“A man writes a contract,” Red frowned, “with the eye to breaking it, not keeping it.”
“Don’t tell them ballplayers that.” Conly laughed. “We’ll both be looking for work.”
“I have tenure back at the University whenever I want, Dick.”
“You going to give back the slush fund?” Conly asked.
“Dick, I want you to be general manager,” Cyrus suddenly interrupted.
“Well, shit,” Conly said. “That’s the first I’ve heard of this. I don’t want to be general manager. Damn you, Cyrus! I’ve got other responsibilities.... I don’t have the time for your whimsical bullshit. Neely Johnson is ready to move over from Chandler Communications. We had everything settled. With his broadcast experience ...”
“I’ve changed my mind.” Cyrus was firm.
“You’re going to push me once too often,” Conly threatened, but he realized he had been mousetrapped. Cyrus was becoming enchanted with his new toy and wanted Dick to make it work.
“Red,” Dick said, “if I
have
to be general manager, you will have complete field command. And the paychecks of the players and coaches will be delivered to you before each game.”
Red pointed at Cyrus. “Dick negotiates, but he signs everyone I want, for whatever they want, and makes every trade I say. Cyrus,
you stay out.
I know what you did to Simon D’Hanis just to keep Taylor Rusk away from your daughter.” Red’s forehead was already flushed and anger spread across the coach’s face.
“You keep your hot-pants daughter away from my players!
You mend your own damn fences and I’ll build a football team—the best money can buy—but it is going to cost you plenty and you are going to stay away from player personnel and game plans. We will have separate offices and office personnel.
All communication
is through me to players and assistants.”
“Instead of me giving more money to the players”—Conly toasted toward Red with his glass—“how about I just give it to you? Then you decide what to do with it.”
“Now
that
is how to run a football program.” Red smiled thinly. “You aren’t
always
doing those boys a favor by giving them money.”
Dick Conly did what Cyrus asked. Right then and there he agreed to become general manager of The Texas Pistols Football Club, Inc. It was a compound mistake.
“You’ll run the show, Red,” Dick explained. “My son, Luther, is here as a ball boy and I want to spend time with him; it’ll be simple for me to stay out of your way.”
“Nothing
stays
simple,” Red, still flushed, warned. He was right.
The teletype machine began chattering, disgorging names and information. The TWX machine was connected to the other team camps and the League office and spit out the waiver list names of players: rejects, failures, crazies, normals and of course
bait.
“This young kid from Utah, Whippett—can we get him onto the taxi squad?” Red asked, fingering the teletape.
“He won’t pass waivers,” Conly said. “Goddam Cleveland is claiming every guy we put on waivers.”
“They’re still mad about us taking Hendrix after they blacklisted him,” Red said. “They’ll get over it.”
“Or tired,” Dick added.
“Dallas didn’t seem mad when we picked up Speedo Smith,” Cyrus said.
“Don’t let that fool you,” Conly told him. “Nobody holds a grudge like Dallas.”
“What do we do in the meantime about Whippett?” Red asked.
Conly wasn’t surprised that Red immediately asked his advice. The head coach was confident within his system, and could size up men quickly. He recognized Conly’s worth better than Cyrus did. The more difficult the problem—the more complicated, devious, obtuse—the better Dick Conly was at solving it. Dick Conly knew how to do business. His personal life was a mess, but he could solve Cyrus Chandler’s and Red Kilroy’s problems.
“What do we do about the kid from Utah?” Red Kilroy repeated to Conly. “Whippett.”
“Simple,” Dick Conly said, “If we can’t get him past waivers, put him in the National Guard and have him called up for six months.... See what Cleveland thinks of that.”
The two men smiled. They knew they would get along.
When young Luther Conly arrived to go to the movie, they were making the deal for Whippett with the Texas National Guard.
“I’m ready, Dad.” The boy burst into the room. The head coach and Dick Conly were both on telephones.
“Just a second, General,” Dick said. “My boy just walked in.” He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and dug his other hand into his pocket. “Say Luther, you want to talk to a
real
general?”
“No, thanks, Dad, I want to see the movie.”
“Yeah ... well. I know. Say, Red.” Conly dug a wad of bills from his pocket. “Any of your assistants going to the movie tonight?”
Red shrugged. Dick looked back and Luther was gone.
“Huh ... he must not have wanted to go very badly.” Conly uncupped the phone. “Sorry, General. Now, Whippett has got to find a vacancy in a guard unit. El Paso? Jesus, that’s a long way, but ... all right. If we can’t make a deal for him, I’ll call you back and you get him activated. Great.” He hung up the phone and looked at Red Kilroy. “Now, what do you suppose got into that dumbass kid of mine?”
Luther Conly listened outside the room, tears running down his face. It was beyond his understanding that his own father would rather do
that
than go to a movie with his own son.
That dumbass kid of mine.
Luther walked all the way back to his room, crying and hitting his leg with his fist. He was a very unhappy ball boy. He was positive he was doing something wrong.
Luther collapsed on his bed, sobbing and wondering why nothing was simple and everything was so boring. He smoked a joint and played records, falling asleep and dreaming his father didn’t like him because he didn’t play football and was only a kid. He didn’t know what to do about either.
“H
EY, KID.”
I
T WAS
Bobby Hendrix at Taylor Rusk’s door. The dormitory was dark and quiet. Taylor had fallen asleep. Hendrix, the tall, thin, freckled-faced redheaded veteran of eighteen professional football seasons, leaned against the doorjamb, the ever-present toothpick in his mouth. He talked in a slow East Texas-Louisiana drawl.
“You awake, kid?” Hendrix called again.
“I’m semiconscious; it’s the best I can do,” Taylor sighed. “How do you keep going? You’ve done eighteen years of training camps.”
“I just keep getting up—off the bed, or the ground. They get tired of hitting me before I get tired of catching the ball.” Hendrix placidly pulled the toothpick from his mouth. “I got knocked down in bars a lot, and there they whistle
you
dead, not the play. I learned quick about getting back on my feet; can’t run if your feet aren’t on the ground.” He stuck the toothpick back and studied his new young passer, letting the conversation abruptly die, gauging the effect of the growing silence.
Bobby Hendrix had caught more passes in high school, college and professional football than any man. He lacked speed and strength, but he had patience and will. He was the first man on the field for practice and the last one to leave, often driven off by darkness. And when they knocked him down, Bobby Hendrix
always
got back up.
“Okay if I turn on the television?” Hendrix asked. “The Prez is gonna be on; I want to watch his act.”
Fixing his gaze on Taylor’s face, Bobby searched for the impatient anxiety that haunted many young quarterbacks. It was not there. Deeply, strongly centered in the game, Taylor had no doubts about his skills. Hendrix found Taylor enigmatic—detached and calm yet weirdly intense and caring. He was a good one and they would be friends, he decided. Their mutual success depended on it.
“You’re married,” Taylor announced abruptly. “It seems like having a family would be hard.”
“Insane.” Hendrix nodded absently, pushing the toothpick with his tongue. “Completely insane. I got four boys.” He flashed four bony fingers. “Four. Count ’em.” A smile flickered across the cadaverous face, the toothpick motionless. “In-fucking-sane.”
Taylor studied the ghostly face. “How old are they?”
Hendrix laughed. “How the hell should I know? Two are little tiny and two are somewhere in their teens. Why are you asking? You plan on ... ?”
Taylor shook his head.
“Well”—Hendrix repositioned the toothpick—“then let me ask you another question: Do you know Terry Dudley?”
“Yeah. He was a basketball player.”
“Well,” Hendrix continued slowly, “I called the national union office today. They put me on hold, then disconnected me four times; real jerk-offs up there. I finally talked to this friend of yours, Terry Dudley. He’s a staff lawyer for us now and he told me some pretty interesting things.”
Taylor was surprised at the news of Dudley’s job.
“Right now,” Hendrix drawled slowly, “Charlie Stillman is the director of the Players Union.”
“That guy was Simon D’Hanis’s agent.” Taylor’s voice hardened. “How did that happen?”
“Charlie Stillman sent out the signature cards and the clubs made the players sign them before they gave them their game checks. It was really Robbie Burden, the commissioner’s, idea. Pretty damn smart. You got a lot to learn, kid.” Hendrix continued,
“What we got is an owner’s operative surrounded by a staff loyal to him. The officers and player reps are systematically traded or cut. The commissioner isn’t dumb, and the owners are around long after any player. We have no continuity, so Stillman steps in and runs the Union. Stillman calls for a show of Union solidarity so the owners can see who stands up, then they start taking names and kicking asses.
“Burden has lots of power for a hired gun. The owners are always fighting and Robbie plays politics, putting himself into the power vacuums. Dick Conly may be the commissioner’s match, though.” Hendrix, six foot two and 180, turned his red head slowly and looked at Taylor. “Unless they’re on the same side.”
The television bathed the room in soft light.
“It’s control of the League that they all fight about. The Franchise was only the first step. There’s revolution coming, and we’re either the soldiers or the software. Robbie blacklisted me for trying to get Stillman fired from the Union—made Cleveland put me on waivers,” Hendrix said, “but Red and Conly took me anyway. It sure pissed Cleveland off at Robbie Burden. So Conly accomplishes two things: weakens the commissioner with Cleveland, while Red gets me for the one-hundred-dollar waiver price.” Bobby Hendrix laughed. “I’ll play my string out here. We’ll win some games; we’ll surprise some people. Red’s got a good system. This business isn’t exactly overflowing with geniuses. He’ll outsmart a lot of coaches.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that.”
“I guess I might as well elect myself player rep.” Hendrix grinned. “What kind of guy is your friend Dudley? At least he was a
player
, even if it was roundball.”
Taylor shrugged and frowned. “He’s well known and smart. One of the top onions at the University. Got his law degree while he played pro in San Antonio, had his own TV show, political science degree, a good media man—semicelebrity.”
“Well,” Hendrix said, “now he’s on the Union staff. He handles contract grievances. In this league the first mistake you make is reading your contract. The second is reading the Collective Bargaining Agreement. Did you sign the licensing release they passed around yesterday?”
“No.”
“Good; me neither. Your friend Dudley told me that the commissioner has promised those people they can use our pictures on their bottle caps and they’ve already started distribution. Stillman promised that the Union would deliver the releases from the players.” Hendrix moved the toothpick from one corner of his thin mouth to the other. “The commissioner has promised something that he and Stillman may not be able to deliver. Dudley says we can sue the bottling companies if they use our pictures and the commissioner’s office doesn’t have individually signed agreements. That’s why they’re on us to sign them, just like the union cards.” Hendrix laughed softly. “I’m calling other guys around the league about this licensing agreement. We might be able to get rid of Charlie Stillman over this. Maybe give your boy, Dudley, a shot at the job.”
Hendrix sat at the foot of the extra bed and turned up the television volume. The face of the President appeared.
“My fellow Americans,” the President said, and proceeded to explain the necessity of the “lender of last resort,” the Federal Reserve, to pick up the greater portion of the bad paper in the Third World to show American resolve to defend democracy wherever threatened.
“Revaluation,” he called it.
“Ever’ dollar you got just turned into seventy-five cents,” Hendrix said. “They turned on the presses to bail out the banks.”
The Prez, bathed in sweat and shaking, said good night.
“Academy Award all the way, Mr. President. You saved the picture.” Bobby Hendrix turned down the television and said, “I got to go meet Kimball, Margene Brinkley and Darryl Wood. You better come and spend those dollars before they turn to pesos.”
On the silent screen a newsman stood in front of a chart that showed revaluation as a series of progressively smaller silhouettes of dollar bills.
Bobby Hendrix picked up Taylor’s phone and dialed four numbers. Red Kilroy answered in the other wing.
“Red, this is Bobby. I want to borrow your car.... The keys? ... Thanks. Bye.”
Bobby Hendrix looked over at the rookie quarterback. The Franchise. Red had already talked to the creaky, wise outside receiver. “Take Rusk and make him a passer, watch his doses of Kimball Adams ... and teach him to
read.
Bobby, teach him to read those defenses!” Red had pleaded. He was on a tight schedule to the Super Bowl.
“Kid”—Bobby Hendrix put down the phone,—“come on with me. It’s time you met life from the Old League, two real dinosaurs. You have the rare privilege to learn at their feet,” Hendrix drawled, slowly moving the toothpick around in his mouth. “You just got to be careful it don’t kill you.”