The Franchise
Peter Gent
This book is dedicated with love to my son, Carter Davis Gent, a brave boy who did his job, kept his promises, did not quit and was still made to pay in pain for the mistakes and greed of others.
Texas
1983
THE MAKING OF THE TEN-CENT DOLLAR
KIMBALL ADAMS’S DRINKING PLACE
POST-SCRIMMAGE WITH LAMAR JEAN LUKAS
DICK’S DOME: THE TEN-CENT DOLLAR REVISITED
DICK AND RED BUILD THE FRANCHISE
THE STANDARD PLAYER’S CONTRACT
MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE RANCH ...
THE EMPEROR OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE
BABY JESUS MEETS THE COLT COMMANDER
THE LAST OF CYRUS/THE FIRST OF THE IRS
LAME DUCKS IN THE LINCOLN BEDROOM
LAME DUCKS INSIDE/OUTSIDE THE WHITE LINES
LAMAR’S SUPER BOWL TICKET FROM TINY
MAYBE THINGS’LL GET A LITTLE BETTER
BR’ER RABBIT HITS ONE DOLLAR A SOP
A society, most of whose members spend a great part of their time, not on the spot, not here and now and in the calculable future, but somewhere else, in the irrelevant other worlds of sports and soap opera, of mythology and metaphysical fantasy, will find it hard to resist the encroachments of those who would manipulate and control it.
ALDOUS HUXLEY
“Lately it occurs to me,
what a long strange trip it’s been.”
THE GRATEFUL DEAD
“Truckin’ ”
T
AYLOR
J
EFFERSON
R
USK
moved into the hotel a week ahead of the team. He took the key to his assigned room on the ninth floor, dropped it into his back pocket, then checked into the penthouse suite as E. Fudd.
The huge twenty-fifth-floor suite had a 360-degree view of Park City, and access was limited by a special key to the private elevator. Taylor’s plan was to stay hidden.
“You guys going to win the Super Bowl, Mr. Rusk?” The bellman unloaded Taylor’s bags from the dolly. “We got it on pay TV here in the hotel. Every room’ll be filled at triple the rate.”
“My name is Fudd. E. Fudd.” He handed the bellman a fifty-dollar bill. “Mr. Rusk is registered into a room on nine. Anybody wants him, send them there.” He handed the bill to the uniformed man. “General Grant will arrive every day the identities of Mr. Fudd and Mr. Rusk stay separate.”
The tall quarterback pulled back the curtain to view the city skyline; the sun was high, casting hard shadows through the light smog. The Pistol Dome was humped up far to the south, dark against the horizon.
“You gonna beat ’em by sixteen?” The bellman slid the fifty-dollar bill into his green jacket pocket. “That’s the latest line outta Vegas.”
“I don’t gamble.” Taylor stared at the giant growth on the horizon. “Too much like believing in God, banking on a miracle to keep the corn growing or the dice rolling.... Too much ritual, not enough substance, to show
He
has chosen
you.
” The quarterback pointed at the Dome. “There’s your cathedral, one hundred and sixty million dollars of veneration. The Opium of the Masses. OPM. Other People’s Money.”
The bellman’s pointed face pulled into a wolfish smile. “I was just wondering if you heard talk? Sixteen points is a big spread.”
Taylor turned to the pockmarked, nervous, rumpled man. Dirty gold braid decorated his dark-green outfit.
“Well, what do you think?” The man was looking for an edge on life.
Any edge.
“What do
you
think?” Taylor tossed back.
“I think you can do it.
If
you got a reason.”
Taylor hadn’t expected that reply. “Winning is reason enough.”
“Winning is
one
more, not sixteen more.” The bellman stood his ground, probing, poking around. “Sixteen points is a big spread. Sports writers and handicappers on TV, they say you’ve made the Franchise a Super Bowl power. They say Denver really isn’t as good as their record, what with computer scheduling, parity, the playoff system and the competition committee. But,” the bellman waved away the media obfuscation, “in January everybody’s a football expert. I want to know what
you
think.”
“I
can’t tell you
what I think. It’s against the rules.” Taylor returned his gaze to the outside, looking down at the University.
“You been around....” The bellman pressed. “Your opinion means something, Mr. Rusk.”
The six-foot-five-inch, 225-pound quarterback of the Texas Pistols turned from the window and looked at the bellman. Taylor’s voice was soft. “You insist on confusing me with that guy down on nine.” He stuck his big hand out. “Gimme back the fifty dollars.”
Reluctantly the man in the green jacket placed the bill in the huge palm. Taylor tore it in half and handed one piece back to the bellman. “You get the other half tomorrow
if
no one else confuses me with the guy down on nine.”
“It won’t happen again,” the agitated little man said.
“Quarterbacks are either in the penthouse or the shithouse.” Taylor tossed the remaining half bill on the dresser. “I want to be undisturbed in the penthouse.”
The bellman disappeared out the door.
Taylor Rusk moved back to the glass, watching the course of the river as it slid brown beneath the ancient iron Red River Street Bridge. He didn’t remember the water turning dirty this early.
Taylor looked back out to the giant hulking shape crouched fearsomely south of the city. The Pistol Dome was a sleeping dragon that he would have to fight soon.
“Gamble or die,” Taylor said aloud with a slight resignation. “Or change games.”
Turning away from the glass wall and the hazy skyline, Taylor wandered around the penthouse suite, ending his perambulation in the bedroom. He began unpacking.
Winning is one more, not sixteen more.
But Dick Conly promised that salvation was beating Denver by the purposely, insanely, high spread. Salvation from
what
was never quite clear; nevertheless Taylor and Red Kilroy had worked to preempt espionage and sabotage ordered by the Cobianco brothers, Suzy Chandler and A.D. Koster. Taylor hoped they had worked effectively.
It could be done. It had to be done. Beat Denver by
one point more than the spread.
Taylor stripped naked, laid a bath towel on the soft thick beige carpet and did thirty minutes of Yoga poses, ending cross-legged, eyes closed, arms resting on his legs, thumbs and index fingers forming circles.
The circles. The power.
Next, stretched out flat, he ordered each muscle to relax, tum loose. He let the blood flow, breaking the dam of tension. Forgotten sore spots quivered, jerked, twitched. Breathing deeply through his nose, Taylor began concentrating on the red spot growing between his eyes.
Awakening at dusk, Taylor
knew.
They could deliver the Super Bowl. Whatever was necessary, he would create. The great joy of exceptional talent was knowing what was needed. Taylor Rusk needed
not to beat himself.
That he knew.
Sixteen points behind at the gate required a fast start, acceleration, high-speed thinking and looking far ahead, over hills, around corners.
It seemed impossible. Almost.
He would succeed, he decided then and there, using whatever it took from horseshoes to handgrenades, going fast and hard, craving the
action,
the adrenaline, the movement and the velocity of his life and the game. An athlete’s life: destructive and creative, invincible and frangible; each day a battle, a race that
must
be run, always going faster and harder. Yet, Taylor Rusk also knew he was reaching the finish line, reaching the end without a way to slow down. Twenty years of acceleration just to hit the wall. And sooner or later everybody hit the wall. Taylor knew the finish was close, so the crash would be less startling—not any less destructive, just not quite the surprise.