Twelve Men in the Huddle, page 12
“I feel sorry for him,” added Dean Royce. “First his knee and now this.”
“What’s the school’s track record on random testing, mandated by the conference that is?” asked the president.
“Excellent,” said Vern Foster. “Every year thirty football players are randomly checked and to date, there has never been a positive urine test… at least since I’ve been here.”
“Jordan, what about you?” asked President Davis. “Can you recall anyone testing positive for PEDs?”
“No,” said Jordan. “There are always unsubstantiated accusations, based upon the team’s success. But no Tulsa Valley Tarpon football player has ever failed a drug test.”
“So inaction may be our best action,” said the president. “I mean we’re not under the gun here. There is no review board breathing down our necks. No one is demanding answers.”
“I agree,” said Harper. “I’ve arranged a meeting next week with one of the school’s professors, an expert on anabolic steroids and the testing process. Let me talk with him first. The field of performance enhancing drugs is a real hot topic and changing rapidly. For every drug test, there is an answer to beat the system. Remember, these athletes are on the doorstep of riches. We have to move forward with ultimate caution.”
“Very well stated,” said Davis. “Let’s meet again in two weeks. And please remember, we’re dealing with the private health information of an athlete. What was discussed today is highly confidential material, and should never be mentioned outside of this meeting. Our livelihood and professional reputations are riding on it. Understood?”
“Yes. Agree.”
Later that afternoon Dr. Harper and his HPC training staff were speaking to yet another national news crew in town for the day. The story centered on Harper’s GameChanger, which enjoyed a significant jump in sales after last weekend’s victory. Speaking to the group was Lance Tucker, wearing his trademark tight, short-sleeved shirt.
“Green tea is part of the recovery process,” said Lance, his voice deep. “All athletes are encouraged to drink at least sixteen ounces of green tea every day. Doctor’s orders.”
“That’s right,” chimed in Harper. “The benefits of green tea are myriad. That’s been well proven. The other critical ingredient of performance recovery is rehydration. Just remember rehydration and relaxation, R & R is what we like to call it.”
“Right,” said Lance with a flex of his right pectoralis major. He and Harper had given this talk a hundred times before, and like any good act, timing was of the essence. “Relaxation involves deep tissue massage. All athletes receive a five to ten minute whole body rub down after an event. We rehydrate with a local product called Tarpon Cider, which will be discussed in the next segment.”
“Let me interject a second Mr. Tucker,” said Harper. “Tarpon Cider has been developed here at Tulsa Valley over the past several years. The drink was developed to ward off dehydration, and was perfected by a cadre of scientists, physicians and athletic trainers. The stuff really works and when used in conjunction with the GameChanger, keeps the body firing on all cylinders.”
“Thanks Doctor Harper,” said Lance. “Now, I would like to show the audience our technique of whole body, deep tissue massage, which was again developed right here at Tulsa Valley. The moves I am about to show you are part of the entire recovery.”
As Dr. Harper watched his head trainer mash down upon a HPC volunteer, his mind wandered. Lance Tucker arrived at Tulsa Valley several years prior to his own. The head trainer’s physique screamed of steroid use, yet it didn’t matter to the team. No trainers were subject to random urine tests. His prominent forehead and deep voice were hallmarks of possible PED use. He was rumored to be a Division II football stud while playing in upstate New York years ago, but a torn patellar tendon ended his career. While rolling his hands across the back of his fellow trainer, his biceps flickered in hypnotic fashion.
“We take our football very seriously down here,” said Tucker to the camera. “Very seriously…”
Later that evening Doctor Harper sat alone in his house, three miles outside of town. Two weeks earlier his wife stormed out and was now rumored to be living with her favorite uncle. Their marriage had been in turmoil for several years. In front of Dr. Harper was Hal Green’s most recent article on the team. It captured the essence of the opening day massacre in vivid detail, including the majesty of the pregame ceremony. Kudos littered the article, as Green complimented everyone from the head coach down to the water boy. The author even mentioned the Jackson Gin Hole. Yet it was one simple paragraph that caught the eye of the surgeon – a series of benign sentences raising questions as to the rapid rise of the Tarpon Nation. After finishing the article he placed the paper on the countertop, and thought of Connor Kelly… and his abnormal bloodwork.
At that very moment, Hal Green nervously sat in a shallow boat. Directly behind him was Brianna with one hand firmly on the throttle, steering the craft through the swampy bayou. The bartender wore a hat and sunglasses to shield her eyes from the setting sun. On her waist was a holstered pistol, held tight to a pair of cut off jeans.
“How deep is the water here?” asked Green while carefully peering over the side of the speeding craft.
“About five or ten feet,” shouted Brianna. “It’s high tide now.”
“I see,” said Green.
A rifle shot rang out in the distance, the echo confirming it.
“What was that?” yelled Green. “A gunshot?”
“Gator hunters,” said Brianna without letting up on the throttle. She was expertly steering the vessel around a never-ending series of tree stumps and water hazards. “Two more days left in the season. Everyone is trying to fill their tags.”
“Yes, I see. How could I have forgotten about alligator season? Forgive me.”
“Relax,” shouted the driver. “I grew up in these swamps. You’re in good hands.” She was leading the reporter to the Badlands, her recent offer too good to pass up. Their destination ahead was a makeshift landing on the south side of the island, the main entry point for all contraband.
“What would happen if you hit a stump and I flew overboard?”
“You would probably end up a double amputee,” said Brianna. “If you were lucky. This place is infested with gators.” She pointed to a shoreline on the right, their destination. “But don’t worry, I haven’t capsized the boat in over a year.”
The pilot slowed the boat as it approached a dirt slant on the shoreline. A small wooden shack sat next to the landing zone. A simple ‘No Trespassing’ sign hung from the shanty. Three frightened ducks flew from a copse.
“Hang on,” said Brianna. “You are about to enter the back door.”
The engine propelled the front end of the craft up the landing, where it came to an abrupt halt. Before Green could react, the ship’s captain jumped out with her weapon drawn. She grabbed a rope and secured the vessel to a tree.
“Why the firearm?” asked a concerned Green. “Are we in imminent danger?”
“No. It’s for the gators. Some of the big lazy ones just sit in the grass.” She started to walk down a path, towards a canopy of trees. “Just follow my exact footsteps,” said Brianna. “But remember, it’s always the second person through that gets bit.”
As Hal Green tentatively followed his tour guide he peered into the shack. Inside were a few cases of beer, stacked high. A large rat scurried across the floor.
“Let’s go,” shouted Brianna. “It gets dark quick in the bayou!”
Within ten minutes the intruders spotted a series of buildings. Brianna led them around the abandoned structures, into the main prison yard. She headed across the open space, towards the main holding cell. It was Friday, the eve before the team’s second home game.
“Is anybody here?”
“I doubt it,” said Brianna while holstering her pistol. “Maybe old Bubba, but that’s about it.”
“Is that a nine millimeter firearm?”
“Nah, a .357 magnum,” said Brianna. “It will stop any gator, including Emma.”
“Emma?” asked Green as the duo entered the main building. “Who’s Emma?”
“Emma is the matriarch of the island,” said the tour guide as they walked through a large open lobby, towards the holding cells. “She’s a cranky, dark, black alligator with attitude. She and Coach Hayes have a kind of mutual relationship. They both appreciate each other’s gnarly personality. Coach Hayes loves her, so nobody messes with Emma.”
“Wow,” said Hal. “Look at all these cells.” He was looking directly into the main holding tank. “It looks like Alcatraz, I mean with two layers of cells on top of each other.”
“Good eye,” said Brianna. “Alcatraz was actually fashioned after this facility.”
Hal Green took out his cell phone and began to take a series of photographs. The duo walked one full circuit around the facility, noticing remnants of recent guests. Scattered about were a few socks and shirts, empty potato chip bags and the occasional empty bottle of Tarpon Cider.
“Where is the medical facility?” asked Green. “I’d be interested in seeing that.”
Brianna led her guest over to the medical center, located next to the main administrative building. Like all the other camp buildings, its front door was unlocked. Inside were some nonessential medical supplies strewn about, including ace wraps, braces and tape. Wooden exam tables were set in a row, the names of former players etched into their sides. Green approached a series of wall cabinets with glass front doors. He opened each one, searching for something of interest. The shelves contained bandage gauze, antiseptic solution and bottles of rubbing alcohol. Included were a few plastic bins labeled ‘Recovery Massage Cream.’ When the reporter opened the last set of cabinets he reached upwards and pulled down a single plain box with some red marker scribble on the side.
“What’s that?” asked Brianna while lifting up a five-pound barbell.
“One of the great mysteries of Tulsa Valley,” said Green while rummaging through the box. “Bingo.” His left hand pulled out a handful of Tarpon skin patches.
“What?”
“All the players wear these patches in summer camp,” said Green. “To avoid dehydration.”
“Sounds good,” said Brianna. She was rattling off a series of biceps curls and staring at her frame in a mirror. “Maybe I should start hitting the gym again. You know, start tightening up my butt muscles.”
“Yet when the season starts,” said Green. “They discontinue using them.” He stared down into his hand. “Peculiar, don’t you think?”
“Nah,” said Brianna, now walking over to a weight bench. She slid her torso under an empty bar to begin some reps. “The temperature around here eases in September.”
“I think it is quite peculiar,” said Green as he stuffed a bunch of skin patches into his cargo pant’s pocket. “Can you show me Lance’s office?”
“I don’t know anyone named Lance,” said Brianna.
Just then the flush of a toilet was heard on the far side of the room, followed by the emergence of Bubba Tubbs. He had just finished using the men’s room and by chance, stumbled upon the intruders. The watchman was pulling up his pants and holding the daily newspaper under his arm. He was shocked to see the invaders.
“Hey, what’s going on here?” said Bubba. “This is private property!”
The infiltrators bolted towards the main door without looking back.
“Stop! Halt!”
While running across the main prison yard they fully expected the sound of sirens and barking dogs – but there were none. Bubba’s age and knees did not allow pursuit, and no other guards were on duty. However, the sentinel did get a direct look at Green’s face.
The exodus turned into a trot until Hal heard a heavy rustle in the high grass, followed by a nasty hiss. Turning to his left, the reporter came face to face with an alligator in the wild, perched on a patch of grass next to a stink hole. The gator was missing some front left teeth and like Bubba, was not expecting company. The reptile swung its gouged tail prior to a threatening move towards Green, until the warning blast from Brianna’s gun halted its progress. The creature continued to hiss. Slowly, Hal followed Brianna’s lead and backed his way towards the landing zone. With one firm yank, Brianna started the engine and yelled for Hal to push the boat backwards off the sand bar. While doing so, the reporter was sure the gator was in pursuit, fancying his leg. After ten long seconds the boat was safely off shore.
“I just crapped my pants,” said Green. He was prone and prostrate on the vessel. “Oh my God. What a fearsome creature.”
“That, my friend, was Emma.”
“She must be fourteen feet long,” panted Green, now making his way to the seated position. “I think you saved my life.”
“Nah,” said the pilot while peering over his shoulder. “If she really wanted you, I wouldn’t have been able to stop her. She can move like lightning.”
“Really?”
“Yea. I think she liked you,” laughed Brianna as she flipped on a spotlight on the boat. “Must be your good looks.”
As Hal Green watched Brianna gun the throttle, he just laughed. His heart was beating wildly as the smell of brackish water filled his lungs. He was soaring through the swamps of Louisiana with all of his extremities intact and a libidinous marauder at the helm. When did life get to be so good?
The following day the Tulsa Valley football team won, 53-6. All was well in the Tarpon Nation.
Chapter Thirteen
CLINT BENSON
Clint Benson was a self-made man. He was born and raised in a trailer park, fifty miles southeast of Tulsa, Louisiana. His biological father died of alcoholism when he was five years old. By the age of twelve, he was the man of the house, working two jobs to make ends meet. At age sixteen, the arrival of a deadbeat stepfather prompted him to strike out on his own, and move to Tulsa. There, in a run down apartment, he met Chip Carson from Alabama. Carson was also sixteen and running from his own demons. Together they worked at a local donut shop, ultimately rising to managerial positions. Five years later, an aging owner offered the boys partnership in the business, which they accepted. After turning over their lifetime savings, the owner vanished, leaving them in charge. Their youthful enthusiasm and quirky marketing saved the shop and captured the Tulsa market. Within five years the two young men owned three more donut shops. A decade later they owned ten donut shops, three car washes and four separate fast food restaurants. By the age of forty, their corporation employed over 1,200 workers, the majority sourced from the local area. Last year Clint Benson turned fifty-five years old, and celebrated the event by opening his fourth car dealership. Simply put, Clint Benson loved two things in life: work and Tulsa Valley football. The multi-millionaire never married.
His home was a former tobacco farm, fifteen miles north of the city. Scattered about the property were horse stables, a tennis court and a massive swimming pool, complete with a waterfall. Every Sunday afternoon during the football season, the businessman hosted a barbeque at his estate. His parties were legendary and the guest list lengthy. As a social rule, no one ever turned down an invitation to attend one of Clint’s shindigs. It would be social suicide.
The Sunday following the team’s second win was no exception. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon without a cloud in the sky. The gracious host wore a white chef’s hat while tending to the house special – brisket. No one cooked brisket better than Clint. In his hand was a glass of scotch whiskey.
“Wait until Connor comes back,” said Clint. “Can you imagine anyone stopping us then?”
“No,” said a tall man wearing a Texan hat. His body was razor thin. On his right arm was a faded tattoo of a naked woman.
“The Twister is on a roll,” said Lester Bailey. “He leads the conference in sacks.” Trooper Bailey was in civilian clothes and drinking beer from a can.
Coach Hayes then arrived, wearing a pair of tarpon blue shorts, a floral button down shirt and a straw white fedora hat.
“Let’s go Clint!” barked the coach. “Turn up the heat on that darn grill. Thelma expects me home by sunset.”
“You can’t rush brisket,” answered the cook. “Why isn’t Thelma here today coach? And by the way, you should be fined for wearing such a god awful outfit.”
“The gout,” said Hayes. “Her big toe was a howling yesterday. Too much rich food.”
“Coach, I love the way Mr. Tubbs is playing,” said Lester. “He’s a shoe in first round draft pick.”
“That boy’s so bad he whups his own ass twice a week,” said the coach. He was leaning over the grill, pressuring the cook. “Nobody can stop him.”
“Coach,” said Clint while turning the brisket. “A few bigwigs from the Ganoga Corp are coming over tonight for some drinks. I’d like you to meet them.”
“What are you pitching now?” asked the coach. “Aren’t you rich enough Clint?”
“I’m on the verge of a monster deal with their company for the distribution rights of Tarpon Cider,” said the cook with a grin. Smoke from the brisket suddenly puffed up from the grill, causing Clint to squint. “They asked to meet you. What do you say?”
“If it’s going to put some money into Clint Benson’s back pocket, then sure,” laughed the coach.
Suddenly Athletic Director Foster stepped out onto the patio through a sliding door. “Coach Hayes,” said Foster. “A minute of your time please. In private.” On his face was a look of concern.
The coach obliged and excused himself from the group, joining Vern near the patio rail. Their conversation lasted only two minutes before Coach Hayes went haywire.
“Sweet Jesus!” screamed the coach. His outburst caused Clint and most of the guests to look backwards. “What the hell were they doing down there?” His arms were held above his head.
“I don’t know,” replied the athletic director. “Bubba said they were just wandering around the medical tent. He didn’t see anything missing.”
