Twelve Men in the Huddle, page 33
Harper just sighed, knowing he was in deep trouble. Schmeckle, what kind of a name is Schmeckle?
“Your motive was obvious,” said Greenberg. “A championship team would skyrocket sales for the GameChanger and Tarpon-T itself, which was on the verge of being marketed nationwide. Correct?”
Harper didn’t answer.
“Actually I liked the original name first – Harper Cider. It gave kudos to the drink’s founding father.”
“I’d like to call my attorney,” said Harper.
“The only thing that surprises me is that Clint Benson was clean,” said Greenberg with a shake of his head. “I had him pegged as the kingpin, but he was just your average booster, awash with cash and goofy over a football team. He tried to have me pin it on Lance Tucker, but before I could write the article, someone came up with an alternative alibi, which made sense. Lance would have given up a kidney for the team, so he readily took the fall.”
“May I call my attorney?”
“I suggest you do,” answered Greenberg. “But don’t bother calling your girlfriend. She’s already in custody.”
Harper froze. The two combatants made absolute eye contact.
“Dr. Piper Hayes-Hicks. It has a catchy ring to it. I’m glad she received her doctorate.”
Harper put his phone down.
“Now, Dr. Piper Hayes-Hicks-Harper, that’s a bit much. Don’t you think so doctor?”
The special agent took some papers out of a briefcase and tossed them down on the table. Harper immediately recognized his wife’s divorce filing.
“I believe you may recognize this document?” said Greenberg. “It’s an ‘at fault’ divorce filing, with the ‘fault’ being adultery.”
Harper deferred on acknowledging the existence of the legal document. He returned his attention to the phone, and began dialing.
“I’m sure you’ve read it,” said Greenberg. “As you know, the Louisiana higher courts have stated you must at least show the time and place the adultery took place, as well as the name of the other party if known.”
“Yea, it’s me,” said the physician over the phone.
“Well it’s certainly all stated in this public document, quite graphically I may add… along with the name of the other party, that being Piper Hayes-Hicks.”
“Get down here now,” said Harper.
“She said she did it for her father,” said Greenberg. “Which I believe.” He paused. “Unfortunately, despite her good intentions, a felony was committed.”
Harper folded his arms across his chest, and took a deep breath, followed by a sigh.
“Yet despite all the facts I’ve laid out,” said Greenberg. “You still almost got away with it. Until I came across the final piece of the puzzle – some actual evidence.”
Harper stared back.
“Don’t you want to know the final piece of evidence Dr. Harper, that will surely put you in prison?”
“No,” said Harper. “I’ve heard enough.”
“Well I’ll tell you while we wait for your attorney to arrive. You see yesterday evening, during the big game, we conducted a series of raids in the area. My target was the mystical Badlands, in search of some Harper Cider laced with dianabol, which up until that point was only a theory.”
Harper shifted in his seat. He personally disposed of every last bottle of tainted Badland cider.
“I came upon a most surreal scene that involved your sports fellow and the school’s former Sports Information Director. I’ll be quite honest doctor, even I was caught off guard by the spectacle.”
Harper’s interest was aroused.
“They were in some sort of a prison cell tryst when we burst in,” said Greenberg. “By definition, a conjugal visit between two consenting adults.”
Harper cocked his eyebrow, wondering where Wagner had disappeared to during the game.
“I hated to spoil the moment,” lamented Greenberg. “A real life Badland romp.” He paused, as if replaying the visual in his mind. “But I can assure you Dr. Harper, that your apprentice no longer suffers from the malady you bestowed upon him.”
“What malady?”
“The LMNOP syndrome.”
Harper just stared blankly back.
“The LMNOP syndrome? You’ve never heard of it?”
“No.”
“Really? It’s kind of an acronym of visual sorts. Regarding the paltry man zone of a steroid abuser.”
Harper checked his watch without saying another word. He refused to accept a medical lesson from a layperson.
“Well, let me reassure you doctor. Peter Wagner has one robust set of potatoes,” said Greenberg. “And, after saving a life, stopping a speeding bus, staring down a female packing a pistol and surviving a prison cell extraction, I can assure you – they must be made out of brass.”
Harper remained silent.
“Really, if you think about it.”
Chapter Thirty Five
TWELVE MEN IN THE HUDDLE
“I still can’t believe it,” said Pete. “What are the odds?” He was in the aisle seat of a plane, having just departed Tulsa. In front of him was a copy of the Tulsa Eagle, the lead article trying to recap the recent events. The headline read in bold print: “DEA Sting Operation Code Named – Twelve Men in the Huddle.” It was two weeks since the big game.
“It was meant to be,” said Heather. The plane rapidly rose above light cloud cover, yet she continued to gaze outward. It was eight o’clock in the morning.
“I mean, you and Hal Green visit the Badlands during preseason, where Clint Benson gives you some complimentary Harper Cider unknowingly laced with steroids…”
“I drink all of them over time except two bottles…”
“Which you spontaneously toss into your travel bag, skip the big game, hop on a bus to nowhere, which I hijack on a deserted highway…”
“We somehow end up in a prison cell with a bottle of wine, only to have a brigade of armed federal agents toss our bare bodies to the ground…”
“And there we meet the real Hal Green, or should I say Hal Greenberg,” said Pete with a shake of his head. “Up until then, only President Davis knew his true identity.”
“Agent Greenberg explains his reasoning for the rude interruption…”
“And like magic, you pull two bottles of Harper Cider out of your travel bag. The look on his face was priceless.”
“And you notify him of the trainer’s cream, tainted with epitestosterone.”
“Manna from heaven.”
“I really thought he was just a writer,” said Heather. “A goofy and quirky lover of syntax.”
“Jamal was right,” replied Pete. “He wasn’t from California. His only mistake was the ‘hinges of hell’ comment. He was born and raised in Baton Rouge.”
“I hear Brianna left town with him.”
“Really? Good for her. I like that girl.”
“She’s a real pistol,” said Heather with a smile. “The only other girl in town who could ride old Lucifer to the very end.”
“Ole,” said Pete.
“I’m just glad for Billy Mo. He helped save the day.”
“And rightfully restored his name to a place of prominence in Tarpon history. The article said he was offered a position as an assistant coach.”
“He already accepted the position. Assistant defensive coordinator.”
“Wow,” said Pete. “Good for him. Both ways Billy and Bambi, now that has a ring to it.”
“Don’t push it Wagner. Which by the way, reminds me of the engagement ring. Where is it?”
“She has it,” said Pete while reaching into his pocket. “But don’t worry, I’ve got a new good luck charm.” He pulled out a coin, wrapped in aluminum foil and plastic. “It’s Percy’s buffalo nickel, he dug it up after the game.”
“Oh my God,” said Heather as she carefully unveiled the artifact.
“Percy claims the Twister leveled the quarterback on the exact spot where he recovered a fumble fifty years ago.”
“Where the nickel was buried, right?”
“Exactly. He’s sure it played a role in the fumble.”
“Why did he give it to you?”
“He said I saved the kicker’s life.”
“You did.”
“I relocated his clavicle,” said Pete.
“They’re calling you ‘The Messiah.’”
“Who?”
“The Tarpon Nation… the newspaper,” said Heather while pointing down at the article. “Right here, see? The Messiah.”
“Yea, yea,” said Pete. “Let’s not get carried away. I did what needed to be done. The kid was in serious trouble.”
“The Messiah,” said Heather as she leaned into Pete’s shoulder. “A bit heady, but I kind of like it. You’re definitely coming to my high school reunion next month.”
“Is that an invite?”
“Oh hi,” said Heather in mock conversation. “I’d like you to meet my date – The Messiah.”
Pete just shook his head and laughed, returning his attention to the article. A somber picture of Clint Benson appeared midway through the recap, proclaiming his innocence in the whole affair. The mogul was rumored to have missed out on a fortune in the fallout, yet vowed to continue supporting the team unconditionally. In fact, for a limited time only, anyone visiting one of his coffee shops would receive a free doughnut with their order – as long as they hollered “Go Tarps!”
“Sure, you can just call him the Messiah,” mumbled Heather.
The article went on to describe the members of the steroid cabal, which included Dr. Harper, Trainer Piper Hayes-Hicks and her father, Coach Buford B. Hayes. Their scheme, which involved cyclic loading of anabolic steroids during summer camp at the Badlands, had been going on for four years. No mention was made of the extramarital affair between Harper and Hayes-Hicks.
“Why would he do such a thing?” asked Pete to himself.
“Who?”
“Doc Harper. He had it all.”
“Greed, lust, fame – the usual ingredients,” replied Heather. “I’d put lust first. Piper probably got into his head, wanting to get her father a championship trophy.”
“I’m just glad Connor Kelly’s name was cleared.”
“Me too,” said Heather. “That’s the best thing to have come out of this whole mess. Everyone is happy for him.”
“The article doesn’t mention much about Lance, and his cross-contamination alibi. I wonder why?”
“It was a smokescreen,” replied Heather. “I’m sure Piper came up with it. Lance would die for Tulsa Valley, so taking the blame was a no brainer.”
Pete continued to read the article, which included a pictorial timeline of the greater than fifty year presence of Coach Hayes on campus. The first photo was a black and white from his freshman year, a thin boy from the bayou with a broad grin. Next was a snapshot of a senior co-captain, standing in the Badlands, with a look of strength and confidence. There was the 1969 game at Southern State, when as assistant offensive coordinator he called for a “flea flicker” pass to win the game, the young wonder coach being carried off the field by his team. A 1975 image captured the coach on the sideline, his scowl firm into the head wind of a hurricane soaking the field. A 1984 picture showed him handing the game ball to President Ronald Reagan, the “Gipper” laughing after hearing a crisp one-liner from the coach. Another photo pictured Hayes on horseback wearing a broad rimmed hat, watching over the team during a summer practice. A final picture had him walking alongside Mrs. Hayes on their way to Sunday service, where they sat together in the same pew for fifty years.
“Well, Coach Hayes finally won the championship,” said Pete. “What a shame. The definition of bittersweet.”
“I’m not sure he knew exactly what was going on,” said Heather. “At least not the full extent of it.”
“I agree,” said Pete. “I’m sure Piper watered the details down a bit. But regardless, he was involved. This was his program, and he ran every aspect of it. No one made a decision without his consent.”
“He had a press conference scheduled for yesterday, but it was cancelled,” said Heather. “They’re saying he’s a bit confused, perhaps some early dementia.”
“Or a good legal team,” quipped Pete. “We’re not going to be hearing from the coach anymore, at least not off script.”
“I just hope the powers that be let the final score stand,” said Heather. “Both teams played their hearts out.”
“I hope so,” said Pete. “The players weren’t involved in this mess. They shouldn’t suffer for the actions of a few.”
“I fully agree.”
“It just goes to show you,” said Pete. “Every day is just a role of the dice, and snake eyes is just a way of life.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“From an old football coach I used to know.”
“Peter, please do not start…”
“Remember, if everything is coming your way, you’re in the wrong lane.”
“I said, please do not start quoting…”
“If you walk in the pasture long enough, you’re bound to step in a cow patty.”
“Peter!”
“You can’t have chicken salad, without the chicken shit.”
“Stop it Wagner!” yelled Heather. She started to shake his shoulders. “Stop it right now! Do you hear me?”
“I can’t help it,” said Pete, holding both hands to his head. “All of those crazy sayings are rattling around in my skull. I’ve been compromised. Post-traumatic stress disorder!”
“One more Bufordism, and I’m getting off this plane,” said Heather with a pointed finger. “Knock it off.” She stared at him. “Let it go Pete. Please. Just let it go.”
“All right, all right,” said Pete. “I’ll try my best. But it’s going to take a while to detox.”
“Thank you,” said Heather while calming herself. “I do appreciate your effort. Now, tell me about Philadelphia. I’ve never been there.”
“It’s the City of Brotherly Love.”
“Yea, I know that.”
“That says it all. There can be no better moniker for a city.”
“All right, but what about the hospital? How did you get me a job so quickly in their marketing department?”
“The Philadelphia General is the paragon of all medical centers in the country,” said Pete. “It’s the Promised Land. The Messiah is returning to the Promised Land as a lowly assistant professor – for the next ten years.”
“Well I can see this conversation is going nowhere,” said Heather. She reached into her bag and pulled out a visitor’s guide to Philadelphia. “Regardless, I’ve highlighted all the sights I wanted to see before starting the new job.”
“Oh really?” said Pete. “Let’s hear it.”
“So far I’ve got the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, The Philadelphia Zoo, the Museum of Art and the Rocky Statue, and oh yea, the Betsy Ross House.” While reading the list a look of excitement was in her eyes. “I’d love to see Longwood Gardens in the spring. I hear it is beautiful there.”
Pete just stared at the woman seated beside him. Thank goodness he flagged that bus down.
“I’d like to have lunch at the Reading Terminal Market. You’re not a true Philadelphian without having a cheesesteak there. At least that’s what this travel guide says. You know I’m a meat person. But isn’t Reading a different town in Pennsylvania? Why is a market in Philadelphia named Reading?”
She was the best he thought. Energy was exuding from her frame.
“My backup list includes Valley Forge and the Italian Market, maybe the Penn Museum. Isn’t that near the Philadelphia General Hospital?”
He continued to stare and smile.
“What? What are you staring at Wagner? Why are you smiling?”
He wanted to tell her she was as cute as a box of puppies, but he held his tongue.
“What’s going on inside that head of yours?”
“Nothing Miss Jackson.”
“What? Spit it out.”
He didn’t respond.
“Pete, talk to me. You’re in a trance.”
“I’m just glad I did the most irrational thing in my life,” said Pete. “Going after the bus to get you. Thanks for the second chance.”
“I’m glad you did too,” said Heather with a pat of his hand. “You’re very welcome Peter.” She returned her gaze to the brochure. “What about South Street? I hear it’s a hotspot. And boathouse row, I want to get a picture of that at nighttime. Is that possible? And what’s with this food called scrapple, is it any good? I’ve heard of Philly pretzels, but never scrapple. It doesn’t look good.”
As she went on, he continued to listen, while thinking of everyone back in Tulsa, Louisiana. He was going to miss the cast of characters left behind, and their beloved football team. Too bad it ended so quickly. Another chapter in life he thought, with a peculiar twist. His dad always told him it was the journey, not the destination, and he was right. While looking past Heather he stared out the window, watching the sunrise. It was going to be a beautiful day in Philadelphia.
THE END
About the Author
Dr. Michael Banas completed his undergraduate studies at the University of Scranton. He then attended the University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine followed by an Orthopedic residency at the University of Rochester. His final year of surgical training took him to Los Angeles where he completed a Sports Medicine Fellowship at the Southern California Orthopedic Institute. Dr. Banas currently resides in Dallas, PA with his wife and six children. He specializes in Orthopedic Surgery and Sports Medicine.
Michael Banas, Twelve Men in the Huddle
