Scotty Reardon was a sophomore special-teams player who weighed in that August at 141 pounds, but, at the time of his autopsy, weighed 129. During the third round of bleachers, he collapsed between the third and fourth rows on the home side, and never regained consciousness.
Since it was Sunday morning, and a no-contact session, both team trainers were absent, at Rake's instructions. Nor was there an ambulance close by. The boys would describe later how Rake held Scotty's head in his lap while they waited for an eternity to hear a siren. But he was dead in the bleachers, and he was certainly dead when he finally arrived at the hospital.Heatstroke.
Paul was telling the story as they walked through the winding, shaded lanes of the Messina Cemetery. In a newer section, on the side of a steep hill, the headstones were smaller, the rows neater. He nodded at one andNeely knelt down for a look. Randall Scott Reardon.Born June 20, 1977.Died August 21, 1992.
"And they're going bury him over there?" Neely asked, pointing to a bare spot next to Scotty.
"That's the rumor," Paul said.
"This place is always good for a rumor."
They walked a few steps to a wrought-iron bench under a small elm tree, sat, and looked at Scotty's headstone. "Who had the guts to fire him?"Neely asked.
"The wrong kid died. Scotty's family had some money, from timber. His uncle, John Reardon, was elected Superintendent of Education in '89. Very highly regarded, smart as hell, smooth politician, and the only person with the authority to fire Eddie Rake. Fire him he did. The town, as you might guess, was shocked by the news of the death, and as the details came out there was some grumbling about Rake and his methods."
"Lucky he didn't kill all of us."
"An autopsy was done on Monday—a clear case of heatstroke. No preexisting conditions. No defects anywhere. A perfectly healthy fifteen-year-old leaves home at seven-thirty on a Sunday morning for a two-hour torture session, and he doesn't come home. For the first time in the history of this town people were asking, 'Why, exactly, do you run kids in a sauna until they puke?'"
"And the answer was?"
"Rake had no answers. Rake said nothing. Rake stayed at home and tried to ride out the storm.A lot of people, including many of those who played for him, thought, 'Well, Rake's finally killed a boy.' But a lot of the diehards were saying, 'Hell, that kid wasn't tough enough to be a Spartan.' The town split. It got ugly."
"I like this Reardon fellow," Neely said.
"He's tough. Late Monday night, he called Rake and fired him. Everything blew up Tuesday. Rake, typically, couldn't stand the thought of losing in any way, so he worked the phones, stirred up the boosters."
"No remorse?"
"Who knows how he felt? The funeral was a nightmare, as you might guess. All those kids bawling, somefainting.The players wearing green game jerseys.The band playing right along here at the graveside ceremony. Everybody was watching Rake, who looked quite pitiful."
"Rake was a great actor."