Twelve Men in the Huddle, page 5
The cowpoke sauntered her way through the adoring crowd towards the bar, her hands rubbing her behind. A few patrons patted her on the back. On her face was a fabulous smile.
“Not bad for my first time,” was her line to Pete. “Must be beginner’s luck.”
“That was amazing!” said Pete.
“Yea Heather. Thank you,” said the bartender while running the back of his hand across his mouth. “Thank you very much.”
“Now Dr. Wagner. I believe we had a little bargain.” She placed her right arm around the doctor’s waist. “Would you like to tell me about Chloe Brown?”
The duo headed towards a side booth, where they slid in together on the same side. While doing so Heather inadvertently depressed the keyboard on the cellphone wedged into her back pocket. Unknowingly, she butt dialed Billy Mo.
Billy was just three miles down the road, behind the checkout counter of Big Jim’s service station. He brought the cell to his ear and said ‘hello’, but no one answered. At first it was just static.
“I wanted the filtered pack of cigarettes,” said the inpatient woman in front of him. “Are you deaf or something?”
“I’m sorry ma’am,” said Billy while holding the phone between his ear and shoulder. He turned back to the tobacco display cabinet overhead.
“Do you want the two for one special we’re running this week? It applies to all brands. Two packs of smokes for the price of one.”
“Yo, Billy!” shouted a patron sticking his head in the front door. “Twenty dollars on pump number one. O.K.?”
“Sure Reggie. Pump one. Got it.”
“Go Tarps!” shouted Reggie.
“Well if it’s two packs for the price of one, sure. Who wouldn’t want a free pack? You know, you shouldn’t be allowed to talk on the phone at work. It’s impolite.”
“Sorry ma’am,” said Billy to the patron. “Have a nice evening. Thanks for coming to Big Jim’s.” He handed her the cigarettes.
Over the next twenty minutes Billy Mo listened in on a conversation between the woman he loved and a broken hearted surgeon. He learned of a woman named Chloe, the daughter of a prominent attorney back home. They met during a hospital gala, and their relationship blossomed over the next four years. On the last day of residency training, he surprised her with an engagement ring, which she readily accepted. Their future was undeniably bright. Yet, on the day of their wedding announcement, their plans together were destroyed amid unconscionable deceit, a spur of the moment act of unadulterated passion between Chloe and another man – witnessed by the young doctor. He never saw it coming. She never gave back the diamond ring. How could such a thing happen, just six months ago?
“Maybe the best thing that ever happened to me was getting away from it all. You know, coming to Louisiana,” said a dejected Pete Wagner. “I’m really hurting.”
“I think you’re right,” said Heather in a tone of comfort. Some static began to garble her voice. “I’m sure I can help you forget about Chloe. Kind of ease your pain. Don’t you think?”
Suddenly, the firm, steady grind of her buttocks on the leather chair terminated the call.
Chapter Five
THE STATE OF THE NATION
“You what?” asked Jamal walking in stride next to Pete. “Are you nuts?” It was Saturday night as they walked through the campus.
“You heard me, I’m going back to the Badlands.”
“It’s not mandatory, is it?”
“No. Doc Harper never had a fellow request to go back after the initiation week. I’m the first.”
“Well congratulations and count me out,” said a relieved Dr. Lewis as he stared down at his cell phone. An application was leading the duo to the school’s Presidential Estate for dinner. “Turn right at the next block and we should be there.”
“I know it sounds strange, but I was at peace there,” said Pete. “You know, the whole Chloe thing. I found solace in that prison cell.”
“I thought you found solace in that booth last night with Heather. By the way, was that an official lap dance?”
“Nothing happened last night,” said Pete. “Trust me. I’ve met Billy Mo. He is a big man. But don’t change the subject, I’m heading back to the Badlands.”
“Not me,” said Jamal. “I found some nasty black spiders in the cell. Besides, I was made in Los Angeles and appreciate the comforts of city life. It’s kind of creepy down there Pete. You’ve got a hundred men in an old prison, oppressive heat, large shower rooms and mandatory massages. I’d watch your back. That Lance guy is a bit weird if you ask me.”
“You can’t stop me,” said Pete with a smile. “Maybe I’ll start working out with the team. You know, bulk up. I still have four years of football eligibility.”
“Another thing,” said Jamal as they stood in front of the President’s estate. “My cell phone app doesn’t recognize the so called Badlands. That dirt road doesn’t exist and overhead satellite images fail to show any of the buildings. You can see the bridge going over the bayou, but nothing on the island. It’s like the place doesn’t exist.”
“Nothing on satellite?”
“That’s right. Nothing. No football fields. No buildings. Nothing.”
“Hmmm. Must have been a cloudy day.”
“Not a cloud in the sky,” said Jamal. “That place is like a secret military base.”
“Run by a man on horseback!”
The president’s home overlooked the campus, situated on a northern ridge, with a commanding view of the school. As Pete and Jamal approached the portico, a doorman dressed in a tuxedo welcomed them inside. He led them through a large oak door and ornate lobby, into the midst of the Tulsa Valley administration. The pre-dinner cocktail party was already in full swing, and a young server immediately offered the physicians some vodka martinis. They recognized Doctor Harper first, talking to a peculiar looking man, dressed in an ill-fitting seersucker suit.
“How old do you think our Harper is?” asked Pete. “Forty five?”
“I’d put him a bit north of that,” said Jamal. “Pushing fifty maybe. I wonder where his wife is?”
“From what I hear, she is …”
“Hey, here comes Heather,” said Jamal. “Now there’s one beautiful woman.”
From across the room approached Heather Jackson, wearing a skirt and white blouse. Her torso moved in perfect motion with her arms and legs. A slight curl was in her hair just above shoulder level.
“Good evening doctors,” said the Sports Information Director, “and welcome to Tulsa Valley’s annual President’s Kickoff Classic.”
Heather explained the evening’s agenda to the two newcomers, beginning with a run down of the dignitaries present. The list included the University President and Dean of Academic affairs, along with the team’s booster club and coaching staff. Coach Hayes was scheduled to appear and give his annual ‘State of the Nation’ address. The cocktail hour would be followed by a five-course meal, with speeches sprinkled between each course. The event marked the beginning of the school’s holiday season, better known as football.
“President Davis, good evening,” said Heather to a tall, lanky man passing by.
Sterling Jefferson Davis was the President of Tulsa Valley for the past twenty-six years. His face was synonymous with the school as were his audacious bow ties. A native of Georgia, he attended undergraduate school at Harvard and earned a doctorate at Princeton. Thick white hair, cropped short, stood erect on his head like the bristles on a scrub brush. A set of wire rim glasses sat above the smile of an eternal optimist. He was the school’s biggest fan. As President he loved to entertain, socialize and imbibe. He never met a Manhattan he didn’t like.
“Heather J,” said the Dean while extending his right hand. “You look as usual, absolutely beautiful.” In his left hand was a tumbler full of whiskey and vermouth.
Heather introduced Pete and Jamal to the school’s leader.
“You couldn’t have dropped in at a better time,” continued President Davis with an energetic bob of his head. “We’re ranked number one in the country. This is our year! Coach Hayes is finally going to bring the national championship back to little ole Tulsa, Louisiana. Right Heather?”
“Absolutely, as long as the team stays healthy.”
“I’m from the same hometown as Connor Kelly,” interjected Pete. “Is he going to be here tonight? I’d like to finally meet him.”
“No, no,” said the President with a quirky grin. “Coach Hayes keeps the team off campus over the next two weeks. They stay focused that way. We have to be ready for the first game. You know, come out strong!”
Two women interrupted the conversation and led the team’s number one fan away, towards a group of donors. Dean Royce Emerson immediately stepped into the vacated space.
“Ms. Jackson,” said the Dean. “Good evening.”
Dean Emerson was a short, slight man, perhaps five and a half feet tall. He wore outdated gold-rimmed glasses, which matched a sports coat and tie from the 1980s, offset by a pair of scuffed brown shoes. His persona exuded dullness. The students called him Dean Royce, and he was not a big football fan.
“And who are these two fine looking young men?” asked the Dean.
Introductions were made followed by the Dean’s dissection of each physician’s academic pedigree. He was readily able to name the top administrators at every university mentioned by Pete and Jamal. His hands were free of spirits.
“Our graduation rate among football players is nearly ninety percent,” said the Dean proudly. “That’s a few clicks above the national average. It’s a track record that both Heather and I are proud of.”
“Very impressive,” said Pete.
“Heather,” said the Dean quietly. “How’s Billy Morris?”
“Oh he is doing great.”
“Billy Morris was one of our greatest running backs ever,” said the Dean. “Unfortunately a bizarre play overshadowed his career accomplishments on the gridiron. But I will say this,” continued the Dean emphatically. “After football ended, he took a full year of night classes, and graduated with a marketing degree. That’s what I remember most about Billy Morris. His commitment to succeed in the classroom.”
“Thank you Dean Royce,” said Heather. “Billy asked me to send his regards, especially to you.”
“Perspective is what we need,” continued the Dean, fueled by the topic. “Not insane hoopla over a sport. I’m all for athletic competition, but we have to keep it in perspective.”
“Yes, yes,” said Pete and Jamal in unison.
“Well hello!” said Lexi Starr as she wedged her way into the group, brushing up against Jamal. “Dean Royce, good evening.”
“Good evening Ms. Starr,” said the Dean, his frown expressing disapproval of her outfit.
The head cheerleader wore a scant fuchsia pullover top made of a near transparent material. Outrageously high heels curved her tight skirt, which barely covered her behind. Her hair was fluffed up as if she came out of a wind tunnel. She immediately discounted the presence of Dean Royce and Heather, while gravitating toward Dr. Lewis. After some small talk, she parted with Jamal in hand, promising to show him the stunning view from the estate’s balcony. Heather tactfully directed Pete towards the bar.
“Wow, the gang’s all here,” said Pete while accepting a refill from the bartender. The room was now at maximum capacity.
“The President is gaga over the team,” said Heather. “So the coaches love him. But not Dean Royce. He isn’t taken in by the craziness of it all. He’s one tough cookie, just waiting for a player to mess up.”
“So Dean Royce is the antithesis of President Davis.”
Suddenly through a side door, Coach Hayes appeared, dressed in casual pants, a shirt and sport’s coat. He looked a bit older in civilian clothes as opposed to the dashing figure on horseback. A buzz went through the crowd as handshakes began to reign down upon the local legend.
“Tell me more about Buford B. Hayes,” said Pete to the woman besides him. Their shoulders were in contact.
“Coach Hayes has been here longer than anyone,” said Heather. “He grew up just south of the campus and attended Tulsa Valley as an student, graduating about fifty years ago. He was a teammate of Grady G. and Bubba, the guard manning the first checkpoint down south.
“The strongest man ever to play,” said Pete. “Bubba that is, according to Doc Harper.”
“Right,” said Heather. “Coach was a redshirt freshman the year the Tarps won their last national championship in football. Ultimately, his senior team made it to the championship game, put lost a heartbreaker in overtime. They’ve never made it back to the big game since.”
“So technically, he has never won a championship, as a player or coach?”
“Correct. After his senior year he joined the coaching staff and worked his way to the top. He’s been the head coach for the past thirty-five years and has no plans to retire, until he wins that elusive national championship. He once told a reporter “only two things can stop me – death or ultimate victory.”
“Spoken like a true football coach.”
“Frankly speaking, I think he wants to die on the sideline,” said Heather. “Oh by the way, if coach asks you the name of the nineteenth President of the United…”
“Rutherford B. Hayes.”
“Yea, how did you know?”
“I love history.”
“There she is,” said Hal Green in approach. “The greatest broncobuster of all time. Wrangler Jackson.”
“Hey, I like that moniker,” said Pete.
“A perk of being a writer is artistic license,” said Green. “I can get away with much more than you can.”
“Who have you met so far?” asked Heather.
“Let’s see,” said Green. “A President Davis who treated me like his long lost nephew. A very nice man.”
“He’s the best.”
“And the team doctor named Harper,” said Green. “Along with that tall fellow in the seersucker. What’s his name again?”
“Oh, that’s Clint Benson,” said Heather. “He’s the head of the team’s Booster Club. The richest man in Tulsa, owns just about everything.”
“Like what?”
“Car dealerships, Laundromats, coffee shops, fast food joints. You name it, and there’s a good chance Clint Benson owns it. He is crazy over the football team. I mean crazy.”
“Dr. Harper was a bit reticent,” said Green. “Is that his nature?”
“Yes,” said Heather. “Especially, if you’re an outsider, yes.”
“Where’s Harper from?” asked the reporter. “His dialect is definitely not southern.”
“San Francisco. All of his training was out west.”
“How did he end up here?”
“His wife,” continued the sports director. “She’s from these parts.”
“Interesting,” said Green.
“Dinner will be served now,” said a waiter making his way through the crowd. “Kindly make your way into the dining room.”
The main dining room of the estate was classic southern, with double doors opening up to a veranda filled with additional tables. A large ornate chandelier graced the main table stretching across the room. Candelabras lit up the room, their flames still in the evening heat. Heavy gold curtains sagged down to meet a gold-rimmed carpet, balanced by a massive mirror above a serving table.
Pete’s invitation placed him at a table with Dr. Harper, an empty seat beside him. Jamal was absent, leaving the two physicians alone in a corner.
“Is Mrs. Harper coming?” asked Pete while enjoying a salad.
“No. Unfortunately a bit under the weather,” said Doc Harper. “Where’s Dr. Lewis?”
“I don’t know,” said Pete. “He went on a tour of the estate.”
President Davis spoke first, in flowery fashion, welcoming everyone to the event. He spoke of high expectations for a team destined for greatness. A champagne toast followed, wishing the coach and team Godspeed.
“Go Tarps!” was the cry, with all glasses raised high.
“He’s a great president,” said Harper while enjoying a chilled gazpacho and cucumber soup. “I hope they win it for him.”
“Expectations are really high around here. That’s kind of dangerous, isn’t it?” asked Pete.
“Yes and no,” said Harper. “This team is loaded with talent. You have to set the bar high. But if they don’t make it, then yes.”
“I see.”
“Pete, about that reporter you were talking to tonight,” said Harper in a muted tone. “I urge you to keep your distance.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just be careful in conversation with anyone from the press. What you say, can and will be used in the public forum. The guy is trying to make a living by writing. The more traffic across his website, the better. So he is looking for a good story. Not just the routine stuff about football. Understand?
“Yes. Sure.”
“Always remember HIPAA regulations. Patient confidentiality is an absolutism.”
“I completely understand Dr. Harper.”
“We have three first round draft picks on our team. Any information regarding their physical condition can cost each one of them millions of dollars,” said Harper with a look into Pete’s eyes. “Do not, I repeat, do not discuss anything with the press.”
“I fully understand,” said Pete as he looked over his mentor’s shoulder. Hal Green was at a table with Heather and Dean Royce.
The next speaker was Vernon Foster, the school’s Athletic Director. He spoke of the national attention focusing upon Tulsa, and the need for all those involved with the program to respond. He complimented Dean Royce for an outstanding job over the summer, with all players academically eligible for the upcoming season. Lastly, he acknowledged Hal Green in the crowd, asking each member of the Tulsa football nation to respect his presence over the next six months. A second toast followed Foster’s remarks.
