Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

Whitethorn shot forward off the line of scrimmage.

A Redskins lineman slipped, missed the tackle. Whitethorn got to the five.

Skins defenders trying to blitz were stopped dead. They couldn’t climb or penetrate Dallas ’s line, collectively named “Stonewall” that season.

A Skins linebacker was charging toward Whitethorn, but Whitethorn was now on the two with space around him. The team was only one step shy of the goal, of victory, of the Super Bowl.

All Griff had to do was lob a short screen pass over the line into Whitethorn’s hands.

Or miss him, and get paid a cool two million by the Vista boys.

Cowboys lost 14-10.

“It was a crushing loss,” Bolly was saying, “but I remember how the fans still cheered you as you left the field that day. They didn’t turn against you until later, when it came out that you’d missed Whitethorn on purpose. And who could blame them? Their Super Bowl-bound star turned out to be a cheat, a crook.”

Talking about it five years after the fact still made Bolly angry. He dropped the tennis ball, which bounced off his desk onto the floor, ignored. He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes with agitation, and asked brusquely, “What do you want, Griff?”

“A job.”

Bolly replaced his glasses and looked at him as though waiting for the punch line. Eventually, realizing that Griff was serious, he said, “What?”

“You heard right.”

“A job? Doing what?”

“I thought a paper route might be available. Could you put in a good word for me with someone in that department?” Bolly continued to stare at him; he didn’t smile. “That was a joke, Bolly.”

“Is it? Because beyond that, I can’t imagine why you’ve come to me asking about a job. You go anywhere near the sports desk at the newspaper and you’ll probably be tarred and feathered. If you’re lucky.”

“I wouldn’t have to go near the sports desk. I could work directly for you.”

Bolly frowned. “What’d you have in mind? Not that I think there’s a chance in hell of this going anywhere. I’m just curious to see how your mind is working.”

“You can’t be everywhere at once, Bolly. You can’t cover more than one game at a time. I know you use people to cover games for you. Provide the color only someone who is actually at the game can get.”

“I use some stringers, yeah.”

“Let me be one. I majored in English. I have a fair command of the language. As much as anybody in Texas.” His quick grin wasn’t returned. “I can at least put two sentences together. Most important, I know the game. I lived the game. I could give you insightful play-by-plays that nobody else could, add a perspective that would be unique, based on actual experience. Years of it.”

He’d rehearsed the pitch, and to his ears it sounded good. “I could describe how great it feels to win. How lousy it feels to lose. How much worse it feels to win when you know you’ve played like shit and the win was a fluke.” He paused, then asked, “What do you think?”

Bolly studied him a moment. “Yeah, I think you could give an accurate account of wins and losses with some original flavoring thrown in. You’d probably be pretty good at it. But even with terrific language skills, you couldn’t come close to describing what it’s like to be a team player, Griff. Because you don’t know.”

“What do you mean?” But he didn’t have to ask. He knew what Bolly meant.

“You were a one-man show, Griff. You always were. Going all the way back to high school, when you first started gaining notice from college recruiters, it was all about you, never the team. You led your teams to victory after victory with your amazing ability on the field, but you were a piss-poor leader off it.

“Far as I know, you were never voted a team captain, which doesn’t surprise me. Because the only thing that made you part of any team was wearing the same color jersey. You made no friends. Teammates admired your game. Those who didn’t envy you idolized you. But they didn’t like you, and that was okay with you. You didn’t give a damn so long as they carried out the plays you called.

“I never saw you encourage another player who’d made a mistake, never saw you congratulate one for making a good play. I never saw you extend your hand in friendship or lend a helping hand to anyone. What I did see was you giving back Dorsey’s Christmas present unopened, saying, ‘I don’t do that crap.’

“I saw you rebuke Chester when he invited you to a men’s prayer breakfast for his wife, who was going through horrible chemo and radiation. When Lambert’s fiancée was killed in that car wreck, you were the only one on the team who didn’t attend the funeral.

“You were an outstanding athlete, Griff, but a sorry excuse for a friend. I guess that’s why I’m surprised, and slightly offended, that you would come to me now, like we’d been good buddies, and ask for my help.”

It wasn’t easy to hear those things about himself, especially since they were true. Quietly, humbly, Griff said, “I need the work, Bolly.”

Bolly took off his glasses to rub his eyes again, and Griff knew he was about to turn him down. “I hate what you did, but everybody can make a mistake and deserves a second chance. It’s just…Hell, Griff, I couldn’t get you into any press box in the league.”

“I’d cover college ball. High school.”

Bolly was shaking his head. “You’d be met with the same animosity there. Maybe even more. You cheated. First you broke the rules by gambling. Then you threw a game. You fucking threw a game,” he said with heat. “For money. You robbed your own team of a sure-win Super Bowl. You were in bed with…with gangsters, for crissake. Do you think anybody would allow you near kids, young players?” He shook his head and stood up. “I’m sorry, Griff. I can’t help you.”

He had lunch at a Sonic drive-in. Sitting in the borrowed Honda, he gorged on a jalapeño cheeseburger, a Frito pie, two orders of Tater Tots, and a strawberry-lemonade slush. It had been five years since he’d had junk food. Besides, he figured that if he was going to be a despised outcast, he might just as well be a fat one.

On the drive out to Bolly’s neighborhood and up till the time Bolly had told him not only no but hell, no, Griff had congratulated himself for having the character to seek a job when, by two-thirty this afternoon, his immediate money problems would be solved. He’d sought work before going to the bank to check the contents of that safe-deposit box. In his opinion, it had taken a lot of integrity to humble himself and appeal for a job, hat in hand, when after today he wouldn’t have to do any labor, ever, if he didn’t want to. He’d even endured Bolly’s sermon, and the sportswriter hadn’t gone easy on his personality flaws.

Although he had to admit that Bolly’s memory was sound. The man also had a keen insight into his nature. That was why he hadn’t asked forgiveness or tried to justify himself. He’d never been the touchy-feely type. He’d never wanted to pat his teammates on the ass after a big play, and he sure as hell hadn’t wanted any of them patting his. He’d left all that rah-rah bullshit to the benchwarmers, while he was out there on the field doing the bone-breaking, bloody work, getting creamed by tacklers who got marks on their helmets if they sacked him.

But why was he stewing about Bolly’s censure? None of that mattered. Now he had only two teammates, and all he had to do to make them happy was get one of them pregnant. Easy enough.

He had indigestion as he walked inside the bank building. He blamed it on the jalapeños, not nerves. He looked about him, as though expecting to be spotlighted and exposed for the most gullible fool ever to walk the planet.