Twelve Men in the Huddle, page 17
Some laughter from the reporter followed.
“Yea, yea. I know you want to marry him.”
Between each line an appropriate interval of silence followed.
“No, no. Don’t worry about it. I’ll still be up. … Yea. I can’t wait. … Absolutely I’m going to the game. It’s my job.”
The bogus conversation continued: “Has anybody talked to you about our little visit to the training camp? … I’ll never forget the look on that janitor’s face when he came out of the head. … Nah, I’m sure he remembered who I was, but who cares? … Actually I just got the results back from the lab. They were pretty quick on the turn around. … You’re never going to guess what’s in a Tarpon skin patch. … Ha, ha, very funny, but no. … They were laced with performance enhancing drugs. Can you believe that? Each one is a nifty little smorgasbord of illegality. … This is going to blow the roof off the Tulsa Valley Nation … Performance enhancing drugs -PEDs? You’ve never heard of such a thing? … How about steroids? I’m sure you’ve heard of those? … I thought so.”
Throughout the phony phone call, Hal Green made sure he spoke loud and clear, his voice facing the floor below.
Chapter Eighteen
SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY
It was a record crowd at The Bayou. Over 98,000 fans occupied every nook and cranny of the stadium, awaiting the return of Connor Kelly. The visiting team was Keystone State University, having been put on the schedule specifically for Connor’s senior year. The Heisman Trophy candidate almost committed to the Pennsylvania school, but in the end chose Tulsa Valley, much to the dismay of his mother. Unfortunately at halftime, the home team was trailing by three points, much to the chagrin of Coach Hayes.
“You boys must be reading all your newspaper clippings,” erupted Hayes as he paced through the locker room, his team scattered about. “Everybody saying we are number one. Unbeatable. Best in the nation! Living in high cotton down here in Louisiana.” He appeared ready to implode. “Well this here team from up north doesn’t believe that bunch of hogwash. Maybe they didn’t read all the news articles. Heck, I know they’ve had this game circled on the calendar for the past year. It’s their big game boys, their college bowl. And they’re pushing you around like a bunch of scared cattle! It’s an embarrassment! Beef, for Christ’s sake, their defensive end is going around you like nobody’s business! You’re slower than molasses in July. Derrick is gonna be taken off the field in a body bag if you don’t wake the hell up!”
“It’s the defensive,” cried out Beef. He had a bag of ice on his head and a black eye. “For Christ’s sake, they’re giving up touchdowns too easy. We can’t get a rest.”
“Screw you!” shouted The Twister. “The offensive has been three and out every time. I can’t catch my breath.” The defensive star was supine on the floor, hyperventilating.
“Look at you Tyrone,” cried Coach Hayes. “You’re sweating like a whore in church. What’s going on? Lance, Piper! Somebody get an I.V. in this guy!”
“I’m gassed coach,” said Tyrone.
“Maybe we’ve been a bit too lenient on you boys down in summer camp,” growled Hayes. “Too much partying after hours. Don’t think I don’t know what the hell is going on down in your cell Tyrone. For heaven’s sake, we’re on national television. These Yankees should be sucking air out there. Not us! This is our house.”
“You suck Tyrone,” shouted Beef. “The defense sucks! Wake the hell up, or we’re gonna lose!”
Tyrone bolted up like a man possessed and bull rushed his friend. Before Beef could react, the defensive star was atop his frame, throwing punches. The scrap was quickly broken up.
“Now, that’s what I like to see,” said Hayes while pushing Tyrone back. “Some fire in your eyes. Grandpa Bubba is out there watching you, along with your family.” The coach paused, allowing his star to gather some composure. “Now Tyrone, c’mon young man. I know you’re faster and stronger than anyone out there. We all know it. So let’s see some of it in the second half. All right?”
“All right coach,” growled the star. “The defense will do their part. I’ll see to it.” He continued to focus his attention on Beef. “Piper, hook me up an I.V.!”
“That’s what I like,” said Hayes. “Some motivation. Some swagger. We’re the number one team in the nation men, and for God’s sake, let’s keep it that way.”
The coach turned the team’s attention over to Assistant Coach Avery, to review some defensive adjustments. He then walked over to Connor, who was sitting on a training room table, with some ice on his surgically repaired knee.
“It’s swollen coach,” said Connor with a look of disgust. “I’m having trouble bending it.” Some grass stains were imprinted across the running back’s jersey, another sign of the team’s miserable first half.
“What’s goin on Doc?” asked the coach to Harper. “He’s got a gimp out there.”
“Well he’s a bit deconditioned,” said Dr. Harper. “That’s the first problem. Number two is the swelling in his knee. Not all that unexpected just four weeks out from surgery.” Next to Harper stood Pete and Jamal, both learning from the experience. A large collection of fluid had built up above Connor’s kneecap, better known as a tense effusion.
“Do we need to sit him out?” asked coach.
“No way!” shouted Connor. “I know all these guys from Keystone. They’re taunting me out there coach. I’m playing the second half! There is no way we’re losing to Keystone State!”
“Now Connor, we got a whole season in front of us. We want you healthy down the stretch,” said coach. “I’d sooner have you one hundred percent when all the marbles are on the line.”
“No way coach. I’m going out there,” said the running back. “Doc, give me some meds or an injection. Do something.”
“Well we certainly can drain it,” said Harper as he ran his hand over the star’s knee. “It would make you feel a lot better.”
“Put some medicine into it too,” said Connor. “Remember a few years ago when you injected Billy Mo at halftime? He ran like wildfire after that.”
Harper just stared up at the coach.
“Don’t look at me Doc,” said Coach Hayes. “This is a decision between you and Connor.” He walked away.
After a brief discussion both Pete and Jamal helped the running back to a private examination room, where Dr. Harper prepared for a knee drainage and injection.
“Five minutes!” screamed an assistant trainer. “Five minutes to field time.”
“Lay back,” said Harper to the player. “Pete, prep out his lateral knee, just above the patella.” Harper turned to a back table and drew up a combination of novocaine and anti-inflammatory medication into a syringe.
Pete immediately applied several swabs of antiseptic solution in a circular pattern to Connor’s outer knee.
After putting on some sterile gloves, Dr. Harper turned back towards the star. “Jamal, man the spray gun.”
“Right,” said Jamal. He picked up a bottle of ethyl chloride, a topical numbing solution.
“All right Connor, on the count of three, you are going to feel some ice cold spray on the outside of your knee. Followed by a needle stick.”
“Do it Doc.”
“1-2 and 3,” said Harper. On three, Jamal depressed the ethyl chloride trigger, delivering an icy stream to the injection site. Connor’s skin immediately turned white. “Little poke,” said Harper as he drove an 18-gauge needle into Connor’s knee. The inch and a half long needle was connected to a large 20 cc syringe. He pushed the needle down to the hub.
“Whoa,” said Connor. He was looking directly up at the ceiling. His right hand held tight to the exam table.
The built up pressure inside the player’s knee immediately began to push back the syringe plunger. Clear, yellow synovial fluid rapidly filled up the syringe reservoir, prompting Harper to remove the syringe from the needle. He quickly squirted the 20 cc of fluid into a nearby kidney basin and reapplied the syringe to the needle. More fluid began to pore out.
“Nice,” said Harper. “You’re doing great Connor. We’re getting a ton of fluid out.”
“Two minutes,” screamed the assistant coach.
As Pete watched, Connor looked him in the eye, and smiled.
Harper repeated the maneuver to empty the syringe three times, for a final total of 70 cc of fluid obtained. Next he attached the smaller syringe full of medication to the needle, which was still in Connor’s knee.
“Now I’m going to put in the good stuff,” said Harper. “It’s like squirting a whole bunch of anti-inflammatory medicine into your knee. You may feel a little rush of fluid.”
“One minute! Huddle up everybody.”
“Tarps! Tarps! Tarps!” The team was jumping up and down around Coach Hayes. The roar of the stadium began to shake the inner walls of the locker room.
“Time!”
Harper plunged in the medicine and immediately withdrew the needle, completing the procedure. A few drops of blood oozed from Connor’s knee, prior to the surgeon placing a bandage on.
“Now let’s get out there and kick some butt,” screamed Hayes. “Show these chumps some good old fashioned southern hospitality. Go Tarps on three, – one, two, three…”
“Go Tarps!” was the unified cry. The team burst out onto the field, to the roar of the crowd.
Connor tried to get up but was a bit dizzy. The medical team supported him as he sat upright for a few minutes. He drank some liquid and stabilized. Pete escorted him down the tunnel, towards the stadium daylight, where a mob of cameras awaited. As Connor Kelly stepped into stadium view, another tremendous roar arose. It was a moment Pete Wagner would never forget, the whole crowd rising to their feet. He turned around to face Pete and offered him a fist bump, in appreciation for all he had done. Some cameras clicked as their hands met.
“Thanks Doc,” said Connor with a smile beneath his helmet. “It feels great. I owe you.”
“My pleasure,” said Pete. “Good luck.”
Connor turned towards the field, took a deep breath, and bolted forward. The roar shook the ground beneath Pete and unleashed within his mind a crazed emotion. For a moment, he wanted to throw on a uniform and join the running back, in order to defeat the invaders from his home state. While clapping strongly, he watched Connor run past a squad of cheerleaders, and disappear. Pete then jogged to the sideline with the rest of the training staff.
The second half was a massacre, as the Tulsa Valley squad came to life. Connor Kelly ran rampant through the Keystone defense, scoring three touchdowns. The Tarpon defense would not allow another touchdown and the home team won by twenty-four points. Order was restored in Tulsa, Louisiana.
Later that evening Hal Green was returning from the grocery store, taking a short cut taught to him by Brianna, which avoided stadium traffic. It was a two-lane dirt stretch, skirting along the eastern side of town. On the radio was a national talk show, discussing the results of the game. The announcers were running out of adjectives to praise the Tulsa team, especially the second half heroics of Connor Kelly. No mention was made of any halftime injection to his knee.
Up ahead were a series of car lights pointing in his direction. Perhaps an accident he thought. As he approached, some headlights appeared in the rear view mirror, close to his bumper. He searched for a side turnoff, but there was none. The news reporter stopped his vehicle approximately twenty feet from the blockade, and waited. Four burly silhouettes approached his car. He noticed one of the strangers carrying a baseball bat. As he fumbled for his cell phone, one of the assailants opened the driver side door.
“Get out!” was the order.
“Excuse me gentlemen. Is there a problem?”
“I said, get out of the god damn car!” shouted the man.
Another thug opened the driver’s door and placed his hand on Green’s shoulder, pulling him from the vehicle. Hal made a run for it, but didn’t get far. The beat down consisted mostly of punches and kicks to the body, a few to the head. Fortunately, no blows were incurred from the wooden bat. Within thirty seconds the reporter found himself on the ground and on his back, in some serious pain. He looked up into obscured, unfamiliar faces, mostly young men – mercenaries for a higher authority. The head goon placed his foot on the victim’s chest, and the pummeling stopped. He held the bat under Green’s chin in a menacing fashion.
“We’re sick and tired of you snooping around,” said the hooligan. “We don’t appreciate your type down here. Understand?”
“Yes,” said Green respectfully. While speaking he tasted blood, and felt his left front tooth wobble a bit. “Yes I do.”
“We all think it best you pack up and head outta town,” said the hood. “Like as soon as possible.”
“Yes. Yes, I understand,” said Green. One of the cars began to flash their high beams, perhaps a signal to move on. He could only hope.
“Watch what you say about us. Understood?”
“Yes sir,” said Green.
“And mind your own goddamn business, or else…” The tough guy leaned on the baseball bat, directly into Green’s windpipe.
“Yes, I …”
Without warning, one of the assailants kicked Green directly in his groin, sending a scream of pain throughout his body. Bright lights flashed across his retina, followed by the sound of a hooligan spitting, the sputum hitting him on the face. The news writer rolled over in agonizing pain, gasping for air. He felt his legs being dragged towards the road edge, some gravel scrapping his face. The thugs tossed his body into a shallow trench and suddenly it was over. For several minutes he lay in the ditch, thankful to be alive. He could hear his car engine running. Looking overhead he witnessed a sky full of bright stars.
“Oh,” moaned Green. “Help! Anyone, please help.”
There was no help. After several minutes he was able to crawl up the bank onto the road. Fortunately, he sensed no major long bones to be broken, although some high pitched ringing was in his right ear. The writer ran the back of his left hand across his mouth noticing saliva and blood. Painfully, he crawled towards the car, hoisting his body upright against the frame. After several deep breaths he shuffled around to the driver’s side and lowered his battered frame into the vehicle. His hands trembled as he gripped the wheel and closed the door. After putting the car into drive he slowly lurched the vehicle forward, only to stop after a few feet. He reached down to the glove compartment box and opened it up. The weight of his revolver caused the firearm to immediately slide forward, almost out onto the floor. Carefully he pushed the weapon back into the slot, and secured the door. Only then did he continue the slow ride home.
Shortly thereafter a phone rang out in the home of Coach Hayes. He picked it up after the first ring. The coach was alone in his study, a holding tank for hundreds of game winning footballs. He carefully listened to the caller’s voice.
“All right,” said the coach. “That’s excellent news Vern. I appreciate the call. Goodnight.”
After hanging up the receiver the coach leaned back and let out a sigh of relief. Connor Kelly and his family made the decision not to proceed with any further blood testing. The crisis involving his star running back was thankfully over.
Chapter Nineteen
PHILADELPHIA
It was a cold, rainy day in the City of Brotherly Love. Pete was standing next to Dr. Harper, on the thirty-yard line of Franklin Field in West Philadelphia. About three minutes remained in a football game which up until that point had been mighty drab. Despite Coach Hayes’ halftime tirade the visiting team was only up by seven points, even though they controlled all aspects of the game. Both physicians were wearing Tarpon blue raingear, as the remnants of a nor’easter continued to fall from the sky.
“My socks are soaked,” said Pete as he turned around to find his mom and dad in the crowd. They had been looking forward to the “home game” for months and despite the bone chilling weather, had a look of content on their faces. Mom waved again.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said Harper. “Before somebody gets hurt.” Up until that point, there were no major injuries.
“I’m glad I’m not kicking today,” said Eugene. He was standing next to Pete, with the assist of crutches. “That turf is too slick.”
The Tarps were moving the ball, thanks to the punishing runs of Connor Kelly. They had just crossed the forty-yard line, bringing the voice of Coach Hayes into range. He was currently chewing on the ear of a referee, having missed an obvious defensive holding call.
“Come on Roger!” screamed Hayes. “That was holding. Open your eyes! For heaven’s sake, even a blind hog finds an acorn now and then.”
“Coach is going to have a heart attack,” said Pete. “Look at the vein in his forehead. It’s about to blow.”
“The officiating all game has sucked Roger! Your crew is giving us an old fashioned screwing! City of Brotherly Love my ass!”
“I hope not,” said Harper. “I haven’t done CPR in a while.”
“We’re getting a hosing today boys. A good old fashioned hose job!” shouted the coach. He was yelling directly into the ear of the side judge. “This whole game smells like a shithouse door on a shrimp boat,” howled the coach, the rain pelting off his back.
Just then a sweep play began to develop in the direction of the medical team. Derrick pitched the ball to Connor Kelly who followed an armada of offensive lineman towards the sideline, past Coach Hayes. One by one defenders were bowled over by the blockers, led by Beef Bartley. Yet somehow a dashing defender made his way in oblique fashion towards the ball carrier, only to be tripped up at the last second. His body fell to the turf and slid through the slop, causing him to collide with Beef. The mammoth lineman went down in a heap, causing a domino effect, back to Kelly. The star running back was suddenly upended by his own lineman, his body hydroplaning across the turf, directly towards Pete Wagner.
