And in that home Miss Lila and her three daughters and all the rest of the Rakes were now gathered, waiting for the Coach to take his last breath. No doubt the house was full of friends, too, with trays of food covering the tables and flowers stacked everywhere.
Were any former players there? Neely thought not.
______________
The next car into the parking lot stopped near Neely’s. This Spartan wore a coat and tie, and as he walked casually across the track, he, too, avoided stepping onto the playing surface. He spotted Neely and climbed the bleachers.
“How long you been here?” he asked as they shook hands.
“Not long,” Neely said. “Is he dead?”
“No, not yet.”
Paul Curry caught forty-seven of the sixty-three touchdown passes Neely threw in their
three-year career together. Crenshaw to Curry, time and time again, practically unstoppable. They had been cocaptains. They were close friends who’d drifted apart over the years. They still called each other three or four times a year. Paul’s grandfather built the first Messina bank, so his future had been sealed at birth. Then he married a local girl from another prominent family. Neely was the best man, and the wedding had been his last trip back to Messina.
“How’s the family?” Neely asked.
“Fine. Mona’s pregnant.”
“Of course she’s pregnant. Five or six?”
“Only four.”
Neely shook his head. They were sitting three feet apart, both gazing into the distance, chatting but preoccupied. There was noise from the field house as cars and trucks began leaving.
“How’s the team?” Neely asked.
“Not bad, won four lost two. The coach is a young guy from Missouri. I like him. Talent’s thin.”
“Missouri?”
“Yeah, nobody within a thousand miles would take the job.”
Neely glanced at him and said, “You’ve put on some weight.”
“I’m a banker and a Rotarian, but I can still outrun you.” Paul stopped quickly, sorry that he’d blurted out the last phrase. Neely’s left knee was twice the size of his right. “I’m sure you can,” Neely said with a smile. No harm done.
They watched the last of the cars and trucks speed away, most of them squealing tires or at least trying to. A lesser Spartan tradition.
Then things were quiet again. “Do you ever come here when the place is empty?” Neely asked.
“I used to.”
“And walk around the field and remember what it was like back then?”
“I did until I gave it up. Happens to all of us.”
“This is the first time I’ve come back here since they retired my number.”
“And you haven’t given it up. You’re still living back then, still dreaming, still the all-American quarterback.”
“I wish I’d never seen a football.”
“You had no choice in this town. Rake had
us in uniforms when we were in the sixth grade. Four teams—red, blue, gold, and black, remember? No green because every kid wanted to wear green. We played Tuesday nights and drew more fans than most high schools. We learned the same plays Rake was calling on Friday night. The same system. We dreamed of being Spartans and playing before ten thousand fanatics. By the ninth grade Rake himself was supervising our practices and we knew all forty plays in his book. Knew them in our sleep.”
“I still know them,” Neely said.
“So do I. Remember the time he made us run slot-waggle-right for two solid hours in practice?”
“Yeah, because you kept screwin’ up.”
“Then we ran bleachers until we puked.”
“That was Rake,” Neely mumbled.
“You count the years until you get a varsity jersey, then you’re a hero, an idol, a cocky bastard because in this town you can do no wrong. You win and win and you’re the king of your own little world, then poof, it’s gone. You play your last game and everybody cries. You can’t believe it’s
over. Then another team comes right behind you and you’re forgotten.”
“It was so long ago.”
“Fifteen years, pal. When I was in college, I would come home for the holidays and stay away from this place. I wouldn’t even drive by the school. Never saw Rake, didn’t want to. Then one night in the summertime, right before I went back to college, just a month or so before they fired him, I bought a six-pack and climbed up here and replayed all the games. Stayed for hours. I could see us out there scoring at will, kicking ass every game. It was wonderful. Then it hurt like hell because it was over, our glory days gone in a flash.”
“Did you hate Rake that night?”
“No, I loved him then.”
“It changed every day.”
“For most of us.”
“Does it hurt now?”
“Not anymore. After I got married, we bought season tickets, joined the booster club, the usual stuff that everybody else does. Over time, I forgot about being a hero and became just another fan.”
“You come to all the games?”
Paul pointed down to the left. “Sure. The bank owns a whole block of seats.”
“You need a whole block with your family.”
“Mona is very fertile.”
“Evidently. How does she look?”
“She looks pregnant.”
“I mean, you know, is she in shape?”
“Other words, is she fat?”
“That’s it.”
“No, she exercises two hours a day and eats only lettuce. She looks great and she’ll want you over for dinner tonight.”
“For lettuce?”
“For whatever you want. Can I call her?”
“No, not yet. Let’s just talk.”
There was no talk for a long time. They watched a pickup truck roll to a stop near the gate. The driver was a heavyset man with faded jeans, a denim cap, a thick beard, and a limp. He walked around the end zone and down the track and as he stepped up to the bleachers he noticed Neely and Curry sitting higher, watching every move he made. He nodded at them, climbed a
few rows, then sat and gazed at the field, very still and very alone.
“That’s Orley Short,” Paul said, finally putting a name with a face. “Late seventies.”
“I remember him,” Neely said. “Slowest linebacker in history.”
“And the meanest. All-conference, I think. Played one year at a juco then quit to cut timber for the rest of his life.”
“Rake loved the loggers, didn’t he?”
“Didn’t we all? Four loggers on defense and a conference title was automatic.”
Another pickup stopped near the first, another hefty gentleman in overalls and denim lumbered his way to the bleachers where he greeted Orley Short and sat beside him. Their meeting did not appear to be planned.
“Can’t place him,” Paul said, struggling to identify the second man and frustrated that he could not. In three and a half decades Rake had coached hundreds of boys from Messina and the county. Most of them had never left. Rake’s players knew each other. They were members of a small fraternity whose membership was forever closed.
“You should get back more often,” Paul said when it was time to talk again.
“Why?”
“Folks would like to see you.”
“Maybe I don’t want to see them.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“You think people here still hold a grudge because you didn’t win the Heisman?”
“No.”
“They’ll remember you all right, but you’re history. You’re still their all-American, but that was a long time ago. Walk in Renfrow’s Café and Maggie still has that huge photo of you above the cash register. I go there for breakfast every Thursday and sooner or later two old-timers will start debating who was the greatest Messina quarterback, Neely Crenshaw or Wally Webb. Webb started for four years, won forty-six in a row, never lost, etc., etc. But Crenshaw played against black kids and the game was faster and tougher. Crenshaw signed with Tech but Webb was too small for the big-time. They’ll argue forever. They still love you, Neely.”
“Thanks, but I’ll skip it.”
“Whatever.”
“It was another life.”
“Come on, give it up. Enjoy the memories.”
“I can’t. Rake’s back there.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I don’t know.”
A telephone buzzed from somewhere deep in Paul’s nice dark suit. He found it and said, “Curry.” A pause. “I’m at the field, with Crenshaw.” A pause. “Yep, he’s here. I swear. Okay.” Paul slapped the phone shut and tucked it into a pocket.
“That was Silo,” he said. “I told him you might be coming.”
Neely smiled and shook his head at the thought of Silo Mooney. “I haven’t seen him since we graduated.”
“He didn’t graduate, if you recall.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot.”
“Had that little problem with the police. Schedule Four controlled substances. His father kicked him out of the house a month before we graduated.”
“Now I remember.”
“He lived in Rake’s basement for a few weeks, then joined the Army.”
“What’s he doing now?”
“Well, let’s say he’s in the midst of a very colorful career. He left the Army with a dishonorable discharge, bounced around for a few years offshore on the rigs, got tired of honest work, and came back to Messina where he peddled drugs until he got shot at.”
“I assume the bullet missed.”
“By an inch, and Silo tried to go straight. I loaned him five thousand dollars to buy the old Franklin’s Shoe Store and he set himself up as an entrepreneur. He cut the prices of his shoes while at the same time doubling his employees’ wages, and went broke within a year. He sold cemetery lots, then used cars, then mobile homes. I lost track of him for a while. One day he walked into the bank and paid back everything he owed, in cash, said he’d finally struck gold.”
“In Messina?”
“Yep. Somehow he swindled old man Joslin out of his junkyard, east of town. He fixed up a warehouse, and in the front half he runs a legitimate body shop. A cash cow. In the back half he runs a chop shop, specializing in stolen pickups. A real cash cow.”
“He didn’t tell you this.”
“No, he didn’t mention the chop shop. But I do his banking, and secrets are hard to keep around here. He’s got some deal with a gang of thieves in the Carolinas whereby they ship him stolen trucks. He breaks them down and moves the parts. It’s all cash, and evidently there’s plenty of it.”
“The cops?”
“Not yet, but everybody who deals with him is very careful. I expect the FBI to walk in any day with a subpoena, so I’m ready.”
“Sounds just like Silo,” Neely said.
“He’s a mess. Drinks heavily, lots of women, throws cash around everywhere. Looks ten years older.”
“Why am I not surprised? Does he still fight?”
“All the time. Be careful what you say about Rake. Nobody loves him like Silo. He’ll come after you.”
“Don’t worry.”
As the center on offense and the noseguard
on defense, Silo Mooney owned the middle of every field he played on. He was just under six feet tall with a physique that resembled, well, a silo: everything was thick—chest, waist, legs, arms. With Neely and Paul, he started for three years. Unlike the other two, Silo averaged three personal fouls in every game. Once he had four, one in each quarter. Twice he got ejected for kicking opposing linemen in the crotch. He lived for the sight of blood on the poor boy lined up against him. “Got that sumbitch bleedin’ now,” he would growl in the huddle, usually late in the first half. “He won’t finish the game.”
“Go ahead and kill him,” Neely would say, egging on a mad dog. One less defensive lineman made Neely’s job much easier.
No Messina player had ever been cursed by Coach Rake with as much frequency and enthusiasm as Silo Mooney. No one had deserved it as much. No one craved the verbal abuse as much as Silo.
At the north end of the bleachers, down where the rowdies from the county once raised so much hell, an older man moved quietly up to the top row and sat down. He was too far away to be
recognized, and he certainly wanted to be alone. He gazed at the field, and was soon lost in his own memories.
The first jogger appeared and began plodding counterclockwise around the track. It was the time of day when the runners and walkers drifted to the field for a few laps. Rake had never allowed such nonsense, but after he was sacked a movement arose to open the track to the people who’d paid for it. A maintenance man was usually loitering somewhere nearby, watching to make sure no one dared step on the grass of Rake Field. There was no chance of that.
“Where’s Floyd?” Neely asked.
“Still in Nashville picking his guitar and writing bad music. Chasing the dream.”
“Ontario?”
“He’s here, working at the post office. He and Takita have three kids. She’s teaching school and as sweet as always. They’re in church five times a week.”
“So he’s still smiling?”
“Always.”
“Denny?”
“Still here, teaches chemistry in that building right over there. Never misses a game.”
“Did you take chemistry?”
“I did not.”
“Neither did I. I had straight A’s and never cracked a book.”
“You didn’t have to. You were the all-American.”
“And Jesse’s still in jail?”
“Oh yeah, he’ll be there for a long time.”
“Where is he?”
“Buford. I see his mother every now and then and I always ask about him. It makes her cry but I can’t help it.”
“Wonder if he knows about Rake?” Neely said.
Paul shrugged and shook his head, and there was another gap in the conversation as they watched an old man struggle in a painful trot along the track. He was followed by two large young women, both burning more energy talking than walking.
“Did you ever learn the true story of why Jesse signed with Miami?” Neely asked.
“Not really. Lots of rumors about money, but Jesse would never say.”
“Remember Rake’s reaction?”
“Yeah, he wanted to kill Jesse. I think Rake had made some promises to the recruiter from A&M.”
“Rake always wanted to deliver the prizes,” Neely said, with an air of experience. “He wanted me at State.”
“That’s where you should’ve gone.”
“Too late for that.”
“Why’d you sign with Tech?”
“I liked their quarterback Coach.”
“No one liked their quarterback Coach. What was the real reason?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes, after fifteen years, I really want to know.”