Hometown Favorite: A Novel (2 page)

It was impossible, so it took a little longer to accomplish.

-Wally Byam, Airstream founder

All of my life people have told me what I cannot do. In high
school, I was told I could not play college football. After a successful career at Ohio State, I was told I could not play in the
NFL. After being drafted in the third round by the Houston
Oilers, naysayers told me that I would not make it, and even
after being in the league for a few years, I still had my share of
doubters as well as moments of self-doubt.

Just like everybody else, I have had my share of "Job-like"
experiences. Some of these were on the playing field where it is
just a game, and others have been in the game of life that have
left me "sitting in the ashes;" wondering if it was worth it to go
on. Still, I have learned over the years that the Rodney Atkins
lyric is true-that when you're going through hell, you've got
to keep on going.

When Bill first approached me with the idea for this book and asked for my help authenticating the life of a professional
football player, I did not hesitate. Although fiction, the story
in Hometown Favorite is an inspiring example of how people
get through difficult times. It demonstrates something I have
seen over and over-with God's help and a lot of work, anything is possible.

Chris Sanders

retired Tennessee Titans wide receiver

The lemon yellow Hummer skidded to a stop in front of Dewayne Jobe's house, the hip-hop music vibrating the vehicle's
insides with percussive explosions. Jesse Webb, owner and
operator of the pulsating vehicle, blew his horn to the rhythm
of the beat.

The front door of the house swung open. Cherie Jobe stepped
out onto the porch and planted her free hand on her hips.

"Jesse Webb, I'm gonna call the police if you don't turn off
that yellow tank and stop raising the dead"

Jesse's grin transformed into a look of mock hurt. "Miss
Cherie, we're just celebrating" Conceding to her trumped-up
scold, he reached over to lower the volume.

"You got that thing so loud I couldn't hear Gabriel's trumpet" No longer able to hold a scornful expression, her face
gave way to a bright smile. "Get in this house, both of you.
My boy's not ready."

Riding shotgun with Jesse was Sylvester "Sly" Adams, quarterback for the Springdale Tigers and record holder for throwing the most touchdowns in the high school's history-due
in large measure to his best friend Dewayne, Springdale's star
wide receiver.

"Still trying to make himself look pretty for the cheerleaders"
Sly opened his door and bounced off the front seat.

Jesse came around the front of his Hummer. "He could
spend all day in front of his mirror and still not look as pretty
as Sly."

"My man," Sly said, and the two boys pounded fists.

Cherie smiled at the antics of her son's friends and ushered
them into the house.

Springdale had only one recreational offering for its citizens ... high school football. As soon as young boys showed
the least bit of interest in the sport and displayed a reasonable
measure of aptitude and competence, they were absorbed into
the peewee league for early training and experience. Jesse, Sly,
and Dewayne were born in the same year, signed up for the
peewee league in the same year, and grew into the rhythm and
flow of the game together, perfecting their skills and at times
showing true genius. Tomorrow the three friends would play
their final game of high school football for the Mississippi state
championship.

Sly sauntered toward Dewayne's bedroom, with Jesse at his
heels.

"Jesse, could you come here a minute?"

At Cherie's request, Jesse started turning back toward the living room, but not before throwing a playful punch at Sly's shoulder. He flashed a boyish smile of surprise when Sly wheeled
to smack him back. The boys traded a few good-natured slaps
before Sly dodged the last backhand and disappeared into Dewaynes room.

"My boys. What am I gonna do without all your craziness!"
Cherie said.

Jesse gave Cherie a quick peck on the cheek and then settled
his thick frame into a well-worn Webb factory recliner. In spite of his fireplug physique, Jesse was swift on his feet. With his
agility, he had racked up an impressive number of tackles as a
linebacker for the Tigers.

It would have been easy for him to stay with his kind and
class growing up in Springdale, Mississippi, but the team sport
of football worked a strange magic on Jesse's impressionable
psyche, and he had instead chosen two African Americans to
be his best friends. It went as far back as those first years in the
peewee league when kids recognized different skin shades only
as colors from the same palette and not with any overtones of
bigotry. The mutual respect the three boys had for each other's
talents closed the deal on a permanent friendship, and their trust
for each other on and off the field made them inseparable.

Cherie perched on the sofa near the young man she considered an adopted son. "I'm in a quandary, Jesse:" She smoothed
the wrinkles out of her dress with agitated fingers.

"About what, Miss Cherie?"

They ignored the playful jive coming from Dewayne's bedroom.

"My boy and his future," she said. "God has given him a gift,
and I don't know what's the best way for him to use it. You're
going to college, I know, and I want that for Dewayne, but I
"
don't know the best choice for him."

I envy him." Jesse's head drooped. "I don't have choices,
Miss Cherie.'

Heir to Webb Furniture, a fourth-generation business, Jesse
had every intention of accepting the CEO mantle as soon as
he fulfilled another Webb tradition of attending Ole Miss and
playing football, if not exceptionally, at least honorably.

"Ole Miss, Webb Furniture, and the rest of my days in Springdale are laid out for me. I couldn't change that destiny if they
offered me the moon."

Cherie reached her hand over to Jesse's thick leg and patted
the firm muscle above the knee. "There's pride in knowing who
you are, where you come from, where your future's headed. It
will be a comfort to me knowing you're close by."

Jesse gave her hand a quick squeeze. Her motherly tenderness seemed to ease the sting of resignation that came from
having his future set in stone.

Cherie sighed. "But my boy ... it's the moon they seem to
be offering," she said.

"How's that?" Jesse leaned forward in the easy chair.

Cherie stretched herself over the arm of the threadbare
sofa and reached behind it. She pulled out a battered shoebox
with a rubber band over the top that tried to keep the stack
of letters tucked inside. The lid pushed upward as soon as she
removed the rubber band, and the top letters popped up and
spilled onto the floor. Cherie bent over to retrieve them from
the faded carpet.

"Colleges and big-time universities wanting Dewayne to
come play for them and offering to pay his way," she said as she
collected the letters and displayed them for Jesse to behold.

Jesse moved over to the couch to look at the pile and gave
a whistle. "You need a bigger box" He picked up a few of the
envelopes. "Guess folks all over have figured out how good
our boy is"

"I don't know where to begin. Robert and I never went to
college"

Cherie Turner and Robert Dewayne Jobe met on the assembly line of Webb Furniture, each one thinking the other a
thing of beauty. They began spending as much off-hour time
together as possible, and months later, neither of them could
think of any reason why this relationship should not become
permanent.

Cherie had never remarried after her husband's death ... a
tragic accident of a fatigued husband working double shifts to
provide for a new wife and their soon-to-be child. Early one
morning a police officer spotted the rear bumper of Robert's car
sticking out of the water of Deer Creek. With no evidence to
the contrary, the coroner ruled it death by drowning, probably
due to falling asleep at the wheel just as the car came upon the
precarious curve onto the bridge over the creek.

The likes of Robert were not to be found again. Rather, Cherie raised her son by herself, believing the good character of his
father was installed at birth and trusting God's mercy would
make up for all human deficiency. The quantity of inquiries
displayed before Jesse's unbelieving eyes was evidence enough
that character and talent flowed in Dewayne's bloodstream.

Dewayne's size, dexterity, and quickness defied reason. By his
seventeenth birthday, he had topped out at six feet six inches,
weighing two hundred forty pounds, all muscle, bone, skin,
and functioning organs to sustain this young man under the
grueling training regimen he endured from his coaches. The
grocery bill for the two of them would have fed a family of six.
By his last season of high school football, he was a good head
taller than anyone on his team and most of the boys from all
opposing football teams who lined up against him. Add another
three feet of arm span to his six-six height, and any player assigned to cover Dewayne would need a miracle to stop a pass
completion or bring him down. Double coverage and gang
tackle were about the only defense a team could use to stop
Dewayne, and even then, he would drag his tacklers along like
Gulliver dragging the Lilliputians for a few extra yards. His
proficiency at offense applied to defense as well. He and Jesse
were a formidable pair of linebackers who knew the game and
each other's moves so well, it was not often they were duped by another team's offensive play. And each time Sly came onto the
field with his all-star quality at quarterback, it was hard for the
hometown fans not to expect a touchdown. Being undefeated
their senior year was not a cakewalk, but it never was in question either. By midseason, everyone in Springdale knew their
team would play in the state championship, and they were the
odds-on favorite to win.

The clamor of Sly's entrance broke the spell cast over Jesse
and Cherie staring at the queries for Dewayne's talent. Sly
burst into the living room as though pursued by tacklers. He
gripped a football and pumped his arm in several directions,
looking for would-be receivers as he provided his own sports
commentary.

"The offense has collapsed and the blitz is crashing in on the
Sly. He fakes right, then left. He stiff-arms one three-hundredpound tackler. He leaps over the second one like a gazelle. No
one can sack the Sly."

"Somebody shut him up," Dewayne said as he entered the
living room.

"He dashes across the field, waiting for a receiver to get open"
Sly danced sideways. "He lobs the pass over the heads of the opposing team"-he pump faked toward Dewayne, then turned
and pitched the ball-"dropping the pigskin into the outstretched
hands of the receiver"

Jesse caught Sly's pitchout without ever taking his eyes off
the stack of letters Cherie held in her hands.

" Another touchdown for the Sly." Sly acknowledged his
imaginary cheering crowd by waving his hands in the air.