Binks, wearing one of his new two-hundred-dollar silk suits, sat behind his desk, licking his lips thoughtfully. The office stunk of stale cigarette butts.
"I want to know what happened," he said. "I didn't see it, but Reed told me. You looked over all your receivers. You looked right at Leighton and then you toss it right into the safety's hands. Then stood there and got knocked on your ass."
"Somebody drugged me," I lied.
"Good story. Reed told me about the stuff in your locker. Said you claimed somebody tried to frame you."
"I just couldn't seem to move. I felt dopey as hell. I never saw that guard who knocked me down."
I wondered what he would do if I told him the truth. His eyes were very serious. He leaned forward on his desk, leaned on both elbows, giving me his straight-in-the-eye look. I was supposed to look back straight into his eyes. I looked at his right ear, then his forehead, then back at his right ear. Finally his right hand went to his right ear. He rubbed it to see if perhaps something might be hanging from the lobe. So I switched my gaze and looked, puzzled, at his forehead. He rubbed his forehead.
"Why didn't you tell Reed?" he said. "Reed said you deliberately, as far as he's concerned, tossed the ball to the other team."
"I was dopey. Maybe the Mafia had money on the game."
"Matt, don't give me a lot of crap. Nobody bets on these teams. You're full of crap."
"You should have given me a saliva test."
"Don't talk to anybody about it."
"What about the press?"
"What press? We could use some good press."
"Vakos won it anyway," I said. "He's doing okay."
"Listen, Matt, I want it straight. Why did you throw the ball to the opposition?"
"I don't even remember throwing it."
"Concussion?"
"Could be."
"Doc says you're okay."
"Maybe it went away."
Hell, I thought, why don't I say it? Piss on football. Get up and walk out. Only two games left: Piss on it. Money. I needed the damn money. Nope. You're kidding yourself. You're still nuts, Scallen. You still think you might make it back to big time, even if you hate it. Of course, it was true. I hated the goddamn game now, but I wanted- one Sunday, just one Sunday back in the NFL. Just one Sunday to show all those cruddy bastards who said I was washed up. Of course, you're washed up, Scallen. Nope. Just one Sunday. That's all you want. Then tell them to piss up a rope. The knee maybe was good for one Sunday. But I had as much chance of getting one big Sunday as I had of falling in a toilet and coming up with gold ingots.
"Matt, I like the way you throw the ball. You got some charisma, too. I'm going to back you up this time. No more of that shit."
"Don't you ever get the ashtrays cleaned around here?"
"Goddamn secretaries," he said.
I rode around town. I didn't know where I was going. Des Moines looks gray in the fall. The sky was gray, even the lawns looked gray, not brown, and the longer I drove the grayer all the buildings looked. I felt I was breathing gray air. I drove back to my apartment. I didn't know what to do. I felt dead, zapped. Bored. I didn't want to do anything.
A couple of hours later it was very cold out on the practice field. We were practicing kill-the-clock drill. The idea was to practice stopping the clock. Line up on the football without using a huddle. Just a predetermined play. Ends run sideline cuts. You drill the ball high and hard over the head of one of the ends out-of-bounds. Some people had stopped their cars and were parked along the edge of the field watching us. It was cold but not windy. Reed kept shouting at us to hit hard on the play. Vakos and I were taking turns in the pocket. It should have been an easy practice except everybody started to sock. Reed was stupid to keep the drill going as long as he did and telling everybody to sock. But I felt good, calling out the play and number, feeling different suddenly, forgetting the depression, dreaming again like a fool about Big Sunday. The ball was cold. Somebody whacked me on the blind side when I threw. Then suddenly Reed said he wanted us to practice running plays. By this time we were usually finished practicing. The socking was getting loud. Schaeffer came back in the huddle after a sweep with a bloody nose. I ran a couple of counters and then Reed said he wanted to see some off-tackle traps. The lines were socking head to head. It was turning into a regular game. I got tackled after handing off. Reed didn't say a word. I thought I'd test the knee and roll out right. I had the feeling of being back in college again. I started rolling and Giese came through as cornerback and grabbed me by my left thigh. I lifted his head up with my right forearm and threw him and kept moving, going wide, hearing somebody coming up from behind. Suddenly I got hit, not right from behind, just to my left, a helmet driven straight into my back. followed by two individuals falling on me. Somebody punched me in the kidneys. I came up swinging at Giese. He knocked me down with a shot in the stomach, and picked me up. He was six feet five, two-ninety.
In the next huddle I said we'd run a go-go-go offense, and gave them several plays so we wouldn't huddle after each play. I could see Reed using the stopwatch on us. We got the defense rattled. Somebody stepped on my hand. It was painful. My helmet got knocked off or torn off. I stooped to pick it up. I thought I saw my head inside it. It looked very real. I wondered if I'd been kicked in the head. But there it was. My head inside the helmet, looking right up at me, a little worm of blood crawling out from the corner of my lip. I shook my head. Vakos came over and tapped my shoulder.
"Reed wants to see you," he said.
I went over to the sidelines. I couldn't figure out why he hadn't talked to me about the game after my talk with Binks. Cutie. Reed was a cutie. As I came toward him, he turned his back and waved with his clipboard for me to follow. him. I shook my head. I still kept seeing my head inside a football helmet, my eyes staring up at me. like a dumdum pumpkin head in the garbage can after Halloween. He kept swinging his whistle, on the cord round and round as I followed him. For the first time I noticed he didn't have any neck. His shoulders just haired into his head or vice versa, however it might look to you. He was wearing a bloody red deer hunting coat, with the parka section slung down on his back. He slapped the clipboard against his thigh, turned around suddenly and knelt down on one knee. He didn't look at me. We were about thirty yards now from the sidelines. I guess I was supposed to kneel down on one knee. Coaches face to face for a sports page picture.
"You're doing okay out there, Matt. I want you to know that."
"I'm enjoying it."
"I can see it."
"Everybody's up. I can feel it."
"We're going to win a championship, Matt."
"I'm hoping so."
"We gotta do better than we did at Decatur."
"We won it."
"That's not enough, Matt."
"What more do you want?"
"A two hundred percent max."
"Over what?"
"Over Decatur."
"Look at today. The guys are putting out. We been putting out all season," I said.
"Not two hundred percent."
"You can't measure it."
"I can. I've been coaching twenty years. I coached my own boys. My own sons. They learned what two hundred percent means. Absolute max. I won't buy any in and out. Two hundred percent max. That's the answer all the way. No other way. I won't accept a hundred percent. We gotta have super perfection. Absolute super. Unless some of these kids learn it all their dreams are blown. And you ought to know this. You can blow their dreams."
"I don't dream anymore."
"Maybe that's your problem."
"I got a lot of problems."
"You're not going to ruin this team. You're going to make this team."
"Okay," I said.
"You know what this game is all about. It's war. You gotta die out there. You gotta wanna die, Matt."
"I don't wanna die."
"What I want to talk about."
"What?"
"You don't wanna die enough. Those kids want a leader who wants to die out there."
"Ah, Reed, knock off the crap. What're you really trying to get at?"
"I'm going to square with you. Give you a chance."
"Spare me."
"You got dreams, Matt. You won't listen to them. Your dreams are scaring hell out of you. You won't face the reality of your dreams. You've chickened on your dreams. Maybe you've busted your will."
"Maybe."
"See. There. There it is. You sound really shitty. And I was going to give you a break."
"Okay. Give me a break."
"You'll blow it."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"You're not starting the next game. You just blew it with me."
I stood up.
"Wait a minute," he said. I looked over his head, across the street at the gray houses, the gray sky.
"I wanna see if you've got it," he said. "I'm going to give you a chance. Do you go to church?"
"What's that got to do with it?"
"If I give you a chance, you gotta pray. You need prayer, Matt. I mean it. Maybe that's your problem."
"Which church?"
"There are many stairways to heaven, Matt. You pick your own. Which I don't care. Pick it and start climbing. You can get to the top of those stairs in life, Matt. I'm gonna give you a chance."
"I hope they're not too steep."
"Don't be a shitty smart-ass with me. A little humility, Matt. Pray. I'm gonna help you."
I didn't say anything. The houses, the sky, the grass, even Reed looked like he was turning gray, all of the objects dissolving into a big gray blob.
"Matt," he said. "Can you keep a secret?"
"Seal my ruby lips."
"Why do you have to be so smart ass?"
"It makes me pray for more humility."
"I oughta kick your ass, Matt. But I'm gonna level with you and then you're gonna have to level with yourself. You're gonna have to sacrifice."
"What?"
"All that smart-ass shit."
"For what?"
"You got dreams, Matt. I know you got dreams. Well, here's your dream. Fran Tarkenton got mugged in a parking lot in Minneapolis. Nothing in the paper yet."
"Jesus," I heard my voice say and my heart started hammering. "What's the matter with Fran?"
"Busted sternum."
"They can shoot him up with Novocain."
"Not this one. He's busted."
"Nothing on the radio."
"It's not out yet. I just got a call."
"They got Lee and Graff on the taxi squad." "They still need a back-up man."
"Where'd Fran get mugged?"
"In the Lutheran Brotherhood parking lot. He just came out of WCCO from Sid Hartman's Sports Hero show."
"Lee hasn't played since September," I said.
My heart started jumping around again. All kinds of ideas started racing through my head. Lee had a helluva arm but he hadn't played in a game since training camp. Tarkenton was the whole cheese. Their season was finished. God! This was the Superbowl! Miami was probably no more than a three-point favorite over the Vikings. But now at least thirteen points. But what kind of chance would I have of getting in the game? Reed dampened my spirits immediately.
"It's between you and Vakos."
"How do you figure?"
"They only want one quarterback."
"He's never been under that kind of pressure."
"He's good, Matt."
"We've got one more game. Who starts?"
"Vakos starts first half. You start second."
"He doesn't know how to cope with NFL pressure."
"Neither one of you'll get in the game. I'm sending only one. Whichever does best in the last game. You're about dead even in performance."
I didn't say anything. I turned around and trotted back to the practice field sidelines. I watched Vakos run a damn nice quarterback draw. I was suddenly envious as hell. He looked as good as Unitas on that draw.