Hometown Favorite: A Novel (24 page)

"These guys talk way too long;" he whispered. "Guess that's
how they earn their money. It's a whole lot of hurry up and
wait.

"You guys make it look so easy;" the vice president for marketing from the credit card company said as he burst out of the
small canvas tent, elated with what he had seen. The top of the
VP's perfectly coifed and frosted hair came up to about Dewayne's middle, which made him look like a little boy running
to his daddy as he jogged toward Sly and Dewayne. He was all
designer made, down to the embossed two-tone sunglasses.

"We're the pros from Springdale, Mississippi, remember?"
Sly said.

"Serendipity shots like that one-handed catch with the forward roll could get you a fat multiyear deal with the company;'
the VP said, taking the football from Dewayne and tossing it
from hand to hand as if he were trying to be a player.

Dewayne's face brightened as though electrified. "Just pleasing the man," he said with false humility.

Sly bent over as though he was about to be sick. The VP
pretended he caught the joke.

"Now, let's get set up for Dewayne's close-up coming out of
the forward roll and trotting to the camera," he said, and the
crew went to work.

"Hey, there wouldn't have been a forward roll had I not led
him with my pass," Sly said, taking the ball out of the VP's
hands and reenacting the throw onto an empty field. "I put
it right where it needed to be ... pinpoint precision ... Sly's
laser beam'

"I expected no less from a Heisman Trophy winner;' he said.
"You are the man"

"So I get that fat multiyear deal too?"

The VP had already turned his back and was heading onto
the field to have his confab with the director.

When the shot was set up and Dewayne had gone through
rehearsals for sound and camera, the director called for quiet.
Sly took a fresh cold bottle of water from an assistant and sat
in his actor's chair to watch the action in the monitor. This
shot was just a one-camera setup. When the director shouted,
"Action!" Dewayne did another forward roll-he had to stay in
character, he told Sly later-and stepped to the camera, looked
right into the lens, and delivered his line flawlessly.

"That was perfect;' the director said. "One more for safety."

Dewayne repeated the action again without error, and the
cinematographer nodded his pleasure.

"That's a wrap;' the director cried, which the crew greeted
with surprise and elation.

Sly shook his head in amazement as he watched the replay of
his friend's work on the monitor. He had to admit, it was perfect.
Sly's close-up had required eight takes, half of them for flubbing his line, but Dewayne had nailed his in two. He watched the replay once more: forward roll, step to camera, lean into
frame, big smile, and "My man, Sylvester Adams, needs a big
credit limit because he hasn't signed his contract yet;" Dewayne
said, winking to the camera. "But don't tell him that."

Dewayne lobe is right out of a fairy tale, Sly thought and
poured the rest of his water over his head as the film crew
began to break down the set.

Like a scene out of an old western, defensive linebacker Colby
Stewart marched into the locker room. He wore flip-flops and
baggy gray sweatpants cut off six inches above his knee, nothing
else. The fluorescent lighting burning through the mist in the
locker room reflected off Colby's bald head, giving him an aura
of a Byzantine saint. A chiseled, muscled landscape covered his
six-foot frame with identical medieval beasts in attack mode
tattooed on each forearm and given a name: "Death" for the
right arm and "Mayhem" for the left, twin companions in the
fight against touchdowns. The tour de force was upon his Vshaped back: the god of the underworld driving a four-horse
chariot in the viewer's direction with fire and brimstone raging
in the background, the colors of the conflagration scintillating
off his white skin. An arched caption written in monkish script
above the masterpiece read "And Hell Followed After Him."

Colby's modus operandi was high-octane rage-all the better
to wreak havoc upon his opponents-but too often his fury did
not remain on the field. He was a usual suspect in any Houston
barroom brawl, and once a season Colby made the headlines
with a domestic violence arrest for doing some harm to a current
girlfriend. This reputation had not hurt the jersey sales with his
name and number or kept him off the cover of several football
video games, Smash/Cut being his number one bestseller.

He had been the Stars' first draft pick five seasons ago, and
despite his being the leading defensive player in the league,
the Stars had not had the success they had hoped for with
such a high-rated player. This fact only fueled his anger and a
determination to leave the team after this season, but the Stars
had made him a restricted free agent and stuck a "franchise"
tag on him, underpaying him, in Colby's mind, at $8.8 million a year.

The salary was well above average for a player at his position,
but way below the stature with which he esteemed himself.
Lifestyle and attorney's fees ate up most of what he had collected each year, and he was looking to hit the jackpot of free
agency. The franchise sticker kept him from his end of the
rainbow gold for another year, and instead of holding out, he
was smart enough to stick it out, proving to potential buyers
he was a team player and a constant terror on the field. A few
players called out to Colby as he strutted toward his locker,
head bobbing from the heavy metal pumping into his brain
from his iPod, but his only acknowledgment to the courtesies
was to grunt.

The first week of training camp was shoulder pads and helmets only, full pads came later, and in the Houston heat, the
least amount of clothing a player had to wear, the better. All
the rookies bonded into a tight group before matriculating
into the team. Most egos were checked at the door, and even
though the veterans pulled some locker room pranks on the
rookies, it was all in good fun and rarely carried onto the field.
If the rookies showed respect and deference and maintained
a proper work ethic, the older players would take them under
their wings and offer nuanced advice about what to expect from
other players and their on-the-field eccentricities and tricks.
This was invaluable help for the new kids, and it made them feel more at ease with themselves so they could concentrate
on their jobs.

Because Dewayne had created such a controversy with his
contract deal, everyone was sizing him up on and off the field.
He refused all requests from the press for interviews, giving
them only locker room sound bites that always flattered his
coaches and teammates. He gave no response to any rumors
of drug use; he good-naturedly submitted to all drug tests by
team doctors or surprise visits from league physicians entering the door, cup in hand, and always with the same results ...
negative. The newest rumor began to circulate not long after
his arrival in the city about how many children he had fathered
since coming to Houston. It was true that women gathered
outside the lobby of the hotel where the team stayed during
training camp and used their charms to entice the players as
they got on and off the bus each day for practice. Dewayne
always pretended to be talking on his cell phone as he walked
the Siren gauntlet, a trick he learned from his friend Harrison
Barrow. But a very pregnant Rosella squelched that rumor in
an interview for a Houston newspaper when she allowed her
picture to be taken, hoping to prove that she was the only claim
on Dewayne's heart.

No one was sure how to take Dewayne. Coaches and players,
press and public were wary at first. Was this guy a real saint,
or was he coming in with a savior attitude, trying to make
everyone like him before he took off the appealing mask and
insisted the universe revolved around him?

Dewayne knew the charm offensive was the best approach,
one person at a time, but Colby was always on the lookout for
a chink in the armor. The Stars was his team; the sixty-foot
full-color banner of him hanging outside the stadium proved
it, and his standardized fuming attitude backed up the bluster. This alpha male would not relinquish his dominance without
stiff resistance.

Each day held its routines of stretching and conditioning,
followed by players working with specialty coaches and focusing on drills unique to their positions. Defensive and offensive
drills, special teams practice, and specific lineups designed to
break in the rookies and give the veterans back their groove.
A part of each day, defense and offense would line up opposite each other and run plays. It was a time for rookies to be
humiliated or show their stuff. It was a time for veterans to
break them in without breaking them. Colby preferred the
breaking part.

A rule of practice was to keep physical engagement to a
minimum. No one was supposed to hit the ground, but Colby
wrote his own rules. Dewayne was always third in line for the
outside receiver position, allowing the veteran receivers to
take the first throws. He paid close attention to the defense
and watched how they adjusted to the play as each player ran
his route. The mental concentration was more exhausting than
the physical as he tried to read the overall defense as well as
evaluate the moves of the individual player in front of him.

When Dewayne ran his routes, Colby was always the one
closest to him, whether it was man coverage or zone, and the
more Dewayne improved, the angrier this tattooed beast became. Colby was the designated trash-talker, and Dewayne was
surprised that the coaches allowed it to go on. Harrison Barrow
pulled him aside when he came back from running one of his
routes, having once again ignored Colby's verbal abuse.

"You're getting a free education;" Harrison said. "Referees
would never let it go to this extent in a game without throwing a flag, but if you can handle Colby's trash talk, nobody
can rile you"

Dewayne's next route was a crossing pattern downfield, cutting toward the middle. The quarterback threw the ball behind
him, and as he turned to grab it, his field of vision suddenly
changed. Instead of being eye level with backfield defensive
players, he was looking at blue sky and bright sun. Dewayne
lay on his back, listening to a distant voice become steadily
louder.

"You are a Jobe steak on my plate," Colby shouted as he
strutted around Dewayne's prone body lying motionless on the
ground. "You been grilled and charbroiled. You are well done
and dead. My fork and knife are cutting you up"

A hand came into Dewayne's view, diffusing the sunlight
in his eyes, and a voice asked how many fingers he saw. His
correct answer recharged Colby.

"And the boy can count. The boy has himself an education.
He can count all the way to four, matching his IQ"

Dewayne jumped to his feet, as though refreshed from a
power nap, and realized only then he had retained possession of
the ball. Colby received no reprimands from coaches or players
as Dewayne made his way back to the huddle; he knew it was
a test, and to pass the test, one endured and struck back with
equal force or pure cunning when the opportunity presented
itself. Dewayne knew everyone expected a volatile reaction,
knew his metal was hanging above the fire. When it was his
time to go to the line again, he asked the offensive coordinator if he could run the exact same route as before. The coach
nodded his approval, amused and curious to see what might
happen with the exact same call and matchup.

The quarterback got the ball off quicker this time with a
more accurate throw. Dewayne reached for the ball and caught
a glimpse of the Colby locomotive coming right for him. Dewayne snatched the ball out of the air in front of Colby, but instead of lowering for impact, he spun away and headed upfield. Dewayne gave a quicklookback and saw Colby doing his
Superman impersonation through the air but finishing with
a bumpy landing, bouncing across the turf on his stomach,
each hit knocking a little more air out of his lungs. Unlike
Dewayne, he did not lie on the ground for a beat. He was up on
his feet, cutting a broad circle, silent except for the rapid gasps
for breath. Dewayne jogged back, bouncing the football in his
hands, thinking maybe now Colby would have to capitulate
some of his power attitude.

Colby cut off his forward progress. "Nobody in the NFL will
hit you harder than I can"

"Then my rookie year should be a cakewalk," Dewayne said
and tossed Colby the ball.

Coach Gyra waved Dewayne off the field, and he approached
the head coach, expecting a warning to save it for the first game
and for the other team.

"The hospital called;" he said. "There's no panic. Everything
is fine, but your wife is there and she has gone into labor"