Chris Bachelder - The Throwback Special

Gil sat on a queen bed with the other offensive linemen. He had removed his shoulder pads, but he still wore with pride the jersey of Mark May. Despite the rain and the mud, his jersey was immaculate, shimmering. The offensive line had worked perfectly as a unit. Each man had done his job. Others paid passing tribute with oinks and snorts, cans of beer. Gil leaned back on the bed, striking something hard beneath the comforter, a large cylindrical lump. He flung back the blanket and sheets, and there was Fancy Drum. The linemen cheered. Across the room, Steven tried to pretend that it did not matter much to him one way or the other. Men who had detested Fancy Drum now looked upon it with affection, tenderness. The drum seemed to have proven itself, completed a rite of passage. It was now, at last, at the end, accepted into the group. Men posed for photos, not one of them lewd, an arm around Fancy Drum, as around a teenage nephew.

George put in a terrible CD of his brother’s jam band, and Wesley replaced it immediately. Without removing his helmet, Fat Michael poured corn chips from a bag into his mouth. He swigged sparkling wine through the single crossbar of the face mask, and he danced to the music, without inhibition or rhythm. He seemed reluctant to put any weight on his right leg. His jersey was a mess. Jeff stayed close by, keeping an eye on Fat Michael. It was almost always the case that the man who played Theismann had to be monitored for a few hours after the play.

David, the young Web specialist at Prestige Vista Solutions, parted the curtains to watch the rain. He had the odd sensation that he might see the players, himself included, beneath the foggy dim lights of the distant field. He closed the curtains, and attempted to cross the room, his backpack slung over one shoulder pad. Along the way, he was heartily thanked and congratulated. His hair was tousled, his back was slapped, his hand was shaken. He was given a red plastic cup, and another. Waiting outside the bathroom, David asked Vince what he should do with his uniform, his gear. Vince shrugged. “Souvenir,” he said. “A small token. Or give it to Trent.” He shrugged again, and gestured to David that the bathroom was now unoccupied.

In the bathroom, trying with cold fingers to untie the drawstring of his pants, David decided that he would not, after all, blog about the night, or post any pictures. He didn’t have any pictures. He resisted looking at himself in the mirror, perhaps out of a concern that his bright reflection would almost certainly tell the wrong story. He liked wearing the uniform, though it was faded and frayed. He had liked the snug fit of the helmet, the reassuring pressure of the chinstrap. He had liked the stillness before the snap, his breath in the air. He had liked the sense that anything at all might happen, even though only one thing could happen. And he had liked watching the old grainy replay on his tablet. The antique font, the primitive production values. It was like watching newsreel footage of some distant war or assassination attempt. With his back to the mirror David took off his uniform and pads, while the men outside the bathroom sang the hit song from a recent animated movie about Pegasus. He folded the jersey and pants, and placed them on the edge of the bathtub. He put the helmet and shoulder pads in the tub, and did not take a picture of them. His regular clothes, drab and wrinkled, were stuffed in his backpack. He began slowly to dress.

Back by the window, next to the heating and cooling unit, Charles told Robert that it did not sound serious. He wore his brown canvas bag over his uniform, the strap running diagonally across his Terry Kinard jersey. He put his hand on Robert’s arm. “It sounds to me,” he said, “like she’s just a picky eater. I wouldn’t worry too much. But get in touch with me if you have any more concerns or questions.” He reached into his bag for a business card. Robert tucked the card into his maroon waistband, next to his ping-pong ball, and walked directly into the throng, forlorn and euphoric. The men did not think of Adam, whose departure had been so mysterious, so generic.

The door opened. Chad entered with more ice, and the cat darted from the room. The phone rang on the bedside table, but nobody answered it. Peter held a deck of cards, and several men implored him to do the trick he had done the previous year, or was it two years ago? The trick was called “Three Ladies and a Rascal.” Derek finally found Gary, who had taken off his Lawrence Taylor jersey and draped it over the television. Derek wanted to know what it was like. He was curious, not angry. The room was so loud that the men had to lean close to speak and hear.

Gary shrugged. “It was a weight,” he said.

Derek leaned toward Gary’s ear. “A wait?”

Gary nodded. “A big weight.”

Trent stood in the narrow alley between the wall and the bed. He surveyed the room, nodding. He was satisfied with his work as commissioner. He had had to make some difficult decisions. He had had to guide the group through some unprecedented challenges. He had had to clean a nasty bloodstain out of a jersey in the middle of the night. He reached across the bed to shake hands with Vince, Bald Michael, Gil, Wesley.

“Time to write your memoirs,” Gil said to Trent.

Typically, the commissioner’s final duty as commissioner was to select the next commissioner, but Trent could see that the ping-pong balls had at some point been dumped on a bed, and were now dispersed entropically throughout the room — beneath furniture, under the curtain, in the cleat pile. One ball was in the bathroom. Two had been stepped on and dented. One was held tightly in Randy’s noninjured hand. One was stuck to a curled piece of athletic tape like a mouse in a trap. It was not a process, Trent observed, that could be easily reversed.

“Guys,” he said.

“Hey, guys,” he said.

Carl stood on a queen bed. His jersey was untucked, and his thigh pads and knee pads had shifted radically away from his thighs and knees. He turned in a circle. He could see everything from up this high. He tried to kick a ping-pong ball, and missed. Andy shuffled past the bed with a bottle of sparkling wine. “Trick or treat!” Carl yelled at Andy, leaning over, pushing his cup into Andy’s face. “Say when, brother!” Andy shouted, lifting the bottle, pouring. Carl did not hold the cup at a forty-five-degree angle. He never did say when. Someone flicked the lights off and on, off and on. Someone, maybe Vince, had a few words to say. Tommy raised his cup to Robert, who stood across the room. They had never really spoken that much in all these years. The sparkling wine foamed over the edge of Carl’s cup like a fountain, and the men, several of them, howled.

David, the young Web specialist, left the bathroom and stepped past the pile of cleats at the door. None of the men saw him leave the room. He closed the door behind him quietly, then hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the handle. He walked down the hallway, past the surveillance camera, toward the elevator. His regular shoes felt strange and soft, and they made no sound on the carpet. He patted his pockets — phone, keys, wallet, mouthguard. His girlfriend, far away, knew nothing about his night. He pressed the button, and waited. Standing by the elevator doors, he could still hear the voices of the men in Room 324, chanting.

It occurred to David only now, outside the room, divested of his gear, that he could do this again next November with his own group of guys. He would not convene here, of course. He would meet in a better hotel, with a better conference room, a better breakfast. He’d use a projector and a big screen, a podium with A/V controls. He’d get new and better uniforms and equipment. He’d find twenty-one guys, the right kind. Certainly he would need a better field, with bright lights and chalked lines. His uncle was an assistant athletic director at a private high school. David nodded. That field was nice. He imagined wearing the old helmet with the single crossbar, breaking the close huddle, jogging to the line of scrimmage, calling the signals, the colors and numbers. He didn’t care about a lottery drum — that thing back there on the bed was ridiculous — but he could make something simple, a box with a small hinged opening on the top or the side. And the thing is, there had to be some kind of lottery system, with meticulous rules so that everything was fair. The same guy couldn’t be Theismann every year. Everyone would get a chance.