s a family doctor back home. Everybody knows him.”
“Is he competent?”
“He’s ancient,” said Pete. “Really old. I think he’s either delivered or taken care of half of Northeastern Pennsylvania. I didn’t know he still practices. Quite frankly, I didn’t even know he was still alive.”
“Well he is, and apparently he does still practice,” said Harper with a look of consternation. “In fact, he just called and left a message about Connor Kelly.
“Oh no,” said Pete. “What’s the matter?” His first thought was that of a blood clot in the running back’s leg.
“I’m not sure,” said Harper while tapping his fingers on the desk. “He requested I call him back.”
Pete just stared at the head surgeon, who reached for the phone.
“Stated he needs to talk to me about some blood work,” said Harper. “Some abnormal blood work.”
Chapter Eleven
TAILGATING
“They’ll close ranks on you,” said Brianna. “My girlfriend got pregnant down there, but no one cared about her.” She was flat on her back naked, next to Hal Green. It was a hot Saturday morning. “They were more worried about the dumb lineman who knocked her up. Now she’s working two jobs to raise a twenty year old, while that idiot is somewhere in Ohio… living large.”
“I just wish I had more time to check out the place,” said Green. “The place reeks of illegality if you ask me.” He had his arm around the bartender. “I mean so far I’ve learned of a moonshine still, prostitution, underage drinking and corruption of minors. Who knows what else is going on down there?”
“I can get you down there,” said Brianna as she snuggled her body closer towards her bedmate. “It will have to be in a couple of weeks, maybe midseason. The place is basically abandoned by then. Only a few local guards, who I know well.”
“Really? And nobody would know? No alarms, shotgun blasts or anything like that?”
“Nah,” said Brianna. “I know the back way in.”
“Oh,” said Green. “Well, that’s always the best. The rear entrance that is.” He sensed something good about to happen. “I’ll take you up on that offer.”
“It’s a deal,” said Brianna with a subtle shake.
“I can’t believe today is the first game of the season. My first tailgate party at Tulsa Valley.”
“Really?” said Brianna. “Well, let’s get this party started. You can’t have a tailgate party without some Tarpon tail.”
Hal Green never grew tired of visualizing Brianna’s Badland tattoo. He seemed to notice something different about it every time, a tribute to the artistry. Despite the constant motion, he thought he saw a butterfly flutter in the inky mix.
Just beneath the creaky bed sat Lester Bailey, quietly listening to the action. The walls of the old apartment complex were thin, allowing the snoop to tune in. Over the past two weeks he accumulated a significant amount of data on Green, which he relayed to Clint Benson. The local businessman rewarded him handsomely for the information. After ten noisy minutes, the upstairs apartment fell silent. Lester spent the remainder of the morning having breakfast and reading the newspaper. Tulsa Valley was favored by four touchdowns despite the absence of Connor Kelly. Looking out the window he noticed the sun shining down upon his hometown, recalling the first time his father brought him to a Tarpon game, over forty years ago. He couldn’t remember missing a single game since. At eleven o’clock, he drank a second cup of coffee followed by his morning constitutional. After putting on his uniform he reached into a desk drawer, to pull out a service revolver, carefully placing it into his holster. The state trooper exited the complex via a back door, out of sight from Green’s street side flat. He walked four blocks to his vehicle and drove to Tarpon Stadium. He loved Tulsa Valley football.
