Twelve Men in the Huddle, page 32
“Good morning,” said Jasmine in a perky voice as she entered the room. He closed his eyes.
The young nurse went about taking his vital signs and temperature, while checking the intravenous line. Everything was in order and she cleared the side table of the flowers. Breakfast was on its way.
“Good morning Jasmine,” said a male voice entering the room.
“Morning Dr. Elgar.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Oh just fine,” said the nurse as she straightened out the bed sheets. “His vitals are stable.”
“Any sign of life?”
“Not yet,” said Jasmine. “He responds to stimuli, but still not awake. Honestly, I think he’s fooling us,” joked the young nurse.
“I wish that were the case,” said the doctor. The neurologist proceeded to carefully examine his patient. His nervous system was intact.
“Dr. Elgar,” said Dr. Harper as he confidently walked into the room. “Good morning. How’s our patient today?”
“Great,” responded the neurologist. “No focal deficits on exam. Did you see today’s cat scan of the head?”
“Yes,” said Harper as he glanced at the I.V. bag. “Some small infarcts in the temporal lobe. No major bleed.”
“Really?” asked Elgar. “It looked normal to me, maybe just a few age appropriate findings.”
“I just reviewed the study with the chairman of radiology,” said Harper. “He agrees… at least that’s what his report will say. Some minor infarcts in the temporal area along with swelling.”
“I’ll have to check it out again,” replied Elgar. “Clinically he looks well. However I’m a bit surprised about his mental status.”
“He had a long night,” said Harper, as he slowly walked towards his medical colleague, while peering back over his shoulder. The two physicians were now alone in the room. “Listen Tony,” whispered Harper. “Let me handle the P.R. on this one. There’s already a mob of well-wishers outside the hospital, waiting for an update. I’ll talk to them, O.K.?”
“Sure, sure,” said the neurologist. “You’re the team doctor. I’ll be standing by to assist in any capacity.”
“What we say over the next several days will be dissected by every newspaper and sportscaster in the land. Believe me, I’ve been down this road before.”
“No problem Jordan,” said the physician. “I’m sure the administration would want it that way. You’re the face of the team. I fully understand.”
“Thanks Tony. I appreciate it. The whole Tarpon Nation appreciates your expertise.”
After a firm handshake the neurologist left the room, leaving Harper alone with his patient. He slowly stepped to the bedside. Before speaking the physician glanced towards the doorway to ensure no one else was in earshot.
“Buford,” whispered Harper. “Buford B. Hayes.”
Coach Hayes opened his eyes.
“It’s clear, no one else is in the room,” reassured Harper.
“Sweet Jesus,” said Hayes in a low tone. “Do you know how hard it is for me not to talk? I’m busting inside.”
“We’ll have you talking in a few days. Don’t rush it.”
“I’m not one to just go quiet,” said Hayes.
“The plan, just stick with the plan.”
“Again, what exactly is the plan?” asked Hayes. “Please refresh my memory. That is, if I have one?”
Harper again looked up before speaking. Some nurses were just outside the door checking labs on a computer. He waited for them to disperse.
“That you had a stroke,” whispered Harper. “Immediately after the game ended last night.” He looked up again, before continuing. “A cerebral event that impacted your temporal lobe, where memory is stored.”
“Got it,” said Coach. “Or better yet, I can’t remember.”
“Very good,” said Harper. “All of your senses will return, except your short term memory. It’s foolproof. You’ll never have to answer another question.”
“I can’t believe we did it,” said the coach. “I just can’t believe it!”
“What’s that? Spiking the drinks?”
“No. Win a goddamn national championship,” cried Hayes. “I want to scream out from every roof top in Louisiana! What a win – against Southern State too!”
Harper paused while looking up.
“That scrawny little kicker from Tampa came through,” said Hayes. “Bum leg and all.”
“He also opened up a can of worms,” said Harper. “With his eye witness account of you and Piper loading the juice.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Hayes with a look into space. “Harper Cider? I’ve never heard of it?”
“Very nice,” said Harper. “Keep practicing. We’re going to need your A-game over the next few weeks until this whole things blows out of town.”
“Good morning,” said Jasmine as she re-entered the room. “Is he talking?”
“No,” said Harper. “The stroke affected his temporal lobe. There was a lot of swelling.”
“I don’t’ know,” said Jasmine with a coy look. “I think he can hear us. He seemed happy this morning, like a clam at high tide.”
The coach laughed.
“See!” said Jasmine. “He can hear us!”
“That’s a good sign,” said Harper. “Slowly but surely, he should come out of it. Keep talking to him.”
“Oh, the poor man,” said the young nurse. She tucked in a single white sheet, tight to the coach’s chest.
“Take good care of him,” directed Harper as he left the room. “I’ll be back after lunch to check his status.”
As Dr. Harper walked down the hallway, a series of “congratulations doc!” and “great game doc!” rained down upon him. He was in his glory, the architect of the GameChanger. His office was already inundated with requests to discuss the training program he engineered, and the “science behind the success.” Sales across the country were poised to skyrocket. The win however was bittersweet, in so much that his second sport’s fellow had resigned and the game’s hero, a puny kicker with a gimpy leg, had mentioned the word “steroid” on national TV. While approaching the elevator he noticed two men dressed in suits, monitoring his approach.
“Good morning,” said Harper. The two men didn’t respond. He turned the corner, only to see Hal Green standing before him.
“Dr. Harper,” said Green. “Good morning. A moment of your time please?”
“Not now Hal, I’m in a hurry. And by the way, where were you at the post game interview? The biggest sporting event of the year, and you missed it? Your editor is going to be upset.”
“I was busy last night,” said Green. “Running around town, doing some errands.”
“Pardon me,” said Harper, further annoyed by the writer’s smart response. “I’ve got to get to a press conference.” He tried to step by to summon the elevator, but the reporter didn’t move.
“I said excuse me Mr. Green.”
“I don’t think you understand,” said Green. As he spoke the two unidentified henchmen stepped towards Harper. A third man appeared from down the hallway, assuring no other hospital staff wandered into the discussion.
“What’s going on?” said Harper, sensing trouble.
“Allow me to properly introduce myself,” said Green. He reached into his front coat pocket and pulled out a black billfold. “My name is actually Hal Greenberg – Special Agent Greenberg to be precise.” He opened up the wallet to expose a shiny shield, with the words ‘U.S. Department of Justice’ emblazoned upon it. “From the United States Drug Enforcement Administration. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?”
Harper froze.
“People refer to us as the D.E.A. for short.”
Harper looked around, his heart began to beat wildly.
“Dr. Harper, I’d like to have a few moments of your time to discuss the illegal trafficking of anabolic steroids here in Tulsa County, Louisiana.” The agent’s tone was suddenly serious. “Can you spare us a few moments of your time doctor?”
Harper went to speak, but had trouble enunciating. He felt faint.
“Believe it or not, for years we’ve been following a steady stream of steroids flowing into the area around Tulsa Valley,” said Greenberg. He pushed the elevator button to go down. “Specifically dianabol, which as you know is the most potent oral mass builder on the market. You’ve heard of it?”
Harper didn’t respond, his fear turning to disbelief. The elevator door opened.
“Oh yes, the medical term. I forgot, I’m talking to a doctor,” said Greenberg. He hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Methandrostenolone… wow, what a mouthful. Ring a bell?” He motioned for Harper to enter the elevator.
Harper didn’t respond, but he did enter the elevator. The three lawmen followed. Greenberg pressed the button for the subbasement. As the door began to close an agent to Greenberg’s right spoke into his cell phone. “En route with the twelfth man. ETA of fifteen minutes.”
“We’ll be going out the back basement area of the hospital,” said Greenberg. “To avoid the crowd. Do you know there’s a big crowd out front, praying for Coach Hayes?” He looked at Harper. “How’s the Coach doing?” asked Greenberg.
The doctor didn’t respond, his disbelief now turning into anger. If it weren’t for some doctor named Schmeckle he thought, everything would be just fine.
“Oh that’s right,” said Greenberg. “The Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act of 1996. You can’t discuss Coach Hayes’ medical status with me. I respect that – it’s the law, and all physicians obey the law? Isn’t that right doctor?
Harper remained quiet.
“Well, regardless, we are flying down two neurologist’s from Walter Reed Hospital to take over the coach’s care,” said Greenberg. “I’ve discussed it with Mrs. Hayes this morning, and she gave full consent. So don’t you worry about the coach, they’ll figure out what’s going on in his head. A man of his stature, especially after last night, deserves the very best.”
Harper appeared ready to vomit.
“Are you O.K. doctor?” asked Greenberg. “You don’t look well.”
“I should have known,” grumbled Harper as he stared at the floor.
“Known what?” asked Greenberg.
“That you weren’t a writer.”
“How so?”
“Your writing sucks.”
“Ouch!” said Greenberg as the elevator doors opened. “Haters are going to hate. That’s why I never read the online reviews. There’s a lot of anger out there.”
The doctor was escorted into a long, black car, which sped away from the hospital. They passed a large crowd outside the care center, cheering and chanting best wishes for their fallen leader. A few blown up head shots of Coach Hayes bobbed up and down on sticks, held high above the crowd. Inside the vehicle no one spoke, but the driver did permit the radio to play. He was listening to a local sports show called the “Tom-Tom,” recapping the big game. Both announcers were appropriately named Tom.
“Too many heroes in one game,” said Tom. “But let’s start with Billy Mo Morris.”
“The reincarnation of Billy Mo!” shouted Tom. “How he made it up into Coach Avery’s box, no one knows. But he was instrumental in the defensive call that led to the Twister’s sack and the big fumble.”
“Unbelievable!” added Tom. “Talk about a second chance in life!”
“They’re calling him the Svengali of Tulsa Valley.”
“Welcome back Billy Mo! The Tarpon Nation loves you!” proclaimed Tom. “And how about our Mr. Twister?”
“Big players make big plays in big games,” said Tom. “I know it’s a cliché, but the Twister was worth his weight in gold.”
“Funny, that’s what his agent said this morning.”
“An agent, already!”
“Yep, we’ve seen the last of Tyrone Tubbs on campus Tom. He’s moving on to bigger and better things. A private jet flew him out of Tulsa this morning.”
“Long live the Twister!” shouted the duo. A corny horn blew in the background. “Honk-honk.”
“And Connor Kelly? Should we have expected anything less?”
“The Cannonball!” screamed Tom. “Ran for over a hundred yards, kicked an extra point, broke a few ribs and introduced the ‘Our Father’ pass to the nation. What an exit for the Heisman Award winner.”
“And the quarterback who caught the first Our Father in collegiate sports – Derrick Smith!”
“The perfect leader,” said Tom. “Calm, confident and cool under pressure. The glue that held the Big Three together – they’ll go down in history… just like Bubba, Grady and Percy.”
“God bless you Derrick Smith.”
“And what about Eugene Blatt?” asked Tom. “The young man who kicked the field goal heard around the nation? He wasn’t even on the radar heading into the game, at least not until the Southern State goon squad maimed the other kickers.”
“Ice in his veins,” said Tom. “He missed the first kick but made the second, after that defensive offside call. Right?”
“Absolutely. The official made the right call. Even Southern State didn’t argue. The replay showed the State player way over the line before the snap, allowing him to get a hand on the ball.”
“And his second kick was right down the middle,” said Tom. “The kid not only has nerves of steel, but apparently a leg of steel.”
“Thanks to Doc Harper,” said Tom. “Don’t forget everything he’s done for this team. Remember, he put Connor Kelly back together earlier in the year.”
“And Eugene Blatt, with the bionic leg,” said Tom. “Old Doc Harper, I don’t know what the Tarpon Nation would do without him.”
“They’re saying he saved Coach Hayes’ life,” said Tom, shifting to a more serious tone. “What an ending. The second chance field goal, followed by a mob scene on the field, followed by the old ball coach collapsing.”
“Thank god Dr. Harper was at his side. Lord knows the coach is in good hands.”
“Coach Hayes is tougher than a two dollar steak,” said Tom. “If anyone can pull through, he can. If you’re listening coach, our prayers and those of the Tulsa Valley Nation are with you. Get well soon old friend, and thanks for an absolutely unforgettable ending, to an unforgettable season! We love you Coach Hayes. Go Tarps! Honk-honk.”
“Nice recap,” said Greenberg as the car pulled into a parking lot. “I’m sorry I missed the game. Sounds like one for the ages. I’m happy for the kids.”
Harper didn’t respond. He was silently led into a makeshift control station on the north side of town. Inside were other agents of lesser rank going about their daily business. He noticed Ralph Virdon from the Ganoga Corporation wearing a DEA shield hanging from a lanyard. As he was escorted into a room made of concrete cinder, a pitiful pang gripped his stomach. There he was seated opposite Hal Greenberg. No other agents were present.
“Why in God’s name would you do such a thing?” asked Greenberg.
The team physician had no answer.
Chapter Thirty Four
SERENDIPITY
“To systematically expose an entire collegiate football team to anabolic steroids without their consent is absolutely diabolical,” said Greenberg. “How do you sleep at night?”
Harper just stared down at the table.
“I must admit your plan was quite ingenious Dr. Harper. You really raised the bar on this one.” Greenberg got up and began to pace the room. “If it weren’t for serendipity, you may have gotten away with it.”
“Serendipity?” It was the first word Harper mumbled since entering the station.
“Yes, serendipity,” responded Greenberg. “Do you know the definition of serendipity doctor?”
Harper looked up at the lawman in disdain.
“It’s when you’re looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack and you find the farmer’s daughter,” chuckled Greenberg. “But in this case, I found the coach’s daughter.” He immediately made eye contact with Harper, to gauge his response.
“I don’t understand?” said Harper.
“Her thesis defense,” said Greenberg. “I actually attended it. Ms. Hayes-Hicks exposed the entire sordid plan in pure academic detail, down to the final dose. I mean you had to connect the dots, but it was all there.”
Harper just shook his head.
“First, you secretly load the Harper Cider with dianabol,” said Greenberg. “And next, you proclaim to the team an urgent need to push the fluids. The medical recommendation becomes a training staff mantra – stay hydrated! So the team drinks the elixir, and everyone unknowingly dumps an illegal medication into their bloodstream, which over time provides an athletic edge over the competition.”
“What about all the random blood tests?” asked Harper. “They were all normal for years.”
“Good question,” responded the federal agent. “The answer is in the mandatory nighttime rub downs. You see the cream is loaded with epitestosterone, which we both know is a masking agent. So the unknowing victims get testosterone during the day, and epitestosterone at night, so by the laws of biochemistry their T:E ratio remains normal. How’s that for an answer?”
Harper didn’t reply. He knew the sleuth was right.
“Brilliant,” said Greenberg with an appreciative nod. “I must admit, absolutely brilliant. Unless of course, an athlete for whatever reason misses his nightly massage.” Greenberg paused, confident in his hypothesis. “Let’s say the team’s star running back keeps on slugging down the juice, but gets hurt and goes home for some tender loving care. His testosterone is still high, yet he doesn’t receive the masking agent, and overnight his T:E ratio goes haywire.” Greenberg again paused for effect. “Not a problem, unless some hometown physician starts ordering every test known to man to treat the common cold.” He looked up towards the ceiling. “May he rest in peace.”
