Twelve Men in the Huddle, page 3
“No, no,” said Harper with a shake of his head. “The team doesn’t practice in the stadium itself.”
“Bad for the turf,” chimed in Shannon.
“Well, where do they practice?” asked Jamal.
“Oh, at a little facility about forty-five minutes outside of town,” said Harper with a flash in his eyes. “The team has been going there for the last eighty years or so.”
“Really?” asked Pete.
“It’s a bit remote,” said Shannon. “Kind of off the grid.”
“What’s it called?” asked Pete with interest.
“The Badlands,” said Harper with a smile. “The Louisiana Badlands.”
Chapter Three
COACH HAYES
The road to the Badlands was desolate. Throughout the majority of the ride Shannon spoke business with Dr. Harper. Of concern to the fellowship director was the University Board of Trustees decision permitting a news reporter access to the football team’s daily activities for the entire season. Immediately after the Tarpons were ranked number one, a landslide of newspaper requests hit the school’s Athletic Director, Vern Foster. After heated debate, a single reporter from the well-respected Collegiate Sporting News was selected.
“I want minimal contact with the reporter,” barked Harper. “Do you understand?”
“Yes I do doctor. However, Mr. Foster said he should have complete access to the HPC – and the athletes.”
“I don’t care what Vern said!” howled Harper. “He’s an administrator and lacks any knowledge whatsoever about patient confidentiality.”
“He is the Athletic Director,” responded Shannon. It was the first time either one of the fellows heard her push back, signifying a sensitive topic.
“Shannon, please, we have enough going on in our lives. He will have minimal access to the Sports Medicine team. Understand?”
“Yes doctor.”
Pete stared out the window during the final twenty minutes of the ride. Grady G. was taking them southwest into the lower corner of the state. Pete’s geographic knowledge of Louisiana was poor, but it was apparent that Shannon’s description of the place as ‘off the grid’ was accurate. He hadn’t seen a road sign in the past thirty minutes. Suddenly the vehicle jerked left onto an unnamed dirt road riddled with potholes. Dust kicked up from both sides of the vehicle, prompting the driver to slow down. Dense swamps surrounded the road on each side.
“Are those reptiles down there?” asked Jamal.
“Yes,” said Harper. “This area of the state is infested with alligators and snakes. It’s quite inhospitable.”
Pete peered through the front windshield to see a guardhouse in the distance with a red and white gate across the road. Beyond the sentry an old wooden plank bridge ran flat across an expanse in the waterway. Dense woods appeared on the other side of the bridge.
“They’re just lying on the banks,” quivered Jamal. “Yikes!”
The vehicle slowed as it approached the sentinel. Grady G. rolled down the window allowing a blast of humid air into the car. An elderly guard leaned out of the shack’s window. The loud ringing call of a waterthrush pierced the air.
“Afternoon Grady,” said the sentry.
“Hey Bubba,” said Grady G. “Got the Doc, Shannon and his two new fellows on board.”
“Bubba was a tri-captain on the famed 1966 team,” whispered Harper to his fellows. “People still say he was the strongest man ever to play the game.”
“No problem Grady,” said Bubba as he slowly walked out of the shack to manually lift up the gate. Sweat poured down his brow as he smiled a toothless grin. “Go Tarps.”
The Mercedes began its approach towards the old bridge, causing some serious angst among the fellows.
“Is the bridge safe?” asked Jamal. “Is it going to hold us? How deep is the water?”
“Where are we?” asked Pete.
“You’re about to enter what used to be a Louisiana State Penitentiary in the 1930s,” said Shannon. “They sent the worst offenders here, basically to die. It’s an island, with only one way in and out.”
“Over that bridge?” asked Jamal.
“Yes Dr. Lewis. The island itself is only three miles wide and seven miles long. But it’s surrounded by the most god awful swamps in all the South.”
“No prisoner ever made it out alive,” said Harper. “They tried, but none of them made it.”
“It’s the crabs that ultimately get them,” said Murphy.
“Bump, bump…bump, bump,” went the car as it lurched over the first seat of wooden beams. Jamal shut his eyes. “Bump, bump…bump, bump,” repeated the sound over the entire length of the span. Pete noticed Grady G. to be looking in the rear view mirror and smiling. After one long minute they reached the opposite side, which was as desolate as the other. The road ran through some grassland before it entered a dense forest laden with thick moss. Large white birds slowly stepped through pools of murky water scattered throughout. Suddenly the forest canopy ended and an open field appeared. Two high wooden beam watchtowers appeared on each side of the car. The Tulsa Valley flag flew from the roof of one tower, and the Louisiana state flag from the other.
“What the hell?” said Jamal.
The vehicle pulled up to another check station manned by a former Tulsa Valley player, who checked everyone’s I.D. badge provided by Shannon. She then handed the I.D. tags back to the fellows, attached to a lanyard.
“Here,” she said. “Put them around your neck.”
The fellows nervously obliged.
“There are two rules on the island,” said Shannon. “Two absolutisms in the world of Tulsa Valley football.”
“Yes,” said Pete. Jamal remained speechless.
“One, no cell phones. There is no cell service out here, but Coach Hayes is paranoid about cameras or any device that can videotape a practice.”
“O.K.”
“And two, listen to coach. If he tells you something – do it.”
“Yes. O.K.”
“I’ll add two more,” said Dr. Harper as the car approached a series of long wooden barracks, resting atop a series of wooden piers. “Don’t mention the word ‘concussion’ near coach, and always remember the name of the nineteenth President of the United States.”
Pete tried to recall his grade school days by reciting the presidents in order, but he couldn’t make it to number nineteen. He looked at Jamal who just raised his palms in the air. A vacant football field appeared on each side of the road, each with old-fashioned goal posts and lights attached to telephone polls.
“Looks like we are here just in time,” said Dr. Harper as the car pulled into a dirt parking area. Directly ahead of them was another football field with a team of players running out from a rustic side building. A single flagpole was next to the building flying the Stars and Stripes. The players wore shorts, t-shirts, cleats and a helmet. An army of coaches with whistles and clipboards followed the brigade, which lined up in two long lines, as if waiting for another team to burst out between them. The medical team exited their vehicle and headed towards the opposite end of the field, near the goal line.
“This is surreal,” said Jamal to Pete. “I mean look around, we’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“It must be over a hundred degrees out here,” said Pete as the sweat began to bead up on his brow. “I’ve never felt it so humid.”
“Make sure your I.D tags are on,” said Shannon as several security members approached.
“Then suddenly, from a series of loud speakers, blasted the energetic opening lyrics of a Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance March No 1.
“What the….”
A group of underclassmen carrying battle flags burst out from the building complex with a barrage of hollers. They charged down the center of the field, directly towards the medical team. The football team began to cheer wildly on each side of the brigade. They broke off twenty yards shy of the goal line and came to a halt, some dust drifting away. Thirty seconds passed as the music continued to play. During this time all the players looked back towards the building and flagpole, in anticipation, clapping their hands.
Then, like a mirage, he appeared from the afternoon heat. Coach Buford B. Hayes, one hundred yards away on horseback. He trotted out on a handsome light grey stallion, and paused to look over the troops. On his head was a wide brimmed hat made of straw. He nodded his head in appreciation as the team began to clap in unison. Suddenly his steed reared up on two hind legs and gave out a tremendous neigh. The coach kicked his heels and directed the horse on a wild gallop down the middle of the field, to the delight of everyone.
“Hurrah! Hurrah!” shouted the team.
“He’s been doing this for the past thirty years!” shouted Harper over the cheers. “It gets the team riled up for afternoon practice.”
Coach Hayes continued his sprint to the other goal line after which the flag bearers lined up along his side. As the music played on, he turned back and saluted the team. An assistant blew a whistle and a regimented practice began, in the brutal Louisiana heat.
“You’ll never forget your first sighting of Coach Buford B. Hayes,” said Shannon to the fellows.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Pete. “It was like something out of a movie.”
“They’ve got a set of stables on the island,” said Harper. “The red shirt freshman have to muck it out every day.”
Upon seeing Doctor Harper, the head coach of the Tulsa Valley Tarpons began a slow trot in his direction.
“Heads up men,” mumbled Harper.
Pete noticed the coach to have leathered skin and a beard of stubble. He already knew his age to be sixty-nine years old. Hayes wore a drab grey, cotton button down shirt soaked with sweat, along with long pants and riding boots. The boots were covered with dried clay, horse manure and some hay. A large belt buckle sparkled in the bright sunlight. Over his belt hung a belly fed by an affinity for local beer. Tufts of grey hair protruded beneath the rim of his hat.
“Afternoon Doc,” said the coach, as he pulled his ride to a halt directly before the group. The horse wore a dark black leather bridle with a wide noseband, along with a braided mane.
“Good afternoon Coach Hayes,” said Harper. “Hot one today.”
“Hotter than the hinges of hell,” said Coach Hayes. His voice was a bit nasal.
“We’re on top of that coach. Going to keep the troops well hydrated all week.”
“How’s Cannonball’s ankle?”
“Good coach, I cleared him for contact earlier today.”
The veteran coach then stared down at Pete and Jamal, skeptical of any newcomers to the camp. As if sensing his unease, the horse gave off a nervous whinny.
“Easy Ole Whitey,” said the coach while stroking his beloved horse. “It’s all right.”
“These are my two new surgical fellows,” said Harper. “Dr. Wagner from Pennsylvania, and Dr. Lewis from California.”
“Pennsylvania? State College, Pennsylvania?” asked the coach. “Lord, they got cattle grazing outside of that stadium.”
“No, Scranton. About two hours from there.”
“Scranton! That’s where Cannonball is from.”
“Right,” said Pete. “Everybody knows Connor Kelly back home.”
“Connor is a good boy,” said the coach. “The type of young man that exemplifies Tulsa Valley football.”
“Right.”
“Any of you boys know the nineteenth President of the United States of America? One of the greatest gentlemen to ever lead our nation.”
“Richard Polk?” guessed Jamal.
“Don’t they teach you boys any history back home?”
“I know Lincoln was number sixteen,” said Pete.
“My great, great, uncle was the nineteenth president,” said coach Hayes. Pete started to notice Hayes’ habit of dropping the last consonant in words.
“The great Rutherford B. Hayes was the nineteenth president of our land,” said the coach proudly. “He led the Reconstruction of this land. Never forget it!” shouted the coach. “His daddy was my great, great, great grandpa.”
“We won’t,” replied the fellows to the man on the horse.
Coach Hayes returned his attention to the team doctor. “Derrick tweaked his hamstring in morning practice Doc. He’s in sick bay.”
“I’ll check it out coach,” said Harper.
The coach gently yanked on Ole Whitey’s rein and without saying another word, turned his attention back to the team, and trotted away.
“Does he ever get off the horse?” asked Jamal as the medical team headed to a rustic facility on the other side of the field.
“Nah,” said Dr. Harper. “He has a bad hip and is deathly afraid of snakes.”
The inside of the athletic training facility sharply contrasted the aging exterior. State of the art training equipment was abundant as were a myriad of athletic trainers. Pete noticed the HPC logo on all the trainers’ shirts. A series of overhead fans spun rapidly in an attempt to ease the heat. Along the right side of the training complex were a series of exam tables, each occupied by a player in the supine position, hooked to an intravenous line of saline solution.
“About fourteen from this morning,” said a physically chiseled trainer approaching the group. Pete recognized his voice from the room three evaluation of Connor Kelly earlier in the day. “Standard rehydration protocol in progress.”
“Pete and Jamal, I’d like you to meet Lance Tucker,” said Harper. “He’s the head trainer for the Tarpons and has been with the team a long time.”
Tucker nodded his head at the two young physicians, and then ignored their presence. He was about six foot five inches tall and slightly balding, without an ounce of fat on his frame. Veins protruded from his hairy forearms in notable fashion.
“Derrick’s over there,” said Tucker. “He strained a hammy this morning. Nothing major.”
He led the team to another exam table where the senior quarterback lay, with a bag of ice wrapped around his left posterior thigh. Pete noticed the head trainer to stroke his biceps while walking towards the athlete, and occasionally glance in a mirror at his physique.
“Hey Doc, just cramped up a bit,” said Derrick Smith, the star quarterback for the Tarps. “Feels better already.”
“We’ll keep you out today,” said Harper. “Lance is going to keep an eye on you. All right?”
“Sure Doc. Man, it’s hot out there. I can’t remember a summer practice being so bad.”
“Just stay hydrated,” interjected Lance as he handed the player an energy drink. “Five more minutes on the ice.”
“What’s with the skin patch?” asked Jamal to the trainer. He pointed to a small, square adhesive attached to the player’s right deltoid muscle. “I noticed all the players have one.”
The trainer went about his business, ignoring the question.
“It’s a electrolyte patch that we developed at the HPC,” said Harper. “Contains a combination mostly of sodium and potassium. We’ve found it useful, especially during summer camp here in the Badlands. Cuts down on the cramps and dehydration. Once the summer camp ends, we stop using them.”
“Very interesting,” said Jamal. “Kind of like the old salt tablets our high school coach used to give out?”
“A bit more refined than that Dr. Lewis,” said Harper with a laugh. “Back at the HPC we have a group of physiotherapists, chemists and sports medicine experts constantly working on innovative ways to keep our athletes healthy. Remember, never get comfortable with the so called norm.”
“It definitely works,” said the quarterback.
“Just ask the players tonight in the bunk house,” said Harper with a smile.
“What?”
“The bunkhouse. It used to be the main holding facility for the inmates. Sleeps about two hundred. Two to a cell that is.”
“What do you mean by “sleeps two to a cell”?” asked Pete.
“We aren’t going home?” added a concerned Jamal.
“I’ve taken the opportunity to provide both of you with quarters for the remainder of the week,” said Shannon. “It’s sort of an initiation process for the fellowship. Didn’t the exiting fellows tell you about it?”
“No. They left that little fact out,” said Pete.
“Gentlemen, being a team physician means becoming a part of the team. What better way than to eat, sleep and drink with the team members themselves? You will find it a very rewarding experience. In short time you’ll become part of the team fiber. Trust me,” continued their new mentor. “You’ll enjoy it.”
Shannon looked at her watch. “Meeting with the Dean at four, we better get going.”
“Right,” said Harper with a step away. “See you on Friday men. Lance, keep an eye on them.”
The head trainer waited for Dr. Harper to leave the building before speaking.
“Get out on the field and look like you belong there,” he ordered. “And don’t touch anyone. Understand?”
The two fellows spent the next three hours in the blazing sun, under the watchful eye of the head trainer and a coach on horseback, swearing profusely. They were spared the mandatory group shower and reconnected with the team in a massive mess hall. Meals were served cafeteria style by a staff composed of former players, each wearing an I.D. tag with their name and graduation year. After dinner the players broke down into offensive and defensive groups and watched films of prior games, followed by a hydration session with an energy drink. Mandatory whole body massages followed to help protect against muscle fatigue and cramping. The entire process took over two hours. It was ten o’clock at night before the two weary fellows were led to their ‘room’ in the so-called ‘Big House’, a massive wooden structure situated in the center of camp.
“I should have stayed in Los Angeles,” said Jamal as he collapsed onto his bed. “I mean, I played Division I football but it was nothing like this. This is some sort of a cult.”
“I think it’s kind of interesting,” said Pete. “Harper is amazing. We did over twenty cases this morning. Then all this.”
“He sure is energetic, manic, or an entrepreneur. I’m not exactly sure which.”
