Twelve Men in the Huddle, page 8
“We got Derrick Smith at Q.B., and call him the D-train. In the backfield is the Cannonball. It’s not rocket science down here in the bayou. Our nightly prayer includes three yards and a cloud of dust.”
“This is our season,” commented the female bartender. She had a worn out look on a sunburned face, and a set of thick dried lips. Her hair was held back tight in a ponytail. “I’m in love with Connor Kelly.”
“You from around these parts?”
“Yea,” said the bartender with a lean towards the reporter. There were no other patrons at the bar. “Grew up in a town about twenty miles north. Been a Tarp fan all my life.”
“Mr. Tubbs is looking fantastic in camp,” said the coach to the nation. “You know The Twister is the grandson of Bubba Tubbs, my old teammate at Tulsa Valley. Bubba was the strongest man ever to wear a Tarpon uniform…”
“Do a lot of players come in here?”
“All the time,” said the bartender. “Once they come up from the Badlands, this place will be packed. It’s the school’s favorite watering hole.”
“How much longer are they going to be down there?”
“Two more weeks. Once school starts, they’re all back. That’s when things really heat up.”
“Ever been down there?” asked Hal Green. “To the Badlands I mean.” He noticed the woman to have a rugged attractiveness. It was either that or the heat.
“Believe it or not yea, in my younger days. A bunch of us would sneak down there and party with the team.” She shook her head with a laugh. “Wild times.”
“Oh really?” asked Hal. “Any chance you can tell me about it?”
“Sure,” said the bartender with a smile. “I think the statute of limitation is up by now. Heck, I was barely legal back then. By the way, my name is Brianna. What’s yours?”
“Hal. Hal Green from Los Angeles.”
“How about I get you another drink, Hal Green from Los Angeles. This one is on me. Then we can talk. It’s kind of slow in here today. I’ve been looking for some good company.”
As the bartender headed back to the tap, Hal noticed her beat up blue jeans to fit quit snug. A peace symbol patch was sewn onto her back pocket. This was too easy he thought, everyone in town knows something about the Tulsa Valley team. He already had enough info for a few good stories. The effect of the second beer was starting to take hold, and Brianna was looking trashy hot. His gaze returned to the television screen, where the interview with Coach Hayes was winding down.
“That’s right,” said the coach to the reporter. “Things couldn’t be going better for Tulsa Valley. The weather down here has been just lovely. Everyone is healthy, and we’re going to be darn ready for the first game. Honestly, we’re all happier than a bunch of woodpeckers in a lumber yard.”
“Thanks Coach Hayes,” said the reporter while laughing. “As usual, it’s been a pleasure talking to you.” The newswoman turned towards the camera saying, “Reporting from Tulsa, Louisiana, this is Kylie Coat. Now back to the studio.”
“Thank you Kylie. Ah Coach Hayes, always a great interview. He certainly has a way with words…”
Later that evening Hal Green sat at his desk typing on a computer. It was another steamy night in the bayou. In two days the first article of a series would hit the internet, describing his journey with the Tulsa Valley Tarpons. His introductory words spoke of a rich football tradition with current expectations running high. Brief mention was made of the team’s marquee players, along with their coaching staff and loyal fan base.
The writer’s second floor apartment in the middle of town had no air conditioning. An old fan rotated slowly back and forth atop a side table, in an effort to cool down the occupants. While searching for appropriate syntax, the columnist leaned back on a wooden chair, peering across the room. There, in bed, Brianna was curled up in a fetal position with a light sheet covering her upper torso. Her buttocks were completely exposed, as was the tattoo on her lower lumbar spine. The skin markings were perfectly symmetric, a simple yet pleasing broad V-shaped design, made of wildflowers. Just above the design, in a perfectly centered position, read the words – “The Badlands.”
Chapter Eight
BIG BUSINESS
The powerbrokers gathered together in the V.I.P. box overlooking the fifty-yard line. In attendance were President Davis and the school’s athletic director, Vern Foster. Seated beside Foster was Clint Benson, in his trademark seersucker. Absent was Dean Royce, by design.
“How much again did the school take in?” asked Clint. “Can you repeat that number?”
“Eighty six million,” said the president. “It was a good year. That includes everything – television, concessions, souvenirs, parking.”
While talking the president stared out at a lone groundskeeper slowly watering the turf with a hose. His slow back and forth motion appeared peaceful.
“Holy cow,” said Clint. “Then this year is going to be a record take! I can feel it in my bones.” Clint sensed tension in the room, so his plan was to let the others speak first.
“You must have had a good year too Clint? I can only imagine,” said Foster.
“Well, sure I did,” said Benson with a coy smile. “I mean I don’t have the exact final numbers from my accountant, but we did well. Darn well.”
“Clint, I’m going to be quite frank with you,” said President Davis. “The Board of Trustees wants to break up your monopoly on the team.”
“My monopoly? What monopoly?”
“The food contract, beer contract, clothing apparel,” said Davis. “C’mon Clint, don’t fool with us. We’re all friends. You own it all.”
“At a minimum, they want the opportunity to have some outside bids for the food and concession contract,” said Vern Foster. “A level playing field.”
“Hogwash!” cried Clint. “I’ve been more than generous to the school. Just look around, I’ve built a few of the athletic complexes surrounding this stadium gentlemen. I’ve given millions back. Millions!” The entrepreneur paused to gather his composure. “Outside bids from their struggling companies – that’s what they want.”
“Clint, we are only the messengers,” said President Davis. “What do you want me to tell them?”
“Tell them to kiss my lily white ass. How’s that for an answer Sterling? I’ve been darn good to this team, and to you also.”
“Clint, calm down,” said Foster. “There’s plenty to go around, so let’s just talk this through. Alright?”
Clint Benson’s face continued to glow beet red. The football team and their fan base were his golden goose. All of his companies fed off the hype surrounding the team. Last year he personally cleared eight point six million dollars on the team. Yet, he knew something larger was at stake.
“Clint, I have an idea,” said the president of Tulsa Valley. “As you know, Vern and I have a minority share interest in Dr. Harper’s power juice product coming to market. We both know local sales have been good.”
Benson just stared out the window of the luxury suite. Business as usual he thought.
“Certainly… I mean if you were willing to offer us a more substantial interest in the product, we could perhaps allow the board to go through the bidding motion,” said President Davis.
“Yea Clint,” said Foster. “Make it look real official. Give them the perception of fair trade.”
“We could drag out the process, with delays and such,” said the president. “Yet ultimately give the contract to you.”
“A last minute squeeze out,” added Foster.
“You don’t have to beat around the bush,” replied Clint Benson. “Harper Cider is going to take the country by storm this year, especially with the team on top. Do you two have any idea how lucrative the soft drink market is in this nation? It makes your eighty six million look like pocket change.”
“We know, we know Clint,” said the school’s A.D. “So, if the product takes off, there will be plenty of profit for everyone.”
“You each own a half percent,” said Clint. “I’ll give you each one percent. Tops! That’s enough money to spend in three life times gentlemen.”
“We’ll settle for four percent each,” said President Davis. “I mean Clint, think about it. We’ve got a great thing going. Vern and I aren’t going anywhere. Now you on the other hand, are expendable with regards to the running of this football franchise.”
“What about the governor?” asked Clint. “Why isn’t he here? He’s probably down at my shore house, with a few escorts.”
“Oh yea,” said Davis. “He sends his regards. I believe from Washington.”
“What’s his demand?”
“The same as ours,” said Davis. “In return, the power drink will be on the main shelf of every supermarket in the state. He personally guaranteed it.”
“With the Tulsa Valley logo right on front,” said Vern Foster with a grin. “C’mon Clint, loosen up the money belt. It’s a slam dunk.”
“Two percent and that’s final,” barked Clint. “You guys are like buzzards on road kill. I’m barely scratching out a living here gentlemen.”
“It’s a deal,” said President Sterling Jefferson Davis with a handshake. “Two percent for Vern, the governor and myself. We’ll let the lawyers put it in print. All right?”
“All right,” said Clint, showing no emotion, although pleasantly surprised by only two percent. The president and athletic director certainly weren’t shrewd businessmen. “Coach Hayes once told me, ‘you can’t have chicken salad without the chicken shit.’ I’ll just consider you two the chicken shit in the deal.”
Laughter broke out in the room along with a few back slaps. The discussion quickly shifted to Hal Green’s article on the team, which hit the internet the prior day. Although very complementary of the team, it raised questions as to the Badlands and the team’s rapid rise in the national ranks.
“Get rid of that goddamn hound dog right now,” demanded Benson. “Let the local press write about the team. We know them all. Not some hot shot from California. He’s sniffing for trouble.”
“Can’t get rid of him,” said the A.D. “The trustees unanimously gave him the green light. “He’s not going anywhere Clint.”
“That’s true Vern, but let’s just keep a close eye on him,” said the president. “I mean we can certainly try to filter the information he receives.”
“I already did,” said Clint.
“What are you talking about?”
“Been keeping an eye on him.”
“What?”
“I put a local lawman on his tail,” said Clint with a grin of satisfaction. “We can’t be too careful this year gentlemen. Everything is riding on it. Including the power drink deal.”
“Who’s following him?”
“Don’t you worry,” said Clint. “I will say he’s already made friends with Brianna, the bartender from the Gin Hole. Apparently has been banging her like a screen door in a hurricane.”
“Brianna. We don’t know any bartender named Brianna.”
“You boys just let old Clint keep an eye on this writer from now on. This is my town. By midseason I’ll have enough dirt to either run him outta town or destroy his credibility. Trust me.”
“All right,” said the athletic director. “We’ll let you manage the dirty laundry on Mr. Green. Any other issues?”
“Yea,” said Clint. “One more. Tell Dean Royce to stop leaning on Mr. Tubbs. He won’t be attending many classes this semester, so tell him to back down.”
“Clint, he’s just doing his job. Why are you suddenly concerned with the academic standards of Tyrone Tubbs?”
“Let’s just say I’m starting up a little agency to represent our Tulsa Valley players in future contract negotiations. It’s a hard world out there, and our players need protection. Nothing official, just talk.”
“I don’t want to hear anything else,” said President Davis with a wave of his hands. “Have a good day Clint. This meeting is over.”
Clint Benson then made his way down to the football sidelines. It was a glorious sunny day, with a slight breeze. He could almost taste the ribs of the season’s first tailgate party, just over a week away. Slowly he walked across the lush grass towards the groundskeeper.
“Afternoon Mr. Benson.”
“Hello Percy,” said Clint. “The turf looks great.”
“Thank you. It’s been a great growing season.”
“Still on the thirty-six yard line?”
“You bet Mr. Benson. That coin is staying there until we win the big game. After that, I promised it to the coach.”
“Percy, how did you feel after winning the national championship way back then?”
“At the time it felt great… but we were just kids having fun. As the years go by, I’ve learned to appreciate the victory more and more.”
“How so?”
“It was just another big game back then. But I’ve realized over time that you’re not going to get another chance. It’s one of those crossroads in life that defines you as a person. We worked hard as a team, but luck also played into the picture when the ball bounced my way. Not a week goes by without me hearing about it. Thank goodness I recovered that fumble Mr. Benson. Because it made me who I am.”
“I can remember listening to the game on the radio as a child,” replied Clint. “I’ll certainly never forget it. Have a great day Percy.”
Clint walked across the street to the HPC, looking for the other principle investor in the Harper Cider project. He found Harper in his office, reviewing some medical records.
“Jordan, have a minute?”
“Sure Clint, come on in.”
Over the next several minutes, Clint briefed Harper on the squeeze play executed by the university president and athletic director. The governor’s name was also mentioned.
“Like hogs to the trough,” said Harper in disgust. “I make the stuff and you mass market it. What the hell did they do, except step in at the last second? It’s like dealing with the mob.”
“I had no choice Jordan. But we just lost four and a half percent over in that skybox. That’s a heap of money.”
“Take two and quarter percent off me,” said Harper. “We’ve always been even on our share.”
“Thanks Jordan. You’re a man of honor.”
The investors discussed the progress of their brainchild, which by all accounts was on the verge of greatness. The drink was selling well in local test markets. It also was faring well in taste tests across the country. Over the past six months a megacorporation approached the two principle investors, hinting of a lucrative offer for the power drink rights. Over the past several months both Harper and Benson were sure to emblazon the name of their power drink on every available wall of the stadium. Four of the team’s home games were slated for prime time national coverage.
“They want a new name,” said Clint. “Tarpon Cider.”
“Whatever,” said Harper. “They know the market. I’ll defer to their expertise, as long as they sign the checks.”
“Jordan, I’m having Lester follow our Mr. Green around town for a while. He’s already uncovered a few interesting habits.”
“Like what?”
“Moderate drinking and a penchant for Brianna, from the Gin Hole.”
“One of the original Badland girls.”
“Yep, she’s been spending a lot of time in his apartment down town. Lester actually rented the flat beneath him. The walls are kind of flimsy, if you know what I mean.”
“Tell Lester thanks. I owe him one. I’ve told everyone at the HPC to stay clear of Green, he can only cause damage.”
“Jordan, I hate to bring this up… but I also saw Mrs. Harper down at the river casino last night. She was running hard in the red again. I thought she promised to quit?”
“I can’t stop it Clint. Gambling is a disease, an addiction.”
“I had the pit boss put her bets on comp for the last hour, she didn’t even know it. Saved you about five thousand.”
“It’s in her blood. She comes from a long line of Louisiana river boat gamblers.”
“If she ever gets a hold of the Tarpon Cider windfall, look out.”
“Never going to happen,” said Harper with a sad look at his long time friend.
“How so?”
The orthopedic surgeon reached down on his desk and picked up a stack of papers. With his left hand he tossed it towards Clint Benson. “Take a look. The sheriff just brought these in. She’s filing for divorce.”
“What!” yelled Clint. “Is she crazy? After all you’ve done for her?”
“It’s over Clint. No stopping it now. She just reached into my pocket and took fifty percent of everything.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Clint Benson. “You let me have a word with her. Don’t forget, I am her favorite uncle.”
Chapter Nine
A BUCKET HANDLE TEAR
Pete woke early Friday in his cell before reveille sounded over the camp P.A. system. He hadn’t slept well the night before, perhaps from too much liquor down in The Twister’s den of iniquity. While staring up at the ceiling he watched a massive cockroach disappear into a crevice. His mind and body were in a state of agitation. Maybe the heat was finally taking its toll. “Stay hydrated,” he thought. “Push the fluids.”
On the other side of the room snored Jamal, his body recovering from a go around with some local girls who found their way into the camp. In just two short weeks it was clear to Pete that a tumultuous relationship existed between Jamal and his girlfriend. A relationship based on infidelity and mistrust, yet somehow it appeared to work. Or so it seemed.
It was also obvious that Tyrone Tubbs carried considerable clout at Tulsa Valley. Rules didn’t apply to the All-American with plans to leave Tulsa the morning after the final game. The coaching staff simply turned a blind eye towards his rampant partying. Over the past several nights Pete was amazed at the clandestine operation supplying Tubbs with booze, marijuana and women. He was growing to appreciate Eugene’s blunt description of the defensive end, feared by so many other teams.
