Twelve Men in the Huddle, page 24
“Percy, what did it feel like to win that championship way back then?
“Ah, we were just young kids,” said Percy with a nostalgic smile. “It was just another game for us. But as time goes on, the win certainly has meant more and more. It’s become part of the Tulsa Valley fabric, a piece of the school’s history that will never be forgotten.”
“Can you give me any advice for the big game Percy?”
“Yea,” said Percy. “Don’t try to do too much. It’s a team sport, so play within the confines of the team. Stay focused and protect the ball. And remember Connor, no matter what the outcome, the sun will rise the next morning, and life will go on. The good Lord works in strange ways, so always count your blessings.”
“Thanks Percy,” said Connor as he shook the groundskeeper’s hand. “Thank you very much.”
The knock on Pete’s door startled him. He had just reviewed all the test results from samples he forwarded to an independent lab. No banned substances were found in the skin patch or Harper Cider. However the trainer’s cream did come back positive for epitestosterone, which made no sense to Pete. Epitestosterone has never been shown to improve athletic performance, nor had he been personally exposed to the cream. Nothing was adding up to explain his metabolic dilemma. He put the test results in a desk drawer, prior to answering the door.
“Looking for a new roommate?” asked the visitor.
“Connor! What the heck are you doing here?” asked Pete.
The star player didn’t respond as he slipped past Pete into the apartment. Once the door was closed he removed his hood.
“Coach Hayes wants me to hole up here until the big game. Kind of like a secret hideout.”
“What! Why here?”
“He’s hiding me from the press,” said Connor with a smile. “Told me to bunk up with the other kid from Scranton. Called us a couple of coal crackers.”
“All right,” said Pete hesitantly. “I guess this is as good a place as any on campus.”
“Eugene will be running my stuff over at about two or three in the morning,” said Connor. “He’s part of the covert operation.”
“Well come on in. Make yourself at home. Maybe you and I can figure out this whole situation together.”
The two friends talked well into the night.
Chapter Twenty Five
SCRANTON
It took Pete over an hour just to get inside the funeral home, the line outside stretching two city blocks. Thankfully it was an unusually warm Thursday evening along the northeast corridor. A large turnout was certainly expected, yet everyone was caught off guard by the outpouring of emotion.
“Oh look,” said Pete’s mother. “There’s Stacey Schmidt with her parents. Do you remember taking her to the senior prom?”
“Yes mom. I do.”
“She wore such a beautiful gown. Why you wore that white tuxedo I’ll never know. You looked like the Good Humor Man.”
“It was a crazy time mom,” said Pete. Stacey looked back at Pete and his mother and smiled. She was still just as pretty.
“She’s unattached Peter. At least that’s what her mom told me in the supermarket last week. Maybe you should give her a call before you leave?” His mom paused, but couldn’t hold back. “Honestly, she has a much nicer personality than Chloe.”
Pete just shook his head and stared at his father. His dad never seemed to care about local gossip or affairs of the heart. Somehow he possessed an ability to remain neutral in all matters, including just about everything. Dad was wearing his black suit, which smelled of mothballs.
Once inside the funeral parlor, the line coiled through a series of side rooms, before the final casket approach. Each room contained some sitting chairs, occasionally occupied by an elderly guest. The walls were covered with outdated wallpaper and religious artifacts. Every minute or so the line lurched forward, bringing Pete and his parents closer to the deceased.
“Oh Peter, there’s Miss Jones, your high school biology teacher,” said Mrs. Wagner. “She’s still not married. Why I don’t know?” She shook her head in wonderment. “She’s starting to look old, don’t you think so Harold?”
“Yes dear,” was the default response from Pete’s dad, now worried about missing the ball game on TV.
“She was once engaged to Ned Frank from East End. You know he had a good city job, until he started drinking.”
“Hey Dr. Wagner,” said a portly man in line, facing the opposite direction. Pete wasn’t sure if he was ahead or behind him. “How’s that coach down there? As crazy as he looks on television?”
“He’s intense,” said Pete. “Really loves his team.”
“Does he always talk like that?” asked the mourner. “You know, the country boy song and dance routine.”
“He does.”
“Down at the ammo factory we don’t call him Buford B. Hayes. Do you know what we call him?”
“No,” said Pete.
“‘Butt face B-Crazed.’ Can you tell him that?”
“No,” said Pete.
The line moved again, creating space between them. They shuffled forward as the organ music played, the smell of lilacs in the air.
“Hello Wagner family,” said a stately man in a fine suit.
“Well good evening Mayor Lyton,” said Mrs. Wagner with a broad smile. “So good to see you.”
Phil noticed his mom to be “batting her eyes like a toad in a hailstorm,” crediting ‘Butt face B-Crazed’ for the visual quip.
“And you too Mrs. Wagner,” said the mayor with a handshake, securing another future vote in the process. “How’s your handsome son doing here?”
“I’m well mayor, thank you,” replied Pete.
“Who you got in the big game?”
“Tarps of course,” said Pete.
“How’s Connor Kelly? His knee O.K.?”
“Connor is doing really well,” replied Pete, careful not to say too much.
“I tried to get some tickets for the big game but no luck,” hinted the mayor. He waited for a response, but there was none. “Should be a good game.” No response. “Are you going?”
“Yes we are mayor,” replied Mrs. Wagner proudly. “Our son got us some tickets. We’re all going to be there.”
“You’re lucky,” said the mayor, now shaking Mr. Wagner’s hand. “I’ll be looking for you on television Peter. The whole city of Scranton is proud of you and Connor. Please, send him my regards.”
“I will. Thank you mayor.”
The line shuffled forward and Pete recognized the funeral director up ahead at a corner. He sensed the home stretch around the bend. The funeral director smiled at his mom.
“It’s a shame,” cried a voice from across the narrow hallway. Pete immediately recognized the town’s tailor, ironically wearing an ill-fitting suit and holding an unlit cigar in his hand. Ever since Pete’s childhood he recalled two things about the man – he was always drunk and weeping. “A horrible shame.” Tears were rolling down his cheek.
“Oh Larry, don’t cry,” said Mrs. Wagner. “He’s not suffering and he’s in a better place.” She patted the sot on his shoulder.
“I just saw him two weeks ago,” wailed the clothier. He raised a handkerchief to his nose, followed by a blow. “We were playing cards down at the club. He was so excited about Connor Kelly.”
“He’ll be watching the game from heaven,” said Mrs. Wagner.
Pete felt a push in the back from his father, trying to move away from the lush. In turn he nudged his mother.
“He saved so many lives,” howled the tailor. “Now he’s gone. Oh what a shame!”
The line moved ahead.
“Good evening Mrs. Wagner,” said the undertaker in an expected morbid tone. “So good to see you.” He hugged Pete’s mom, also securing another future customer. “What a wonderful turnout.”
“Mr. Munson, so good to see you,” said Mrs. Wagner.
“Good evening young man,” said the mortician while extending a handshake to Pete. His hand felt cold. He leaned towards Pete and whispered, “Go Tarps.”
As the trio turned the corner they now spotted the casket at the end of a straight aisle, their final path between rows of folding chairs. The local gossip hounds were sitting in the chairs, whispering to each other. They all had already offered condolences to the family but couldn’t leave, the spectacle too rich in substance. Pete immediately felt all eyes upon him, while sensing some increase in baseline chatter. The Wagner family spoke no more out of respect for the deceased. Slowly they passed down the aisle, through the sea of busybodies, coming face to face with the departed. In the coffin lay the corpse of Dr. Melvin M. Schmeckle.
“Oh he looks so good,” said Mrs. Wagner. She dabbed some tears from her eyes. “Don’t you think so dear?”
“Yes dear,” responded Mr. Wagner.
Pete silently disagreed. He hadn’t seen the physician in years, but recalled a more robust man. The right side of his face drooped and his cheekbones sank into his face. Flowers surrounded the casket, as did World War II memorabilia, the American flag neatly tucked into the corner. Looking to his right he observed the usual stoic look on his father’s face. Pete never saw his dad cry at a funeral, even when his own siblings were laid out.
“Oh,” sobbed his mother. “May he rest in peace.” She knelt onto a kneeler to say a prayer. Her movement suddenly caused Pete to recall why he hated every funeral since he was a boy. His mother stood up and stepped backwards.
No please, he thought. She wouldn’t.
“Peter, touch his hand.”
“No mom.”
“Peter, touch his hand!” whispered his mom loudly. She jammed her elbow into his body. “Show some respect for the doctor.”
“Mom, I will not touch his hand.”
“Touch his hand!”
“No mom. Please.”
“Peter Wagner, don’t embarrass your mother in front of everyone. For heaven’s sake, the man saved your life. Show some respect!”
Some increased chatter bubbled up behind Pete, prompting him to step forward and touch Dr. Schmeckle’s icy right hand. The sensation sent a chill through his body. He quickly stepped back.
“There, was that so hard?” asked his mother. She wiped some final tears off her cheek and sighed deeply. “I just don’t know what Scranton is going to do without him.”
After extending their condolences to the immediate family, the Wagners made their way towards the exit. As they stepped outside, a swarm of reporters and bright lights converged upon them.
“Dr. Wagner, Dr. Wagner, a moment of your time!” shouted a local sportscaster.
“Is Connor Kelly using steroids?” shouted another. “Is there a cover-up?”
“Was it Dr. Schmeckle who diagnosed him with elevated testosterone levels?”
Before Pete could respond, his mother cried out.
“What’s the matter with you? Don’t you have any respect for the deceased? The audacity to be out here, disrespecting Dr. Schmeckle! How dare you!”
“Is Connor still using steroids?” shouted a reporter.
“Dr. Wagner, what’s your roll in the whole situation?”
The family bulled their way through the throng, rushing towards their car. The mob followed them into the funeral home parking lot. While trying to open the car doors, the reporters pushed further into their personal airspace.
“Is Coach Hayes involved in a cover-up?”
“What’s the matter with you people?” shouted Mrs. Wagner with a slam of the door, nearly amputating the fingers of a newsman. His father honked the horn as the car slowly pulled away.
Thirty minutes later, Pete was again answering some difficult questions.
“What do you mean by ‘until further notice?’”
“Just that,” responded Pete. “Until further notice. Listen Chloe, it’s a difficult situation down on campus. Since you left, the place is under siege. You can’t walk across campus without being accosted by a reporter. It’s crazy.”
“I don’t understand?” said Chloe. “So what does that have to do with me staying in your apartment?”
“It will all make sense after the big game. Trust me. It’s just that I’m kind of compromised right now. Please try and understand. I just can’t have you in the apartment until after the big game.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t answer that Chloe. I just can’t.”
“It’s Heather, isn’t it?” asked Chloe, with a tone of anger and frustration. “I can tell the way you act around her, especially when she smiles at you. She’s staying there, right?”
“Wrong.”
“Then why can’t I stay with you? All my clothes are still in your apartment Pete. You’re not making sense.”
“You can’t stay with me.”
“Well then, where can I stay Pete? Answer me that.”
“You have nowhere to stay Chloe. It’s that simple. Every hotel is booked within a sixty-mile radius.”
“What about your parents? Where are they going to stay?”
“At Dr. Harper’s house. He was gracious enough to offer them a room.”
“O.K.,” said Chloe while getting up. “But I still have a ticket for the game? Right?”
“Yes.”
“But you have nowhere for me to stay?”
“That’s right. I’ll try…”
“Listen Peter,” said Chloe, now with some tears rolling down her cheek. “I’m trying my best to patch this relationship up. I know I did something wrong, and I’m sorry. But from this point forward, I need some help. I can’t do it alone. I firmly believe we have a bright future together, and I hope you do too.”
Pete didn’t respond, wondering how he had gotten into this whole mess. He couldn’t divulge Connor Kelly’s whereabouts.
“So, I guess I’ll see you Sunday night – if that’s all right with you? Where I’m staying, who knows? But I’ll find a place.”
“O.K.,” said Pete. “I’m sorry Chloe.”
“So am I Pete, but I’ve told you that a hundred times already, and I’m not going to say it again. Good night.” She turned around and left, storming out of his living room and through the kitchen.
“Good night Chloe,” said Mrs. Wagner as she passed through.
“Good night Mr. and Mrs. Wagner. See you on Monday.”
The following morning, Pete’s father dropped him off at the Wilkes-Barre/Scranton International Airport. His 6 A.M. connecting flight departed on time to Philadelphia, with arrival in Tulsa scheduled for 2 P.M. During the flight, Pete read the Scranton Daily News, which ran an extensive article written by Sepelastone, who just returned from administrative leave. To his surprise, a picture of Pete and his parents leaving the funeral home appeared above the article. The reporter lambasted Tulsa Valley, accusing the administration of a massive cover-up. Although he mentioned the school’s announcement the prior day that a random third-party blood test on Connor Kelly proved absolutely normal, Sepelastone continued to fuel the conspiracy theory. He incredibly disclosed Dr. Schmeckle as his source, simultaneously praising the deceased physician for saving the running back’s life, and exposing a rogue football program down south. The article treaded lightly on Kelly, the author keenly aware of his golden boy status. Pete’s mention came at the end of the article as “a product of the Scranton area and member of Tulsa Valley’s medical team, whose role in the whole situation has yet to be determined.” The article ended with Sepelastone vowing to be at the big game in order to “uncover the truth.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Tulsa, Louisiana,” said the stewardess. “The local time is two o’clock in the afternoon. Please remain seated until the plane comes to a complete stop. Feel free to now use your electronic devices. Go Tarps!”
As the plane taxied to a stop, Pete reached for his phone and texted Connor Kelly.
“Just landed…” said Pete. “Good to be back.”
“Roger,” said Connor. “Did you give my regards to the family?”
“Yes,” said Pete. “They appreciated it.”
“What’s the vibe up north?”
“They still love you. Everyone sends best wishes.”
“Great.”
“Any visitors?” asked Pete.
“No. It’s quiet, only Eugene. The press is clueless as to my whereabouts.”
“Are we still on with the plan?”
“Yes,” said Connor. “Today at 4 PM.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Your career may depend on it,” said Pete. “We can abort at any time.”
“Never,” said Connor. “Something is wrong – so let’s make it right.”
“You’re the man.”
“Let’s do it!”
Chapter Twenty Six
THE CONSPIRACY THEORY
“Are you two insane?” shouted Dr. Harper. He was sitting across from Pete and Connor, with an incredulous look across his face. “What you’re suggesting is ludicrous!” It was four o’clock on Friday afternoon, and the three were gathered in Pete’s apartment. “You’re absolutely crazy!”
“Well then, try and explain it,” said Pete. “I mean think about it Dr. Harper. For no apparent reason, I’ve mutated into some sort of circus side show attraction, and Connor’s testosterone levels have also gone off the wall. Where’s all this testosterone coming from Dr. Harper? We’ve both been exposed to harmful levels – unknowingly.”
“I agree,” chimed in Connor. “Something is wrong.”
“Yea, well how about this?” replied Harper. “Connor, you’re abusing steroids and Pete, you’ve got some sort of endocrine abnormality going on? How’s that for a more believable reason?”
“I have no endocrine abnormality,” replied Pete. “Remember when you recommended me to Dr. Wong? He worked me up, head to toe, and there is no physiologic reason to explain my markedly elevated testosterone levels. None!”
“And I’ve never knowingly taken steroids,” said Connor. “My answer will never change. Why this school hasn’t put me in front of a camera yet, I’ll never understand.”
“What other proof do you two have?”
