William Kienzle - Sudden Death

Most of the initial attention was focused on Hunsinger, the only Cougar ejected from a game so far this season. Reporters crowded around his open wire locker and the stool on which he sat. The TV sungun cast its unreal illumination in the area; questions came seemingly from everywhere.

Hunsinger-like those of his fellow players experienced in being interviewed-was cautious in his statements. Television, with its relentless closeups, could reveal not only answers and comments, but also the interviewee’s attitudes, whether he was serious about a statement, or lying. The print media had three options: They could quote correctly, and in context. Or they could misquote. Or they could quote correctly, but out of context.

It was akin to Woody Hayes’ opinion of the possibilities of the forward pass: It could be either complete, incomplete, or intercepted. In both the interview situation and the forward pass, two of the three outcomes were bad. But there were times when there seemed no alternative to talking.

“How about it, Hun, did you get hurt out there today?”

“Football’s a rough game.” Hunsinger mopped a perspiring brow.

“Come on, Hun, you were mixed up in two fights this afternoon. That’s extracurricular rough. You hurt?”

“You wanna see the bruises?”

“It wouldn’t help; I couldn’t tell the new ones from the old ones."

“What we wanna know, Hun,” interjected another reporter, “is, are you gonna be ready for next week’s game?”

“Of course. You know what they say: You can’t make the club from the tub.”

“You took a real beating out there today, Hun. Make you think about hangin’ ‘em up? Think this might be your last season?”

“Nah.” Hunsinger very carefully adjusted the cuffs of his shirt. “I’ll know when the end’s in sight. I got some good years left. Besides, the club is depending on me."

Several reporters choked back guffaws. It was common knowledge that Hunsinger, probably more than any other player in the league, ranked the welfare of his team rather low on his list of priorities, a list that had himself at the pinnacle.

In another part of the room.

“Was that the longest field goal you ever kicked, Niall?”

“It was.” Arra, he thought, they could’ve looked it up.

“And your biggest thrill?”

“Well, now, I don’t know about that. I suppose it would be pretty close.” Murray paused in toweling off his back. “Actually, there was that time I scored the winning goal, as well."

“Winning goal?”

“Winning goal in a match with Cork a few years back."

“Cork? You talkin’ about soccer?”

“Indeed.”

“No, football. Your biggest thrill in football?”

“Oh, yes. Indeed. By far.”

“Niall, you seemed especially calm out there today. How’d you manage to stay so calm?”

Murray’s blush almost seeped into his neck and shoulders. “Ah, now, that would be my utile secret. We’ve all got to have some secrets, don’tcha know.”

And in another part of the room.

“You don’t have many closed-door meetings, Coach. What did you tell the guys after the game?”

“Well, we pointed out a few of the mistakes we made today.” Bradford had closed the emotional door to his anger when he had ordered the opening of the locker-room door. Now he was putting on his drawling good-ol’-boy Texas charm. “Don’t want the boys to ferget. Strike while the iron’s hot, and all that.”

“Was there any one play or player that turned the game around, Coach?” The obvious target of the question was the fullback and his fumble that had given Chicago the ball for its final, victorious drive.

“No. Now I know whatcher drivin’ at. But we’re a team. We’re a family. We win together. And we lost together. No one player’s more responsible than anyone else for either outcome.”

The reporters all knew that there was one glaring exception to the coach’s claim of togetherness philosophy.

“Coach, if you had it to do over, would you play that last series as conservatively as you did?”

“Fellas, if I ’llowed myself to second-guess myself, I’da strung myself up by the neck until dead long ago.

“No, that was the way to play it. Put the ball up and you’re just beggin’ for an intercept. You keep it on the ground. You don’t look for the fumble. I reckon we’ll be doin’ some work on ball-handlin’ this week.”

And in still another part of the room.

“What’s this loss do to the Cougars’ season, Mr. Galloway?”

“It’s not the end of the line. Don’t bury us too soon, fellas.”

The owner prized all media coverage. But he had a special place in his heart for television. Not all that many people read newspapers, and radio had a comparatively small sports audience. But everybody watched television. Every time he was on, friends went out of their way to mention they had caught him on the tube. It was an important way of his becoming Somebody.

“But it evens your season at five and five-and now Chicago is one up on you.”

“Let’s just not call the season over when we’ve got eight big games to go. And one more with Chicago. I’m confident at this point that we’ll make the playoffs.”

“Thank you, Mr. Galloway.” The TV lights were extinguished; the crew headed in another direction to interview someone else.

Galloway felt an impulse to call them back. They hadn’t talked to him nearly long enough. He had lots more to say. He would wait right where he was in hopes another crew would set up here and ask him some questions-interesting ones for a change.

And in another part of the room.

“How did you feel in that last series, Bobby, keeping the ball on the ground? That’s not the Bobby Cobb style.”

“Look, they pay me pretty good to toss the ball around. For the same amount of money, I’d be glad to throw in a little thinking. But, as it stands, all they want is a strong right arm and a loud voice. You guys want to talk strategy, go see the coaches.”

“You missed on that big third-down pass to Hoffer, Bobby. What went wrong?”

“Just a matter of timing.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all, my man. He’s a rookie, and he’s faster than the average tight end. We haven’t had a chance to work much together yet. But give us a chance. He’s got all the tools. He could be our next pheenom.”

“Playing behind Hunsinger?”

“The Hun can’t play forever.”

“The Hun’s got a no-cut contract."

“Not with Father Time he doesn’t.”

“Seriously, Bobby; how’s Hoffer going to break into the lineup and get regular work, let alone a starting position, as long as the Hun is around?”

“You know, it’s like that old song: Old tight ends never die; they just fade away.”

“That’s soldiers.”

“Whatever.”

“Now, you know that Hunsinger is, in a manner of speaking, the franchise, Bobby. As long as he’s on the team, Coach Bradford’s got to play him. I mean, everybody knows the coach is under orders from Galloway to play the Hun. If the Hun doesn’t play, the Silverdome isn’t filled. And that hits Galloway in his most sensitive area, the wallet.”

“Now you’re talkin’ about the Man and the Man. And both of ’em are right in this room right now. I suggest you gentlemen go right over and ask them your questions.”

Most of the reporters did just that, leaving Cobb to peel off a perspiration-soaked jersey. Generally, he was among the last to leave the locker room.

Elsewhere in the room.

Kit Hoffer sat alone.

His locker was only one removed from Hank Hunsinger’s. It might as well have been a mile. No sungun had illuminated Hoffer’s space. No strobe lights had flashed to blind him briefly. No reporters had asked him a single question. No coaches had said anything to him. He sometimes thought Jay Galloway knew him only because his paycheck helped to drain the owner’s finite resources.