Twelve Men in the Huddle, page 7
“Well, it’s certainly quiet at night,” said Pete. “And the traffic isn’t that bad, even on weekends.”
“You’re in for a great season,” said Connor as he put his hand around Pete’s shoulder. “I hope you enjoy it, because it has all the makings of a good movie.”
“Maybe a bad B-movie,” said Eugene.
Just then the overhead air raid siren went off, lasting for about thirty seconds. The warning was followed by the voice of Coach Hayes.
“All right, listen up people! This is Coach Buford B. Hayes. It seems like the heat is getting to everyone this morning. We’ve had a few skirmishes already, and it’s not even noontime. So how about we all go for a little run?”
“I’m out,” said Connor while hopping back up on the exam table.
“Let’s everybody stop what they’re doing, reflect on their purpose, and head on over to the Motivational Course behind the mess hall. There you will find Assistant Coach Avery, who will jettison you on a six mile run through paradise.”
“I’ll start setting up the I.V. bags already,” said Piper. “They will be dropping like flies out there.”
“That goes for you too,” barked Hayes. “The boy from Tampa Bay in the trainer’s room, get on out there son.”
“Oh great,” said Eugene. “A message from my deadbeat dad.”
“And listen up people,” said coach. “Watch out for old Emma at the four mile mark. She’s the fourteen-footer with the gouge in her tail. Emma’s a nasty one, so stay on the path. She’s a bit protective of that old stink hole she lives in. All right?”
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” said Connor to Pete. “He’s just starting to warm up. It’s only preseason.”
Just then the scratchy sound of an old record came over the speaker system, the first in a series of phonograph records blasting gospel music throughout the island. The team ran for the next two hours in the oppressive heat. Twenty players required intravenous hydration afterwards.
Later that evening, Jamal described the events leading up to the punter’s groin kick. “It was some crazy drill being run by Coach Avery,” said Jamal to his cellmate. “Kind of like a sumo wrestling bout, with each player trying to oust the other from a dirt circle.” The two physicians were in their bunks, trying to adjust to the heat.
“Sounds brutal,” said Pete. “Especially when you consider the size of the average Tulsa player. You played collegiate ball Jamal, are these guys standard proportion for Division I football?”
“Yes and no… yes for the offensive lineman, they’re big everywhere. But for all the others, the answer is no. I mean everybody is ripped down here, not an ounce of fat on their frames.”
“Must be Doc Harper’s GameChanger,” said Pete. “Piper said it’s available nationwide and becoming the paragon for a lot of football programs.”
“Yea,” said Jamal with some doubt. “I’ve seen his program used out west, but not with such dramatic results. Maybe it’s just the combination of everything, but whatever it is, it’s working.”
“So how did The Twister and Eugene get tangled up together?”
“Oh yea,” said Jamal. “Tyrone was tossing people out of the circle one by one. The guy is an animal. Everyone started to laugh when Coach Avery told Eugene to get into the pit. At first he refused, but then another defensive end tossed him into the fray.”
“Eugene is the exception to the buffed rule,” said Pete. “I like the kid.”
“Tyrone started to make fun of him before any bodily contact. Called him a “girly man” and “princess”, stuff like that. You can tell it was getting to Eugene, along with the heat. He looks like a sensitive kid.”
“Agree.”
“Well Tyrone started to slowly approach Eugene, who looked like he was ready to fill his pants. Then suddenly the punter pulled off some sort of a karate combo. They later called it a sweep, round kick combo. The sweep knocked Mr. Tubbs off balance and the round kick hit him dead on the face. He went down like a bowling pin.”
“Wow!” said Pete imagining the maneuver. “A victory for all the underdogs in the world.”
“Right. Apparently Eugene was tired of being pummeled the prior season and took some karate classes. It paid off.”
“Then what?”
“Tyrone bull rushed him, but was met with some sort of a front kick to the gut. He went down for the second time and the crowd went crazy.”
“Was Coach Hayes around?”
“No, he was across the field but the noise caught his attention. He began a quick trot on Ole Whitey towards the fight.”
“And?”
“Tyrone went berserk. He charged Eugene like he was trying to open up a new can of quarterback. I mean no kick was going to stop him. He steamrolled the punter to the ground and drove his forearms up into his chin. For a few seconds a cloud of dust covered the blast zone. I thought the hit actually killed Eugene. ”
“How did he recover?”
“He didn’t, until Tyrone discharged a nasty load of spit into his face. It was putrid.”
“Oh lovely, an exchange of bodily fluid.”
“So Eugene went berserk. He took a fistful of dirt and whipped it into Tyrone’s eyes, causing him to scream and roll off him. Then, when Tyrone stumbled to his feet, the groin kick occurred. He never saw it coming, an unobstructed kick from a punter to the crotch. Tyrone moaned and dropped to his knees, gasping for air.”
“It was over?”
“It should have been. Eugene turned to leave the circle but was pushed back in. They wouldn’t let him out. It gave Tubbs enough time to recover. He unleashed a flurry of punches, and a tremendous blow caught Eugene in the right temporal skull, causing him to drop. Tyrone then dragged him out of the circle.”
“Oh my God! Sounds like ancient Roman times.”
“His hand swelled up like a pumpkin,” said Jamal. “It must be broken. But it was more of a blow to his genitals and ego. That hurt the most.”
“All players report to their cells immediately. Lock down. Lock down. Rrrrrrr…”
After the nightly blessing by Coach Hayes over the P.A. system, the two surgeons lay quietly in their bunks, trying to make sense of the day. An owl hooted loudly just outside their window. Suddenly, a hulking figure appeared in their doorway, the moon casting an eerie shadow across the floor.
“Hey you two, get up,” said the unfamiliar voice.
“What, what the hell is going on?”
“I said get up. Mr. Tubbs is requesting your presence.”
“Mr. Tubbs? Tyrone Tubbs?”
“Yea, that’s right, Mr. Tubbs. A shipment of cold beer just came in from the mainland, and the party is about the start. He wants you two in the mix. So get a move on. Follow me.”
The two fellows obliged and followed the monstrous lineman down a series of moonlit hallways, to officially meet the man they called The Twister.
Chapter Seven
THE BEAT REPORTER
“It’s a proven recipe for success,” said the trainer to Hal Green. They were standing next to each other in the Harper Performance Center, with a red shirt freshman doing squats beside them. “It’s simply called the GameChanger, and Doc Harper developed the routine over the past ten years.”
“I see,” said Green while nodding and watching the student athlete begin a series of leg presses on a machine. “I’m new to this, so give me some physiology behind the process.”
“It’s a one year process, and a solid cardio base is the foundation. Players begin a running program based on mileage, not speed. The program slowly increases the distance every other week. Off days place the athlete on a stationary bike or in the pool. We want their heart rate at 80% maximum for at least forty minutes, five days a week.”
“Wow,” said Green, now jotting down some notes. “A lofty goal. Don’t you think?”
“No. Remember, these are nineteen and twenty year old kids. They basically have no limit.”
“Right. O.K., so cardiac conditioning is step one.”
“The next step is proper nutrition,” continued the trainer. While speaking she moved her hands in slow fashion, inadvertently showing off her toned arms. She wore a short sleeve, white nylon shirt with a black HPC logo and I.D. tag. Her name was Parker. “Over the years we’ve dialed back on the carbohydrate loading, and concentrated more on protein. As the muscle recovers, it needs protein.”
“How about hydration? I’m hearing a lot about that down here.”
“Yes, of course. Hydration is paramount, especially down south. We emphasize water and glucose drinks before and during a workout, especially if it exceeds forty-five minutes.”
“Harper Cider?”
“Of course,” said Parker with a smile. “Protein recovery drinks however dominate the post run routine. During dinner we also encourage all athletes to drink green tea.”
“Tea? Isn’t that a diuretic?
“Yes, but green tea is loaded with polyphenols called catechins, which are powerful antioxidants. A single cup provides between twenty to forty milligrams of this antioxidant.”
“And this catechin, if I pronounced it correctly, is beneficial?”
“Absolutely. A cup of green tea delivers antioxidant effects greater than a serving of broccoli, spinach, carrots or strawberries. But it has to be green tea, not black. And the longer you steep it, the more potent.”
“Very good information,” continued the reporter. “Can you tell me a bit about the use of any supplements in the GameChanger?”
“Parker!” shouted a voice from behind. “Sorry I’m late, I’ll take over.”
“Thanks Lance,” said the young therapist. “It was a pleasure talking to you Mr. Green. Enjoy your stay on campus. Go Tarps!”
Hal Green turned about to meet the head trainer of the HPC team. Like Pete and Jamal, he was immediately struck by Lance’s physical presence. He wore a tight pair of khaki paints around a thirty-four inch waist, and a white HPC logo shirt straining to contain his massive shoulders. His chin and forehead were prominent, as were veins protruding from his hairy arms.
“Lance Tucker,” said the trainer while extending a handshake. “Sorry I’m late.”
“No problem,” said Green. “Parker was very informative. We were just going over basics of the GameChanger when you arrived.”
“Great. It definitely works. The results speak for themselves. Just look around. We’re ranked number one in the nation.”
“I see,” said Green, already missing Parker’s less confrontational style. “We were just starting to touch upon any supplements the athletes use in the GameChanger.”
“What do you mean by supplements?” asked Lance, as he casually stroked his left bicep with his right hand. “I mean they all take vitamins, and of course creatine. That’s all approved.”
“Does the school provide the creatine for the athletes?”
“No,” snapped Lance. “Not allowed. Everybody knows that.”
“I see.”
“Listen Mr. Green, Division I athletes by and large have been taking creatine since their high school days. Dehydration is the only major side effect from creatine, which is prevented by hydration. Constant hydration. Push the fluids. That’s the mantra around here.”
“I’m going to be quite direct with you Lance,” said Green, betting a head on approach with the trainer would work best. “Five years ago your average lineman weighed 270 pounds, now the average is 320 pounds. Five years ago your average running back weighed 210 pounds, and now it’s 240 pounds. The trend continues down the entire rooster, except for the kicking team. How do you explain that?”
“Hard work, desire, commitment and dedication,” growled the trainer. “These boys are humping it in here all year, putting their hearts and soul into the program. There is no short cut Mr. Green. The only place where success appears before work is in the dictionary. Understand? the GameChanger works, period!”
“I see,” said Green. “Have the results been replicated elsewhere? I’m aware that the GameChanger can be purchased. To my understanding several other major university athletic departments have bought into the program. Are the results similar elsewhere?”
“Who the hell cares Mr. Green? As long as Tulsa Valley is on top of the standings and winning the war in the trenches, it doesn’t matter. I know it works in Louisiana. The results speak for themselves.”
“Interesting.”
“Any other questions?” asked Lance. “If not, I’ve got to get back down south with the team.”
“Yes,” said Green. “Any chance of me spending a few days down in the so called Badlands? The place sounds utterly fascinating.”
“No,” retorted Tucker without hesitation. “That’s a Coach Hayes’ rule. There hasn’t been a reporter on the island since 1970, when some idiot journalist got cute with an article. He misquoted Coach Hayes. Sorry.”
“I see,” said Green. “Well thank you Lance. Our conversation has been quite informative. I look forward to speaking to you in the future.”
“All right,” said the trainer with a spin away. He left through a rear exit door.
Hal Green wandered around the HPC complex for another thirty minutes, occasionally talking to a college student working out in the gym. Their unbridled optimism lifted his spirits, prompting him to take a walk around the football complex, just down the block. Perhaps he would try to lose a few pounds while on assignment.
Although early August, a buzz of activity surrounded the stadium, with multiple venders readying the facility. Just outside the main gate he met one of the groundskeepers, who had the appearance of longevity. His name was Percy Brown.
“That’s right,” said Brown. “I played for Tulsa Valley back in the day. I was a senior, when Coach Hayes was a freshman.” Despite the heat he wore long brown pants, boots and a light brown shirt. A green Tulsa Valley hat sat atop his head. Outside of his back pocket hung a white handkerchief.
“I see,” said Green. “How long have you been a groundskeeper here in the stadium?”
“Oh, this is coming up on fifty years,” said Percy with a wide smile. “Hard to believe. I majored in Agriculture, and the job was open. So I took it.”
“Tell me about Coach Hayes,” said Green. “Back in the sixties, what was he like?”
“Oh he was a good athlete, strong and fast. The coach played on both sides of the ball, but his best position was strong safety. He may still hold the school’s interception record, but don’t quote me on that, the memory is slipping a bit. I do know he was a local product, just like me. Back then, a lot of us were from the state of Louisiana.”
“So you were on the last national championship team?”
“That’s right son. We won it all my senior year, against Southern State. I recovered a fumble that game, on the thirty-six yard line. It’s still my favorite patch of grass out there. In fact, I’ve got a lucky Buffalo nickel buried on that spot. It’s still out there!”
“Very interesting,” said Green. “I’m sure that’s a memory you’ll never forget.”
“Never,” replied Percy. “I promised not to dig up the coin until we won another championship, so it’s still buried. Hard to believe fifty years have gone by since that fumble recovery.”
“That’s a long time.”
“We’ve all been waiting patiently for another championship,” said Percy. “But time may be running out for a lot of us. Including me and the coach, so I hope this is finally the year, especially for Coach Hayes, who although was on the team back then, was a redshirt freshman.”
“So he didn’t play in the last championship game?”
“Right. He didn’t even suit up for the game. That still bothers the coach.”
“What else can you tell me about the coach?” asked Green. “Was he as colorful back then as a student-athlete?”
“Nah, he was real steady back then. Liked to drink a bit, but we all did. Believe it or not we had an old still down in the Badlands, brewed our own hooch. Good stuff,” said Percy with a wink.
“Moonshine?”
“Yep, white lightning. Made it out of corn mash. We even had a cornfield down there. Heck, looking back I loved that place. I hear it’s just about the same. Coach Hayes likes it that way.”
Over the next half hour Hal Green pumped old Percy for any additional information he could provide about Tulsa Valley. The news writer learned of Coach Hayes’ local pedigree including his father-in-law, a disgraced former judge caught running drugs up north in the state. He learned of the coach’s enlistment in the Marine Corps, including a highly decorated tour in Vietnam. Percy filled him in on coach’s love for President Rutherford B. Hayes, and the Reconstruction project he led. Lastly, he spent a great deal of time talking about Coach Hayes’ children, seven in all, with only one remaining in town.
“His whole life is football,” said Percy. “We just have to win the championship for him this year. Coach Hayes is Tulsa Valley football.”
“What about a boy named Billy Morris?” asked Green. “Tell me about him.”
“Oh Billy Mo, he was one of my favorites. Let’s just keep it at that,” said Percy, as he looked down. “They done him wrong.” He wouldn’t answer any more questions regarding Morris.
Next, the groundskeeper took the correspondent on a tour of the field, which was in immaculate condition. Percy didn’t believe in a sprinkler system and watered the grass everyday with a long fire hose.
“It soaks the roots better,” said Percy. “And it’s relaxing too.”
“Well Mr. Brown, thanks for the tour and great conversation,” said Green. “What a wonderful facility you have here. I can tell you are proud of it.”
“Sure I am,” said Percy. “It’s home to me too. The pleasure has been all mine.”
“Mr. Brown, do you mind if I talk to you in the future? Throughout the season I mean? You seem to have an unlimited wealth of information about the Tulsa Valley Tarpons.”
“Yes, yes. No problem,” said the groundskeeper. “And please, call me Percy.”
“Thank you Percy.”
Hal Green next made his way over to the Jackson Gin Hole for a late lunch. The air conditioning inside was a welcomed respite, as was the cold draft beer. He sat at the bar, watching a national sport’s show on TV. The segment coincidentally was on the Tulsa Valley team and their latest pre-season ranking. Speaking to the camera was Coach Hayes.
