James Sheehan - The Law of Second Chances

“We’ll probably never know exactly what happened. Things just don’t add up, though. If they were a team, and if the shooter and the guy at the bar are the same person, what the hell was all that about at the bar-her running out after him? It doesn’t make sense.”

Tony didn’t have an answer for that one. And clearly, at the moment, neither did Nick.

Gregory Brown, one of the new black guys from north of the Ninety-sixth Street line of demarcation, was the fastest player on the team-maybe the fastest player the Lexingtons had ever had. Joe Sheffield, the coach, installed him as running back after his very first practice. Floyd Peters, another black kid, and Luis “Rico” Melendez, the Puerto Rican, were neck and neck in the sprints and a close second to Gregory. The next fastest was the biggest surprise-Johnny Tobin. Johnny had grown into his body in the last year, going from a gangly youth to a more coordinated, muscular athlete. As a consequence, his reflexes were quicker and he was a lot faster .

After three weeks of practicing and scrimmaging, the positions were set. Johnny secured a starting spot in the defensive backfield with Floyd Peters and Rico Melendez. Although he was speedy enough to stay with most receivers, Johnny initially had no idea how to play defensive back. Rico and Floyd took him under their wing .

“You gotta practice differently than the rest of the team,” Floyd told him. “You gotta practice running backwards and sideways without looking where you’re going.”

The three of them would go off by themselves and practice running backward on their toes and sideways with cross steps at full speed. They didn’t have the luxury of a defensive backfield coach so they coached themselves-at least, Rico and Floyd coached Johnny. He didn’t know where they’d learned their skills, but Rico and Floyd knew how to play. Floyd was Johnny’s height but thin and wiry. He could twist and turn his body in fluid motions like a ballet dancer. Rico was short, quick, and tough .

Rico was the tactician, and he worked Johnny every day on the fundamentals of playing defensive back. Floyd taught him how to make plays without getting hurt .

“If you want to last in this league, don’t meet everybody head on like that maniac,” Floyd said one day, pointing at Rico. “Catch them at an angle. If you hit a man from the side he goes down a lot easier and it’s a lot easier on you. Just don’t forget to wrap your arms - that’s the key. You gotta play tough but you gotta be smart about it too.”

Rico constantly pushed Johnny to be more aggressive .

“You got a nickname?” Rico asked him the Thursday before the first game .

“Kinda.”

“What is it?”

“They sometimes call me the Mayor of Lexington Avenue.”

“You? Why do they do that?”

“It’s a long story.”

Rico didn’t have time for a story. He was too busy teaching. “I call myself the Rico Kid. You know why?”

“Why?” Johnny asked .

“Because I have my turf, and nobody’s coming into the Rico Kid’s territory without getting hurt. You understand?”

Johnny nodded hesitantly. Rico filled in the blanks. “When we line up in the game on Saturday, you’ll be on the right side - you’ll always be on the right side. I’ll be on the left and Floyd will be in the middle. When you’re out there on that right side, you look at that field in front of you right up to the line of scrimmage and you say to yourself, ‘This is the Mayor’s turf. I own this place. Nobody’s catching a ball in here. Nobody’s coming in here without getting hurt.’ You got that?”

Johnny nodded. “I got it. But you’re not going to call me the Mayor from now on, are you? It’s a little embarrassing.”

“I hear you, man. I’ll tell you what. Off the field I’ll call you Johnny, but on the field you’re the Mayor. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough.”

The first game was at McCombs Dam Park across from Yankee Stadium. Their opponents were the Bronx Bears, whose uniforms matched those of the Chicago Bears-black shirts and white pants. They were big, and Johnny could tell they weren’t sticklers for the rules. They were all grown men in their late twenties and thirties .

The Lexingtons won the toss and elected to receive. Johnny was on the kick return team. Gregory Brown and Floyd stood back by the end zone ready to catch the ball, and Johnny and Rico were ten yards in front of them with Mikey and his brother Eddie; ten yards ahead of them were the linemen. It was a formation they had practiced for the first time on Thursday, for about five minutes. Johnny’s assignment was to find somebody to block after either Gregory or Floyd caught the ball. He was standing out there in his clean white jersey, nervous as hell, butterflies in his stomach, waiting for the referee to start the game. He tried to think about nothing else but finding a man to block .

The referee blew the whistle, the Bears kicker started toward the ball, and his teammates in unison began running downfield. Then the ball was in the air. At first Johnny kept his eyes on the wave of players coming down the field. He was supposed to pick up the ball’s line of flight so he could set up his block, so he briefly glanced up. But something was wrong: the ball wasn’t going over his head to the two guys back by the end zone. The kick was short, way short, and it was coming right at him. And so was everybody on the other team .

There was no time to think. He concentrated first on catching the ball, something Floyd had drilled into his head: “Catch it first, then look to see where you’re gonna run. If you don’t catch it, running is not going to be your problem.” Keeping his eyes glued to the ball, Johnny extended his hands and pulled it into his gut. Only then did he shift his gaze to the field in front of him .

The sideline looked open so he headed straight up the field. Johnny saw Doug Kline and Frankie O’Connor ahead of him, watched as they threw their blocks and then cut the opposite way into the hole they had cleared. Johnny got through, but there was nobody to block the next wave of tacklers. He tried to outrun them and did for another ten yards before he was brought down hard. In the pile, somebody punched him in the stomach. Somebody else welcomed him to opening day in the city league: “Pull that shit again, kid, and we’ll break your leg.” Johnny smiled to himself. Last year he would have been scared shitless. This year he was amused. The butterflies were gone .

He had gained thirty yards on the play. Everybody slapped him on the pads when he reached the sideline. “Way to go, Johnny.” “Good run, man!” It was a nice feeling. Rico and Floyd were the most excited. “The Mayor owns this turf!” Rico shouted .

On the next play, Gregory Brown sprinted around the left end for a touchdown. The game turned out to be a defensive struggle after that. The Lexingtons held the Bears scoreless and won six to nothing .

They celebrated that night at the Carlow East, one of the neighborhood bars. Johnny was the only one on the team who wasn’t eighteen. In fact, he had just turned seventeen that month .

“We can’t go drinking without the Mayor,” Frankie said when Johnny pointed out that he wasn’t legal. “Hell, he set up the winning touchdown.” Johnny felt like a million bucks .

The Carlow had a long bar to the right as you walked in the door. Halfway down the bar on the left was the men’s room. They walked in as a group and headed for the far end of the bar. As they passed the men’s room, Johnny slipped in. He stayed there while Mary McKenna, the bar owner, checked everybody’s identification. Ten minutes later, Jimmy Walsh, the white kid from north of Ninety-sixth Street, came in and handed Johnny his driver’s license. The hope was that Mary wouldn’t notice that she hadn’t proofed Johnny, but if she did, he’d have Jimmy’s license; they looked enough alike for it to work .