"Yeah, that was the lucky part. I got outta there.You boys hungry?"
"No."
"No."
Evidently Mal was. He stomped the brake pedal while veering to the right, onto a gravel lot in front of an old country store. The Ford fishtailed as Mal brought it to a violent stop. "Best damned biscuits in this part of the state," he said as he yanked open his door and stepped out into a cloud of dust. They followed him to the rear, through a rickety screen door, and into someone's small and smoky kitchen. Four tables were packed close together, all surrounded by rustic-looking gentlemen devouring ham and biscuits. Fortunately, at least for Mal, who appeared to be ready to collapse from hunger, there were three empty stools at the cluttered counter. "Need some biscuits over here," he growled at a tiny old woman hovering over a stove. Evidently, menus were not needed.
With remarkable speed, she served them coffee and biscuits, with butter and sorghum molasses. Mal plunged into the first one, a thick brownish concoction of lard and flour that weighed at least a pound. Neely, on his left, and Paul, on his right, followed along.
"Heard you boys talkin' last night up in the bleachers," Mal said, shifting from Vietnam to football. He took a large bite and began chewing ferociously."About the '87 game. I was there, so was everybody else. We figured somethin' happened at halftime, in the locker room, some kind of altercation between you and Rake.Never heard the real story, you know, 'cause you boys never talked about it."
"You could call it an altercation," Neely said, still prepping his first and only biscuit.
"No one's ever talked about it," Paul said.
"So what happened?"
"An altercation."
"Got that.Rake's dead now."
"So?"
"So, it's been fifteen years. I wanna know the story," Mal said as if he were drilling a murder suspect in the back room of the jail.
Neely put the biscuit on his plate and stared at it. Then he glanced over at Paul, who nodded. Go ahead. You can finally tell the story.
Neely sipped his coffee and ignored the food. He stared at the counter and drifted away. "We were down thirty-one to zip, just getting the hell beaten out of us," he said slowly and very softly.
"I was there," Mal said, chewing without interruption.
"We got to the locker room at halftime and waited for Rake. We waited and waited, knowing that we were about to be eaten alive. He finally walked in, with the other coaches. He was way beyond furious. We were terrified. He walked straight up to me, pure hatred in his eyes. I had no idea what to expect. He said, "Youmiserable excuse for a football player.' I said, 'Thanks, Coach.' As soon as I got the words out, he took his left hand and backhanded me across the face."