Paul Levine - Paydirt

"You let me down," Kingsley said, when Brauninger came to his suite.

"I'm sorry, Mr. K. It won't happen again."

"I know that, George. And you can make it all up today. Gallagher will be at the game. He's got a press box pass and a sideline pass."

"You want me to detain him, Mr. K."

"Permanently, George."

"I want to make sure I understand you, sir."

"Oh, I think you do."

"Yes sir, Mr. K, I do."

Scott pretended there was nothing special about it, nothing special at all, his Mom and Dad having breakfast together on Super Bowl Sunday, Dad making the coffee, Mom slicing grapefruit. So here they were, all gooey, just looking at each other, but only a total dipstick would make a big deal out of it.

"You want some more French toast, Scott?" his Mom asked.

"Sure. Dad always burns it."

"So that's the thanks I get," Bobby said.

"Maybe we'll re-assign the household chores," Christine said. "I'll do breakfast, your Dad will cut the lawn, and you'll wash the dishes."

"So I guess we're staying here?" Scott said, suppressing his emotions, keeping the joy under wraps.

"This seems like a good place to live," Christine said. She glanced around the old kitchen with its dropped ceiling, flourescent lights, and avocado green appliances. "It could use an update, though. And why are the front windows covered with sheet metal? Is the neighborhood that dangerous?"

"Hurricane shutters, Mom. Dad forgot to take them down last Fall."

"I didn't forget," Bobby said without much conviction. "With El Nino, you never know."

Christine wrapped both hands around her coffee cup and took a sip before speaking. "Another rule in the house will have to change. No TV while we eat."

"Aw, Mom, it's Sports Center." Scott shot a look at the 13-inch Sony on the counter. A Super Bowl preview was on with the sound muted. "It's the best show on television."

Scott saw his father looking at the screen, his jaw muscles tightening. They were showing highlights of the Mustangs eight-point win over Green Bay. It was the game in which Dad was middled, pounded flat by skanky luck. The memory was already as rusty as a bike left in the rain.

Jeez, it seems like I was just a kid then. So much has happened.

"What other aces?" Christine asked, pouring orange juice for Scott.

"What?" Bobby said.

"On the phone, you told that gambler you had two or three aces you hadn't played yet."

"Oh."

Scott could see his father's mood change. The happiness that he must have felt-that all three of them felt at being together-was melting away.

"I don't have any aces," Bobby said. "Just a couple of jokers. I needed LaBarca to turn Skarcynski around, and it looks like he'll do it. But even that may not be enough."

"Well, think about it, Bobby. The game is hours away. What else can we do?"

"Nothing. With Skarcynski trying his best and Nightlife out, the odds are definitely improving. There's no guarantee, but with a little luck, Goldy and I will win 5.5 million dollars. Which your old man won't pay."

"So you'll end up with two per cent of the team's stock," she said.

"For which there's no market.".

"Sure there is."

"Meaning you?"

"Meaning us." Christine laughed, the sound of chimes tinkling in the breeze. It was just about he best sound in the world. "Oh, Bobby, think about it. Do you know what Thursday is?"

"Of course, I do. I've never forgotten your birthday, even when we were apart."

"My thirty-eighth birthday! The stock that's held in trust comes to me outright, forty-nine per cent of the team! Bobby, if the Mustangs don't cover the spread, you and I will own fifty-one per cent. We'll control the team!"

"Wow," Bobby said. "I'm in love with a woman of substance. CEO of the Dallas Mustangs."

"And you'll be G.M.," Christine said.

"Hey, Scott, how'd you like to coach the special teams?" Bobby asked.

"Groovalicius," Scott said, keeping his eyes on the TV where ESPN was profiling the two Super Bowl quarterbacks.

"It's what we talked about years ago," Christine said. "We could clean it up, do everything you wanted Daddy to do."

"Are you going to fire Pop?" Scott asked.

"Let's just say it'll be time for Daddy's retirement," Christine said.

"Two per cent," Bobby said, almost to himself. "Your father never thought he was putting up control of the team."

"He thought he'd win the bet," Christine said.

"Sure, but even if he lost, he never thought you and I would join up."

"We make a great team, pardner," Christine said, laughing again.

"Only if the Mustangs don't cover the four point spread," Scott said, tossing cold water on their bonfire.

"Yeah," Bobby said. "It's not a lock. Look, no matter what I told LaBarca, the Mustangs are damn good, even without Nightlife. I hate to admit it, but Stringer is the better quarterback, even when Skarcynski's trying his best."

Christine rested her chin on one hand, deep in thought. Scott had seen the look so many times, usually when there was a problem that needed solving.

"So what can we do, Bobby?" she asked. "Do you have any more of those voodoo curses you were telling me about?"

"No, and I wouldn't do it, anyway."

"Why not, Dad?" Scott said.

"Trying to foul up the game was a mistake. Let them buckle up their chinstraps, look across the line at each other, paw the turf, and go at it, man to man. See who's tougher, smarter, and better. It's chess with muscles. It's the American way."

"You just sound a little cornball," Christine said.

"And very old school," Scott added. "Like civics class."

"It's just a game, Bobby. The fate of civilization doesn't depend on who wins."

"Not on who wins but on how it's played," Bobby said. "It's all about the drive for excellence, teamwork, and relentless effort against overwhelming odds."

"And corporate greed, hype, and gluttonous excess," Christine said.

"That too. That's why it's so damn American. But when the whistle blows, the distractions don't matter. For three hours on one day a year, we're all brought together. Kids believe in the Super Bowl long after they know there's no Santa Claus. It's become part of the fabric of our society and it shouldn't be meddled with any more than the Rocky Mountains should be leveled or the Great Lakes filled with sand. Let them play. We're not going to monkey with it. It would be wrong. It would be…

He couldn't seem to find the word.

"Un-American?" Christine helped out.

"Bogus?" Scott suggested.

"Sacriligious," Bobby said.

Christine laughed. "Football as religion. Perfect."

"The game is our secular religion," Bobby said. "Super Bowl Sunday is Christmas. The stadium is the church, the coaches the priests, the players-"

"Altar boys?" Christine teased.

"All right. I'm getting carried away, but I'm still not going to mess with it."

"Even if it meant saving your own skin and getting the team away from my father?"

"It wouldn't be right," Bobby concluded.

"There's Craig!" Scott pointed at the television screen.

Sure enough, there was number seven in cowboy garb, riding a spotted horse.

"Must be an old video," Christine said. "That's Temptation, his favorite Appaloosa. That coloring is called the leopard pattern."

On the screen, a grinning Craig Stringer sat astride a white horse with dark spots.

"See that big spot on her haunch," Christine continued. "Craig always said it looked like the map of Texas. You can't see her hooves, but they're striped, like she's wearing old-fashioned socks." Christine grew silent a moment. "God, Craig was heartbroken when she died in the fire with the rest of the horses."

Bobby stood and started clearing the breakfast plates. "Luckiest thing that ever happened to him."