“God’s plan?”
“That’s right.” Moore turned a page. “When you get all worked up over room assignments, it proves that relying on your humanism will fail.”
“ ‘Creeping humanism’?” Taylor asked.
“You can call it that,” Moore said. “It’s replacing faith in the Almighty with faith in yourself, a human.”
Staring at the ceiling, Taylor thought about R.D. Locke still playing defensive back at Denver. It was probably going to be Locke’s last season too.
“Say, Greg.” Taylor leaned over and dug inside his bag, pulling out Johnny Cobianco’s .45 automatic. “What if I
am
the Almighty?” He flicked off the safety and thumbed the hammer spur. “In your case?”
The explosion was deafening, bouncing around the cinder block walls of the small dormitory room. The recoil jolted Taylor’s arm to his shoulder. The slug knocked out a chunk of cinder block about three inches square, two feet above Greg Moore’s head. The rock fragments cut up the smooth young cheeks and neck; fortunately the white leather Bible protected his eyes. The running back dived onto the floor, dropping the Bible and scrambling for the bathroom door. All asshole and elbows.
Taylor squeezed off a second shot that blew a dresser drawer to splinters as the scuttling Moore crawfished through the bathroom to the other room. He jumped to his feet, running for the coaches’ wing. Explosions echoed down the hall as Taylor emptied the clip into Greg Moore’s old bed and pillow.
Taylor tossed the pistol back into his bag and listened to the thunder of feet in the hallway. He was sorry the gun was out of ammunition; he liked the sound and smell.
Taylor Rusk roomed alone again that year. He bought more ammunition and, the last day of camp, shot up A.D.’s rented Cadillac. He considered it a good start for the Super Bowl season. Greg Moore did well that camp; he was the League’s number-two rusher that season and was All-Pro. Greg understood perfectly about rendering unto Caesar or else. He and Taylor spoke only in the huddle and were not friends, but he ran like the wind, hit like a truck, was an excellent receiver and pass blocker, never made mistakes and could throw the halfback option with incredible accuracy. He also ended up as the punter with a forty-four-yard average.
“Different approaches motivate different players, Red,” Taylor explained. “I spend a lot of time with football players, trying to influence their behavior....”
“I can’t fucking believe you!” Red ground his teeth. “You could have killed him!”
“Greg’s the kind of player who needs a couple of shots across his bow to get going.”
“I can’t believe you shot up the dormitory.”
“Does this mean I get traded to Denver?”
“I can’t believe it!” Red stormed off. “My quarterback leads his team at gunpoint.”
“We’re in desperate straits, Coach.” Taylor laughed and continued to fieldstrip the .45 Colt Commander.
S
IMON
D’H
ANIS SPENT
that exhibition season with Los Angeles. He was usually in such pain that he seldom practiced but saw lots of action. It was Thursday or Friday before the swelling reduced from the previous Saturday, often requiring aspiration of the joint and injections of cortisone. He took Butazolidin in addition to his normal daily intake of painkillers, anabolic steroids for muscle bulk and various vitamins and mineral supplements. For pain he was taking Percodan and used Seconal to sleep, depriving him of dreams.
Simon
needed
dreams.
On game day Simon added a hundred milligrams of Dexedrine in ten- to twenty-milligram doses starting four hours before kickoff and continuing on into the fourth quarter of the game. After an exceptionally hot early season game, he had to be packed in ice and rushed to the hospital. But Simon D’Hanis did not miss a game. And his leg did not improve; rather it was beginning to degenerate from abuse.
Buffy and the children stayed in Texas. The marriage was self-destructing under the traumas of Simon’s knee injury and the Machiavellian machinations of surgery, rehabilitation and the trade to LA. Despite his brutal treatment of her, Buffy stayed with him. She would not listen to an unkind word about Simon.
“He was there when I needed him,” Buffy told Wendy at lunch. “I’m going to be there when he needs me.”
“He doesn’t seem to need or want you around,” Wendy argued. “I’ve seen the marks he’s put on you, Buffy. He’s dangerous. Taylor says he’s capable of killing somebody. You might be doing the best thing for both of you and the kids if you all went and stayed in Kingsville while Simon took this whipping by himself.”
“That’s sure a nice way for a friend to talk,” Buffy replied angrily, putting her fork down and folding her hands in her lap. “And you can tell Taylor Rusk for me that if he were a real friend, he wouldn’t say things like that about Simon.”
“Taylor only told me because he worries about you and the children.”
“Oh, that’s real big of him.” Buffy crumpled her napkin and tossed it on the table. “I noticed how he jumped right to the front and claimed paternity on Randall when you got pregnant.”
“I never told him I was pregnant.” Wendy reached over and took Buffy’s arm. “Come on, dear. I’m sorry. Eat your lunch and let’s gossip and forget about football and football players.”
Buffy cocked her head and gave Wendy a look of consternation. “That’s a laugh, coming from you. You get knocked up by one football player, own about fifty others, and your father trades my husband fifteen hundred miles away with a shattered knee and you want to hold hands and gossip.” Buffy jerked her hand away. “No, thanks.”
Buffy left the table and restaurant quickly, sticking Wendy with the bill and two Caesar salads. Buffy picked up Simon Taylor D’Hanis at the baby-sitter’s house and drove home. The two girls were still in school and wouldn’t be home until around three-forty.
Buffy held the young boy to her breast and rocked him, telling him about all the things he and his father would do when Simon returned from Los Angeles.
“You know, Simon, to tell you the truth,” Dick Portus said, “when the commissioner forced me to make a deal for you, I figured”—Portus rocked back in his leather and stainless steel chair, putting his Gucci shoes up on his massive desk—“this is no shit, I figured that Cyrus Chandler and Dick Conly and the commissioner were running a dead horse in on me. I saw your wreck in Miami in the Playoff Bowl. I didn’t think anybody could come back on that knee.” Portus used his thumbs and forefingers to frame an imaginary television screen. “It looked like your leg was tom off at the knee, all twisted around like that. Then, when I saw the X-rays and your knee, I was
convinced
they fucked us. I think they thought they fucked us too.” Portus laughed and laughed.
Simon D’Hanis sat erect, wedging his massive body into the small cloth-and-steel chair. His hands were folded neatly in his lap. His body was coated with a thin film of sweat. He smiled slightly and nodded while Portus laughed.
“But”—Portus stopped laughing—“you came out here and did a hell of a job for us and you showed those deadbeats pride and endurance and how to play with pain. I goddam appreciate it.” Portus hit the table with a tiny fist. He was a small man at five feet six inches and 130 pounds. He dressed in white slacks and tennis sweaters. Only in his twenties, he was almost bald. “You worked hard all through camp and exhibition season. You were an inspiration to the young guys. You taught them a lot. But, taking the long view ...”
Simon felt his gut tighten and a chill ripple up his spine. The hairs on his neck stood up.
“... we did pretty good in the draft,” Portus continued. “And your teaching brought the younger guys in the line around.” Portus grimaced and shook his head. “I just don’t see where we are going to have a spot for you.”
“But,” Simon said softly, keeping his hands quietly in his lap, “I got one more year on my contract. I need that year for the pension and for the money. I don’t have much put away. I worked out every day off-season and didn’t make any money, and most of my salary is deferred. I’m broke.... Football is all I know. I got another year in me, Mr. Portus.”
“Call me Dick,” the tiny balding man said. “Well, that’s why I called you up here to explain our problem. There just isn’t going to be a place for you. We’re going with the younger guys. The guys
you
helped bring along, and don’t think we don’t appreciate it. That’s why I wanted to give you a chance to catch on with another club. We’re putting feelers out now....”
“But I don’t understand, if you think I’m good. I don’t know what else I got to do. I’m twice the ballplayer any of those rookies are,” Simon pleaded. “I got three kids and no savings and no job prospects.”
“You mean none of those rich Texas oilmen are football fans?”
Portus waved a hand as if batting Simon’s plea out of the air like a fruit fly.
“I’m a lineman, not some glamour back,” Simon said. “Besides, I spent all my time rehabilitating, not looking for work.”
Portus began inspecting his nails and hands. “We just aren’t going to have a spot.”
“But I’ve got another year on my contract,” Simon argued.
“That gives you the right to come to camp, Simon, that’s all.” Portus was tiring of the conversation. He swiveled back and forth in his chair and leaned forward to inspect one of his shoes. “If you’ll
read
that contract, you’ll see that you are required to report in physical condition to play football. That knee of yours is hardly what you would call in good condition.”
“But I played every exhibition game, Dick.”
“Call me Mr. Portus.”
The tiny man pulled his feet off his desk and sat up, preparing to end the discussion. “I just figured to showcase you, maybe trade you, but nobody wants you. Nothing wrong with your game, but your injury is no secret ... no secrets in this business.” Portus paused and cleared his throat.
Simon sat dumbfounded.
“Look, Simon. Your knee is no good. You have violated your contract just by having a bad knee. Our doctor will say so. The Texas Pistols will say so.” Portus snorted a laugh, “Christ, they should know, they fucked up the surgery. Anyway, there’s no place for you.”
“But ... what about ... ?” Simon’s mind was chaos. None of this made sense. “What should I do? I didn’t expect ... I don’t know what to do. I played hurt for you ... I just thought you would respect that and ...”
“Well, Simon, the Union might help,” Portus continued. “You could sue, but it’s expensive and you would have to sue Texas, then LA, then the League. You’d be in court forever. Besides, we have film of you playing, and Texas took film of you doing range of motion drills on the friction table. So go out with pride and style; quit the game before the game quits you.”
Portus turned to his phone and snatched up the receiver, signaling the end of the conversation. “Diane, send those scouting reports in here, will you? And get the coach on the line.” He signaled toward the door with his eyes for Simon D’Hanis to leave. “Go away, Simon, I’m through with you.”
Simon sat wedged in the chair and looked at his sweating hands, twisting his thick fingers until they ached. Finally, slowly, he got to his feet and reached over the desk. With his right thumb and forefinger Simon D’Hanis grabbed LA owner Dick Portus by the nose, snatching him out of his seat. Portus howled, the blood vessels in the tip of his nose rupturing as Simon dragged him across the cluttered desk top, scattering contracts, letters and memorabilia.
The telephone clattered to the floor.
Simon raged and shook Dick Portus like a dirty mop. The little man’s shoes flew off in separate directions. The young owner flopped around, his face white with terror and pain. Turning loose of the mashed nose, Simon got a grip on Portus’s clothes, stretching his tennis sweater out of shape.
Then Simon D’Hanis decided to throw Dick Portus out the window of his twenty-second-floor office.
As the giant heaved Portus sailing toward the twenty-second-floor glass, the tiny man clutched desperately at Simon’s shirt sleeve, tearing it enough to change the angle of his trajectory, and Dick Portus bounced off the teakwood credenza, smashing into a Picasso print.
The next day Simon D’Hanis was listed as officially retired on the commissioner’s list.
Dick Portus’s nose required restorative surgery where Simon’s thumb and forefinger had crushed tissue and vessels.
Simon D’Hanis was now out of control.
And he was heading home.
R
ED
K
ILROY TOOK A
calculated risk that training camp. First, he successfully banned all Texas Pistols Franchise personnel except players and coaches. Even A.D. Koster, the general manager, was banned. He was the reason for the ban.
Second, Red immediately cut his roster down to sixty players. He only invited eighty to camp, and the physical examinations eliminated ten of those. After personal interviews with Red, ten more were released. The remaining players were guaranteed their salaries for the season, in return for a promise of complete loyalty to Red Kilroy.
Suzy and A.D. tried to fight both the ban and the guaranteed contracts, but Red unrolled his contract—negotiated years before with Dick Conly and Cyrus Chandler—and pointed out the clause that gave Red complete power of hiring and firing over coaches and player personnel. Violation of the clause was sufficient reason for Red to resign, at which time he had to be paid a lump sum of $1,500,000, plus additional payments of $500,000 a year for fifteen years, regardless of whether he accepted another job. A.D. retreated in the face of Red’s overwhelming numbers.
A.D. retreated for another reason.
As Taylor Rusk had predicted, the more people the Cobianco brothers moved into the Franchise, the more apparent it became that A.D. Koster was expendable. He was required to stay close to the office and protect his flanks and back.
A.D. spent his free time in his skybox luxury suite at the Pistol Dome with Monique. Together they designed the Pistolettes uniforms and drew up the Pistolettes’ “code of conduct” to ensure they did not hurt the image or the integrity of the Texas Pistols Football Club, Inc.