John Grisham - Bleechers

Rake slipped in one night, long after visiting hours were over. "He tried to cheer me up," Neely said, sipping a beer. "Said knees could be rehabbed. I tried to believe him."

"Did he mention the '87 championship game?" Silo asked.

"We talked about it."

There was a long awkward pause as they contemplated that game, and all the mysteries around it. It was Messina's last title, and that alone was a source rich enough for years of analysis. Down 31-0 at the half, roughed up and manhandled by a vastly superior team from East Pike, the Spartans returned to the field at A&M where thirty-five thousand fans were waiting. Rake was absent; he didn't appear until late in the fourth quarter.

The truth about what happened had remained buried for fifteen years, and, evidently, neither Neely, nor Silo, nor Paul, nor Hubcap Taylor were about to break the silence.

In the hospital room Rake had finally apologized, butNeely had told no one.

Teague and Couch said good-bye and jogged away in the darkness.

"You never came back, did you?" Jaeger asked.

"Not after I got hurt," Neely said.

"Why not?"

"Didn't want to."

Hubcap had been working quietly on a pint of something much stronger than beer. He'd said little, and when he spoke his tongue was thick. "People say you hated Rake."

"That's not true."

"And he hated you."

"Rake had a problem with the stars," Paul said. "We all knew that. If you won too many awards, set too many records, Rake got jealous.Plain and simple. He worked us like dogs and wanted every one of us to be great, but when guys likeNeely got all the attention then Rake got envious."

"I don't believe that," Orley Short grunted.

"It's true. Plus he wanted to deliver the prizes to whatever college he happened to like at the moment. He wantedNeely at State."

"He wanted me in the Army," Silo said.

"Lucky you didn't go to prison," Paul said.

"It ain't over yet," Silo said with a laugh.

Another car rolled to a stop by the gate and its headlights went off. No door opened.

"Prison's underrated," Hubcap said, and everyone laughed.

"Rake had his favorites," Neely said. "I wasn't one of them."

"Then why are you here?" asked Orley Short.

"I'm not sure. Same reason you're here, I guess."

DuringNeely's freshman year at Tech, he had returned for Messina's homecoming game. In a halftime ceremony, they retired number 19. The standing ovation went on and on and eventually delayed the second half kickoff, which cost the Spartans five yards and prompted Coach Rake, leading 28-0, to start yelling.

That was the only gameNeely had watched since he left. One year later he was in the hospital.

"When did they put up Rake's bronze statue?" he asked.

"Couple of years after they fired him," Jaeger said. "The boosters raised ten thousand bucks and had it done. They wanted to present it to him before a game, but he refused."

"So he never came back?"

"Well, sort of." Jaeger pointed to a hill in the distance behind the clubhouse. "He'd drive up on Karr's Hill before every game and park on one of thosegravel roads. He and Miss Lila would sit there, looking down, listening to Buck Coffey on the radio, too far away to see much, but making sure the town knew he was still watching. At the end of every halftime the band would face the hill and play the fight song, and all ten thousand would wave at Rake."

"It was pretty cool," said Amos Kelso.

"Rake knew everything that was going on," Paul said. "Rabbit called him twice a day with the gossip."

"Was he a recluse?"Neely asked.

"He kept to himself," Amos said."For the first three or four years anyway. There were rumors he was moving, but then rumors don't mean much here. He went to Mass every morning, but that's a small crowd in Messina."

"He got out more in the last few years," Paul said."Started playing golf."

"Was he bitter?"

The question was pondered by the rest of them. "Yeah, he was bitter," said Jaeger.

"I don't think so," Paul said. "He blamed himself."

"Rumor has it that they'll bury him next to Scotty," Amos said.

"I heard that too," Silo said, very deep in thought.

A car door slammed and a figure stepped onto the track. A stocky man in a uniform of some variety swaggered around the field and approached the bleachers.

"Here's trouble," Amos mumbled.

"It's Mal Brown," Silo said, softly.

"Our illustrious Sheriff," Paul said toNeely .

"Number 31?"

"That's him."

Neely's number 19 was the last jersey retired. Number 31 was the first. Mal Brown had played in the mid-sixties, during The Streak. Eighty pounds and thirty-five years ago he had been a bruising tailback who had once carried the ball fifty-four times in a game, still a Messina record. A quick marriage ended the college career before it began, and a quick divorce sent him to Vietnam in time for the Tet Offensive in '68.Neely had heard stories of the great Mal Brown throughout most of his childhood. Before a gameNeely's freshman year, Coach Rake stopped by for a quick pep talk. He recounted in great detail how Mal Brown had once rushed for two hundred yards in the second half of the conference championship, and he did so with a broken ankle!

Rake loved stories of players who refused to leave the field with broken bones and bleeding flesh and all sorts of gruesome injuries.

Years later,Neely would hear that Mal's broken ankle had, more than likely, been a severe sprain, but as the years passed the legend grew, at least in Rake's memory.

The Sheriff walked along the front of the bleachers and spoke to the others passing the time, then he climbed thirty rows and arrived, almost gasping, atNeely's group. He spoke to Paul, then Amos, Silo, Orley, Hubcap, Randy—he knew them all by their first names or nicknames. "Heard you were in town," he said toNeely as they shook hands. "It's been a long time."

"It has," was allNeely could say. To his recollection, he had never met Mal Brown. He wasn't the Sheriff whenNeely lived in Messina. Neely knew the legend, but not the man.

Didn't matter.They were fraternity brothers.

"It's dark, Silo, how come you ain't stealin' cars?" Mal said.

"Too early."

"I'm gonna bust your ass, you know that?"

"I got lawyers."

"Gimme a beer.I'm off duty." Silo handed over a beer and Mal slugged it down. "Just left Rake's," he said, smacking his lips as if he hadn't had liquids in days. "Nothing's changed.Just waitin' for him to go."

The update was received without comment.

"Where you been hidin'?" Mal askedNeely .

"Nowhere."

"Don't lie. Nobody's seen you here in ten years, maybe longer."

"My parents retired to Florida. I had no reason to come back."

"This is where you grew up.It's home. Ain't that a reason?"

"Maybe for you."

"Maybe my ass.You got a lot of friends around here.Ain't right to run away."

"Drink another beer, Mal," Paul said.

Silo quickly passed another one down, and Mal grabbed it. After a minute, he said, "You got kids?"

"No."

"How's your knee?"

"It's ruined."

"Sorry."A long drink. "What a cheap shot. You were clearly out of bounds."

"I should've stayed in the pocket," Neely said, shifting his weight, wishing he could change the subject. How long would the town of Messina talk about the cheap shot that ruined his career?

Another long drink, then Mal said softly, "Man, you were the greatest."

"Let's talk about something else," Neely said. He'd been there for almost three hours and was suddenly anxious to leave, though he had no idea where he might be going. Two hours earlier there had been talk of Mona Curry cooking dinner, but that offer had not been pursued.

"Okay, what?"

"Let's talk about Rake," Neely said. "What was his worst team?"