Chris Bachelder - The Throwback Special

Myron chose center Rick Donnalley, and the men snorted and oinked. Adam chose Giants cornerback Perry Williams. Charles selected Giants safety Terry Kinard, who lines up deep downfield and cannot really even be identified in extant video of the play. Peter chose what sounded like Giants safety Kenny Hill.

“I’ll see all three of you in Vegas,” said Chad, who earlier with the thirteenth pick had selected Giants left cornerback Mark Haynes. “Vegas” was the name given to the hotel room shared by the defensive backs, presumably because their distance from the sack, their relative unimportance in the play, constituted a license for debauchery and mischief.

There were just two balls remaining in the pillowcase, Trent’s and Fat Michael’s, and one player remaining on the board, Redskins right guard Ken Huff, traditionally a very late selection because he fails to block linebacker Harry Carson, who then chases Theismann into the pulverizing embrace of Taylor. The men at this late juncture considered the possibilities. The next man selected would be forced to take Huff, and the final man would be Theismann. Trent would have made a decent Theismann as recently as last year, but now his weight was an issue in terms not only of verisimilitude, of course, but also of agility. The man who plays Theismann must be nimble and adroit; he must step up into the pocket to avoid the man playing Harry Carson, then he must crumple convincingly when mounted by the man playing Taylor. You had to be fairly athletic and dexterous to suffer a simulated compound comminuted fracture, and everyone knew that Trent would have been a terrible Theismann. There had been unconvincing Theismanns in the past — Tommy always came to mind, as well as George — but perhaps none who had seemed so clearly unfit to play the role. The rain tapped the windows.

Trent bit his lip, dropped his glistening forearm into the pillowcase. The room was quiet as he drew out a ball, then read his own name. His ensuing gestures and expressions of disappointment were pretty obviously feigned. Similarly relieved, the men all looked at Fat Michael. His body was so excellent that he could tuck in his shirt, and he had. He looked like one of the figures cavorting athletically on ancient Greek earthenware. What would it mean to break Fat Michael, to cut him down, albeit ceremonially? Some of the men realized that they had wished for the wrong thing, that Trent might have been the preferable option.

Fat Michael appeared to blanch, though it could have been the sconce light that Carl turned on after shutting down the projector. Theismann’s iconic helmet was produced from a duffel bag in the corner, and it was passed hand over hand across the room to Fat Michael. Following custom, Fat Michael put the helmet on, and the men cheered and whistled, slapping his shoulders and the top of his head. With just its single crossbar, the face mask did not mask Fat Michael’s face. Everyone could see it. He made his way around one queen-size bed and over the second. The men parted, making room for him to pass. He went into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the fan.

“And guys,” Trent said.

“Hey, guys,” Trent said.

“And guys, remember,” Trent said, “if history offers us any lesson at all, it is this: do not hang your jerseys on the sprinklers!”

The men bellowed merrily at Andy, who, a decade earlier, had been the protagonist of the year the sprinkler went off. The misadventure had been a kind of gift to the community, and Andy was subsequently regarded as a major donor. Those who were close enough to punch him in the arm punched him in the arm.

Out in the hallway Fancy Drum was gone.

THE DEFENSIVE BACKFIELD WAS IN ROOM 212 (Vegas).The defensive line was in 256. The touchers were in Room 324. The offensive line was in 432 (the Sty). The receivers and tight ends were in 440. The linebackers were in 560 (the Fracture Compound).

Gear exchange was a chaotic and inefficient and lengthy and primitive process. Over the years there had been several sensible, even elegant, proposals for a more orderly exchange, but each had been ignored. As they did every year after the lottery, the men now roamed hallways with helmets, shoulder pads, and uniforms, searching for the men who required their gear, as well as for the roaming men who had the gear that they required. The cumbersome burden of the equipment was essential to the rite, as was the notion of quest, as was the act of bestowal, as was the inebriated sociability among fellow wanderers. “I hate to say it about my own kid,” Nate told Vince in the stairwell, “but he’s about the sickliest little thing I’ve ever seen.” In the fifth-floor hallway, Robert, having received downstairs the pristine Jeff Bostic gear from Randy, bestowed his Harry Carson gear upon Nate. “Carson,” Nate said, wiping his palms on his pants. Robert could hardly expect Nate to notice the mended chinstrap. In fact, if Nate noticed the chinstrap, it would probably mean Robert had not repaired it well. And he had repaired it well. When Robert was a child, his father had told him that there is never a need to draw attention to one’s own accomplishments. People notice a job done well, his father had said, but in Robert’s experience that had not been true. What people notice is tardiness, failure, moth damage. Robert’s father had been a corporate whistleblower who was pilloried in the press. He now lived alone in rural Illinois, where he sat erectly in a folding chair, listening to police scanners. He carted around an oxygen tank, but still had the power to humiliate Robert.

Nate pinched the Carson jersey at the shoulders, and extended it in front of him. Then with both hands he held the jersey to his nose, and inhaled. He nodded, tossed the jersey over his shoulder. Robert handed Nate the shoulder pads, which Nate clacked twice with his knuckles, and placed on the floor. Next, Robert extended the pants, the interior pockets of which Nate examined for knee, thigh, and hip pads. Finally, Robert handed Nate the helmet, upside down, the chinstrap curled inside like an hors d’oeuvre in a bowl. The long hallways seemed somehow not to be uniformly lit. There were, along the corridor, small patches of darkness. Around a corner came the grave murmurs of bestowal, the clacking of pads. The vending alcove clicked and hummed. The elevator rumbled. Nate peered down into the helmet. He gripped the chinstrap, rubbing its soft interior with his thumb.

Startled, Robert began to back away. “What you’ve got to keep in mind, Nate,” Robert said, imitating Steven, walking backward rapidly toward the elevator, feeling, for reasons he did not fully understand, shame , “is that Harry Carson is from South Carolina.”

JEFF SAT on the floor of the vending alcove, talking on the phone to his son.

“Is this the one where you’re trying to escape the frigid caverns?” Jeff said.

“Dad, no ,” his son said. “This is the one where the mutated zoo animals have escaped.”

“And you try to catch them?”

“They seek dominion, Dad.”

“What?”

“Bam! You— Oh, no, my boots . What?”

“Do you catch the animals?”

“They’re mutants, Dad. You shoot them with lava.”

“So you’re pretty good?”

“Oh, God, I hate this parking garage.”

“What are you — do you have me on speakerphone?”

“That is not good.”

“Who else is there?”

“That right there is the very worst one.”

“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

“I think Mom’s taking us— Crap! Uh-oh.”

“Taking you where?”

“To. . Grandma’s.”

“What about Christmas?”

“Shit. Gored again . You messed me up, Dad.”