Chris Bachelder - The Throwback Special

With the fourth pick, Nate chose Giants linebacker and South Carolina native Harry Carson, whose chinstrap Robert had mended carefully and now did not want to relinquish. Then Bald Michael and George, perhaps in an attempt to bask in reflected glory or perhaps because they wanted to share a room with Gary and Nate in the Fracture Compound, chose the other two Giants linebackers, Gary Reasons and Byron Hunt, respectively.

“Borrowed plumage,” Robert muttered to Derek, whom he generally tried to avoid out of respect.

Derek, uncertain how to respond, raised his empty cup to his mouth.

There was some rowdy chatter about the Big Blue Wrecking Crew, as well as the Crunch Bunch. Steven, acting quickly, was able to douse the enthusiasm with historical fact.

Randy, sitting glumly in the orange chair, selected Redskins tight end Donnie Warren with the seventh pick. He just said it, with no hesitation. Donnie Warren. His mind, apparently, had been made up. The men grew quiet. They could not recall Warren ever being selected in the top ten. Steven would have to check his notes. Warren’s job on the play is to help protect Theismann’s tibia and fibula from blindside pass-rushers. Though an eligible receiver, he remains at the line to help left tackle Russ Grimm handle Lawrence Taylor. But Taylor, as it turns out, deposits Warren on the grass in a biodegradable heap on his way to Theismann. Warren is the breach point. And his one-on-one battle with Taylor is not, it must be said, particularly noble or stirring. He is not elevated in defeat. It is difficult to locate the grandeur. Last year Randy had been left guard Jeff Bostic, and now here he was, voluntarily sliding two spots toward mayhem’s gate. Randy had, in the winter, lost his eyewear business, and he had sold the Bostic gear at Internet auction. Then he had claimed, in a largely incoherent, inconsistent, and self-pitying late-night email to Trent, that the gear was stolen from a storage unit near his home in Dover, Delaware, at which point Trent had reluctantly purchased new Bostic gear with the dues money. But now Randy seemed to be accepting culpability, albeit ceremonially, by choosing one of the players most culpable for Theismann’s monstrous injury. This was the only explanation for Randy’s pick. You didn’t have to be Charles to get it. Traditionally, the men made oinking and snorting noises when a Redskins down lineman was chosen, but the men were too surprised to snort, and the room remained quiet. From the hallway came the sound of ice spilling violently into a bucket.

“Heavy is the head,” Andy whispered, even though it made no sense.

“The pick don’t lie,” Vince whispered, more to the point.

AS THE LOTTERY PROGRESSED, as his ball remained in the pillowcase, Derek began to consider the possibility that Trent would select his ball last. That would make things interesting indeed. What if Derek were Theismann? How would a black Theismann— But no, Trent pulled Derek’s ball from the case, giving Derek the sixteenth motherfucking pick. The men applauded. Why? Why were they clapping for Derek and his shitty pick? Were they relieved that he would not be Theismann? All that was left for Derek, of course, was a choice between some fleet-footed Negro in the Giants secondary and some grunting Redskins trench dweller who almost certainly enjoyed bow hunting in the off-season. Derek squinted drunkenly at the blurry board. There was Perry, Terry, Kenny. Or there was Rick, Clint, Ken.

There was a knock on the door. A number of men flinched and grimaced at the sound, and several even seemed to duck or crouch furtively, as if in an attempt to conceal themselves in a small room containing more than twenty men. A couple of men reflexively put their index fingers to their lips. A couple of men pressed themselves flat against a wall, and seemed to hold their breath. Myron found himself gripping the window curtain. A knock was bad.

In loud falsetto Gary said, “ Who is it? ”

“Guys, it’s me,” a voice said.

“ Hold on ,” Gary said. “ I have to locate my panties .”

“Open up, Gary,” the voice said.

Gary looked through the peephole. “It’s just Adam,” he said. “I didn’t see him leave.” Gary opened the door, and Adam entered the room.

“Jesus, it’s hot in here,” he said. “Why aren’t we in the conference room? I went there first, and there was some other group in there.”

The men stared at Adam, realizing for the first time that Adam had been missing all day. Now that they saw him here, it was obvious that he had not been here. Adam. Good old Adam. He looked good. Not very good, really, but the same. Not bad. Just like Adam, like himself. Medium build, dark bags beneath his eyes. It was nice to see that guy. Not nice, but normal, customary. Though, honestly, it was disconcerting for the men to realize that they had not previously noticed Adam’s absence, as it suggested to each man the possibility that his own absence might go unnoticed here. Far more seriously, they suffered a kind of retroactive anxiety about the missing man. He was here now, but he hadn’t been here. He very well might not have come, a fact they had not considered before but were forced to consider now, even though he was here. His arrival should have comforted them, but in fact made them more apprehensive. Several men began counting men.

The men gave Adam a hearty greeting. They said they knew he’d make it. Where had he been?

“Don’t ask,” Adam said, taking off his wet jacket and pumping the keg with vigor.

“We waited as long as we could,” Trent said.

“Seriously,” Gary said, “where were you?”

“I mean it,” Adam said. “Do not ask.”

“Get yourself a beer, Adam,” Gil said, though Adam already held a full cup in his trembling hand.

“What did I miss?” Adam said. “Why are we in here? Why is Fancy Drum in the hallway? Who’s L.T.?”

After the knock on the door, someone had bumped Carl’s projector, and the phone had toppled inside the shoe box. Derek, though, had memorized his options: Perry, Terry, Kenny. Rick, Clint, Ken. He knew, when he thought about it, that he wanted to be in the Redskins huddle. In his experience that huddle was a grave and sacred gathering. Something happened in there, and he wanted to be a part of it. While nobody seemed to be listening, Derek chose Clint Didier. He announced it quietly, to nobody, and Steven recorded it.

“Almost Indian summer weather here in mid-November,” Vince said in a terrible Frank Gifford impersonation.

“You sound Chinese,” Jeff said.

“Gil, you do it,” Vince said. “Gil’s is great.”

“Why is Carl wearing Burt?” Adam said. “Is there any pizza left, or did Trent eat it all? Why didn’t you wait for me?”

Someone tapped Derek on the leg. He looked down to see Randy, sitting glumly in the orange chair. Randy tapped him again, and Derek leaned over.

“You’ll wear the black gloves,” he said confidentially.

“What?”

“Didier wears the black gloves,” Randy said, holding up the backs of his hands.

It was not clear to Derek whether or to what extent this despondent liar with the tragic socks was aware of Derek’s intense ambivalence about the racial implications of the lottery. Did Randy get it? Was he trying to fold Derek gently back into the community? This glum bankrupt with the patchy beard — he was either offering something to Derek, something humane and real, or he was just fetishizing sports gear.

“And the elbow pad on your right arm,” Randy said.

Derek nodded, involuntarily cupping his elbow with the palm of his hand.

•

“WHAT DID I MISS?” Adam said. “Who’s still on the board? How does that projector even work? Is this really what we’re doing this year?”