

### Lee Weyer Had A Bad Day

By John W. Regan

Copyright © 2016 John W. Regan

All rights reserved.

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Table Of Contents

1. December, 2014

2. Cairo High School

3. The Big Shot

4. Lee Weyer Had A Bad Day

5. Manchester

6. Tommy Gray

7. Krissy Wright

8. A Trip To The City

9. Northwest Minneapolis Community College

10. Amerks Game

11. New Year's 2015

12. Natale's

13. Steve And Enos

14. Something About Steve

15. Eastman House

16. Super Bowl Sunday

17. Coaches Meeting

18. Steve Goes To Phoenix

19. Spring, 2015

20. Summer, 2015

21. Camp Bristol

22. Pads And Misery

23. At Baker Badgers

24. Byron-Bergen Bees

25. East Rochester Union Bombers

26. At Shale Vikings

27. At Lyons Lions

28. Cayuga Chiefs

29. At Branchport Beavers

30. Class C Quarterfinals vs LeRoy Knights

31. Clifton Springs

32. Winter, 2016, et al

# 1. December, 2014

The thirty-something year old cashier, armed with both a speech impediment and hearing aid, sported a Christmas stocking cap festooned with them miniature felt candy canes what be glued...or stapled...or whatevs...to the white fringe encircling herself's pimply forehead.

She needed to pull the hat lower, forty-one-year-old Steve Ritter concluded.

She needed to pull the hat lower and fold the fringe under the soles of her orthopedic shoes, kay?

Then she could wear the stoopid Christmas hat like a burqa.

And she needed to scrub her face with something a tad stronger than Cetaphil.

She...eh...

See, she needed to go scorched earth with a chemical peel.

She needed to start the fuck over from scratch, bruh.

She needed The Ark of the Covenant method.

Mmm-hmm.

Those Nazis what melted in _Raiders_ had a fabulous new look.

Poof!

Naught blemishes; naught wrinkles...

Naught a goddamn whatnot.

Fun fact: as a boy, our hero Stevie had been petrified by the sight of dissolving Germans on the big screen. Like a giant pussy, he covered his peepers...

...and he kept 'em covered despite Dad's heartening: _Relax, kiddo,_ _these are The Bad Guys_.

Listen, little Stevie wasn't going to argue The Bad Guys didn't deserve to get turned into puddles of goop. Dr. Belloq, Oberst Dietrich and, um... _what's his name_...the chubby Gestapo fucker with the symbol branded on his hand...warranted liquification. Even them other rank and file Krauts in the Waffen SS or Heer or Kriegsmarine...whatever...okay...fine. Fuck those guys, too. But the poor schlub shooting 16mm film for the Reich Ministry of Propaganda? What had he done?

It didn't seem fair...or something.

And since it didn't seem fair...or something...our kiddo worked through this problem on a rainy day when there was nothing for a seven-year old to do but stare out the bedroom window and contemplate nonsense. The mathematicals he devised amounted to a linear theorem:

God was wont to bloodletting when He went postal;

_Thus,_ there was bound to be collateral damage when a culling commenced;

_Ergo,_ the kid with the Zeiss Movikon wasn't a _Bad Guy_ but an _Unlucky Guy_ caught in a wicked situation...

But then Stevie remembered what Ma said about _the company you keep_. Guilt by association and other Motherisms swayed his thinking and...

Mm-hmm, _therefore_ , even the cameraman be a _Bad Guy_.

As such, all them Nazi bastards merited Jehovah's wrath. And this wasn't a run-of-the-mill Old Testament wrath, either. Tower of Babylon, pillars of salt, bugs, floods, leprosy... _pfft_. Fuck _and_ no. This be face melting and heavy doses of beatific particles blasted through the midsection.

Thing was, Steven Spielberg made an example of The Bad Guys in a cartoonish, ostentatious way...

A cartoonish, ostentatious way wee Stevie Ritter found _scary_.

Pfft.

Matter of fact, _Raiders_ was dumb.

Dumb as _fuck_.

And little Stevie was a punk ass _bee-atch_ crybaby.

Bah.

The cashier - _Cassie K_., the nametag on her flat chest reported- didn't help matters. Her bad skin transported him to the halcyon days of preadolescence, a time when he fretted over cartoonish, ostentatious, dumb as fuck, punk ass _bee-atch_ crybaby shit. Kid shit. Not real world shit. Not, for instance, an ex-wife what wanted a few pounds of flesh from our pal's wallet...

Not that kind of shit.

Cassie K. yanked her neck toward the ceiling until she zeroed on her newest customer's face; thick lenses in her prescription glasses reflected an arc lamp hanging from a steel joist.

Steve saw a tousled and hostile image of hisself in the birth control spectacles: tangled blond hair; beak kinked left of center; a glorious R.J. MacReady-esque bush sprouting from damn near every follicle on his sullen mug.

Lo, our pal did naught look conversational. But in the service industry...welp, he had to be _engaged_ and _chatted up_. His body language and smushed piehole wasn't going to stop Cassie K. from trying, bless her heart.

She dug her claws into him with a cheerful, "Arf foo finif wiff for Chrifmif fopping?"

He proffered an apathetic shrug as the grocery items (Peanut Butter Crunch; a gallon of one percent; a roll of generic paper towels; a box of matches; a liter of lighter fluid) jerked to a stop at the end of the squeaky belt.

"Four Chrifmif fopping," Cassie K. gargled as if her mouth contained a billion marbles. "Arf foo finit?"

Sucking air through his teeth, Steve dug a twenty from his wallet and slapped it on the archaic stand where people used to write checks in them olden days...

Except...

Except them olden days weren't so olden in Cairo, New York.

The slipper-footed methy bro in front of our pal bought a twelver of Natty Light _with a check_. The transaction had taken forever as Mister Methy scribbled in the checkbook with an unsteady left hand. _Two forms of identification necessary for all checks_ , proclaimed a laminated sign affixed on the cash register. Moreover, there were _no exceptions_ to this rule... _no exceptions_ even though the cashier called Mister Methy by name. "Falf" mined a meager wallet until, at long last, he produced two of something, both of which required a supervisor to okay.

Our hero had written one check in his life and it'd been for a cheeseburger and milkshake at Fuddruckers. He'd been destitute then -sleeping on his cousin's couch- the fifth body in an apartment meant for four. Falf's check ignited memories of those vagabond days: hangin' out but pinned; swimming circles in a dirty, fornicating, grocery store shelf stocking, sucking the pipe, nihilistic washbasin.

But he figured it out, Mama.

He found his feet, Mama.

He evolved into a kinda sorta _Big Deal_ , Mama.

_Ha! Now look at you!_ Mama trumpeted. _Back going back, and not kinda sorta like..._

Aye, and the fetid atmosphere of Moore's Grocery Shoppe ( _Shoppe Moore's, Save More!)_ didn't dampen gloomy insight.

Moore's...a Neolithic artifact from his past...

Moore's, a pat Mom-and-Pop place built during the Eisenhower Administration...

Moore's reeked of antediluvian produce; the cleanshaven male clerks donned crisp white dress shirts, skinny blue ties, and pleated black slacks. Mister and Missus Moore were right-of-right conservatives ( _Frank Moore's a Joe McCarthy clone_ , Stan Ritter once griped...which meant nothing to little Stevie), but the Mister and Missus passed into the great beyond years ago. Alas, the new owners hadn't done anything to renovate the store or flush the rotten atmosphere. Everything looked and smelled the same, goddamnit.

Moore's seemed prehistoric to knee-high Stevie, kay? Now knee-high Steve be not so knee-high...not high at all, matter of fact...but when he was knee-high, gettin' _tore the fuck up_ wasn't a consideration...not a blip on the radar...things be swell...Nazis be melting...and knee-high Stevie brimmed with _Big Plans_. Chatting with a retarded cashier at Moore's was naught one of them _Big Plans_. Small talk with retards hadn't made the _Big Plans_ list, believe it or not. And small talk with retards would _never_ make the fucking list, not even if she were the last person on Earth holding the last goddamn box of Peanut Butter-

"Milf in a fag?" she asked.

-Crunch.

He waved a hand and answered, "Just...whatever's quickest, kay?"

The cashier slapped an oval orange "PAID" sticker on the jug's side and then boasted: "I finif fie Chrifmif fopping laf weef. Haf foo fin foo da few Wafart in Canefoafee?"

Steve's forehead crumpled.

"Of courf, Muffer _haf_ foo fum," Cassie K. scoffed before dropping the cereal into a plastic bag. "Muffer _luff_ da Wafart.

"Good ole muffer," Steve said all sarcastic-like.

She scanned the matches as if she didn't hear him (and she likely didn't, which made any attempt at conversation a _motherfucking pointless_ _endeavor_ ) and continued, "Foe fany feepill aft da Wafart, foo foe? If confiended fut...I fean, _foly fow_! Fut I fot _all_ my Chrifmif fopping fun!"

"Wonderful," he said without inflection. "Say, can you, like-"

" _And_ ," Cassie K. interrupted as our hero ground chompers, "I tof fare of fie dauffer aft da Wafart. I fean, _Fanta_ tof fare of her, _fe-fe_. Fanta fot fur fome fooef, a fute fummer deff, and _The_ _Furff_ fovie. Tafela _luff_ _The_ _Furff_ , effefflee Fappa Furff."

It probably reads like gibberish, but Steve gleaned sumptin from the word hash:

Dauffer...

Daughter.

Cassie K. had a dauffer...

A dauffer named Tafela!

_Good Christ,_ he marveled. _Someone fucked you._

Tho...he might've spoken these naughty words aloud...

But out of the corner of his mouth and hush-hush, kay? Not loud enough for-

The frumpy woman at his six (damn near jamming her motherfucking cart up his pooper) gasped.

Oblivious to our pal's randy insult, Cassie K. scanned the lighter fluid and then placed the can into another bag.

"Ever hear of personal space?" Steve hissed at the interloper. He pointed at the stand of gossip pulp and then ordered, "Back the f off, lady."

Scowling, red-faced, the fatbody retreated the fuck outta lane four and skulked to lane six. All triumphant like, Steve shot her a finishing _fuck you_ via his peepers. Alas, the jubilance proved temporary: as he rotated to the register, a familiar face caught his eye...

Mid-tier, _bullseye_ , on the three-stage magazine rack...

The cover page of the _National Enquirer_...

Lower right corner...

In a square what measured two by three inches...

A fuzzy picture of our ole pal looking "under the weather", one might say if one were refined...

Of course, the readers of the _National Enquirer_ were naught refined. Therefore, the caption underneath the clean-shaven, pie-eyed version of Steve Ritter told the world: " _Ex-Sport-o Gets Blot-o_ _!_ "

He cocked his head and stared at the ex-sport-o turned blot-o...

Glum Cohen whispered in his ear:

( _And everybody knows that you're in trouble_

_Everybody knows what you've been through_ )

The ex-sport-o had been in fan- _fucking_ -tastic blot-o form that evening in October; he and Jack King celebrated like two drunken commandos from the Sayeret Matkal after the Raid on Entebbe. Too bad the ex-sport-o couldn't remember anything of that last blot-o. Nutin good, anyway. Preamble cocktails gave way to colorless, blurry images what faded to naught when the blot-o curtain fell o'er the ex-sport-o...

(Everybody knows you've been discreet

But there were so many people you just had to meet

Without your clothes

Everybody knows.)

According to the surreptitious video shot in landscape, the ex-sport-o had a blast-o: body shots off a coed; face sucking; dingus whipping; dingus flogging; a lousy rendition of "Piano Man"...

Turned out there'd been too much dingus and not enough Joel.

Ten and half inches of dingus, to be exact.

Steve's dingus nonsense happened seventy-odd days prior and yet...his likeness still adorned the front page of the _National Enquirer_.

His dingus be the gift what kept giving.

Stupid dingus.

(Everybody knows the scene is dead

But there's gonna be a meter on your bed

That will disclose

What everybody-)

"-knowf if Chrifmif again," Cassie K. droned. "I fean, I feel it comf furlier fevre fear. Do foo fink the-"

"Uh, can you, like, speed this up a tad?" Steve interrupted, dragging his peepers from the ex-sport-o.

"Huf?" herself hacked.

"I have a to-do list a mile long so... _ahem_...no offense, but how 'bout mustering a little elbow grease?"

Cassie K. scanned the paper towels and then said: "Anyfay, _I_ feel fike Chrifmif comf furlier fevre fear cuf of...'

# 2. Cairo High School

Winding north from Canesoanke, State Route 21 delineated the boundary of Monroe and Wayne Counties. Thirty-one point nine miles from start to finish, the two-lane road traversed Manchester, Palmyra (where it crossed the Erie Canal), Luxor and Cairo, and terminated at the mouth of Salmon Firth -a rocky cove on the southern shore Lake Ontario- in the hamlet of Minya.

Cairo Township (Population 5009, according to the 2010 census) sat seven miles north of the village of Luxor, ten miles south of Minya, and three miles southeast of Highway 104, an east-west (or vice versa) artery stretching one hundred thirty-two miles from Buffalo to Hannibal.

Located at the convergence of 104 and 21, Moore's wasn't a stone's throw from the old AF 1,500 square foot Ritter colonial; Stan Ritter desired a home _off the beaten_ , and _off the beaten_ meant 21 south to the periphery of Luxor, then a left turn on Country Road 42. Five miles of countrified austere later...

Hence, the off the beaten drive to Dad's place ( _and your home now, bruh_ , our pal's brain reminded) prompted more mulling...

When Steve was getting _tore the fuck up_ , numb and unencumbered be he.

Susan's yapping; airplane crashes; a murdered girlfriend of yore; the Night Stalkers, Charles Whitman's, and Cassie K.'s prowling Muffer Earf...

Nothing mattered, you dig?

Nothing.

Nothing except getting _tore the fuck up_.

Welp, Steve wasn't getting _tore the fuck up_ anymore which, according to the little angel on his shoulder, _'Is good, cuz when you get tore the fuck up, you act the fool, kay?'_

But not getting _tore the fuck up_ presented problems of its own; not getting _tore the fuck up_ attached a manacle around Steve Ritter's ankles; not getting _tore the fuck up_ gave his mind license to criticize the past...which was _naught good_.

It was _naught good_ cuz thinking 'bout the past dovetailed into _sometimes_ desiring the ole numb and unencumbered approach.

A Rolling Rock here, an Alprazolam there, a big ole rip off a joint, some dingus flogging...

In other words, naughty behavior.

_Very_ naughty behavior.

Now, as luck would have it, our addled oaf learned a method in rehab what _helped_ mitigate temptation and _loosen_ the criticizing the past shackle:

He _needed_ to take a personal inventory.

He _needed_ to make amends and whatnot.

He _needed_ to apologize to those he wronged.

Unfortunately, some of those folks were dead, and that presented a theoretical quandary.

The counselor at Open Arms suggested Steve begin a journal.

' _Write a letter to your loved ones who have passed on,'_ the egghead instructed. _'Tell them everything, Steve. Let your feelings pour forth."_

Steve tried to _pour forth_ ; he gripped the soft lead pencil in his left claw and huddled over the stupid notebook before lights out.

But writing didn't work.

Instead, our hero mulled.

_Every goddamn night_ he lazed on the uncomfortable rack...

And rested his head on the flat ass pillow...

And stared at the white ceiling...

And mulled.

He mulled 'til the recessed LED flickered off...

And then he'd mull in darkness until mulling hounded him to sleep.

Mulling begat lurid, non-linear dreams.

Nightmares, even.

He'd wake at irregular intervals during them witching hours...

Tangled in bedsheets...

Trembling and clammy...

He'd peel off damp linen, shamble into the w.c., sit on the crapper...

And do more mulling:

What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can't I get intact? Can I get intact? Is it possible to get intact?

_Ugh_...

Contemplation...

Compulsion...

Castigation...

The conundrum of the cat chasing its tail drove Steve bonkers!

Lo, solemn reflection on the potty prompted spurious justification for his deportment: perhaps the, _football causes brain damage,_ babble held water. If so...

Case closed.

Others held contradictory opinions, tho:

Susan, for one.

Big wigs at CCO, for another.

Counsellors; the A.A. crowd; cripples; Orientals; dogs; marmots.

The non-political; the arithmetical; the transcendental; the irathamadental...

And the coolambindang bupalookanimbo nefarious talking heads...

(On his transcontinental trek from Phoenix, Steve caught the _Jim Rome Show_ outside Tulsa and listened to the latest, greatest snarky hot take.

Rome called our hero a _Golden Goober._

Rome said: _"Romeo Ritter will be remembered as a man of_ _one_ _talent."_

Rome reminded his listeners: _"Steve Ritter has dropped many a pass during his prosaic career, so is it any surprise he dropped his pants?"_ Cue Ed McMahon and a cymbal crash. _Hey-yo!_

" _Maybe you didn't get popped in the head too much, Romeo,"_ Rome declared. _"Maybe you don't know when to stop knocking back pops."_

"I'll pop you," Steve growled at the radio. Once upon, Rome had been tossed to the ground by a quarterback named Jim Everett after the media turd called him "Chris" four too many times. Steve knew he could better Everett's pedestrian thrashing: our pal pictured hisself goin' all Mark Moseley-like on Rome's head before poppin' a squat over said melon.

_Mm-hmm._ He'd fill Rome's mouth so full, the fucktard bruh wouldn't be able to speak again without spitting Steve Ritter's shit.)

But whatevs.

Brain damaged; or an existentialist moron with a _tore the fuck_ _up_ problem; or your SI, run-of-the-mill knuckle-dragger blessed with deplorable conduct...

He behaved like a buffoon.

He _still_ behaved like a buffoon.

Cassie K. hadn't done jack squat 'cept cross paths with a grumpy buffoon.

Why couldn't he have cracked a phoney smile, cackled at her stoopid jokes, and been on his way?

Steve tore off his sunglasses...

Tossed 'em onto the passenger seat...

And glared into the rearview mirror.

Francis Duffy's last words reverberated in his noodle: _When you take the devil into your mouth, you're doomed! For he is lying there in wait for you inside that bottle of whiskey. Waiting for you to take him into your mouth. Waiting to get down into your guts where he can do his devil's work._

"Get yourself intact," he growled to them azure peepers. "You got shit to burn."

***

Despite the pep talk, he deviated off the beaten for no good reason.

Or maybe Conservatory Avenue seized the Charger.

Seized the Charger west.

Seized the Charger 'til the 18x24 Seton black-and-white reflective laminate with the blinking yellow light on top announced:

School Zone

Speed Limit 15 MPH

When Flashing

Seized the Charger 'til the lengthy, two-story brick building appeared on the right.

Planted in front of said building, an engraved granite slab announced: _Cairo Junior/Senior High School- Home of the Crows_ ; beneath the words, Heckel, Jeckel (or an approximation of the two), squinted into the great beyond with a flexed right wing.

Steve grunted and then said: "You haven't aged a day, my precious."

He avoided the old school in '09, which was the last time our pal dipped a toe into Cairo's waters. Before '09, he avoided Cairo. When he zoomed out of town in the summer of '91, Steve Ritter pledged Cairo would _forever_ remain a speck in the rearview.

Angry vows were stamped in stone by the despondent eighteen-year-old...

The same vows made by millions of eighteen-year-olds, in millions of places, over millions of years...

Leave everything you cannot control.

And so it came to pass...

Until it comes around to claim your soul.

He side-eyed the sheriff's cruiser in the bus loop and then checked his watch:

10:15

Tommy'd be in the multipurpose room teaching Physical Education...

Or he'd be surfing the net while boys played pickle ball.

Whatevs.

Good ole Tommy Gray had been Steve's good ole pal since the first grade; they still talked, tho far less as Steve foundered on his personal _Titanic_. _Don't be a stranger_ , Tommy ordered after Steve said he was returning to Cairo. Six days later (three in transit; three sitting on his ass, in his old bedroom, doin' the thinkin' stinkin' two step), our diffident pal hadn't worked the nerve to call his ole pal. There be a reason for the reticence...or, it seemed like a reason...a _Big Reason_...

Steve hadn't mentioned his embarrassing excursion to rehab during their last convo cuz...you know...Tommy needn't know _everything._ No doubt our old pal's ole pal did naught care. But maybe Tommy would care; maybe Tommy would look at our old pal with the patented Gray hairy eyeball; maybe Tommy would sorta steer clear of his ole pal...

Thus, our old pal decided to avoid his ole pal, at least for the time being...which seemed like a lousy thing to do considering Tommy Gray was a good egg...and Tommy wouldn't care about rehab and whatnot...

But maybe Tommy _would_ care.

And that wasn't a bridge Steve felt like crossing now, kay?

Slow-like, the school slid past; yonder, the athletic fields loomed, two hallowed grounds squeezed between the leaden overcast and several inches of snow. First, Barnabas Dewey Field and the sparkling gridiron recklessness, Coach Gray's sermons and football practices. Stenciled on a bowed plywood placard next to the entrance pinch point, the designations of New York State Class A Championships catalogued Cairo's fleeting greatness:

1990

1991

Two years of dominance.

Two years when everything clicked like a machine.

Two years...

_Twenty plus years ago,_ his brain chirped.

But whatevs.

Next came the baseball field -also named after the great Barnabas Dewey- resonating with ghosts. Steve pulled into the parking lot and got out of his car, abandoning warmth for the chill of his past. He played two seasons of high school baseball -sophomore and junior year- before deciding baseball wasn't for him.

Shaking his head, Steve gripped the backstop's icy chain-link.

"I skipped my senior year," he said under his breath. "Coach Fraw tried talking sense, but I got scared of the ball. _Scared._ I couldn't stand in the batter's box without flinching. Meh. Seems dumb considering I didn't care about them bell ringings I took playing football but... _humph_...whatevs..."

***

Our pal didn't want to make his life a cautionary tale about concussions, but Steve tallied at least a baker's dozen. In the halcyon days of his career, concussions were referred to by players, coaches, and trainers as "getting your bell rung". _Getting your bell rung_ wasn't _good_...but _getting your bell rung_ be a whole lot better than getting turned into Darryl Stingley. Ergo, _getting your bell rung_ wasn't a Big Deal. Matter of fact, players stumblin' about the field loopy-like (regaled by "Yakety Sax, no less) not only became a cottage industry for the folks at NFL Films, but said images evoked both mirth and a blasé attitude about brain damage. Anyway, nobody started giving a shit about the consequences of bell ringing until the good people of the United States elected a black man as President.

What did _that_ mean?

It meant times were changing and whatnot.

Ironically, our hero's first foray into bell ringing, or brain damage, or whatever, wasn't football related. During his sophomore year of high school, Steve took a wild pitch to the noggin and sailed unblissful-like into waters he would later navigate like Magellan.

Tho he saw scant playing time in the field (he backed-up Dwight Reed behind the plate but...you know...whatevs), Steve often pinch hit. What's more, he proved a reliable weapon: a tall kid gifted with both a nice swing and astute eye, our boy either made solid contact or drew a base on balls with every AB. Matter 'o, in twenty-one plate appearances, Stevie had yet to have the dreaded _K_ penciled next to his name in the scorebook.

Therefore, it wasn't unexpected Coach Fraw demanded Steve's stick to bust open a close game. By the way, Coach Fraw was a spitting image of actor Alan Hale, best known as the Skipper from _Gilligan's Island_. Fat, white haired and just as flummoxed when his team of Gilligans fucked up -as they were apt to do- Skipper clenched fists and muttered under his breath as his face turned tomato red. Behind his back, the players called him Skipper, but never to his face. To his face he be _Coach_ , or sometimes _Coach Fraw_ , but never _Skipper_.

Anywho...they were in a tight one with a good team from Victor: two outs, bottom of the sixth, runners on second and third, and Cairo _somehow_ only trailed by a run. Lo, it was one of those rare games when the Crows hadn't committed a million errors and the opposition didn't bat through the lineup every other inning. Our heroes had a chance...but they needed to manufacture a couple of runs with the bottom of their order.

Willy Peters was due up, but Willy be mired in a massive slump. The poor bastard hadn't a hit a ball out of the infield in five games, and his first two plate appearances ended in three pitch strikeouts. As a relief pitcher for Victor warmed up, Skipper lumbered to the dugout and told Steve to grab a twig.

While our soon-to-be-concussed pal limbered up with a few practice swings, Skipper whispered all conspiratorial like: "Watch him, kid. Nineteen throws fire, but he's wild. Be patient and wait for your pitch. We just need a little poke to take-"

Skipper could've saved his breath.

Steve knew the situation...

He knew what a little poke would do...

And he knew beating Victor be super-duper because Cairo had won _three_ of _fifteen_ and Victor had lost _none_ of _twenty_.

Victor was flush with talent;

Top ranked in Class A;

Their fancypants parents spared no expense to make sure their spoiled kids were the _best_.

_Mm-hmm._ Victor's players lived in nice houses and had televisions in their rooms. Kids from Cairo mowed the grass and plucked weeds of the Victor estates in the summer.

Yes, beating Victor would not only be super-duper because Cairo hadn't won a game in three weeks; beating Victor be akin to righting the class struggle, if just for one day.

"-the lead," Skipper finished.

Steve studied the first basemen meandering on the edge of the infield and then said, "I could lay a bunt." Johnny Yates stood on third and Johnny Yates had a rocket up his ass; Yates would be half-way home before the pitcher released the ball. Victor wouldn't expect a suicide squeeze. Not from the scrubs on Cairo.

"Nuh-uh," Coach Fraw said, shaking his head. "I don't want a tie. I want the lead. You got two ducks on the pond, Stevie. Swing away."

Skipper was right: _swing away_.

Knock them ducks in.

Go into the seventh up for a change.

Go up and give the ball to Johnny Verrazano. The only pitch Johnny threw was blistering, mitt-popping gas.

Aye, let Johnny have the ball and the lead...

Nineteen finished his warmups and toed the rubber.

"C'mon, batter," the umpire growled.

Steve's teammates rose as one; they stood in the dugout, pressed their faces to the fence, and wove fingers through the chain-link. For a change, they were excited...

For a change, they _felt_ the _W_...

For a change, they whooped like banshees.

Our hero marched to the plate, shot a look at the bleachers, and saw his father standing on the top row. Dad smiled and presented a double thumbs-up. Krissy was there, too, sitting at the bottom of the bleachers. She waved but Steve ignored the gesture.

_Time to focus, not flirt,_ his brain commanded.

"Play," the umpire demanded, pointing at the pitcher.

Steve dug his right foot in grit, brought the bat up, and scowled at his hurling adversary.

Nineteen, a lefty, held the ball behind his back; he shrugged off the catcher's sign thrice before nodding and moving slow-like into the stretch.

Baseball was brought into glove...

Nineteen looked over his right shoulder at third, then peeked to second. A deep breath, a flaring of nostrils, and then the toss...

Ball one, a curve, outside.

The catcher dropped to his knees to corral the pitch; dust floated above the plate; Steve glanced at Skipper, who mouthed _swing away_.

Pitch two was another breaking ball, high and outside; the catcher had to leap for this one, coming out of his crouch with a grunt and a curse. He peered into his mitt, asked for time, then trotted to the mound with the mask in his right hand.

Steve stepped out of the box, knocked the dirt from his cleats and then adjusted his helmet.

"They don't want a piece of you, Ritter!" Dwight Reed screamed. "Pitcher's chicken!"

_2-0, your count, pick your pitch,_ Steve thought. _Gonna be a fastball. His curve is shit_.

The catcher jogged back and said something under his breath as he squatted.

Nineteen went to work again with a nod. A quick glimpse at second, a long look over the shoulder to third...then he lifted his right leg...

The ball coasted out of Nineteen's cupped palm and rotated like an elephant on a spit.

Steve's mind trumpeted: _Change up!_

A _lousy_ change up.

A fat pitch what flew waist high.

Our hero tensed; bit his lower lip...

He tracked the ball...

Lifted his left foot...

And twisted his lean torso...

The aluminum bat sliced over homeplate and contacted the Spaulding with a _thump_.

"Fuuuuccck," the catcher drawled.

The ball took off like it'd been shot out of a mortar. At once, a hush fell over the ballfield. The left fielder didn't bother moving; he stood rooted in place, hands on his knees, and spat a mushy glob of Skoal long cut as the sizzling pellet slashed the air twenty feet above.

Steve lost the ball in the sun for a moment but knew he pulled the bastard foul...

_Just barely_ foul, as it turned out...tho _just barely_ foul was the same as _not just barely_ foul so big fucking whoop.

The blurry speck sailed over the fence on the wrong side of the stumpy yellow pole; thereafter, it smacked a concrete sidewalk, bounced thrice, and then rolled into scrubby vegetation. Rudimentary calculations -conducted by Steve and Tommy four weeks later- determined the ball flew about 352.5 feet. But the pair never found the baseball...which was a shame cuz it would be the best hit, fair or foul, of Steve Ritter's brief baseball career.

"Foul!" The ump confirmed.

Our hero snorted and cracked his neck.

"Straighten it out, Stevie!" his father cried.

"You're on him!" Skipper bellowed.

"Time!" the Victor coach yelled.

"Time!" the ump echoed while waving both arms.

Slow-like, the Blue Devils manager ambled to the mound; Nineteen removed his lid, ran a hand through matted hair and stared at his feet; the catcher joined the pow-wow and gestured towards left field.

"Ohhhh.... the pitcher's rattled!" bellowed Dwight Reed...which incited those on the Cairo bench to fling heaps of raucous shit talking. They whole lot 'em hooted like chimpanzees...

And the screeching sounded wonderful to Steve's ears.

Skipper walked down the line towards the batter's box while the battery and its overlord conferred; our young slugger met him midway between third base and the plate.

"Man, oh man," Steve griped. "Just a smidge early, Coach."

"They might pitch around you now. Watch the junk. But if it's there, you have the green light," Skipper said, slapping Steve's ass.

When the conference was over, the umpire held up two fingers and then one finger and barked, "Play ball!"

The pitcher's stretch, the look to the bases, a nervous exhale...Steve replayed the event about a million times later and the movie unwound like the Zapruder film: sluggish, herky-jerky, soundless, and presented in drab monochrome. He saw the motion of Nineteen's stringy arm, the release point, the ball spinning towards him...

_Mm-hmm,_ he thought. _Fastball. Gonna be high_.

Plenty high...and a tad inside...but a ball.

And a ball would move the count to three and one.

It seemed the pitcher wanted no part of our pal, and our pal relaxed as the immediate future played out in his head:

He's gonna walk me, but a walk's as good as a hit. Top of the order coming up. Mikey Poole on deck. Mikey has a live bat. Mikey will clear the bases.

The ball, white and flecked with dirt, appeared like an orb hanging from a string halfway between the rubber and the plate. Quick like, he lost it against the backdrop of a centerfield advert for Moore's grocery store. For some stoopid reason, the sign had been spackled in gray paint.

The smack of the ball hitting Steve between the eyes sounded like _a hammer striking concrete_ (Dwight Reed told his girlfriend as much later, except Dwight Reed added the f-word between _striking_ and _concrete_ ). Our hero hit the ground ass first and then collapsed on his back. As he struggled to unscramble his brains, the ump declared, "Dead ball!"

He knew he'd been plunked. Plunked in the fucking head, of all places. And boy did it sting. He blinked eyes, lifted his head, dug fingers into dirt (he could feel the grime on his hands), but Steve couldn't see anything but bursts of red, yellow, and green. The vibrant display harkened them cartoons he watched as a little kid on Saturday mornings...the Roadrunner ones...when the coyote got smashed by an anvil. With something analogous to wonder, Steve realized it was possible to see stars caused by _extreme trauma_ to the noggin.

The thudding of footsteps, Skipper's feeble: "Relax, son", and a lot of other sounds filled Steve's head...but he couldn't see anything except them motherfucking stars.

"Get him up," Skipper demanded.

"Hold on, hold on," the ump fussed. "Give him a sec, Coach."

"Can you hear me, Ritter?" Skipper asked. "Do you want to sit up?"

"Ye-yesssssh," Steve croaked.

Assisted to a semblance of a verticality, our poor pal swallowed blood and then gagged; somebody dug a bony knee into his spine; he thought he might hurl but subdued the urge. (Later at the hospital, he let loose into a trashcan while his father rubbed his neck; the vomit was a coppery gelatinous sludge made clumpy with the remains of lunch.)

Bit-by-bit, the world came into focus as if a curtain were yanked by one of those ropes on a pulley. _Ta-da!_ The chalky dirt in the batter's box clotted with big red drops of his blood. He lifted his head and wiped tears from his eyes. A moment later, Skipper crouched inches from his peepers and inspected him like a battlefield medic.

"Jeez O'Pete, you're gonna have a couple shiners," Skip pronounced.

"Head...hurts," Steve moaned.

"Yeah, you took a knock. Come on. Let's get you moving. Walking will help."

Walking did _naught help_ , but not even the heavy dose of painkillers the doctor prescribed made much of a dent.

Escorted to the dugout, serenaded by applause, he fell onto the bench with a groan. Someone handed him an ice pack. The game continued: Mikey Poole hit into a double play; Victor scored three in the seventh; Cairo scored none in the bottom of the inning.

While the rest of the team bitched, Steve lolled in a personal hell. He must have been a tough kid, or a stupid one, but the thought of going to the hospital didn't register. No, he'd shake off the braining and be right as rain come the morrow. Dad fussed, though, and dragged Steve to Thompson in Canesoanke. A dour sawbones examined both pupils and peppered with questions about the date, year, and President; Steve scored a zero percent on the quiz before yakking into a trash bin.

The doc waited until our pal finished puking and then told Stan Ritter: "Well, sir, beyond the obvious discomfort, his nose is broken. He's also sustained a concussion."

"A concussion?" the old man squawked.

"A _mild_ concussion," the doctor said all dismissive-like. "It's not a big deal, but your boy isn't going to feel serviceable for a few days..."

***

He suffered two more bell ringers in high school, but football accounted for those: number one came while crack-backing a linebacker on a toss-sweep; the helmet-to-helmet hit knocked both Steve and the defender out (the next morning at film session, Coach Gray rewound Steve's crushing block ten times and told the boys, in a tone of reverence, _'_ _This is how you play football, motherfuckers!'_ ). The second head rattler came courtesy of friendly fire: our pal -then a senior playing free safety- whiffed on a tackle, fell to the ground, and then got kicked in the head by a pursuing defensive lineman. Dizzy...confused...feelin' like doodoo, he remained in the game another three plays and wandered the defensive backfield like a zombie. At last, Coach Gray pulled him off the field (burning a timeout in the process) and berated his clueless player for _losing focus_.

College ball accounted for...three...or five...or ten...bell ringings.

Competing against Big Ten powerhouses armed with defensive missiles named Charles Woodson, Shawn Springs, Andy Katzenmoyer, Antoine Winfield (among many future professional players) meant bell ringings were the norm, not the exception.

But whatevs.

Then came the NFL and another...well, who knew how many? Steve sure as shit stopped counting. Instead, he sauntered through a miasma of headaches...

Ragging headaches...days of raging headaches...

Ragging headaches dampened by darkness, The Doors, Sour Diesel and Dewar's 12.

But whatevs.

Bar none, the worst knock occurred when he was a pro: late in his career at Arizona, in the fourth quarter of a meaningless game in a meaningless season when he was playing for a paycheck and nothing else, Stevie got levelled trying to catch a floater from the pretty boy rookie quarterback who partied more than he practiced. This one stung and it stung _Bad_. After tossing the pregame meal on the field, Steve took the ride of shame on the back of a golf cart while the crowd applauded and called his name. Slack-jawed, he gazed around Sun Devil Stadium and wondered how so many people fit into Dewey Field's diminutive bleachers. He slept like a baby for two days, and Susan fretted over him like the infant she always wanted. But Steve played the next week cuz he had a paycheck to earn...

And he _only got his bell rung_...

And, most of all, he didn't wanna go back to Cairo.

No, sir.

Now he be back in Cairo, yo.

Back in the decaying town of his youth.

Back after being a kinda sorta _Big Deal_ for so many years.

Back after screwing the pooch.

Back because he had nowhere to go.

Back to get his shit straight...

Or so his fucked-up brain would have him believe.

Our hero exhaled and then turned his back on the ghosts of the Barnabas Dewey ballfield.

***

He arrived at the homestead; unpacked groceries; snagged the lighter fluid. The time had come for a purge, and the objects facing a fiery funeral were jammed in a large cardboard box Steve hauled on his sad drive from Phoenix. Letters, pictures, and miscellany -accumulated over eleven years of marriage- sat shotgun in his Dodge Charger like a hostage. For almost the entire breadth of the country, Steve weighed the fate of the mementoes. But as soon as he rolled into Cairo, he fixed a grim execution date. Susan was done with him; he was done with her. To make it official, everything need burn.

Out to the burn pit in the back of the yard he trundled, carrying the matches and lighter fluid on top of the container. Whistling, he tossed the instruments aside and upended the box into the charred hole.

Leonard Cohen droned in his head:

It's four in morning,

The end of December...

After emptying about half the can on the crap, Steve struck a stick and watched the bitty flame hop on the head.

I'm writing you now,

Just to see if you're better.

He dropped the matchstick...

I hear you're building a house in the desert...

And watched as it helicoptered into the pit and landed on a picture of a perky Susan posing in a string bikini. Behind her, the Caribbean Sea sparkled under the sun.

_Aruba, June, 2003_.

Their honeymoon.

Fruity cocktails...

Fornication.

You're living for nothing now,

I hope you're keeping some kind of record.

He watched the picture shudder, catch fire and curl upon itself like an insect drawing in legs. Quick like, the flames spread...but not fast enough. Grunting, Steve added more fluid and retreated when the blaze became robust. Thick, black smoke filled the twilight sky.

Nostrils flaring, our squinty-eyed pyromaniac watched the eradication until the flames waned and the past looked nice and ashy. Then he unzipped his fly, pissed onto the embers, and savored the sound of sizzling trash.

# 3. The Big Deal

After the cremation, he went downstairs to size-up the treadmill. The old man claimed it functioned, or it did the last time the Stan Ritter "checked". Judging by the state of things...

The basement was a mess of stacked, sagging cardboard boxes; clothes; old furniture pieces; rat turds; and sundry housekeeping items (three vacuums, three plungers, a mop, a mop bucket, and a push broom). Tho rankled by the clutter, a calendar hanging eye-level from a nail at the bottom of the stairs elicited our hero's greatest antipathy...

_May 2003_ ; a field of perky sunflowers; circled in red magic marker on the thirty-one-day grid below said flowers...

31 May.

Be the day he and Sue tied the knot at the Revere...

_Eleven fucking years ago_ , Steve mouthed.

He yanked the calendar off the nail -ripping the image of plants- and flipped the pages until settling on October. A jack o' lantern, surrounded by yellow and orange leaves, threatened with a fanged smile.

"I had high hopes for aught three," Steve informed the pumpkin. "I got married, bruh. Top of my game. A _Big Deal_ in Beantown. Yep. Then I broke my collarbone in November. IR after week eleven. Missed out playing in the Big Game."

After the Pats released him in the spring of 2004, our pal came to grips with a horrifying notion: he had reached his dread _Expiration Date_. Coaches and old timers used to rap about ED's: ' _Sometimes the ED comes all at once, wallops you with an injury, and there's not a thing you can do about,'_ his position coach on the Vikings lectured. _'Other times, you just feel yourself fading. Either way, we all gots an ED.'_

But 2004 wasn't Steve's ED; 2004 heralded a brief resurrection of his career. Arizona signed him during the offseason, and he was reunited with his head coach from the Vikings. The Cardinals pass happy offense helped our hero compile decent numbers: 598 yards receiving, 7 touchdowns...flashes of his old self. Steve even became a _Big Deal_ again. He planned on topping those kinda sorta good stats in 2005, but an ankle injury in a preseason game slowed his roll. After the Cardinals dumped his gimpy ass at the end of the season ( _Nothing personal, love you as a player, but..._ ), he worked out with a few teams during the spring of '06...

Of course, nobody was interested in purchasing worn down Steve Ritter.

"Aught six marked the end," Steve explained in a monotone voice. "Thirty-three years old and washed up. In football speak, spoiled meat. So...yeah...all she wrote. Then I, you know...I retired and sank into my golden years. 'Cept they weren't so golden, dude. I kinda sorta got jaded..."

***

Some years before -more than a decade according to the calendar- Steve Ritter was a kinda sorta _Big Deal_. Then again, it was the age of Paris Hilton, W's butchered vernacular and Howard Dean's scream; _anybody_ could become a _Big Deal_ through moronic and slash or uncouth behavior. Our pal, however, shouldered his way into _Big Deal_ territory with good ole elbow grease and perseverance. In other words, Steve Ritter kinda sorta earned his right to strut. But amidst the swaggering, he began to find solace in pills, weed and alcohol; to wit, _it_ was a kinda sorta Honeymoon Period of substance abuse and _it_ -kinda sorta- be a _glorious_ time. Tipsy Steve Ritter presented as a charming pie-eyed dope way back when...and even if he wasn't charming, Steve Ritter was a kinda sorta _Big Deal_ which meant nobody gave him grief for the _occasional_ boorish performance. Our hero ventured to the store, or the driving range, or wherever, and people approached, asked to shake his hand, or take a picture, or talk shop, or demand his autograph, or whatevs. Sometimes them idiots didn't know who Steve Ritter be...like the boy in Basha's who thought _the tall man_ played for the Phoenix Suns. Dig: being a kinda sorta _Big Deal_ meant dealing with niggling and slash or _irritating_ disruptions during the day-to-day, kay? But being buzzed kinda sorta mitigated the irritation.

In 2006, Steve retired and ceased being a kinda sorta _Big Deal_ overnight. A three-sentence blurb in the _Arizona Republic_ broke the sad news to the sports world, but nobody gave a good goddamn except a few long-in-the-tooth teammates. During the throes of a bitchin' retirement party, one of the pickled old timers claimed Steve Ritter would find gainful employment in the wilds of coaching.

"Some-but-tee will beat down yer door, Rit-erh," slurred Dan Maxwell. "Yew'll she. Guise like ush are a pressish come-odd-it-ee."

"You be speakin' the Gosphil," agreed _tore the fuck up_ Steve.

Cuz Steve Ritter still considered hisself a kinda sorta _Big Deal_.

Emboldened by the notion, he sat sentry in his home; he waited for a _ding-a-ling_...a _ding-dong_...a _knock knock_...a _smoke signal_...

Something...

Anything?

But nobody called...

Nobody beat down the front door...

Nobody played Lieutenant James Gordon and flashed the Bat-Signal.

The concept Steve Ritter should've...or could've...or whatevs...taken the initiative to contact ( _or beg_ , the little devil on his shoulder bristled) somebody somewhere for teeny sliver of their coaching tree ( _sure, you could be a quality control coach, whatever the fuck that is, which is nothing, which isn't what a kinda sorta Big Deal should be doin', let alone a kinda sorta Big Deal who won a Super Bowl ring,_ added the little devil) got dismissed quick-like.

_Besides_ , the little devil chirped, _all you got to show for your education is a worthless degree in film fucking theory. Whoop-de-doo! What kinda bozo wants a quality control coach who knows Elevator to the Gallows harkened French New Wave more than Breathless and The 400 Blows?_

Long story short: Steve Ritter realized he wasn't a kinda sorta _Big Deal_ no moe.

Thereafter, our pal numbed hisself to the daisy chain of uninteresting days by _trying_ to find distraction in mundane activities. Lounging next to the pool, he kinda sorta read a half-dozen books ( _The Classics,_ so-called) while the sun beat skin to a dark brown. Alas, our pal realized _The Classics_ bored the bejeezus outta him (and not kinda sorta like). The final straw came whilst reading Melville's _Moby-Dick_ : _Chapter 32, Cetology_ , a "paragraph" (half a page in length, by the be) what began: _This whale, among the English of the old vaguely known as the Trumpa Whale, and the Physeter Whale, and the Anvil Headed Whale, is the present Cachalot of the French, and the Pottsfich of the Germans, and the Macrocephalus of the Long Words..._

"The fuck," muttered Steve as he slammed the paperback shut.

Other hapless timewasters followed: cars, golf, astronomy...woodworking, of all things. During the woodworking stage, things kinda sorta fell off the rails. He spent hours downstairs trying to build birdhouses and stoopid whatnots...and it didn't take long for Steve to realize he couldn't build jack and squat. Lickety-split, the workshop became a sanctuary he utilized to get _tore the fuck up_. Between sporadic sawing and hammering, he blasted Leonard Cohen and Nas and The Doors; he smoky-smokied; he gobbled Alprazolam and Soma; he downed a bevy of cold ones.

He got _tore the fuck up_ , homes.

Susan confronted him for the first time about his getting _tore the fuck up_ behavior during the woodworking slash getting _tore the fuck up_ stage.

"You're drinking too much," she nagged, waggling her manicured pointer under his nose. "And you're smoking pot, Steven. I can smell it on your clothes."

What could he say? _Nutin._

Which is what he said.

Aggravated by said silence, she crossed her arms and then snapped, "I'd like my husband to be present in both body _and_ soul! What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Bah, I'm retired," he scoffed. "If I wanna get high and tight, I'm allowed to get high and tight."

"The first thing you do when you wake up...which isn't until noon most days...is make a drink. You stumble to bed at two...three...four in the morning! We go days without talking! This isn't healthy behavior!"

"If _talkin'_ means you yellin' at me, then I wonder why we don't _talk_ much," he said under his breath.

"Excuse me?"

" _Ahem_...look, what's the big deal?"

"The big deal? You're ignoring me, Steve. You're ignoring me because you wanna get _high and tight_. Guess what? I don't wanna spend the rest of my life with a zombie!"

Now, cuz he was still floating through the cottony Honeymoon Period of Intoxication (the latter stages of the Period, but whatevs), Steve muttered a half-assed apology, gave her a hug... _blah blah blah_. If giving Susan body _and_ mind shut her yapper, he'd give her a wee bit of both, by Jove.

The ball and chain thought children would fill the void or sumptin, and she pushed the issue like the overbearing coaches he left in the dust. Fucking was no longer a spontaneous activity; _making love_ (her stoopid words) became a rigid, mathematical process. She had cycles, books with pictures he had to follow, little magnets she set on her belly to draw seed to egg. Once, they tried a position called the handstand and she passed out. Her methods were hooey _and_ applesauce and naught at all like making love _or_ fucking. And when the old lady didn't catch the stork, she blamed his "negative energy".

_Pfft_. Whatevs. Kids weren't in the cards, kay? He reasoned to the frustrated missus: _S.H._ , _Shit Happens._ And with those pithy words, he went back to the business of getting _tore the fuck up_ while Susan delved into adoption. Though "they" discussed the subject for months, Steve decided -from the moment the stoopid idea vomited outta his wife's hole- an instant child would hinder his ambition to get _tore the fuck up_. He tried ignoring her needling, but after the millionth time, Steve punched their bedroom door and rasped:

"I don't wanna adopt. Deal with it."

Susan _dealt with it_ by spending _his_ money at Scottsdale Fashion Square; she went out on the town with her girlfriends and paid for everything...with _his_ money. But you'd never hear him complain about her spending _his_ money.

Never.

Nope. He didn't care; he wanted to get _tore the fuck up._

Three _tore the fuck up_ years into exile came the call from WCCO and the offer of something new. As a former Gopher "great", the powers what be at CCO wondered if he'd like to do color commentary alongside the wizened Jack King, and a former quarterback from the Cal Stoll era.

Tho he'd never done radio, Steve jumped at the opportunity; he flew to Minneapolis, auditioned, the whole nine. The powers said _aye_ and within two years, the three-man booth became two as Jack and Steve developed a nifty repertoire. Jack's strait-laced, gentle description of the action conflicted with Steve's no-nonsense disgust and criticism. This didn't happen by design but, over time, Steve's hysterics and Jack's temperate rebukes of his radio partner became more entertaining than the Gophers who were, _at best,_ mediocre under Tim Brewster and Jerry Kill.

So, yet again, Steve Ritter infringed upon _Big Deal_ territory.

Kinda sorta.

Jack King wasn't Al Michaels; Steve Ritter wasn't the silver-tongued Cris Collinsworth; and CCO wasn't Sunday Night Football. What of it? The job got our old pal out of the house...hell, out of Arizona...for twelve weekends a year.

And he continued getting _tore the fuck up_.

In fact, the _road life_ upped the ante.

When he played, Steve didn't get _tore the fuck up_ on the road. He _sometimes_ caught a _little_ _tear_ , no more, nutin close to gettin' _tore_. Meetings, walkthroughs, curfews...it wasn't wise to get _tore the fuck up_ the night before a game. Some fellas did; some fellas went trolling for ass and got _tore the fuck up_ , but naught Steve. Our hero be all business. In those days he reasoned: _Getting tore the fuck up isn't going anywhere; ergo, I'll get tore the fuck up on the charter home._

_Road life_ as a sedentary radio sage meant one could get _tore the fuck up_ the night before a broadcast...and on gameday...and during the game. Half or all in the bag... _pfft_. What did it matter? The consummate professional Jack King always brought a little _something-something_ to the booth, too. The powers turned their heads...tho...Howie Douglass kinda sorta dissuaded the two from getting _too_ tight on the air...but whatevs. Nobody in radioland could tell the tonal differences between _tore the fuck up_ , Steve Ritter and _driven to insanity by the Gophers numbskullery_ , Steve Ritter.

_Road life_ at CCO meant the crew stayed in the same hotels as the boosters; alumni; university muckies. Rubbing elbows with said luminaries always led to getting _tore the fuck up_.

Getting _tore the fuck up_ with impunity gave way to a worsening pattern of behavior: blacking out; waking on the floor, or next to the commode, covered in vomit...or piss...or both; gutting a couple Alprazolam to dampen the hangover; dealing with side-eyes at the morning buffet...

Getting _tore the fuck up_ also led to _Stepping Out._

Steve never intended to cheat on Susan. Even as a player he'd been faithful, but one night in College Station, he threw faithfulness into the shitter. Booze could be blamed for the "mistake", and Steve felt like a sullied man the next morning...

But also felt freedom in tawdry affection; the thrill of new hands; the welcoming grasp of new vag; the unscientific act of banging.

By mid-2011, the Honeymoon Period of Intoxication slipped into the rearview and thus began a Dark Age. Susan jumped on his back, dug her claws, and nagged nonstop: _Blah blah blah_ you drink too much; _Blah blah blah_ the pot; _Blah blah blah_ you ignore me...

The actual factual? Susan sounded like his mother with the freakin' _blah blah blah_ b and s.

Well, sir, the old lady hadn't gotten a Super Bowl ring so she could shut her trap. Several times, he helped her with the chore.

Our addled lout knew he kinda sorta crossed a seedy threshold the first time he put hands on his wife...

He tried reigning _it_ in, this sinister the desire to get _tore the fuck up_ , cuz getting _tore the fuck up_ stopped being fun.

There were mornings he swore off the sauce...and then he'd mix a Bloody Mary to stifle the headache.

Every time, his mind commanded: _But only one_.

Every time, Steve affirmed: _Only one_.

Eh...you know, it's the typical boozer's tale spun from the beginning of time.

There were mornings he swore off the women...

And every time, his mind told him: _This is the last one._

And every time, Steve affirmed: _The last one._

And every lousy, still _tore the fuck up_ from last night, morning after, he stared at the latest, greatest piece of ass and felt a yin-yang of pleasure and shame.

There were mornings he foretold the future...

Every time, his mind told him he'd never wake in a good mood again.

Every time, Steve affirmed: _My good days are kaput_.

He coulda been a Bigger Deal.

He coulda been standing on the steps of Canton.

And he should've married somebody else...

***

Bah!

What did it matter?

It didn't...

...which was why he was staring at a picture of an eleven-year old pumpkin and cheeping a blue song.

" _Youse should go to a meetin',"_ Mr. Pumpkin said in a Tony Soprano-esque voice.

"I should..." Steve replied with zero enthusiasm.

His counselor at Open Arms recommended the "90 meetings in 90 days" blueprint, but Steve hadn't been attentive in following the treatment plan. After his discharge from OARC two weeks prior, he attended four meetings in Phoenix. Go figure? The desire to remain _Anonymous_ trumped the need to spew personal information...

" _But still,"_ nagged Mr. Pumpkin. _"Youse needa work the program, doncha think?"_

"I think you need to shut up," Steve responded as he jabbed a finger on the picture.

" _Then keep everything bottled, moron. Why not? It's worked so well for youse in-"_

Our pal snapped the stoopid calendar shut and flung it like a Frisbee; it flapped all wounded bird-like and then fell onto a pink heap of tattered insulation. Muttering oaths, Steve turned to leave the mess for another time...

...and then spotted a Kraft sheet cake container sitting atop a Styrofoam cooler.

For no good reason, he sauntered to the box, peered through the crinkled plastic top, and did the ole comedic double-take.

'Twas no moldy gastronomic spectacle snug inside; instead, a red Wilson Jones presented itself for consumption.

Blocky, black letters on the red cover announced: _Steve's Memories._

He lifted the corrugated box lid, sucked air through his teeth and then whispered, "The fuck is this..."

# 4. Lee Weyer Had A Bad Day

Stan Ritter saved _almost_ every newspaper article referencing his son's name from high school all the way to Big Deal territory (Steve's stellar 1994 campaign at NMCC failed to find its way into the binder, but community college football results from the great state of Minnesota didn't tickle the AP ticker or matriculate into Cairo's now extinct newspaper).

But the old man hadn't just sheared pulp; lo, he laminated each article and box score; he tabbed every game; he separated the seasons with dividers...

Fourteen dividers...

A shitload of tabs.

The tome took two hands to carry...

And felt like a boulder on Steve's lap as he settled into a ripped, backless, pea green recliner.

Curiosity compelled a cursory look...

Which beget a prolonged foray...

" _Steve's Memories_ " began in the Year of our Lord 1989 (Sunday, 16 September, to be precise) with a podunkish blurb composed by a podunkish hack for the podunkish _Cairo Notebook_ : _Sophomore Steve Ritter is sure an up and comer for the Cairo Crows! In Saturday's game against Lyons, Ritter recorded 9 tackles and snagged an interception. He also caught 3 passes from senior quarterback Chad Gray, including a 59-yard touchdown._

The _Rochester Democrat and Chronicle, December 1990_ : _Junior Steve Ritter found the endzone three times in the Class A State Championship game versus Westchester at the Carrier Dome..._

_D &C, December 1991_: _Cairo captured their second Class A State Championship in as many years thanks to the potent passing combination of seniors Tommy Gray and Steve Ritter. The dynamic duo hooked up nine times..._

_Star Tribune, November 1995:_... _offense showed sporadic bursts of competence, Steve Ritter's third touchdown reception from Cory Sauter mid-way through the third quarter concluded the scoring for the Golden Gophers (3-5 1-4), who've lost twelve straight to the Buckeyes and twenty of the last twenty-two meetings dating back..._

Star Tribune, a scathing Sid Hartman column, November 1996:...losers of six straight and outscored in conference play by an average of 20 points, Coach Wacker's boastful promises have amounted to fuss and feathers five years into his tenure. One cannot help but feel pity for Sauter, Thelwell and Ritter; the trio deserve better than Wacker's anemic offensive scheming, which amounts to...

D&C, April 1998:...and Steve Ritter, a standout wide receiver at Cairo High School, was selected in the seventh round by the Minnesota Vikings. Ritter, named to the 1997 All-Big Ten Conference team in January, also received the University of Minnesota's Bruce Smith Award and...

_USA Today, December 1998_ : _...feasting on a Bears defense plagued by injuries, Ritter's 88-yard catch and run was the longest play from scrimmage this year for the high scoring Vikings. "I one-upped Randy for a change," the rookie wide receiver joked after the game. "Usually I'm watching him sashay into the endzone."_

1999...

2000...

2001...

2002...

2003...

2004...

Aye, them were the _Big Deal_ years...

Pop found him a half-hour later studying the book of ancient clippings. Quiet as a church mouse, the rangy old man leaned over Steve's shoulder and whispered, "I see you've discovered your shrine."

"Hell's bells," Steve chuckled. "I can't believe you collected this shit."

"Oh...you know...I couldn't help myself. Call it a product of the proud father syndrome."

"How'd you get hands on the _Star Tribune_? Cairo is a tad outside the delivery area."

"Nick mailed the sports section every week when you were at the U. The others...well, when your mother and I caught those games in State College and...where else...um...West Layfette...Iowa City when you were a senior...anyway, I always snagged the local Sunday rag. I figured one day you'd enjoy a stroll down memory lane. Looks like I'm right, eh?"

Steve grunted and then thumbed forward until finding a box score from a mid-season game at Buffalo in 2004. "I had three catches against the Bills," he said, jabbing the small print.

"Yup, on Halloween. I was there, remember?"

"I remember it wasn't my best afternoon. Three catches, minus two yards. Why'd you save this?"

Stan shrugged and then said, "It's something."

"It's something, all right. If memory serves, I also two dropped two and had a fumble."

"Um-hm, the dreaded Lee Weyer Bad Day," Stan mused.

(The dreaded _Lee Weyer Bad Day_ insinuation was father-son code for saying they, or someone, or a whole group of someones -them morons minding the shop at Chernobyl, for instance- _shit the bed,_ like Big Lee Weyer did one October evening some twenty plus years prior. Poor ole Mr. Weyer, a trouper Major League Baseball umpire, was cursed with a couple brain farts on national television during the seventh game of the 1987 World Series. He missed two easy calls at first base and, some would argue, played a key role in besting the St. Louis Cardinals.

After the second blown call, thirteen-year-old Stevie announced: "Lee Weyer's sure having a bad day."

"The worst," Stan replied. "But we all have 'em, kiddo; we all have our turn at Lee Weyer's bad day."

Thereafter, the phrase became their thang...)

Bowling ahead, Steve found the 2005 tab and studied the first page. Pithy prose -branded in dad's neat handwriting- filled the top of an otherwise blank notebook page: _Week 1-@ Giants. L 42-19. DNP._

"Still injured from the last preseason game," Steve said. "Missed the first two weeks of the regular season. My ankle...it...um..." He then flicked two pages: _Week 3-@ Seahawks L 31-14; 4 rec 76 yards 1 TD._ Beneath, an article from the _USA Today_ declared: _"Seahawks Feast on Clipped Cardinals"._

Our pal continued: "...I thought I'd end up on IR, so I played come hell or high water. Got me a garbage time touchdown in the fourth quarter when we were down twenty-four. I think Seattle was playing their third string waterboy at cornerback."

"Goodness, always with the put-downs," Stan scolded. "Do you know how many folks have caught a touchdown pass in the NFL?"

"As a matter of fact, I know quite a few."

Pop shook his head and said, "You know what I mean, smart guy."

"Fine, how 'bout...um...I'll concede a touchdown on a bum ankle is-"

"There you go," Stan interrupted with a hand clap. "Now, whadda say we go for a bite at Pinky's and then catch the 'Cuse game." The old man was a huge Orange fan, and if Stan Ritter had his druthers, Steve would've gone to SU for football. In fact, Steve had signed the LOI. If his son's sudden change of heart disappointed, Stan Ritter never showed it.

Ma showed it, tho.

Ma was naught happy with _Steven's_ choices.

Alas, the _only_ way to deal with unhappy Ma be to ignore unhappy Ma.

Ignore her even as she broiled with tumors.

Ignore her by getting _tore the fuck_ -

_Youse should go to a meeting,_ pestered Mr. Pumpkin.

Steve snapped from reverie and blinked eyes.

"Whadda say?" Stan asked as he jabbed our hero with a bony elbow. "Dinner and the game?"

"Hmm...uhm..." Steve hawed to both the old man and Mr. Pumpkin.

"You aren't gonna isolate yourself, Steven. I don't want you turning into a hermit."

Youse should work the program, doncha think?

" _Ahem_ ," our pal rattled. "I, uh, I'm not isolating myself."

The old man rolled his peepers and pursed lips.

"I'm not," Steve insisted.

"Kiddo, I'm ignorant as to how the process works, or how it's supposed to work, but hunkering down isn't the best way to deal with...with whatever your dealing with, is it?"

"It's a work in progress," Steve muttered as he focused on another laminated page (11 December 2005: _Redskins Clip Cardinals, 17-13_ ).

Tho Pop knew enough, father and son had yet to engage in a frank discussion about our hero's sauced hijinks; rehab; marital woes...

_And the rest,_ Mr. Pumpkin crooned à la The Wellingtons.

Thankfully, the old man kept whatever he desired to say about those crummy subjects to hisself. Perhaps Stan Ritter was too embarrassed to dig into his son's sordid past; perhaps he thought Steve would tread them rough seas when the time be right; perhaps Dad vomited his woes to Enos (which would explain the mutt's crabby expression)...

Whatever the case, Stan opened his door without complaint. After "graduating" rehab, Steve called and said, _'Susan's gone, the house is empty and I'm jumping out of my skin. Dad, I can't stay in Phoenix.'_

' _You can visit as long as you want, kiddo,'_ replied Stan.

' _It won't be long,'_ Steve claimed. _'I just need to get my head straight.'_

But given our pal's disposition:

Grumpy, salty, nonplussed...

Shoot, getting his _head straight_ would take a looooong motherhumpin' time...

Or, in the words of Mr. Pumpkin: _Youse ain't goin nowheres, bub._

Scrutinizing Steve's constipated expression, Stan raised his hands and said: "I'm not trying to nag. I just don't want you spinning wheels."

Steve ran a hand over his face and then said, "Listen...you're right, I am kinda sorta spinning wheels."

"Then let's blow this joint and find some grub."

"The thing is...uh...I need to, like, deal with...stuff."

"Shall I repeat myself?"

"Dinner and a basketball game won't help."

"Tommy's called a couple times. Why don't you-"

"I'll buzz him at some point, but not tonight."

"Okay," Stan sighed. "If you change your-"

"I'm going to a meeting tonight," countered Steve. "One of those anonymous meetings, kay? This counts as getting out, don't it?"

"Fair enough. But you have to promise we'll do dinner and a game before the season is over."

"What time are you eating supper these days? Three? Four?"

"It's nice to know your sense of humor is intact," Stan said as he patted his son's shoulder. "And with those kind words, I'll leave you to reminisce."

"I won't be long," Steve replied. But when he finished the _stroll down memory lane_ , two hours had passed...

# 5. Manchester

Podunk Manchester hosted the only A.A. meeting within a reasonable driving distance after seven. Hossing ten miles on sludgy roads in the dark of winter sucked poopie elephant ass, but sucking poopie elephant ass beat humping into a seedy section of the R-oh-C to bitch and moan about compulsions and whatnot.

He left Dad as the old man slurped soup and stared at the idiot box. The heretofore mentioned Enos -a shaggy black lab Stan rescued weeks after Ma passed- lounged on the couch and bore into Steve with unblinking, coal colored peepers. Unsure of what to make of the interloper, the big dog watched Steve like a hawk and communicated something akin to displeasure in facial expressions and furrowed brows.

This wasn't Steve's imagination, either.

No, sir. He recognized the look of disapproval...

In the car park behind St. Thomas -the one church in Manchester- a group of men gathered in front of a small, concrete building; they sucked heaters, rubbed hands...

And studied the red 2012 Charger as it pulled into the furthest parking spot in the large lot.

This wasn't Steve's imagination, either.

No, sir. He recognized the look of disapproval...

Head down, he powerwalked past the coughing men; inside, he found a rickety folding chair at the back of the room and went about the business of plucking a loose thread from the sleeve of his coat.

His sojourn to Open Arms Rehabilitation Center had been instigated by strong-arming more than a compulsion to quit getting _tore the fuck up_. The suits at CCO told their black sheep to "seek help", and they insinuated Steve's seat in the broadcast booth _would_ be open come next fall "provided you complete treatment".

But the blowback from the female shrews in the media proved an impossible hurdle. Though Steve had no idea the extent of the handwringing until he left Open Arms, he knew enough after receiving the phone call from Howie Douglass on Day 8:

"Sorry, Steve, but we're letting you go," Howie said in a sedate voice.

"The fuck do you mean?" Steve cried.

"It's not my decision...and Jack lobbied for your return...but...it's just...look, the guys and gals upstairs feel you'll be a media distraction next season. There's also worry you'll pull another...um...you know..."

"Howie," Steve hissed, "like...Jesus, man, I'm in fucking rehab because you said-"

"You're there to get better, man. The job should be way down on your list of priorities."

Seven days later, he received a certified letter from an attorney in Phoenix declaring Susan's intentions to file for divorce. Though not a shock, Steve felt the missus owed him the decency to wait another seven weeks and tell him to his face. Then again, he might not have taken the news with aplomb. In fact, he would've got _tore the fuck up_ and, _perhaps_ , a little aggressive. Instead, our angry pal vented to his morning group...but babbled be a better description. Though he'd done radio for years, the ability to conjure adequate words to convey his feelings seemed impossible. Every time he opened the ole trap, the expressionless faces of recovering peers elicited nothing but uninspiring hemming and hawing.

Yes, sir. Our pal felt like quite the tongue-tied dope.

When Steve bitched about the infuriating dearth of verbosity to his counsellor at Open Arms, the fella told him _something-something_ about _making sense of his disease_.

"The problem is, you're encumbered in the present," the brainbox said all matter of fact like.

"Yeah, cuz my present sucks," griped Steve.

"Hitting rock bottom is never pleasant. But understanding _why_ you behaved as you did is key in preventing the disease from overtaking you in the future."

Or _something-something_.

At first, Steve believed the present scarred more than the past. But after four weeks at Open Arms, the past wormed into his thoughts and dreams; the past merged with the present until both timelines overlapped into a miasma of revolting introspection...

...which, _in theory_ , was good.

Personal inventories...confronting insanity...resurrecting pain and shame; communicating, listening, keeping an open mind as others shared their miserable stories helped one make sense of the disease.

Or something-something.

But comprehension didn't cure _the disease_...

According to the old dawgs, the yearning to get _tore the fuck up_ haunted the recovering fuckup all the goddamn time. For some, nothing specific kickstarted the engine. Testified a man at one of the gatherings: _'I went twenty years without drinking. Then...then one morning I awoke and...and I decided I wanted a beer. Rather, I needed a beer. Next thing you know, I skipped group and went straight to the liquor store...'_

Others were triggered by locations, buddies, self-loathing, the H-bomb...the list of reasons appeared endless. And because the list wound into infinity, peace of mind seemed an impossible task.

Or, as another fella declared, _'Struggling not to drink is like being in hell. And even though it'd be a whole lot worse if I picked up the bottle up again, I can't help but not care, which is a hell unto itself.'_

Long story short, recovering addicts required more than self-awareness...

Recovering addicts must consult _The Big Book_.

Recovering addicts gotta work _The Steps_.

Recovering addicts had to accept a _Higher Power_.

Recovering addicts required _The Group_ cuz _The Group_ be all: _In solacium miseriae sit_...

_The Group_ kept addicts on the straight and narrow, dig?

Steve wouldn't begrudge anyone for finding solace in group mentality. But _The Group_ be kinda sorta nutty...cult like even...and the added spice of Bible thumpers didn't temper his opinion.

Rabid fire and brimestoners petitioned the Lord with prayer; they blew Gideon's trumpet; they demanded convalescing addicts tackle a Midian-like foe; they castigated; they said shit like: _Only the grace of god keeps me sober._

Well, sir, the Lord wasn't for everyone. As a matter of fact, Steve thought the Lord sucked poopie elephant ass. They last thing our hero need hear be some blowhardy hooey and applesauce.

Furthermore, _nobody_ in the rooms Steve visited looked like _anybody_ he'd consider consulting should the poopie hit the fan. How much support would or could be gained from anyone -regardless of personal experience- when _nobody_ in said rooms appeared like they had their shit together...

Which be an actual factual, yo.

By the be, Steve's attitude represented a superlative example of _stinkin' thinkin'_.

Stinkin' thinkin' loved feasting on minds; stinkin' thinkin' drove people to stinkin' behavior.

Stinkin' thinkin' be the devil.

How does one wrest the devil?

They get right with the Almighty!

Then they'd never get all stinky and whatnot again.

And everyone would live all happy-like.

Pfft.

Stinkin' thinkin'...

Steve couldn't help himself with the stinkin' thinkin'...

Our hero frowned, crossed arms, and stared at his feet.

_I shoulda stayed home,_ he thought.

After a few minutes of muted babble, a huge man -dressed like a lumberjack and rocking a wild beard what put Steve's whiskers to shame- stood at the front of the room and cleared his throat. Hisself went through the usual calisthenics: introduced himself as Vern, explained what A.A. did, what it meant, _blah, blah and blah_. Vern's peepers then pinballed around the room before settling on Steve.

"Is there anybody new to this meeting?" Vern asked.

And because everyone knew everybody else in Manchester, ten heads swung around to scrutinize the stranger.

Hacking a dry, nervous cough, Steve raised his left hand and confessed: "I'm...um... _ahem_...I'm George and I'm...you know...an addict."

"Welcome, George," Vern said. "It's open discussion night at the Manchester Meeting. Anybody have a pressing topic of concern?"

Silence.

Not a single hand shot up.

Nobody wanted to vomit their despair.

The moderator peered 'round the room.

Steve slouched, pulled the ballcap to his brow...

"Nothing, huh?" Vern asked.

"Hope," somebody called.

"Hope," Vern mulled. "What about hope, Charlie?"

"Somedays I got none," Charlie confessed. "Somedays I wanna say screw it and go back to my sour mash."

"But you're here," Vern said. "You're here, which means you haven't lost hope."

"I'm here," mumbled Charlie.

"We all deal with hopelessness," Vern said. "I find hope in the collective strength of this room, and I find hope in my sobriety. I'm thankful for every second I'm not boozing because at one time I believed...pardon... _I knew_ stopping my behavior was hopeless. I thought: _What's the point_? Shit, I'm gonna die anyway. Drunk, sober, who cares? Years of clean living doesn't prevent my mind from tangling with the hopelessness of a finite existence; after all, sobriety doesn't make us supermen. How do we handle this daunting existentialist dilemma, hm? How do you maintain hope?"

Hell if Steve knew. He slouched further in the chair, tapped a foot, and stared at the wall clock behind Vern...

***

After the serenity prayer, Steve made a beeline for the exit while the others shook hands and made small talk. The nifty escape was foiled, however, when Vern caught our pal a second before Steve could open the door. Giant smile on his mug, the big guy extended his hand and said:

"Glad you could make it, George. It's good to see new faces...er...I mean, it's not good but..."

"I know what you meant," bristled Steve.

"Right. Better here than in the bottle."

"Oh...yeah," Steve stammered though a giant smile of his own. "I'm...you know...using my hope to remain sober and...um...all the rest. Anyway, it was a good meeting. I...I got a lot out of it."

Vern nodded, pawed at his beard, and then asked, "Are you new to this area or out and about?"

Steve glanced around the room and whispered, "Um...see, I grew up around these parts. Moved back a week ago."

"Moving can be a stressful time."

"It hasn't been bad," our ole pal answered with tact. "You know...the process has kept me busy. Idle hands and all the rest, kay?"

"Well, we meet every Tuesday, Wednesday and Saturday evening at seven. Don't be a stranger. And if you're in need of an ear to chew, I can accommodate. Let me give you my number."

Steve didn't want Vern's number, or an ear to chew, but he acquiesced out of courtesy and waited for the big guy to scratch seven digits on a slip of paper.

"Call me anytime," Vern said as he handed the paper to Steve. "Day or night. And I'm serious, okay? Working the program isn't easy, and working it alone is near impossible."

Pocketing the slip, Steve offered a reticent "thank you" and then shuffled outside.

***

Stan Ritter sawed logs in his recliner; Enos snoozed on the couch; Michael Kay babbled nonsense from the idiot box. The dog lifted its head as Steve entered the living room and studied our pal under a crumbled brow.

"Hey, Pop," Steve said, shaking the old man. "I'm home."

Stan Ritter snorted and blinked his eyes. "Je-ez," he wheezed. "Guess I'm tired."

"Game's so exciting, it put you to sleep, heh?"

"The standard issue early season blowout against Cornell. You can set your watch to it. And, um, speaking of clockwork, Tommy called...again. That makes three times in the last five days."

Our pal grunted, turned off the television and then tossed the remote on the couch.

"Thought you should know," the old man said.

"A'ight," Steve said through a yawn.

"All right?"

"Yeah, I'll buzz him tomorrow or something."

"He wants to hear from you, Steven."

"I know, I know, but I'm tired, kay? I'm calling it a night."

Stan lurched out of the easy chair with a groan and a pop of his back. "I suppose I'll toddle off too," he said. "Heh, look at us old farts. In bed before ten. Your mother would be amazed."

***

Though few tangible items remained from his childhood, Steve's old bedroom housed memories.

( _Give me back my tortured nights_

My mirrored room, my secret life

It's lonely here,

_There's no one left to torture_ )

The same creaky, queen sized bed sat lodged in the corner; an oak, three drawer dresser -engraved with Steve's jagged initials- squatted against the far wall; a dusty, yellow touchtone sat atop the tallboy; a Yankees pennant hung from the closet door.

Steve studied the pennant and then snorted (for the hundredth time since he arrived): "Jesus, I was a dumbshit."

( _Drifting to sleep as a kid, he allowed his mind to fixate on the same stupid fantasy: playing ball in Yankee stadium; standing in the on-deck circle; hearing Bob Sheppard call his name as he walked to the batter's box:_

" _Now batting, Number 4, Steve Ritter. Number 4, Ritter."_

Of course, 4 was Lou Gehrig's number and Lou Gehrig's number was retired. But, hey, no problem, Steve rollicked in the Land of Make-Believe. In the LMB, Stevie could be Number 4, or 1, or 7, or 15. And in the Land of Make-Believe, he was just as good, if not better, than Gehrig, Martin, Mantle or Munson.

He'd be better than all of them combined.

He'd leave a grand legacy behind.

He'd be memorialized.

He'd give a big speech at the end of his career...

His amplified voice would echo inside the stadium and summon tears...

Yes, someday, other kids would dream of being Steve Ritter...

... _in the Land of Make-Believe.)_

"Make _fucking_ believe," he said, swinging open the closet door.

He used to stash his liquor in the closet...

Stash it beneath a pile of blankets...

( _Dad once found a couple of bottles of Steve's preferred libation, Covington Whiskey...which be a fancy name for what amounted to gasoline. On the yellow label, a dapper, square-jawed Englishman drove a Handsome, whip in one hand, glass in another. Pressed beneath the top hat and cummerbund, the lush presented a lurid grin. A liter of Covington cost $4.99 at Dewey's Liquor...and since $4.99 for a liter of booze be sweet music in the ears of cash strapped teenagers, Covington became the go-to booze._

One spring afternoon, seventeen-year-old Steve returned from school to find the old man standing in the kitchen armed with two bottles of high-test.

" _Well?" Stan Ritter asked. "Anything to say?"_

Steve didn't bother with an excuse; instead, he mustered an indifferent shrug.

_Dad crossed arms and said, "Better I found them and not your mother. She'd have a stroke. Now, I'm not ignorant to what kids your age do, but for crying out loud, hide your whiskey in a better place."_ )

Steve closed the closet door and then took a seat on the bed. After a couple bounces, he kicked off his shoes and wiggled toes.

( _Chad Gray -Tommy's older brother by two years- used to procure the booze with a fake i.d. Chad was long gone now, done in by the same illness what killed Mom: Cancer. Gloria Ritter had breast cancer; Chad got nipped in the nutsack. The clinical difference didn't matter cuz the result be the same, but Chad caught the Big C at a young age. He'd gone to Maryland to play football and redshirted as a freshman. The following year, Chad discovered a lump in his gonads...and a second one under his left armpit...and a third here and a fourth there..._

You get the picture.

_After the grim diagnosis, Chad didn't play another down of football. Twenty months later, in the fall of '93, Chadwick Gray passed into the Great Beyond. Steve should've returned for the funeral, but he couldn't bear to step foot in Cairo's crummy cemetery -or any part of Cairo- so soon after Krissy's death._ )

He rubbed a hand over his face, blinked and studied the empty walls.

( _Gone were the music posters he hung in eleventh grade: Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Alice In Chains. Angsty stuff. Stupid angsty stuff. Juvenile angst. Angst from the Land of Make-Believe. What kind of angst simmered inside teenaged Steve Ritter? Fake angst. Fake angst because he hadn't discovered real angst._ )

Before Ma died in 2009, Dad repainted the room light blue...

( _He returned for Ma's burial, tho._

He returned and spent the weekend loaded.

He returned and didn't shed a tear when Ma was planted.

Susan cried.

Dad cried.

Dad's brother cried.

Ma's sisters cried.

_Not Steve...not until..._ )

For the last twenty-four months of her life, Ma spent more time in hospitals than at home. Meantime, Steve...well, he sunk deeper into the _tore the fuck up_ pool. The last few visits with his mother consisted of stilted, inane conversation. He couldn't face her sober; his selfish desire to disconnect trumped the succor she needed. Even as she lolled in hospice...

( _Dad pulled him aside and asked, "Steven, what the hell is wrong with you?"_ )

...even then, he rolled in hot.

The funeral...scorching...

( _"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Susan bitched. "You can't be sober on the day you're burying your mother?"_ )

But Susan didn't know how hard it was to set a toe in Cairo's boneyard.

( _He visited Chad's headstone and bowed his head._

Then he found Krissy's grave and took a knee.

He traced the inscribed letters on the sunken stone with a stiff finger.

After he finished the T, Steve said, "I'm sorry, Kris. I meant to come earlier..."

And he said a little more while tears fell.

_And he felt not a smidge better._ )

Our pal eyed the phone...

Pushed hisself from the bed.

( _Tommy threw an arm around him and asked, "You alright, man?"_

" _I've never seen her grave," Steve whispered. "I loved her, Tommy. I loved her and it's taken me almost twenty years to say goodbye."_

" _Man, I know. But right now, you need to be there for your father. Krissy's not going anywhere."_ )

He listened to the dial tone...

( _The blizzard, the blizzard of the world_

Has crossed the threshold

And it has overturned

_The order of the soul_ )

Then jabbed the seven digits...

# 6. Tommy Gray

He found the ole restaurant where he left it: the corner of Main and Minnow Street.

The rest of downtown Cairo dun gone to shit (Cairo Furniture? _Gone_ ; Guy's Hobby Shop? _Gone_ ; Mike's Music, the hip little joint where Steve bought his first and only guitar? _Gone_.), but Pinky's still kicked.

Pinky's...and a few other hoary staples: Dewey's Liquor; a laundromat; Bobby's Barbershop, a handful of bars; the police department and volunteer fire station.

Cairo was once a stop for freight trains hauling whatever from wherevers, but those days were long gone; a lumber mill went tits up the year before Steve graduated high school; the mid-aughts brought recession...layoffs from Kodak and Xerox...foreclosures...hard times and whatnot.

But Pinky's would never fold its tent. In fact, a few years prior, the bottomless nitwit from _Man vs. Food_ stopped at Pinky's for a "World Famous" Cairo Burger: two pounds of ground chuck layered with green olives, jalapenos and three cheeses, all smashed between two toasted buns.

The factual? The fat man gave a glowing review and Pinky's became a "must visit" for hungry tourists rambling 'round bumfuck western New York.

The actual factual? Pinky's _always_ bustled with activity.

But Steve had considered the actual factual until he walked into the place at dinnertime; the little tinkling bell over the door tinkled; a shitload of eyes scrutinized the newest patron; he felt naked and pushed the sunglasses further up the bridge of nose. Neck creaking, Steve found Tommy in a corner booth, sipping from a coffee cup.

Tommy Gray looked a lot like his old man, Coach Greg Gray: balding, bug-eyed; gaunt; snowmen arms. Tommy had even grown the same small mustache (which was about four hairs wider than ole Adolf's pussy tickler) beneath a giant, crooked nose. However, the similarities between father and son stopped at appearances. Demeanor wise, the two Grays were (pardon the cliché) one-hundred eighty-degree opposites.

Coach Gray was a primo ahole; an "old school" advocate; a twiggy man who put the fear of termination into his players. When he ranted and raved, Old Man Gray channeled demons and dictators; his arms swung and spit flew. Nobody wanted a dose of Coach Gray...not even on his "good" days. And on his bad days...

During Steve's junior year, Cairo lost a nail biter to Greece Arcadia, 14-7. A defensive battle during a rainstorm, the game had been tied 7-7 until late in the fourth quarter. Cairo trudged from their five to the opponents ten on a fifteen-play drive what consumed almost the entire twelve minutes of the final stanza. Steve caught two key third down passes to extend the possession, and he took a reverse twenty yards to put our conquering warriors in field goal range. Facing a fourth and one with less than two minutes remaining, Coach Gray sent out the placekicker (Raul Huerta, the only Mexican to ever a don a Crows uniform, go figure) to give Cairo the lead. Greece blocked the twenty-seven-yard field goal and returned it for a touchdown.

Game, set, match.

Other than scattered sobs, the thirty-minute bus ride to Cairo was silent. On a head rotating like a lighthouse beacon, Coach Gray shot daggers at his players and dared anyone to speak. Steve wiped condensation from the window and contemplated the forthcoming ass chewing what be a Greg Gray staple following defeat.

When they arrived at school, Coach Gray ordered everyone onto boggish Dewey Field, in full pads, and had the team spread out along the goal line.

"Quitters!" Coach shrieked. "Losers! All youse, a sorry collection of pussies and fags! Down and back!" He shoved the whistle in his mouth and blew. Off they went, pussies and fags alike; they sprinted one hundred yards down and one hundred yards back in darkness, thru standing water, while Coach berated his muddied, exhausted, hobbled, squad of pussies and faggots...

"Fucking pussies! Fucking faggots! Failures and queers, the whole faggody bunch of youse! Bear crawls, down and back!" Coach blew the whistle again...and off they went again, scuttling one hundred yards down and one hundred yards back in darkness, thru standing water, while Coach berated his muddied, exhausted, hobbled, squad of pussies and faggots...

The conditioning continued for a _long_ time. There'd be scolding, the shriek of the whistle and then another jaunt down and back. At last, Coach spit out the whistle and barked, "Tomorrow morning, eight _sharp_ ," before stomping into the annex.

Coach Gray "retired" in 2002, although it'd be fair to say his retirement staked the same territory Steve Ritter's employers implied when they said he'd been _allowed to pursue other opportunities_. There were rumors the ole ball coach assaulted a player. Steve knew this wasn't gossip; Coach Gray habitually battered him when he played for Cairo. The old man broke more than a few clipboards over Steve's helmet during practice, and he broke a few more over other helmets. Taken in totality, Greg Gray busted a shit ton of clipboards over the course of his coaching career. Coach also took to bringing a walking stick to practice...a walking stick affixed with a shiny brass ball. The whack of said ball on the crown of the helmet...well, it sucked elephant ass. By the early 2000s, tho, adults beating kids wasn't considered acceptable behavior. Perhaps people wised up; perhaps the world got soft. Whatever the case...

Cairo football fell on hard times after Greg Gray made like a banana. Two coaches came and went before Tommy Gray took the mantle in 2010. Perhaps the powers what be reckoned another Gray could return the program to glory...or something.

"There he is," Tommy greeted as Steve slid into the booth. "The prodigious son."

"Prodigious is a big word for a football dumdum," Steve replied.

"Are you talking about you or me?"

"I was gonna say _me_ , but since _you_ asked the question..."

A runover looking waitress moseyed to the table and offered Steve a frazzled smile. Her nametag said herself be "Helen", and Helen looked about sixty, but Steve wouldn't have been surprised if they'd gone to high school together. People didn't age well in Cairo.

"Whatcha need, honey?" Helen asked while champing a wad of gum.

"Diet soda," Steve answered.

"Anything to eat, honey?"

"No thanks."

"Back in a jiff, honey."

"I figured the odds at eighty-twenty you wouldn't show," Tommy said after Helen sashayed out of earshot.

"C'mon," Steve snorted. "I said I'd be here; here I am."

"Too bad I had to nag your old man just to get you to call me. You need a cell phone, bro."

"I had a bad experience with a cell phone, _bro_ ," Steve said before busting a Mr. Roper-esque smirk.

"Well, on the flip side, I got a chance to chitchat with your pop. I haven't seen him in forever, but he sounds good."

"Yeah, Dad's enjoying retirement. All he does is watch sports and putter 'round with the dog."

"Sounds delightful."

"Speaking of old men, how's the ole ball coach?"

Tommy leaned back and said, "Eh...you know...Dad has issues. He wants to help with the team but...there are people who wouldn't take to his presence on the sidelines. Count me as one of 'em."

Helen returned, set the soda in front of Steve, and then asked, "Anything else, boys?"

Tommy shook his head and off she moseyed, behind swishing beneath the tight uniform.

"She doesn't look too bad from behind," the ole pal of our pal said.

"What?" Steve asked with a laugh.

"Desperate times..."

"You must be _real_ desperate."

"I'm funnin'. Matter of fact, I've been seeing somebody for a few months. It took me awhile to thaw out after... _ahem_... _the_ _bitch_...but I'm on the other side of the bullshit." A year earlier, Tommy clawed through the wilderness of a messy divorce eight years too late. In Steve's opinion, the ole pal made his bed: it wasn't a surprise Shelly Weir trolled Unfaithful Boulevard; she'd been a harlot since primary school.

Steve didn't want to talk about exes, but neither did Tommy. Instead, the ole pal studied at our pal and said, "What's with the beard?"

"You don't approve, Mama?"

"Gnarly, for sure. And gnarled. You look like Jeremiah Johnson."

"But do I look dangerous?"

Tommy joggled his head and said, "Sure, why not?"

"Perfect. Maybe people will leave me alone."

"Ahhh," Tommy purred. "I get it. Trying to hide, heh? Ha! Good luck. You didn't pick a great place to remain incognito."

"Who said I had to go anywhere? Dad's place is remote. I could stay there and not speak to a soul."

"Shit, Ritter, you're Cairo's claim to fame. Speaking of, I was thinking... _ahem_...like, if you're gonna be around for a while...um, you are, right?"

"Oh-oh. I see smoke coming from your ears."

"Okay...I know you're retired or something, but I have a proposition."

"Listen, these are my golden years. I'm tied up with bingo and fish fries."

"Serious, Steve, hear me out."

"All right, all right, you have the floor. Let 'er rip."

"Would you consider helping me this fall with the team?"

"What now?" Steve squawked as he pushed his soda aside.

"Hold on. Keep an open mind. I already talked to the administration and they're fine if I brought you on as a voluntary assistant. Unpaid, of course. Sorry but-"

"I don't need the money."

"Well...good, I guess. So...I mean, there's nothing else to say. What do you think?"

"Jeez, Tommy," our pal hawed. "I'm...I'm not a coach or a teacher. I played the game. Nothing more."

"Right, you _played_ in the NFL, bro. The kids would love to have a guy like you telling 'em what's-what."

"Eh...maybe, but have you considered I _will_ be a distraction more than an asset."

Tommy crinkled his face and asked, "You think those kids give a shit?"

"I _know_ they give a shit. People in Siberia give a shit."

"C'mon...look, _A_ , teenage boys _don't_ care. Their attention span is five seconds. _B_ , even if-"

"What about their parents?"

" _Pfft._ You're being paranoid. Nobody's talking about...you know... _it_...anymore. Other shit has happened in the world, bro. More shit will happen after the other shit. Come spring, you'll be way down on the list of dumdums."

"Tommy, if your old man couldn't run the gauntlet, how will I?"

"I hear what you're saying but...but I don't care. As far as I'm concerned, you'd be an asset to the coaching staff and players. And you didn't commit a crime. You just had a few and popped off. Okay, maybe your judgment wasn't great, but you've always had a smart mouth."

"I prefer _pretty mouth_. And the trouble wasn't my mouth."

"But ya does half a purdy mouth," Tommy confirmed, slipping into a Southern accent.

Steve scratched his chin; flakes of dried skin drifted in the air.

"Stevie," Tommy needled. "Don't make me beg."

"I appreciate the offer. I do. And I don't have anything against you, Tommy. You...you gotta understand, I've been through the wringer. I came here to help the old man and...like, find myself or something. No phone calls, no catcalls, no strange looks, none of it. Peace and quiet. You dig?"

"Just think about it."

"Tommy-"

"We don't start spring drills until April, which means you have the whole winter to-"

" _Think about it_ ," Steve finished.

Tommy touched his nose.

There was another reason Steve hemmed...a big reason... _the biggest._ _The biggest reason_ drove him from Cairo, but _the biggest reason_ also pulled him back cuz the _biggest_ reason needed to be faced and sent on its way to a spiritual Siberia...or so his brain decided.

But after arriving in Cairo, his brain turned into a big pussy. _"Maybe this isn't a good idea, fella,"_ the stupid thing declared. _"Maybe we should hunker down and forget we ever had the biggest reason conversation, kay?"_

Steve pushed the straw around the glass and asked, "The Wrights are around, aren't they?"

Now be the time for Tommy to mull. He sorta flinched, crossed his arms, and found something of interest outside the window. "Yeah," he said to the glass. "Same house on 15."

"Your reaction," Steve said, flicking the straw. "I saw you flinch."

"Lookit, anybody who knows, knows what happened. You did nothing wrong. The guys who did it are being violated in the clink. End of discussion."

"Easy for you to say. I've been thinking about her a lot. Dreaming about her. Stopping her from leaving...or going with her...or...or _something_."

"Dude, come on. The past is the past. You can't change it."

"Wow...deep thoughts by Tommy Gray."

Tommy sighed and presented Steve with the hairy eyeball. "What do you want me to say?" he asked. "And why are you obsessing about Krissy? It was a long time ago. _A long time_."

"You know, I can't help but think how different my life would've been if-"

"Oh, shaddup with the _what if_ nonsense. You're going through a rough time. So what? You gotta put it behind you. And save the easier said argument. I was in a dark place when Shelly and I split. I hated _everything_. But one day, I got up and decided: _to hell with her, to hell with the guys she banged and to hell with the eight years I wasted with her_. I'm forty-one. _You're_ forty-one. How many years do we have left? Do you want to spend them all twisted up and miserable?"

"I...no, I suppose not. I just feel like...like I need to make things right."

"How? By moping in your dad's house?"

"Gawd, Tommy, I haven't figured it out yet. Maybe I'll talk to her parents. We never had a chance to speak."

"What if they don't want to talk. What then?"

"I don't know," Steve mumbled.

" _Ugh_...you're up in your head, man. Way up. Why don't you help me with the squad? At least it'll give you something to do."

"Alright, alright, if it'll shut you up, I'll think about it."

"Good, and here's a little something-something to consider: I have twenty-six returning underclassman and a fired up offensive coordinator. You remember Scotty Winchester, right? He-"

"Super Scooter?!" Steve cried. "He's hanging around?"

Tho he stood five feet six and weighed a buck twenty soaking wet, Scott Winchester could ball. Extraordinary dexterity combined with an Earl Campbell-like indifference to contact made him difficult to tackle; once in the open field, Scotty turned on the jets. On most teams, Scooter would've been the offensive key; but on the Cairo Crows of yore, the pint-sized halfback played third fiddle. In the '91 state championship game, Super Scooter rushed for 123 yards on 15 carries; he caught 3 passes for 22 yards; he scored twice. The performance should've reaped MVP accolades. Instead, the award went to a tall drink of water who snagged 9 catches for 165 yards and 0 touchdowns.

"Yeah, Scooter!" Tommy hooted. "He coached at Wilson until I lured him back last year. We implemented a pass happy offense, to my father's chagrin." Tommy altered his voice and mimicked Greg Gray's strident tone: " _What's with this faggot passing shit? Football is about power and the running game!_ "

"Sounds like your old man, although...you know, he didn't care when you and I played catch."

"Eh...Dad has a selective memory these days."

"Heh, I could use one of those."

"So... _ahem_...anyway, with a newfangled offense and our returning juniors and seniors, I'm anticipating great things. Last season...um...call it a trial by fire. Ninety percent of our starters were underclassmen, and it showed. We finished two up and five down, missed the playoffs, and got our asses kicked...a lot. But-"

"Your sales pitch needs work."

" _But_ the kids gelled those last four games of the season, smartass. We even gave those assholes at Shale a tussle. By the way, did you know Farnsworth is still coaching?"

"The fuck? He's gotta be...what, eighty?"

"Pretty close. Mean as ever, too. But Jesse has those kids working like a machine. Every year, Shale's the team to beat in our division."

"I _hated_ Shale," Steve recalled in a gruff voice. "That fucker Farnsworth...remember when he-"

"Kicked you in the balls," Tommy chuckled.

"Why the fuck are you laughing? It hurt, man. I don't care if they're shriveled up, I deserve a free shot at Farnsworth's family jewels."

"Have at it. Me? I wouldn't tangle with the sonabitch. Farnsworth's a rabid badger; worse, he's a rabid _stubborn_ badger. Every year I think he's gonna hang it up, and every year he's like a poltergeist. _It's back,_ he-he. You know what I think? Jesse's afraid of what retirement will bring; I think he's afraid of doing a Bear Bryant or a Joe Pa."

"Maybe, but I can't see Jesse Farnsworth playing Scrabble."

"Neither can I, but you never know. Look at Skipper. He retired...hell, must be goin' on five years. You should see him, Steve. Fraw's lost _a lot_ of weight. He walks the track every day, regardless of weather, for hours. I'm surprised he hasn't worn a rut."

"Hours?"

"Yea, _hours_. After Ray died, Skipper needed a, um...I guess it's a coping mechanism or something."

Steve frowned and flicked the straw.

Ray Fraw, a center from Steve's class...the stalwart of the offensive line...a thoughtful, gregarious soul...

Now, Ray Fraw was another chum miracled to the great beyond.

Just shy of his thirty-fifth birthday, Ray went tits up in front of his wife and four kids while cooking breakfast. Here one second, gone the next...

"I know too many who died young," Steve lamented. "Chad, Ray, Krissy, Korry, Ma...Coach Wacker...Coach Herman...jeez. But lunatics like Jesse Farnsworth keep kickin'."

"Speaking of lunatics, B.C.'s my line coach. He also handles the strength and conditioning program."

Once upon, "Crazy" (or _Super Intense_ , according to the coaches) Bill Christianson -the afore mentioned B.C. and another of Steve's classmates- played right guard and defensive tackle, earned First Team All-State honors his senior season, and suited up for Gettysburg before shattering his left leg in two consecutive seasons. Thereafter, B.C. earned his degree in physical education and returned to Cairo cuz B.C. -while Crazy- knew where his bread be buttered.

"Crazy ass B.C.," our pal said. "I bet he's a screamer."

"Sure, he hollers a fair share, but you'll be shocked by the coaching philosophy we've adopted at Cairo. Long gone are the days of absolute tyranny. I don't think things have changed at Shale, but everywhere else has, um...well, in the words of B.C., _become sissified._ Steve, the kids have changed. You can't yell at them like Dad yelled at us."

" _Yelled at us?_ Bro, your old man did more than _yell at us_."

"I'll be the first to admit Dad pushed it too far; as I said, tho, them days are kaput. Now, I'm not suggesting we give hugs on the practice field, but we encourage more than berate. Sometimes yelling can't be helped; after all, we're dealing with high school kids. They need guidance and with guidance comes the _occasional_ kick in the ass. However, I won't single out a player. There's no room in my program for the kind of bullying we experienced."

"Hm...you know what's funny? Cairo football went above and beyond rational intensity. When I got to college, I thought it'd be more of the same. But it wasn't; we never hit, Tommy."

"Huh? What do you mean you didn't hit?"

"Tackling drills? Peanut? The one-on-one bashing sessions? That never happened at the U. I guess the coaches figured we'd take enough punishment in the games. Of course, we sucked, but I doubt there's a correlation. And in the pros, the crap your father pulled would've gotten him slapped."

Tommy whacked the table and said, "See, you're already giving me ideas."

"On the house. The next will cost you."

"Oh, speaking of freebies...I have tickets to next Thursday's Amerks game. Can I pencil you in?"

Steve looked deep into his fizzy cola like it was a Magic 8-ball and said, "Nah...I'm gonna take a raincheck."

"Dude, they're good seats."

"Mingling with the rank and file isn't high on my list," Steve said, dragging his peepers from the depths of the soda. "I went to Moore's yesterday and damn near had a panic attack."

"So?"

" _So_ , the War Memorial is a mite bigger than Moore's."

"First, it's not called the War Memorial anymore. _Blue Cross Blue Shield Arena_ , okay? Second, the place only seats seven thousand."

"You're not making a compelling argument."

"What did I just say? You're playing head games."

"Am I? I saw my picture on the _Enquirer_ at Moore's."

"Who gives a rat's ass? It's the _Enquirer_. They run stories about aliens!"

"And drunk ex-athletes."

"Bro... _ugh_...you've wallowed enough. I'm getting you out of the house, fuckhead, no matter how much you protest."

"I'll think about-"

"Look around you. Here you are in Pinky's and behold: _nobody gives a shit_."

Steve rubbed the bridge of his nose and shook his head.

"C'mon," Tommy goaded, kicking Steve in the shin. "A boy's night out would do you some good. But you need to shave the nest off your face. No chick's gonna want a taste of it."

"Are you kidding?" Steve chuckled. "The _last_ thing on my mind is hooking up. Besides, I'm not technically divorced yet. And besides _that_ , there's the little matter of my dumb ass antics in October. Any woman who hasn't formed an opinion about _moi_ has been living under a rock."

"Meh, you never know."

"Maybe after I settle things with Susan... _maybe_ I'll _think_ about dating again."

Tommy rubbed his chin and said, "After... _her..._ and I parted ways, I thought I'd never date again. In fact, I swore off women. Swear to God. Six months later, I looked at myself in the mirror when I was jerking off and decided I had enough of whispering sweet nothings to my nasty face."

"Jee-zus Christ," Steve said through a grimace. "TMI."

"Fair warning."

"Well, then, I should shave the beard and pretty myself up-"

"Yup-"

"-cuz there ain't a snowballs chance I'll be gettin' _anything_ from _anyone_ but old lefty _anytime_ soon."

"Why?"

" _Why_? Jeez, Tommy, what are the odds I'll find a woman who hasn't formed an opinion about my personality?"

"Mm...I saw the pictures. I'm certain you'll find somebody who doesn't give a fuck about personality."

"Let me rephrase: a _good_ woman who hasn't formed an opinion about my personality."

"Do-shay," Tommy said with a straight face.

" _Do-shay_? The fuck is _do-shay_?"

"Like...you made a good point. _Do-shay_."

"It's _touché_ ," Steve snorted.

"Oh..." Tommy chuckled. "Oh, shit...you mean...I've been saying it wrong my whole life?"

" _Do-shay_ ," tittered Steve. "What the what the?"

Between nosy brays, Tommy hiccupped: "I teach P.E., not French, _my sewer_."

Like they were sitting in the back of Mr. Crowder's classroom (Carlton Crowder -a stuffy history teacher what looked like Michael Douglas's squarish antagonist in _Falling Down_ \- detested interruptions during his highbrow lectures), both fellas attempted to stifle giggles. Tommy shoved a knuckle in his mouth as tears rolled down his cheeks; Steve sat back, crossed arms, and smushed lips, but wayward splutters split the ether.

At last, Steve yanked a napkin from the table and blotted his peepers. He hadn't laughed in a looooong motherfucking time...

And it felt good.

Moreover, as he glanced around Pinky's, not a patron or waitress stared in his direction. No squinty, surreptitious eyes; no whispering or elbow jabs; nothing but the sights and sounds of people noshing and slurping and clanging silverware.

As if reading Steve's mind, Tommy asked: "See? Who better than meself to kick the lead out of yeeself?"

"Never underestimate the power of stupidity," Steve said through a smile.

"Then I'm your huckleberry."

"All right, between the masturbation talk and the huckleberry nonsense, you're creeping me out. Anyway, the lead, so called... _kicking it out_? Easier said than done."

"It ain't comin' out if you don't start kicking, man."

"By helping with the team, heh?"

"Damn straight."

" _Argh_...you're putting a lot on my plate."

"Then let's start small with the hockey game next Thursday."

"Hell's bells you're insistent."

"Bro, I'm glad you're in town. Life is too short to wallow.

Steve brushed the wadded napkin across the table and then said, "Fine, next Thursday."

"Attaboy! And in the meantime, I want you to consider the other thing. I'd love to have you..."

# 7. Krissy Wright

Our pal took a circuitous route home, driving north from Cairo on SR21 until solitary houses dotted the countryside. He turned right on CR15...passed a dairy farm...and zipped east as the old residence rose from the earth like a tombstone.

"Five point two miles," Steve said under his breath as he glanced at the trip meter.

Five point two miles from the intersection of 21 and 15.

Four point nine miles from the "stink factory" to what was, once upon a time, nibbana.

He'd done the drive a million times as a younger man; way back when, Krissy would've been in the seat next to him, rubbing his leg and whispering _very_ naughty things.

Or she'd be waiting outside, waving both hands as he rolled into the driveway.

Guiding the Challenger to a stop on the uneven shoulder, he stared down the crooked silver mailbox on the left side of the road; shielding his eyes from sun glint, Steve studied the white reflective letters slapped onto the ridged skin...

" _WRIGHT_ ," announced he.

His gaze shifted from the mailbox to the clapboard Cape Cod...

Long in the tooth spruce siding...

Begrimed chimney...

Closed green shutters shielded the world from creeper peepers and the sun.

A long-forgotten Doors song sparked in his melon...

There will never be another one like you.

There will never be another one who can

do the things you do...

Steve had been in the house at least a couple hundred times; he could've run the place blindfolded and not hit a wall.

He smiled, closed eyes, and recalled the simple floorplan...

Five paces from the entryway to stairs...

Fourteen creaky steps to the second floor...

And if you have a certain evening

You could lend to me...

Krissy's room sat two doors down on the left; her window overlooked CR15. They used to sit on her queen-size, get frisky, and made half-assed attempts to keep watch. Both the allure of sex and the danger of being caught compelled frantic but satisfying fornication...

One time, our stud was filling a rubber when Krissy's old man rolled into the driveway. Home early from the pulp plant in Luxor, Fred Wright emerged from his pick-up and stared at Steve's beater with hands on hips. Then he glared at Krissy's window...

I'd give it all right back to you

And how it has to be.

With you,

I know your moves and your mind...

His peepers opened...

A gray F150 Supercrew sat in the driveway.

Our hero considered turning in and parking behind the Ford...

He considered the future for a ten Mississippi count:

He'd jump from the Charger...

He'd powerwalk to the front door...

He'd mash the ringer and stand tall.

And when the door swung open, he would clear his throat and then...

And then...

And then he'd stand there like a stoopid mute.

Will you stop?

Will you stop?

The pain...

What would he say?

What _could_ he say?

Marshaling verses to her parents would be like trying to speak at an A.A. meeting.

Instead, he lollygagged...

And recalled a time when he lost more than a little of his heart...

***

Krissy Wright was a year older than Steve and a myth-slash-legend in the boy's locker room of Cairo High. The source of said fabled exploits was an insidious, throaty-voiced yo named Tim Franklin; for a year and a half, "Big Tim" (which he was naught), blabbed nonstop about feeling Krissy up and whatnot. Getting to _third base_ be the technical jargon, tho our pal had no clue what _third base_ represented. Steve knew what a home run implied, but everything short of rutting involved puzzling definitions and rudimentary mathematicals.

Adolescent Steve's exposure to the wonderful act starting with the letter _s_ was limited to what he had at his disposal, which amounted to starchy scientific literature. Mom kept a Master and Johnson's text from her college days on the bookshelf in the study, and he snuck curious peeks at it (but only after his parents hit the hay). The words in the tome were clinical, the pictures unsatisfying; there be nothing of substance a sixteen-year-old boy could glean. Unlike his middle-aged peers, Stan Ritter didn't have a stack of nudie magazines squirreled away. No cable television meant no risqué movies. Our boy was left to figure _it_ out himself...

And he did...eventually.

In the meantime, Stevie figured other things out; he figured out Tim Franklin was a yobbo, suck ass football player.

During two-a-days (known in unofficial parlance as _Hell Week_ ) Franklin (both a starting cornerback and flanker) got matched up with our sophomore pal (a scout team split end) in team "D". Cairo played straight man, which meant Franklin crouched a yard opposite Stevie and flexed his shitty ass, Krissy Wright feelin up, hands. Before the ball was snapped, the yo whispered crap like, "I'm gonna fuck you up and then I'm gonna fuck your mother." (While juvenile, the shit talking in college and the pros wasn't much more inventive.) Long story short: Steve beat Franklin like a drum, toasting the fool on go-routes and turning him around on simple in and out patterns. It helped Tommy played scout team QB; the ole pal and our pal developed a pat synergy over the years.

Yea, on the patchy brown pitch of Barnabas Park, the two bestest chums tossed the ball for hours and perfected timing. Chad Gray often joined them, and his frozen ropes softened Steve's stony hands. Moreover, the gunslinger imparted football wisdom -defensive tells; route adjustments; bunches of sage advice not even Coach Gray proffered- collected from the untold number of camps Chad attended (Greg Gray spent buckets of moola on his oldest son's gridiron growth, which meant Tommy kinda sorta got the short end of the stick...but this be a different story for a different time).

Only a dumdum would shun advice meted from the best quarterback who _ever_ donned a Cairo Crows uniform. Come '89 (Chad's senior year), the QB had already broken a buttload of NYS passing records; he committed to Maryland the previous spring; he seemed destined for _Big Things_.

But under Chad's watch, Cairo never advanced further than the Section V Class A Finals...which kinda sorta yanked his chain.

"Records are one thing; hoisting _The Block_ is another," Chad told Stevie before the 1989 season. "A Block means we came together, _as a team_ , and accomplished something special, something no team from Cairo has _ever_ accomplished. Dude, imagine how kick ass it'd be if shitty little Cairo got to be king of the mountain in something? You know, people think my father is nuts. With him it's _football, football, football_. But it's more than _football, football, football_. It's about community pride, man."

Chad presented a sound argument, but if Greg Gray sought both championships and community pride, putting Tim Franklin ahead of Steve Ritter on the depth chart seemed a lousy way to achieve said goals. The ole ball coach knew Stevie could hold his own; hell, sometimes Coach stopped at the park and watched the ole pal's play pitch and catch. But when the time came to suit up, Coach delegated our pal to the scrubby scout team...and this be an insult Steve sought to remedy.

After about the millionth time of getting torched, Franklin slapped the ball out of his persecutor's paws and growled: "Nobody likes a dummy scrimmage hero, dummy."

Steve's nifty response: "You suck, bro."

Point being, Tim Franklin's statements regarding what he did with Krissy Wright wasn't anything but fabricated boasting...at least in teenaged Steve's mind. His teammates on the other hand? They gathered around Franklin like he was the Second Coming.

_Pfft,_ our pal thought.

But maybe Steve was a _little_ jealous. He couldn't understand why Krissy Wright -the most perfect girl in Cairo High, let alone Cairo- ever put her lips on Tim Franklin's nasty mouth. It appeared as one of those mysteries in life.

_Whatever,_ he thought.

Yet, _whatever_ didn't pacify.

He and Krissy had algebra together, but he spent more time studying her than paying attention to the teacher. Yes, he stared at her and thought naughty thoughts. Though it kinda sucked, Timmy helped narrate Steve's fantasies.

' _I had my hand in her pants,'_ Franklin's voice echoed. _'She wears pink panties.'_

And Steve pictured himself tugging at Krissy's rosy underwear.

' _Those boobs of hers. Huge and firm. I had me two handfuls while she rubbed my johnson.'_

And Steve pictured...well, you get the idea.

Lo, he would never approach her, and it wasn't cuz Tim Franklin draped her on his arm: Krissy was a junior -a _sophisticated_ junior- and sophisticated juniors like Krissy weren't interested in unsophisticated sophomore yobbos like Steve.

Midway through second quarter, he caught Krissy glancing _at him_. Quick peeks, you see, cuz extended eye contact was thwarted by our shy guy: like he glimpsed a Harpy capable of turning him to stone, Stevie redirected his peepers to the chalkboard and pretended to listen to the Algebraic sermons. Meantime, his heart thudded; hands turned sticky; brow perspired. He wondered if her ganders were borne out of the annoyance stirred by his gawking or her _genuine_ interest.

Oh, how he wondered.

Then came the end to the '89 season (another loss in the VA Finals) and with it, the netherworld between fall and spring sports. Meantime, Krissy and Tim parted ways. According to hisself, she was too needy.

"I kicked da bitch to da curb," Timmy claimed, adding an Andrew Dice Clay-like sneer to the statement. "I snap a piece of 'em off, then I leave 'em heartbroken."

Krissy rebounded from the "heartbreaking" breakup with splendid dexterity: one morning before class, a girlfriend of herself tapped Steve on the shoulder as he gathered books from his locker.

"Krissy thinks you're too shy to talk to her, so she wants me to give you this," the friend said, handing Steve a note folded into a triangle. His first name and last initial, underlined thrice, decorated the front. He stammered a squeaky thanks and then rushed to the john and found an empty stall. In relative peace, he opened the missive and devoured the words:

Immaculate, feminine script; smiley faces and exclamation points; a whole lotta of gibberish declaring _math is_ _such a bore_ (underlined once) and how she hated their closed campus (little frowny face).

The note concluded with a simple question: _Do you want to go to Junior Prom with me?_ (Big Smiley Face.)

So it began. The thrilling moment they took to the school gym and swayed in time to some stoopid Depeche Mode song was like fiction come-to-life. Steve stood almost a foot taller than her and the way she looked up at him with a big grin on her face and wide, brown eyes boring into his blue peepers...our young man felt awash in a confidence. Afterwards, they went to a party at Dwight Reed's house. In the pumpkin glow of a giant bonfire, Krissy and Steve got to _first base_ (or close enough, our pal figured), but when they touched lips, he damn near wet himself.

_Don't let me screw this up,_ Steve begged Jehovah.

Wouldn't you know? He didn't tinkle.

And he proved an apt kisser.

Dates followed: movies, bowling and handholding walks in Barnabas Park; they tackled their homework in the chaperone rich environment of their respective homes. It didn't matter Moms lingered on the periphery as they fumbled with equations or graphing. Being around Krissy trumped meddlesome matriarchs.

She came to every baseball game -home or away- and cheered for him even when he didn't play. When he busted his nose and couldn't attend school for a week, she visited him at home and left sultry notes. His mother found several of 'em -buried in his dresser under t-shirts- and lectured: _'My goodness, Steven, you and this girl are getting too serious.'_

But Ma didn't know shit.

Ma didn't know how Krissy made him feel.

Ma didn't touch her skin.

Ma didn't run her hands through Krissy's dark hair.

Ma didn't kiss Krissy's lips.

Ma didn't get to first base; second base; third base...

_Home plate_...with her.

In the summer of '90- on a June afternoon while both her parents were at work- Steve had clumsy s-e-x for the first time. He was a five-pump chump, which be four pumps longer than he expected.

The s-e-x got better, tho.

Then it got great.

It got great because Krissy took him to his _special place_...

Steve's special place...

Uninhibited, his _special place_.

The paroxysm of obsession, his _special place_.

Her entwined, humid embrace, his _special place_.

Snug in her...powerless to escape...

_Steve's special place_.

Scouts honor, cross his heart and all the rest, he never thought of anyone else.

His peers chided the monistic commitment...

And Ma...

For whatever reason –perhaps she sensed Steve made the s-e-x- with Krissy- Gloria Ritter didn't approve of her son's girlfriend.

' _This infatuation with_ _that_ _girl isn't normal for a boy your age,'_ Ma fretted.

But what did Ma know?

Krissy graduated in the spring of '90 and enrolled at Syracuse to major in journalism (like it or stuff it, she read intellectual gobbledygook to him while they lazed in Barnabas Park; and on the diminutive sands next to Canesoanke Lake; and in bed, sprawled naked across the sheets), but they maintained a serious relationship despite the seventy-five-mile gap. She trekked to Cairo on the weekends to screw him sore and vice-versa; during the weekdays, they yapped on the phone every evening until Mother picked up the extension and rasped: _'It's time for Steven to go.'_

_At least_ once a week Ma told him: _'You waste untold time yapping with her on the telephone. You can't let this girl hamper your schoolwork.'_

_Pfft._ What did Ma know?

His brain wasn't getting him into, or though, college.

See, our pal was blessed with both ranginess (which helped when playing against secondaries composed of kids under six feet) and _natural ability_ ; by his senior year, Steve stood six feet five inches, and a lot of the _Big Money_ plays involved him running down field and cherry-picking bombs heaved by Tommy. But Steve was also fast, tough to tackle, and fashioned movin' and shakin' skills; he could turn a DB faster than Carl Cox working a turntable.

At the end of his junior year, Coach Gray put together a highlight reel and mailed the clips to every D-1, D-2, and D-3 school within a three-hundred-mile radius of Cairo. The sentiment -while heartwarming- proved a pointless endeavor. Steve aimed eyes on Syracuse (he'd walk-on if needbe) and planned the future: four years at SU (maybe five if he caught a redshirt) and then...well, according to Ma, becoming a professional athlete –a dream he kindled since bein' knee high- wasn't a _realistic goal_. He stopped arguing and decided to work his ass off to prove the old lady wrong.

Stevie about crapped his pants when Coach Pasqualoni came knocking with the offer of a _full ride_. Pop shed a few tears while grinning from ear-to-ear; Krissy squealed in delight. Heck, even Ma couldn't help but crack a smile. So it came to pass: on 25 January 1991, our grinning hero inked his mark on a letter of intent; thereafter, our lovebirds sketched a charming, romantic pipe dream.

Um-hmm. They devised _Big Plans_ :

He'd be a _Big Deal_ at Syracuse, and then he'd be a _Big Deal_ in the pros.

They'd move to a _Big City_ ; Krissy would sharpen her skills as an intern at a _Big Newspaper_. Maybe she'd try her hand at television...

And tho they didn't discuss the _Big M_ , Steve intended to marry Kris.

Then came of the summer of '91...

And all them _Big Plans_ got smashed to smithereens.

On 3 July, Krissy spent the night at his house while his parents were away for the holiday. On the morning of the fourth, they went to Canesoanke Lake, spread a couple towels, and cooked under the sun. She read Jane Austen to our indifferent pal until, at last, she closed the paperback and cuddled next to him.

"I want to write novels," Krissy declared into his right ear.

"Instead...of...columns or...whatevs?" he asked in a sun soaked, sluggish lilt.

"I'm not sure. I like composing articles and stuff, but I'm also bored. I think I could do more with my writing, you know?"

"Novels...as in fiction?"

"Uh-huh. I've been doodling ideas, Steve. I know they need work...the writing needs work...but I'm going to take creative writing classes and get better."

He propped hisself on an elbow and said, "What kind of ideas?"

"You'll have to read them to find out."

"If it's anything like Jane Austen, I'll pass."

" _Ha-ha_ ," she replied in a sarcastic tone while poking him in the stomach.

"Cuz dat shit is B-O-R-I-N-G."

"Maybe I'll write romance novels. Real steamy stuff."

"Remember those notes you sent me in high school, Kris? I bet you'd make a million dollars if they were ever published."

"Mmm...more like a trillion," she whispered. Meantime, her poking turned into a caress, a caress what travelled down his inner thigh and under the fringe of his bathing suit. Then Krissy worked her hand towards his D...

"Heh, you better stop," he giggled. "We're in public, kay?"

"Then why don't we find a quiet place, sexy?" she responded in a whisper. "A quiet place where we'll do _stuff_ I can write about... _stuff_ that'll make me a trillionaire."

"My mother will kill you if write about the stuff we do."

She patted his leg and said: "Don't worry. I won't use your name."

Later they went to his house, got tight on Covington, and did _stuff_ no mother wants to read about. They screwed the night away as fireworks exploded outside and fell asleep in the living room.

Krissy left on the morning of the fifth, before the sun rose, for her part-time job waiting tables at a Denny's in Clifton Springs. Steve didn't stir as she unwrapped herself from his grip, but he smiled when she pecked him on the cheek.

"I'm off at two," she said. "I hope you're ambulatory by then."

"My parents are coming home this afternoon," he mumbled.

"Oh...right...I forgot. Maybe you-"

"Maybe we'll figure it out later," interrupted he. "Now, can I go back to sleep? My head's killing me."

"Well, I'm thinkin' you could come with me. A little breakfast might cure your achy, breaky head, Steve. I can set you up with biscuits, greasy sausage, and lumpy gravy. _Mmmmmm_...sounds delicious, doesn't it?"

"Get out of here," he growled. "I'll call you later."

Those were the last words he spoke to Krissy Wright.

A strident pounding at the front door dragged our hero out of the living room. Hungover and achy, Steve stumbled down the hallway (spying the hands on a wall clock which, after some not so quick math, told him the time be a quarter past ten) and hurled open the door...

A pale Fred Wright stood on the stoop, bouncing from foot to foot. Steve had a healthy fear of Krissy's large father. Seeing him stirred butterflies in the stomach; seeing him intensified the hammering in the brainpan; seeing him was naught the way our pal wanted to start the day...

"Is Krissy here?" Fred demanded before Steve could say boo. "I tried calling but nobody's answering."

"Uhm...wha?" Steve hiccupped through a parched hole. He heard the phone while weathering the whiskey blues; eventually he took the bleating thing off the hook.

Glowering, Fred stepped forward and barked: " _Is. My Daughter. Here!?_ "

Steve retreated a tad and said, "Kris went to work."

"Her boss called me a couple hours ago," Fred said, clenching and unclenching his hands. "She never showed for work, Steve. I-I'm hoping...she...Krissy spent the night, right?"

Our pal nodded cuz it made zero sense pretending he wasn't plowing Krissy, least of all to the huge man who'd already done the mathematicals.

"But she left this morning?" Fred asked.

"Yeah."

"What time?"

"I dunno," Steve answered with a shrug. "Maybe...six. I was, like, half asleep."

Fred's peepers crept down the entry hall, up the stairs and then back to Steve's face. "I ain't gonna get mad if she decided to skip work," he said. "Just tell her-"

"I can't tell her anything because she's not here."

"Steve, I called Krissy's girlfriends...nothing; I drove to Clifton Springs...nothing; I went east to Junis and backtracked to Farmington...nothing. It's not like her to skip work and...and I think something happened."

"Like what?"

"I-I need to call the police," Fred said, scratching his chin with a shaky hand.

Our pal thought rousting the Five-O was a tad drastic, but he replied: "Uh...okay. Phone's in the kitchen."

When he saw the quarter full bottle of Covington on the counter, and the phone hanging from the cord, and the bedspread on the living room floor, Old Man Wright's face puckered.

"You know, as I said, she's not here," Steve piped.

Fred grunted and regarded the scene with another glower before pounding digits.

They spent the remainder of the afternoon racing up-and-down SR21 and then the country roads of Ontario and Wayne Counties in Fred's pickup. Glassy-eyed Steve rested his head against the window and willed hisself not to yak. They stopped at gas stations and convenience stores; they hit Moore's in Luxor; Bishops Dairy in Minya; Canesoanke; Toomey's Corner; Bloomfield...

Nothing.

As the nothings multiplied, Old Man Wright devolved into a frenetic mess; he perspired like a glass of water on a hot day; he blubbered and bemoaned.

Churning denial for the first time in his life, Steve attempted to talk Fred Wright off the ledge. _Nothing_ our pal said worked; _nothing_ turned into sealing the mouth; _nothing_ turned into staring out the window; _nothing_ turned into hoping he'd see her car in a ditch.

_Nothing_ returned our fatigued duo to Cairo at little past four in the afternoon.

_Nothing_ brought a couple cruisers to the Ritter homestead at ten past five.

Next came a cursory inspection of the house by Staties; a statement to a couple of poker-faced detectives; peppering questions; inquires to his parent's whereabouts...so forth, ad infinitum, you get the picture. Though Krissy wasn't _technically_ a "missing person", it didn't take a genius to discern the police were heading down that road.

And this kinda scared our pal.

Stan and Gloria Ritter feared the worst when they returned from Saratoga at dusk and found two prowlers and a black Sedan in their driveway. When the sedate LEB investigator explained the situation, Stan _politely_ ended all cooperation with law enforcement and contacted his younger brother.

Ted Ritter, a criminal attorney in Buffalo, advised: "Steve should seek council, _at once_. Bring him here, Stan, and...in fact, bring Gloria, too. We need to be on the same page in case...er...see, these things can get convoluted."

" _These_ _things_?" Stan fussed. "Convoluted? Steve didn't do anything!"

"Don't argue with me. I've been around long enough to know how _these things_ work. Hop in your car and drive to Buffalo. I'm not asking, either."

Call it naivety or stupidity, but Steve didn't appreciate his precarious situation until Uncle Ted sat him down, one-on-one, in his office.

"I spoke to a friend in the OC Law Enforcement Bureau before you arrived," Ted said. "As of an hour ago, the police have no reason to suspect your girlfriend disappeared on her own volition. Unless she appears in the next forty-eight hours, Krissy Wright will be categorized as a missing person. Ten dollars says the LEB will take a hard look at you."

"But-"

"No buts, Steven. I'm not being dramatic when I say your life could change depending on what course of investigation the police choose. Now, I need to hear what you did with her those last hours before she disappeared."

In a molassy voice, Steve recited what he'd told the cops as Ted scribbled notes on a legal pad: how they spent the previous day (without mentioning the s-e-x part); how they had a brief exchange on the morning Krissy went missing; how he dealt with the ringing phone; how he lolled until Fred Wright damn near kicked in the front door.

"Nothing else?" Ted prodded.

Steve lowered his head, massaged his temple, and then moaned, "Nothing."

"All right, I've dealt with enough garbage to ascertain who is and who is not truthful. I believe you, Steve. I do. But the police aren't in the business of believing. They're in the business of arresting. Right now, they don't have anything to go on except _you_."

"I didn't do anything, Ted!"

"Well, in the meantime, I'm advising you to stay here. When it comes to a sit-down, I'll be planted next to you."

Fat lot of good those words meant. _When it comes to a sit down_...what a bunch of nonsense. How could anyone believe he'd hurt Krissy...the woman he _wanted to marry_...Steve's (forgive the hackneyed term) _soulmate_.

Later, at the wretched Best Western nestled in front of a runway at Buffalo-Niagara International, he phoned Tommy:

"It's crazy downtown," the ole pal of our pal said. "All the R-O-C stations are camped on Main with their news trucks. And, um, one reporter said you might be a _person of interest_."

"The fuck!" bellowed Steve.

"Yeh, it's nutty. My old man is ready to breath fire to _them vultures_. I'm fixin' to tie him to the couch."

"What are the townies saying?"

"Eh...look, it doesn't matter. You didn't do anything-"

"I didn't!" Steve cried.

"Right...so...the police will get to the bottom of it."

"What if something happened to her, Tommy? What if... _ugh_...I'm driving myself crazy, man!"

"Hey, hey, you gotta relax, bro. I know, easier said, but nothing happened to her. She's, like, stranded somewhere. You'll see. The cops will find her and...yeah, it'll be fine."

Steve hung up feeling sick to his stomach.

He couldn't sleep; his body _ached_ ; every second what ticked brought a fresh, depressing thought.

He relived the morning she went missing into perpetuity and wondered if he overlooked something.

Anything.

Everything.

But he missed _something, anything, everything_ because our pal was too hungover.

Too hungover.

Too hungover to care.

Too hungover to appreciate Fred Wright's anxiety with anything other than annoyance.

Too hungover to be bouncing around the backroads on a hot July afternoon searching for a needle in a haystack.

Maybe Tommy was right: Krissy took a wrong turn and got stranded somewhere. She'd be found off the beaten path...sure...

_Except,_ how could she get lost? Krissy had done the twelve miles to Denny's a million times.

No explanation for her disappearance made any sense except for the one what did.

_The One_.

Try as he might to banish the blue thought, _The One_ bombarded him with certainty.

And with _The One_ hanging over his head, Steve realized a sit-down with the police would drive him more bonkers than he already be.

Interrogation.

_They're in the business of arresting,_ Ted's spectral voice affirmed _._

Your life could change depending on what course of investigation

"Fuck me," Steve said.

However, before the investigation could reach the sit-down stage, a Statie found Krissy's abandoned car in a field outside Newfield Hamlet. The following day, her credit card got swiped at a service station in Richford; black-and-white surveillance tape captured the image of two Caucasian males purchasing three cases of beer and a carton of Cowboy Killers...

Lickity-split, the police weren't interested in Steve Ritter anymore.

When the two suspects were detained some fifty miles east of Cairo, they had Krissy's property on them (her red purse; the locket Steve gave her for her eighteenth birthday; earrings; clothes) but no Krissy.

Both men were exquisite examples of white trash, paroles in their mid-20s who met in prison during a stretch for their latest, greatest felonies. The rap sheets on John Barrow and Corbin Hoyt were lengthy...but they had never committed "violent" crimes. Thus, when the State of New York needed to make room for potheads, Misters Barrow and Hoyt got the heave-ho; _LLR_ -Low Risk Recidivist- be the stamp on their files.

Upon release from the joint, the two shared a room at a halfway house in Clifton Springs, where they attended counseling for drug and alcohol addiction. It didn't take long for both men to throw in the towel on staying sober. Once that no-so-difficult decision had been made, Barrow and Hoyt decided to embrace their old Gangsta lifestyle.

Hoyt was the brighter of the two (by some thirty odd IQ points) and refused to say anything to the police except: _"Lawyer me up, bitches."_

But Barrow spilled the beans to detectives in Albany County: he and Hoyt were _walking to da Hess_ when they spotted _da pretty dolly_ as she used an ATM at the Western New York National in Clifton Springs...

"Huh-nest, we only wanted to party wit da pretty dolly," Barrow said, raising his right hand. "We nevers meant to get da touchies, but da pretty dolly wouldn't stops shouting. So, you knows, Hoyt hit da pretty dolly's head until da pretty dolly's head got broke. Da pretty dolly is still pretty, though. Do you wants to see da pretty dolly? I'll show you da pretty dolly for a pack of smokes."

Hence, Barrow directed a team of law enforcement officials to a field southwest of Coddington Road outside Ithaca. And there she was, half-consumed by wildlife, _da pretty dolly_ lookin' not so pretty.

Krissy's body was returned to Cairo and interned in Calvery Grounds. Alas, Steve remained in Buffalo with his parents because the media frenzy had yet to subside. Missing her funeral didn't sit well in the tummy; yet when the Ritters returned to home four days later, Steve couldn't drag his pathetic ass to the cemetery. Thinking of Kris _in the ground_...consumed by worms... _rotting_...

His imagination drafted oodles of disgusting illustrations.

Worse, the townies looked at him.

Everywhere Steve went...

Curious looks...

Accusatory looks...

Our morose pal fell into depression.

Curtain drawn, he hunkered in his bedroom.

He drank.

He smoked the pot.

He stopped working out.

Getting tore the fuck up slowed bullshit spinning 'round the melon.

But slowing the bullshit wasn't the same as _stopping_ the bullshit.

Stopping the bullshit necessitated a radical tactic:

When time came to ship to SU in early August, he threw a backpack into his car and told Dad, "My heart's not into it."

"Not into _what_?" Stan asked.

"Not into football. Not into Syracuse. Not into Cairo. I need to clear my head and I can't...I can't clear my head here."

"Steven, you're making a drastic decision. You have a scholarship, son; you made a commitment to the school and Coach-"

"I'm sorry," our boy interrupted as he climbed into his beater. He turned over the engine, rolled down the window and said, "I'll call later."

"But...hold on, Steve. Where're you going?"

"For a drive, Pop."

And there you have it: with zero compunction, Steve left the slack-jawed old man standing in the driveway.

With no place to go, he aimed the green Chevette west and stopped in Buffalo to thank Uncle Ted for his help.

"I understand you're upset," Ted said. "Leaving like this, though...what are your plans?"

"Plans are for the birds, Ted. I'm hitting the road and seeing what's-what. Maybe I'll drive to California. I've always wanted to check out San Fran."

"And then?"

"I'll figure it out."

"Money?"

"I've enough saved to last a while."

"How long is _a while_?"

"I'll make due," Steve said in a resolute voice.

"Oh, kid..." sighed Ted. "There's nothing I can say to change your mind?"

"Naw. I gotta, like, get away, man. Call it running away or destroying my future...I don't care. There's nothing here but bad memories. My mind is settled."

Ted drummed fingers on his desk and mused, _"Your mind is settled."_

"One hundred percent."

"All right, you're an adult. I can't stop you if you're hellbent on leaving. But promise me one thing. Remember your cousin Nick? You boys played together when you were younger."

"Sure, I remember Nick. The last time I saw him was...gosh, I suppose Uncle Fred's funeral."

"Ten years ago?"

"Give or take."

"Hm...I can't believe... _ahem_ , regardless, Nick's an undergrad at the University of Minnesota," Ted said as he reached into his suit pocket and extracted a thick wallet. "I'll talk to your father and reassure him you're not jumping off a bridge; then I'm phoning Nick and telling him you're headed his way. Now, you gotta swear you're going to see him, Steve. I don't want you driving to California and joining a cult." On the back of a business card, Ted jotted ten digits and then said, "Nick's number. Give him a call; I know he'd love to see you."

"Thanks," Steve mumbled.

"Look, son, you're handling a boatload, but you have a lot of years left on this planet. I'm certain you'll find a way through these dark times, okay?"

***

Steve coughed, cleared his mind, and then mashed the go pedal.

The Challenger rocketed down the road in a shower of pebbles.

# 8. A Trip To The City

Our hero looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, rubbed his smooth face for the tenth time and then grunted. Shaving the beard proved a daunting task requiring scissors, two disposable razors and some Kleenex to stem the nicks. But he felt good, clean...not so hostile.

He almost felt normal again.

After flicking off the light, our pal moseyed into kitchen and caught Enos giving him an eyeful.

Stan Ritter doled rigatoni into two large bowls and said, "I haven't been to an Amerks game in ages. Sam Kipp and I used to hit at least ten a...hey, don't you look handsome!"

"You likey?" Steve asked, presenting his head in profile.

"I do. What prompted the shearing?"

"Eh...I guess...boredom or sumptin'."

"Or sumptin'?"

"I looked like shit. Good enough?"

"Good enough, kiddo. Say, how 'bout some dinner before you go? I made enough for both of us."

"Tommy's hankering for Dinosaur before the game. No offense, but your lousy pasta is never gonna trump bar-b-que."

"Enos doesn't seem to mind."

"You feed the dog pasta?"

"Why not?"

"Dogs eat dog food, old man. People food is for people."

"Enos eats his poop on occasion so I say what's the-"

The strident _beep-beep_ of a car horn interrupted the old man.

"My chariot," Steve said, making like a banana.

"Have a good time," Stan called after him.

Our pal bounded outside and jogged to Tommy's black Escalade idling in the driveway. He threw open the door, climbed in and asked, "Do you reckon pasta would give a dog mad shits? Or am I being-"

"Yo," Tommy interrupted. "Let's watch the language, bro."

Bemused, Steve cranked his head to the left and said, "Since when do you care if..."

Then he saw the two women in the backseat and shut his mouth.

"We have ladies present," Tommy said as he put the vehicle into drive. "On your right is Lydia, the special gal I've been seeing for the last few months. The other pretty one is Natalie Gage. Say hello, Steve."

He caught a dim glimpse of the passengers out of his periphery (both brunettes, as far as Steve could determine), and then bored holes into the side of Tommy's head.

Side-eyeing his ole pal, Tommy explained: "I had two extra tickets and thought they'd wanna tag along. Waste not, amirite?"

_Boy's night out_ , Steve's mind gnashed. Gosh darn it, did he feel like a fool! A fool lured into a blind fucking date!

"Steve just moved back after living out-of-state," Tommy said. "Eh...matter of fact, my old pal dabbled in radio, Natalie. Who'd you work for, bro?"

"A dump in Minneapolis," said our hero with zero modulation.

"Oh? What'd you do?" Natalie asked.

In the same wooden voice our pal answered, "I was a broadcaster."

"Wow!" Natalie chirped.

_Manufactured ditzy or genuine moron?_ Steve asked hisself before rubbing his forehead.

Tommy said: "You think that's something? This fella played in the NFL for...how long?"

"You played _professional_ football!?" Natalie squawked.

"It's not a big deal," Steve pooh-poohed.

"Not everybody can play a _professional_ sport," herself responded.

Tongue in cheek, Steve replied: "People make sports into more than what it is. I, you know...after playing and doing radio for years, I had enough of the inanity. And it is inanity. Top to bottom, east to west, north to-"

"Natalie works for WFFR," Tommy interrupted. "Used to be WWIP back in the day."

"Yeh, yeh, I remember The Whip," Steve grumbled. "Their old afternoon guy...the moron...what's his name...DaVinci? DeVito?"

"Benny Vinci," Tommy cackled. "He's still kickin', bro. Same slot. Same loudmouth. I thought when The Whip went from Clear Channel to iHeart, Vinci would get shown the door. I guess he has a loyal following. Go figure."

"Benny is a _Big_ name," Natalie said. "Advertisers pay _a lot_ for time during his slot. And I work in marketing at FFR, so I'm not pulling your leg."

"My point to a _t_ ," Steve declared. " _Inanity_."

***

They made small talk for the remainder of the drive, which allowed Steve to form several opinions about Natalie:

She was neither ditzy nor a moron;

Though she worked at a sports radio station, she didn't follow sports ( _Too boring,_ announced herself);

The name _Steve Ritter_ elicited no discernable wince, eyeroll, or squinty scrutiny;

He kinda sorta liked her chirpy voice;

And he kinda sorta enjoyed talking to her.

Kinda sorta.

Not a ringing endorsement but...

But not a terrible endorsement, either.

They had a further opportunity to converse while waiting for a table at Dinosaur:

"Thirty minutes," Tommy said after he returned from dais. "Not bad for an Amerks night. Shall we weasel a spot at the bar until then?"

"Um..." Steve hacked, "you know, Tommy, I don't feel like standing asses to elbows at the moment."

"Ladies?"

Lydia grabbed Tommy's arm and purred, "Lead the way, handsome."

After a few seconds of deliberation, Natalie joined the couple inside, leaving Steve to his lonesome; he took a seat at a picnic table and watched a dozen Harley's rumble into an adjacent parking lot.

And though he couldn't help it, he began crunching Natalie's _kinda sorta mathematicals_ again.

He was working the equation ten minutes later when Natalie returned and set two Bud heavies in front of him. "If it makes you feel any better, this wasn't my idea," she said.

Steve eyed the bottles and asked, "What idea?"

"I didn't know this was gonna be a blind date."

"Heh. Tommy's full of surprises."

"You've known him since high school?"

"Longer. We go back to first grade."

"I've known Lydia since grade school too.

"Then I suppose this is both their idea."

"Collective scheming," herself said, tapping her temple.

He ripped an eyeful of herself in the glow of fake tiki torches: dark shoulder length hair, perky blue eyes, a pointy chin, and little nose. _Cute_ be the apt describer. _Cute_ and _not ditzy_ and _not a moron_ and-

"Sorry if this is out of left field," she said. "But since you played in the NFL, I have to ask: do you ever talked to Tom Brady?"

"I hate to be the bearer, but Tom's taken."

"I'm not asking because I want to marry him."

"Shoot, even I wanna marry Tom."

"Be serious," she giggled.

"All right, I'll be serious. Yes, I've talked to the man on several occasions."

"For real?"

"I spent two seasons in New England...er...on Tom Brady's club."

"No way!"

"Way."

"Any chance you could ask him if he'd consider giving an interview with one of our broadcasters?"

Steve raised an eyebrow and asked, "Cuz you think I have Tom on speed dial?"

"I just...like, maybe...or am I being pushy?"

"Lookit, I haven't spoken to Tom in a long time."

"How long?"

"Mmm...about eleven years, I guess. I broke my collarbone in '03, ended up on IR and got released by the Patriots in the offseason. The way it was handled by the bean counters pissed me off, pardon my language. In any case, my relationship with Tom Brady ended the day I got my kick in the pants."

"Oh...so is that why you stopped playing?"

"No, I managed to squeak two more years out of my tin body. But I hit the expiration date in '05. The dreaded trifecta claimed me: o _ld, slow and broken_. Whadda gonna do, huh? I had a good run. Even got a Super Bowl ring for thirty-eight."

"You played in the Super Bowl?"

"No, I was on IR for-"

"Right, your collarbone."

"Correct. I broke it against the Cowboys in week eleven, missed the rest of the season...including the Super Bowl...but I got the ring."

"And then you started doing radio?"

"The radio gig popped up in 2009. Out of the blue, I got a call from the...uh...it's a long story. And it wasn't a big deal. Color commentary for the University of Minnesota is one rung away from mopping a john."

"You moved here from Minnesota?"

"Um...actually...Phoenix."

"You lived in Phoenix?"

"Uh-huh."

"But you did radio in Minnesota?"

"WCCO only needed me fourteen weekends a year, so I'd fly north on Thursday and head south on Sunday."

"Gosh, sounds like no fun to me. I travel a lot for my job and I _hate_ travelling. I couldn't imagine fourteen weekends in a row."

"Yeh, it got tiresome. The same ole..." Steve peeped the Bud and then added: "Time came to git along."

"I get it, but I have to say, _gittin' along_ to western New York from Phoenix isn't something I'd entertain."

_How much do you want to spew to this_ _very_ _beautiful woman?_ his brain asked.

Before hisself could answer the question, Tommy flung an arm around Steve's shoulders and said: "Hey, ladies and germs. Table's ready. Follow me..."

# 9. NMCC

The waitress knew how to work a pregame table...

Three succinct visits: their order, a refill, and the cuisine...easy peasy.

Now we spy our four pals from the bird's eye: hunkered over plates, paper bibs hanging from necklines, bar-b-que sauce on fingers and faces; the sounds of slurping and gnashing and gnawing of little bones.

Tommy talked nonstop damn near the entire time; even when he was filling his piehole with baby back ribs, words came flying from his mouth:

"Steve had ( _gnaw, gnaw_ ) the greatest hands ( _gnaw, gnaw, gnaw_ ). Or still has ( _gnaw_ ), amirite ( _gnaw_ )?"

"Where'd you go to college?" Lydia asked

"Oh, this is a great story!" Tommy exclaimed. "You gotta ( _gnaw, gnaw_ ) tell it, bro."

"Uh-uh," Steve said. "I'm not in the mood to tell stories."

"No, I want to hear," Natalie protested. "Please? Pretty please?"

And cuz she asked nice...

Steve cleaned his paws with the napkin. He contemplated his arrival in Minneapolis...

***

From Buffalo, our itinerant pal drove his POS, a/c lacking Chevette six hours before calling it a night outside Toledo. The room at the Motel 6 smelled of elephant poopie; the television spat a single fuzzy channel; the people across the hall made raucous s-e-x.

Sitting on the stiff bed, listening to s-e-x, watching...something...on the idiot box, Steve phoned his parents and attempted conversation with his mother.

But Gloria Ritter _was naught_ in the mood to converse.

"Steven, you need to turn around _right now_ and come home," she demanded.

"Mom-"

"Don't _mom_ me, young man! This is ridiculous! What has gotten into you? You're throwing your _whole_ life away!'

"Mom-"

"Ohhhh my Gawd," Gloria Ritter moaned. "I can't believe I raised such an irresponsible child!"

"Mom, listen, I'm gonna phone Nick and see-"

"Nick?"

"Cousin Nick."

"What about Nicholas?"

"He lives in Minneapolis and Uncle-"

"Minneapolis?"

"Yes, Minneapolis. Nick goes to college there. Uncle Ted told me to call Nick and...you know...we'll work something out."

"Do you think you're going to show up and...and... _what_? Sleep on his floor like a hobo?"

"If he lets me."

"Then what?"

"I'll find a job and, like, figure it out."

" _Figure what out?!_ "

Steve sighed and then barked, "Just stop nagging, kay? You're giving me a headache!"

There was some grating braying before his father took the phone and said: "I can't say I approve, but I spoke to Ted and...and he helped me put what you're feeling into perspective. So...go and get it out of you, whatever it is. And if you need anything, pick up the phone. Your mother will come around. She's just a little heartbroken right now."

"I'm sorry, Dad, but I'm-"

"Don't apologize, kiddo. You're an adult, which means you're responsible for the choices in your life. Just be smart and stay safe. And make sure you call tomorrow, and the next day, and so forth, all right?"

"I will."

"I'm holding you to it, Steve."

After disconnecting with Dad, Steve dialed the number on the back of Ted's business card.

Five...

Ten...

Twelve rings later:

"Yel-lo," a voice belched.

"Uh...I'm looking for Nick," Steve said.

"Who?"

"Nick Ritter."

"Mm...hold on. He might be jerking it right now."

Next came rustling, some laughter, and then a throaty:

"Who dat? Dis Bunny?"

"Nick Ritter?" asked Steve.

"Wassssuppp. Who's dis?"

"It's Steve."

"Steve?"

"Yeah, your cousin-"

"Oh, _Stevie!_ " Nick hailed. "Yo, yo, I'm a little, you know, fucked up right now, homes. But I remems...sumptin...oh...yeh, my dad said you'd call. What's the _what-what_?"

"The what?"

"The _situ_. The _waychin_. Add 'em together, bruh. What you get?"

"The...um...the situation?"

"Dat right, dude. What's your _what-what_?"

"Right...okay...so, I'm heading your way and...like, I know it's last minute, Nick, but is there any chance I could crash with you for a day or two?"

"Yeah, cuz! It'd be great to see you! And you can stay as long as you want. My roommates won't care. 'Course, all I got for you to sleep on is a dirty couch but if you don't mind dat and the occasional party, then come on down!"

Steve _came on down_ ; he _came on down_ to 14th Street and made himself at home. Nick's place be prime real estate: smack in a meat market adorned with cheap bars...otherwise known as _Dinkytown_.

He spent the next twenty-four months shacked up with Nick and his roommates.

He found a job stocking shelves in a grocery store.

He was poor as shit and ate a metric ton of Cap'n Crunch.

He embraced the doctrine of _Naught Giving AF_.

He drank a lot of beer ( _do you normally drink like this,_ a few somebodies asked him a few different times...but whatevs).

He banged a lot of girls ( _you're a fucking pig_ , a few herself's told hisself a few different times...but whatevs).

He smoked a lot of weed (but _whatevs_ ).

He listened to Nas and Leonard Cohen and The Doors (Their cumulative message _: Life's a bitch and then you die_ ).

He played hours of Super Mario Kart on the Super Nintendo (always as Bowser or D.K cuz the rest of them characters sucked ass).

He called his parents every night ('cept Mom kept conversation stilted and short).

And he kinda sorta forgot about Krissy whilst overserved and over stoned and oversexed and all the rest.

Which was good, _real good_ , cuz why would he wanna think about her?

He didn't.

He endeavored to _Naught Give AF_.

But Steve wasn't naive to believe the good times would last forever.

Which meant he still kinda sorta gave a fuck.

Which kinda sorta sucked elephant ass...

As 1994 chugged pell-mell into spring, Steve began to work the _figure it out_ mathematicals. One day at work, baked as all get out, he stared slack-jawed at his coworkers and pictured hisself shuffling around the same supermarket at age sixty. Yes...at some point, Nick would graduate and am-scray...

And here our veteran stocker be for time eternal: stocking shelves like a shelf stocking champeen...

He'd live the same shelf stocking day into perpetuity...

Stocking shelves until he dropped dead...

Which, when you're baked as all get out, be a sucky thought.

Steve _figured out_ he'd better _figure it out_...

Maybe college...

Or, at least, a better job.

Getting high at work and then coming home and sucking the pipe...

What became of his _Big Plans_?

He imagined his mother shaking a finger in his face...

" _You figured it out, didn't you?"_ she'd snarl.

Bah! It drove him crazy...

***

...and skipped this part of the story.

Instead, our pal cleared his throat and then spun a yarn what began on a beautiful Saturday afternoon in mid-May...

***

...when Nick, Steve and two other roommates ambled to Holmes Park with a basketball and a desire to sweat out the booze consumed the night before. The hungover foursome played a sloppy game of two-on-two until four black guys approached and asked the wheezing quartet if they wanted to _run full court_.

"Guys, this ain't a square matchup," Steve laughed. "My comrades are pre-med and we're all Jewish."

The tallest of the brothers bounced the ball and scrutinized the pale faces before saying: "All right, big guy. We'll even the sides. But I wanna D you up, _chump_."

With those ominous words, teams were picked...

Our "chump" had no intention of breaking much of a sweat, but the large brother who wanted to _D_ him up musta got a pebble in his shoe. Before the ball was checked into play, Steve received a shove in the back and a raspy warning:

"You ain't shit, _chump_. I'm gonna eat you up."

Spurned by bony elbows, feet stomping and an excessive potty mouth, our chump summoned his innate athleticism and put on a clinic in the post; he snagged _every_ board and rained down Kareem-like Sky Hooks as if he'd been blessed by the basketball gods.

And with every made field goal, he stared at the latest, greatest version of Tim Franklin and whispered, "You suck, bro," through a giant grin.

Midway through the game, a suit-and-tie fella what wore a white fedora stopped at the baseline and watched the action. Steve made note of him only in passing; destroying his shit talking foe took priority, dig?

With the score tied at sixteen, the protracted game of twenty-one came to an abrupt end after one of the roommates took a dusky forearm to his large beak. Frustrated the festivities couldn't be seen to its logical conclusion (our chump pictured hisself sticking the dagger by unloading a Tom Chambers-esque two-handed stuff), Steve found shade under an elm tree. Here he'd lie for time eternal if Jehovah would be so kind: stretched out on the grass, peepers sealed, hands laced behind his head...

Approaching footsteps snapped a branch.

Then a second.

And a third...

Steve blinked open his eyes. He wouldn't have been shocked to find his basketball chum itching to finish the action...

But it be the peepin' fella -hat in hands- at our pal's feet.

"You're a pretty good athlete, kid," the man hailed in a gruff voice.

"Um...thanks," Steve answered as his mind worked mathematicals. One thing the area surrounding the university did naught lack? _Crazy people_ and slash or _perverts._ There be plenty of _crazies_ and slash or _perverts_ , mama. And guess what? A nattily dressed old man peeping shirtless guys on a hot Saturday afternoon...welp, Steve crunched them mathematicals quick-like.

"You go to the U?" the fella asked.

Steve took to his feet and drawled, "Geeeee, man, I'd love to talk, but my friends are 'bout to head out so...I'm headin' out too."

The fella frowned, sized our ole chump up and then pronounced: "You're wasting your talents in Holmes Park playing four-on-four."

"Talents?" hooted Steve. "And what might those be?"

"Your athletic talents."

"Hm...if you say so."

"I say so, and I believe you know as much. Now, if you need to leave, by all means. But if you give me five minutes-"

"You're barking up the wrong tree," Steve interrupted. "I ain't light in the loafers."

"Jesus and Mary, I don't care what floats your boat. I just wanted to know if you're enrolled in school. If so, no problem, you'll never see me again. If not, I thought we could speak about your future."

Our chump cocked his head and said, "Assuming I have any."

"I've already made my assumption."

"Right. I'm wasting my _talents_."

"In my expert opinion."

"What makes you an expert?"

"Kid, my name is-"

***

"-Henry Herman," Steve said. "After the initial...call it a _misconception_...Mister Herman explained he was the head football coach at Northwest Minneapolis Community College. The school put together a sports program two years prior but didn't have enough kids to field a football team. As a result, Mister Herman trolled parks and playgrounds in search of talented timewasters like me."

"Talk about good luck!" Tommy cackled. "My bro's tryout amounted to a pick-up basketball game!"

"Right place, right time," Steve said.

"It's not luck," Natalie declared. "It's fate."

Tommy blew a raspberry and then chased it with a swig of beer.

"I'm serious!" Natalie squealed.

Prescribing fate to the nonsense didn't sit pat in our pal's tummy given _why_ he fled Cairo...

"You have to admit-" Lydia began, but Steve cut her off with a terse:

"Whatever the case, I listened to Henry Herman, god rest his soul-"

"Oh, he's dead?" Natalie asked.

"He passed fifteen years ago. I hate funerals but..." Steve glanced at Tommy and then continued: "But I was one of the pallbearers. Coach Herman...he...he meant a lot to me. You know, sometimes a little kick is what you need, and I needed one. Anyway, I enrolled at Northwest Minny...well, Coach Herman enrolled me; he enrolled me in a bunch of baloney classes is what he did, but that's another story. I started working with the quarterbacks over the summer; come fall, I was the number two receiver on a lousy team..."

***

The NMCC Commodores weren't _just_ lousy, the Commodores were _very_ lousy: they lost their first three games of the 1994 season by a combined score of 134-44. Part of the problem stemmed from a lack of bodies: NMCC dressed twenty-two _scholarship athletes_ , which meant most of the players lined up on both sides of the ball. But fatigue wasn't the weight around the ankles; getting one's ass kicked _every_ play had a profound effect on the psyche. Steve reckoned most of the guys would've quit the team ifin the college wasn't footing the bill for a portion of their two-year education.

Flouting any semblance of a running game, Coach Herman drafted a pedestrian passing attack around our pal and Dookie Simmons (the fool fancied hisself the Second Coming of Harold Carmichael, but Dookie dropped more footballs than he caught). On occasion, the quarterback (a twenty-four-year-old accounting major from Maple Grove named Sean Killian) stood tall and delivered a nice ball. Most of the time, though, Mister QB got creamed when he dropped back to pass...and if he wasn't getting creamed, Sean Killian _perceived_ an imminent mashing. The actual factual? Negative acuity hurried most of his passes out of bounds or onto the ground.

Frustrated by the ineptitude, Steve took Killian aside before their fourth game and said: "I understand _why_ you're trigger happy, but if we wanna give ourselves a realistic chance of winning, we - _you and I_ \- gotta play catch. Coach is too nice to say this, but Dookie sucks. Quit throwing the ball _at_ him. Get it to me and get it out quick. Three steps and throw, kay? It's on me if my head ain't around."

The little pep talked paid off: against Hennepin County CC, the Commodores opened the scoring -and took their first lead of the season- on an 80-yard td pass...which was 75 yards longer than the actual toss. Our hero snagged a shoelace bullet with his left hand, shoved the cornerback _into_ the turf with the other paw, and beat feet into the endzone.

Steve's next touchdown went 72 yards off a ball deflected by a linebacker; numero three be the product of a quick slant, three missed tackles and a 60-yard dash. When the gun sounded, our golden boy had amassed an incredible 310 yards receiving on 8 catches as the Commodores tasted victory for only the third time in the not-so-storied program's history. The _Star Tribune_ even posted a single sentence blurb in the back of the sports section underneath the _Mark Trail_ comic strip: _Utilizing the arm of quarterback Sean Killian, Northwest Minneapolis_ _snapped a twelve-game losing streak with a 21-16 victory over Hennepin Community._

The win and diminutive media coverage stimulated a renaissance within Sean Killian: finding his pocket presence again, the quarterback delivered thirteen frozen ropes to our hero in the following week's 42-8 victory over Mound. Steve's 330 yards and 5 touchdowns broke a longstanding single game NJCAA Region 13 Division III record; Killian also etched his name into the funny pages: his 410 passing yards trumped the previous high by half a football field.

Though the Commodores lost the final four games of the season, the Killian-to-Ritter connection fired on all cylinders. During the six-game stretch, Steve amassed 1,100 yards and 12 td's; he was named to the National Junior College Athletic Association All Division First Team (useful as a third tit) and invited to participate in the NJCAA All-Star Game held in Birmingham. But when summer came around, junior college be a bitty dot in Steve Ritter's rearview.

Like it or stuff it, he was tearing ass to _Big Deal City_...

'Round the last week of the season, a couple suit and tie fellas showed up to practice and chatted with Coach Herman on the sideline.

"I bet those guys are scouts," Killian whispered to his bestest receiver.

Our pal studied the two men and then asked, "You think?"

Killian tossed the football to Steve and mused, "I wonder if they're scouting me."

Steve bit his tongue; provided the fellas were scouts, no such creature schlepped to cruddy NMCC to check out Sean Killian. Being the case, quick mathematicals produced an interesting solution...

After practice, Coach Hermann shepherded our hero into his office and introduced the two strangers:

"Steve, this is Mike Locke and Carl Greene. Way back when, the three of us played ball together. Today, they're both assistants at the U of M. I've been talking you up so much, they had to see what the fuss is about."

"We watched game film this afternoon," Locke said. "Carl and I are impressed. Where'd you play high school ball?"

"Cairo, New York," Steve answered. "Little berg east of Rochester."

"Were you recruited?"

"I had, um, some interest, but things came up and I put football on the backburner."

Greene cleared his throat and got straight to the point: "We want you to play for us. We want to make you a Golden Gopher."

***

"A Gopher?" Natalie laughed.

"A _Golden_ Gopher," Steve corrected. "Now, I coulda done another season at NMCC, played lights out again and, perhaps, had a better school come gunning for me. But when those guys extended their hands I thought, _why waste another year_? The following fall, I was a member of the University of Minnesota football team."

"Neato," Natalie said.

Steve shrugged but couldn't resist a cracking a smile. He hadn't thought about the story in a long time. And yea, it was kinda sorta _neato_.

Tommy winked at Steve and then said, "With those words, we need to skedaddle. Puck drops in twenty."

# 10. Amerks Game

From Dinosaur, Blue Cross Arena was a short walk along Court Street. Tommy slung his arm around Steve's shoulder and slowed their pace, letting the women scoot ahead.

"Havin' a good time?" the ole pal of our pal whispered.

"I ought to punch you," Steve snarled.

"Jeez, what crawled up your ass?"

"You tricked me, motherfucker."

"Tricked you?"

" _Boy's night out_?"

"Convince me you're not having a good time."

"The blind date is a little much."

"It's all tangential."

"The fuck you talkin' about?"

"I'm talking about Natalie. What do you think of her?"

Steve zeroed on the rear of herself for a handful of Mississippi's and then said, "She _seems_ normal. What's her story?"

"I don't know the nitty-gritty, but Lydia said she split from some bozo a few months ago."

"He's gotta have rocks in his head. Natalie's a knockout. Then again...hm..."

"Then again _what_?"

"Maybe she's nutty."

"C'mon, man. Do you think I'd steer you to a nutty chick?"

"Uhm...I _suppose_ not."

"You suppose?"

"I mean, like, you never know, right?"

Tommy blew a raspberry.

_Yeah, pfft,_ chimed the devil on Steve's shoulder named Mister Pleasure. _Natalie's a knockout, pal._ _A knockout on the_ _rebound_ _. Who cares if she's nutty?_

Our hero pulled plenty of nutty knockouts in his carefree days.

Boy, did he.

He also banged a few not-so-knockouts cuz why the fuck not? Most of them were nutty too.

See, Steve Ritter had no problemo getting the nutty ladies to drop their bloomers.

Or grab his ding-dong in an Ann Arbor Sheraton.

_Point being_ , the devil on his shoulder named Mister Guilt lectured, _nutty ladies got you into hot water._

Ergo, he should steer clear of the nutjobs, even those what were knockouts.

Mister Pleasure scolded: _Quit crunching mathematicals!_

_Humph._ Easier said.

"I can't believe she's never heard of me," Steve said, more to Mister Pleasure than his ole pal.

"Yeh, go figure," Tommy snorted. "Maybe you shouldn't be such a basket case after all."

"Sure...except what happens when she learns Steve Ritter is a drunken lout?"

Tommy mussed Steve's hair and said, "Dude, you're inventing a million reasons to sabotage a pleasant evening. Quit worrying and go with the flow."

So, he hunkered next to Natalie in the little plastic seat determined to _go with the flow_. And wouldn't you know? Going with the flow wasn't difficult if the flow involved sports-related b and s:

For the first two periods, she peppered with inane, hockey-related questions. By no means and expert, our pal knew enough to explain the basics including icing, offsides, the penalty box and power plays. At one point, he cracked an insipid joke comparing a beaten team to scrambled eggs; she giggled and laid a hand on his knee.

Yes, things be a flowing...

During the second intermission, Natalie received a phone call and spent a few minutes whispering into the doodad. Herself's side of the conversation amounted to monosyllabic words and the occasional scoff; meantime, Steve leaned on his knees and counted the Zamboni's sluggish circuits.

At last, she dropped the phone in her purse and sighed.

He side-eyed her.

She tucked hair behind both ears...

Then herself sighed again, pursed lips, and stared at the Zamboni.

The dreaded _uncomfortable silence_ settled upon them.

You know the type. It be the kind of _US_ what makes a person fidgety while their noodle searches for an innocuous subject to shatter the lull.

Steve watched the Zamboni travel the length of the ice, take a wide turn at the end, and proceed in the opposite direction.

" _Ahem_ ," he coughed. "So, um, the truck there? It's called a Zamboni."

"I actually know that," said she in a disinterested voice.

"Uh...right. Of course. Who doesn't, heh?"

Lickety-split, another wave of the dreaded _US_ washed over them.

She checked the silver Aurora on her left wrist.

Steve picked at a string hanging from his sleeve.

The Zamboni rolled into its pen.

Both teams took the ice.

Over the thudding of sticks whacking pucks and the swoosh of ice skates, she turned to him and said: "I'm not one to slut around, but I need to get screwed in the worst way."

It took a few seconds for him to process her statement, and then another few seconds to whisper, "Are you serious?"

"In. The. _Worst._ Way," herself annunciated all matter of fact like.

He yanked the string out, dropped it between his shoes and chuckled.

"What's funny?" she asked.

"I, um, I...I wasn't expecting...you know..."

She patted his knee and said, "Take it or leave it, Steve."

The foghorn blared, signaling the start of the third period...

***

"She wants me to spend the night," Steve confided to Tommy as they walked to the parking lot.

"Daaaammmmnnn," the ole pal brayed. "For real?"

"For real."

"What'd you say to her?"

"Nothing, man. She wants to get laid _in the worst way_. Her exact words."

"Well?"

Our soon to be horizontal pal studied the soon to be horizontal woman striding a couple steps in front of him. They didn't speak during the third period, but Natalie rubbed his knee...and then stroked his inner thigh...

He felt _it_ come to life and tried to will _it_ to settle down.

But _it_ wouldn't listen.

If you can't guess, the game didn't hold a candle to his uninhibited imagination.

Tommy elbowed him in the ribs and repeated: "Well?"

" _Well,_ it seems like a no-brainer."

"Sure does."

Natalie peeked over her shoulder and smiled.

_She's a nut,_ Mister Guilt cheeped.

_Shaddup you_ , snapped Mister Pleasure.

"Yep," Steve droned. "A definite no-brainer."

***

Her house was a small, two-story prefab jobber located in a quaint Pittsford neighborhood.

Not like it mattered.

Nor did it matter a dozen stacked cardboard crowded the entryway.

And it didn't matter the boxes were labeled: _Don's Shirts_ and _Don's Shoes_ and _Don's Videogames_ and _Don's_...whatevers.

She tossed her coat on the floor and remarked, "Excuse the mess. It's a work in progress."

"It doesn't matter," he answered, dropping his coat next to hers.

"No, it doesn't," said she, seizing his left hand. "Come on. The bedroom's upstairs..."

# 11. New Year's 2015

Though Natalie gave him both her number and a protracted, zesty kiss (complete with one of her hands cupped to the back of his neck and the other stroking his left cheek), when she dropped him off the following morning, Steve decided he'd add her notch to the lengthy mess of notches on his bedpost.

No fuss, no muss.

The old man shot him a questioning glance over the fringe of the _D &C_ as Stevie strutted into the kitchen at a quarter part ten, but our pal had chambered a surefire explanation for his tardiness:

"I spent the night at Tommy's. We got back late, and I didn't want to wake you or the dog."

"Aren't you thoughtful?"

Indeed. _Very_ thoughtful.

Banging the Bejesus out of Natalie turned into an exercise of thoughtfulness.

She wanted him to do this _and_ that _and_ the other.

Aaannnnd a couple other things what will not be discussed.

He prolly coulda balled her all night.

But when Natalie compelled the grand finale, he filled the rubber because Steve Ritter be one thoughtful cat.

Afterwards, awash in sublime afterglow, she whispered, "Oh my God, I'm numb."

How many times had he heard contented, breathy declarations?

_I'm blah; I'm blah blah; I'm soooo_...

Blah, blah, blah.

Staring down at Natalie, heart beating like a war drum in his head, Mister Guilt pushed Mister Pleasure aside.

The counsellor at Open Arms warned him to avoid this _exact_ nonsense.

This _exact_ nonsense opened the door to other impetuous nonsense.

_What am I doing?_ Steve thought.

He wanted to untangle; he wanted to run.

Instead, he mustered a grin and said, "Me too."

Cuz Steve Ritter was thoughtful.

"-the game last night," said Stan, rustling the paper.

Steve kicked the memory from his head and cleared his throat. "The game?" he asked. "What about it?"

"I said, it sounded like a good game last night. The paper says the Amerks scored three goals in the last four minutes."

"Oh, yeah...exciting stuff."

Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, our pal removed the little slip in his pocket printed with Natalie's digits.

"No fuss, no muss," he said, ripping the paper in half.

Into the trashcan Natalie Pine went.

***

The cyclonic surge of holiday cheer b and s washed over the Ritter household like a diminutive swell. On Christmas Eve, in the glow of the idiot box, father and son exchanged a couple unwrapped gifts as Enos chewed on a bone. Afterwards, they watched a college football bowl game until Stan fell asleep in his recliner.

It was a depressing Christmas.

So depressing, he drove to Canesoanke and attended an A.A. meeting _on Christmas_.

The following days meandered with molassy dreariness. An old, familiar chum named _boredom_ crept into his bones.

There was plenty to do around the house: arrange the basement; clean the garage; haul junk to the dump; fix sinks; unclog drains, oil doors.

You know, all the chores Steve _intended_ to tackle when he arrived.

He could've fired up the treadmill or read a book or driven to the Wrights and babbled contrite drivel.

You know, all the chores...eh, you get the picture.

Instead, our pal sat on his rump, ate M&M's by the bagful and watched football.

The monotony was cracked -somewhat- when his attorney phoned on 30 December.

"The arbitration date's been set for Friday, April tenth, at ten in the morning," Missus Maxwell informed.

Steve snorted and then said, "Wonderful."

"It's the earliest a mediator is available. Now, if you don't want to travel to Phoenix, it's not an issue. I can either negotiate on your behalf or a conference call can be arranged."

He peeked outside, studied the snow-covered landscape, and then muttered, "I'll come."

"The good news: this shouldn't be a prolonged event. Your ex-wife is willing to settle for three years of alimony instead of her original demand of six and a half."

"At what percent?"

"Ten. And she's no longer demanding the house."

"Yeah? What's the catch?"

"Susan is asking for an even equity arrangement."

"Am I supposed to feel better?"

"As a matter of fact, _yes_. You could owe six years alimony _and_ be out a house."

"Uh-huh, except _I_ bought the house! Hell, _I_ bought everything in the house!"

"The mediator will sort out assets and liabilities, Steve. Of course, you have the option to contest. I can file paperwork today if-"

"I've already spent enough on lawyers," he snapped.

"Then I'll begin valuation of the estate. Expect to receive a list by the end of January. If you want to dispute the..."

While Missus Maxwell droned on, our pal fell into Dad's Laz-E-Boy and massaged his forehead.

Susan's vehicle? Purchased by _him_.

The house? Purchased by _him_.

Their belongings? Purchased by _him_.

Her shrewish attorney?

You get the picture.

_Mizz_ Rector -Susan's lawyer- had the gall to argue Steve _prevented_ his wife from making _a career for herself_ , which be the most absurd thing in an emasculating, insulting process.

Like he held her hostage. _Bah._

Like he prevented her from spending _his_ money. _Bah._

Like five percent of his taxable income wasn't enough recompense. _Bah._

No, Susan wanted _ten percent_.

_Ten percent_ per year.

_Thirty percent_ total.

Bah!

The little honeypot he made while playing and then announcing (plus sundry investments) left him with a net worth of six point five million and change.

Thirty percent of six point five...

About _two_ _million_.

About six and a half _hundred thousand_ a year.

About _fifty-four thousand_ a month.

What. The. Fuck.

For every year of their eleven-year marriage, Susan made _one hundred seventy thousand_ dollars and change.

And she made it by marrying him.

When Steve was a rookie on the Vikings, a dreadlocked defensive back (what looked like Predator, by the way) warned the greenhorns about a nasty parasite known as a _Gold-digger_ :

"There are gonna be fine ass bitches comin' for you," Predator lectured, waggling a finger as he preached the _Gold-digger_ Gospel. "These fine bitches don't care what you look like. Sheeeet, I'm ugly as fuck and I gots fine ass bitches trying to sit on my cock everywheres I go. You know why? These fine ass bitches want you to put a baby in them. You put a baby in one of them fine ass bitches, you be payin' these fine ass bitches _for life_."

This information (and other stories about players what squandered their moola on hedonistic pursuits) made an impression on our tenderfoot. The league minimum in '98 (Steve's first season) was 350,000 dollars; less twenty grand sent to his parents, he touched little of the dosh. So frugal was hisself, he split a two-bedroom apartment with a teammate and continued driving the POS Chevette well beyond its ED.

When he signed as a free agent with the Patriots in 2001, Steve inked a two-year deal (with a one-year option) for two point eight million dollars plus incentives. He felt like a _Big Deal_ and played like one. 2002...69 receptions, 909 yards, 5 touchdowns. Our pal became a vital cog in New England's offense; he invested in a teammate's chain of sports bar; he signed autographs; he relished the limelight; he banged half of Boston...

And then he met _her_.

Lithe, blond, sorta stoopid, big ta-ta's...

In a perfect world, Susan would've been a one-nighter.

No fuss, no muss.

But the world ain't perfect; for all the wrong reasons, Steve got twisted around her.

So twisted, he flouted sound advice from _damn near everyone_ to sign a prenuptial agreement.

Bah...

"...in better shape than what you thought," his Missus Maxwell finished.

Our pal kicked the squeaky footrest up and then said, "Whatever. I wanna be done with this nonsense."

"I'll let Miss Rector know."

After grunting a terse goodbye, he jabbed the disconnect button and then threw the phone aside.

Enos, asleep on the patchwork in front of the hearth (tho, _pretending_ to nap be a better description; Steve knew the dog was peeping through those half-closed eyes), came to with a grouchy yip.

"Calm down," he scolded. "It doesn't concern you. Go back to your fake sleeping."

And then, for no good reason, Natalie's face popped into his head.

"You can calm down, too," our pal told his noodle. "She's old news."

***

New Year's came and went, although the old man failed to make it past ten thirty; he sawed logs as the ball dropped and Ryan Seacrest welcomed one-and-all to 2015. The camera panned the throng in Times Square; Sinatra sang "New York, New York"; Steve toasted the idiot box with a lackluster, "Good riddance, aught fourteen. Here's to the future."

And wouldn't you know? No sooner had the words left his lips, Natalie made another mental cameo.

He shook his head and hissed, "Enough, you. Old news, like I said."

On the first frigid day of 2015, father and son watched the Gophers lose to Missouri in the Citrus Bowl. If Orlando's cerulean skies, sunshine and balmy sixty-two degrees wasn't enough to sour our pal's disposition, Steve's stoopid brain felt the desire to rub salt into the wound:

_If yew woulda kept it together, yew'd be sittin' next to Jack King in the press box. Sittin' next to him with a little something-something cuz yew and the Kingster got_ _tore the fuck up the_ _night before. And I ain't talkin' 'bout no Des Moines or Lincoln_ _tore the fuck up_ _caper. I'm talkin' 'bout getting_ _tore the fuck up_ _in Orlando! But here yew are, naught_ _tore the fuck up_ _. Dude, don't it suck elephant ass?_

Banishing the nagging proved impossible. Steve tried; he stared daggers at the television and dissected every play. Then something Twilight Zone-ish happened: instead of football, the fifty-inch Sony broadcast a flashback to our pal's last morning as a gainfully employed color commentator.

There he lolled, on his hotel bed, listening to the phone ring.

Our pal didn't know the firestorm he was about to catch when he awoke on 27 September 2014. Steve thought he might have overslept the shuttle to the Big House. Why not? It wouldn't have been the first time...

Not quite fresh as a daisy, he checked the little digital doodad (8:22a, the clock proclaimed, which meant he hadn't missed the shuttle. Ergo, his fuzzy brain reached an infuriating conclusion: Jack King was playing one of his stupid wakeup call pranks) and then answered the phone.

" _Jackie, why are you bothering me!?" Steve barked. "It ain't even eight thirty, motherfucker!"_

" _Steve, it's Howie," the assistant sports producer hissed. "Pack up, idiot. You're being pulled from the broadcast."_

" _The fuck I'm being pulled," our pal griped. "Don't call again, asshole. I'm sleeping here."_

" _I'm not joking. You crossed the line last night."_

Stupid Steve thought Howie Douglass was joking; stupid Steve chuckled; stupid Steve said: "Uh-huh. Great. I'm hangin' up now."

" _Steve...ugh...you don't remember, do you?"_

" _Remember what? Did I forget to square the tab or something?"_

" _Oh, I wish, man. No, you...you did something stupid...something really stupid..."_

The scene repeated on a loop.

The scene and then what followed:

Shame; reprimands; banishment; divorce...

Cairo.

Talking to addled assholes;

Confessing secrets to envious ears;

Coming to Jesus;

Confronting the man he had become.

_You wanna get tore the fuck up, doncha,_ wheedled the little devil on Steve's shoulder.

Mmmm-hmmm.

Yes, sir.

Yes, he did.

But you can't, he-he. Instead, you're gonna listen to me needle. You're gonna listen unless, you know, you get tore the fuck up. Otherwise...

There he lolled, on his hotel bed, listening to the phone ring.

Our pal didn't know the firestorm of shit he was about to catch when he awoke on 27 September 2014. Steve thought he might have overslept the shuttle to the Big House. Why not? It wouldn't have been the first time...

He snapped out of the trance 'round the middle of the third quarter.

Brow pebbled in sweat; hunched back; hands fashioned into fists; jaw clenched...

Enos eyeballed him from in front of the fire.

The old man crunched mixed nuts.

Missouri led 26-17.

Steve pushed himself from the couch and announced: "I'm calling Tommy."

Handicapped by a mouthful of Planters, the old man garbled: "Arn you wafing the ref oft the game?"

"I've seen the same ole song and distance before. Besides, I'm gettin' cabin fever. I've been stuck in this house way too long."

***

Tommy said: _'Hell yeh, bring your happy ass by, ole pal. We'll watch the Rose Bowl, have a few glasses of something-something and relieve them hoary Glory Days.'_

Now, dig where we find our pal of the ole pal: Arm's crossed, standing in the ole pal's kitchen, watching the ole pal pour two man sized cups of something-something.

"Lydia had to watch her kids," the ole pal said as he topped off the wineglasses. "Her ex-husband was supposed to take them but, surprise, surprise, something-something came up. It's always something-something."

Our pal stared deep into his glass, saw his face reflecting on the placid surface of burgundy and muttered, "Ain't it through?"

"Speakin' of something-something, what's up with you and Natalie?"

"Oh..." our pal hawed, dragging eyes from nibbana to his ole pal. "I haven't talked to her since...you know."

"No?"

"Look, anybody who'd give it up on the first _blind_ date isn't somebody you're bringing home to ma."

" _Pfft._ Like I'd know."

"Trust me. Anyway, I tossed her number in the trash."

"I can get it from Lydia if you're so inclined."

Steve nodded at the bottle in Tommy's paws and asked, "A merlot?"

"In other words, _butt out_ ," the ole pal snickered.

"I mean, Natalie's nice and all, but some of my worst mistakes have been women."

"Meh, they're not all bad."

"I'll think about it," our pal said while lifting the vino to his snotbox. He took a lungful, savored a confection of tart and cinnamon, and then licked his lips with a reptilian tongue lash.

"Whadda think?"

Our pal took a smaller sniff; meantime, a battle between self-control and self-indulgence raged beneath his crumpled brow.

Tommy pointed at the label and said, "From the Boja Vineyards. Kanéla Kókkino. Forty dollars a bottle. I'm not a wine guy, but Lydia loves it, so I figured, what the what-what."

Steve wanted to splash a little on his tongue; he wanted to taste what the red promised; he wanted to ride a nice buzz, watch the Rose Bowl, dump the b and s what rode his ass _all day_ in the crapper.

But a second before imbibing, the little angel pal what balanced on our pal's right shoulder whispered: _You've reached the bridge, fella. Once crossed, there ain't no turning back._

O'course, the devil on the left shoulder retorted _: Drink it, fool. You know you wanna get tore the fuck up. And you deserve it after what you've been through, doncha think? Now drink!_

The ole pal read our pal's consternation as uncultured pickiness. "Yeah, dude, not everybody is a wine _kind of sewer_ ," Tommy pooh-poohed. "Take _moi_. I have a vintage bottle of 2014 Covington waiting to be cracked."

_Never waking in a good mode,_ the good angel warned.

_Fuck it. Yer gonna die anyway,_ the bad angel argued.

Don't do it!

Do it!

_Holy shit,_ Steve thought. _I'm losing my mind._

"Whadda say?" asked Tommy. "Want to belly up with the Englishman and piss at the moon?"

Steve blurted: "I went to rehab. Tommy."

"Rehab? What, you hurt yourself?"

Our temperate pal set the glass down and said, 'No, dingdong. Rehab for substance abuse."

"Oh...oh, shit," Tommy garbled. "Like...for real?"

"Yeah, for real."

"Christ, and here I am shoving booze in your face. I had no idea, man."

"How could you have known?"

"I mean...were you that much of a...a..."

"Of a lush?"

"I was thinking of a politically correct term."

"Lush is apropos. Anyway, would a sober person whip their johnson around a bar?"

"I-I like to have a few, sometimes too many. I figured you got rowdy and acted the fool."

"Yep, I acted the fool and then some. Booze, pills-"

"Jeez, pills?"

"Pills, women...the kit and kaboodle. Anyway, there's the deep, dark secret, pal. Steve Ritter, rehab chump."

"Hey, do you think I care?"

"I don't know."

"Man," Tommy scoffed. " _I. Don't. Care_."

"But other people do. Take your coaching idea, kay? If it comes out I went to rehab, you're gonna see parents fussing on the television or something."

"You're not the only person in Cairo with a substance abuse problem. I know of four faculty members at the high school who went to rehab."

"Those cats aren't public figures."

" _Ugh_...look, you went to rehab to rehabilitate your self, amirite?"

"It's called rehab for a reason, dumdum."

"Answer the question, smartass."

Steve shrugged and said, "First and foremost, I went to keep my job."

"Are you drinking? Popping pills?"

"No."

"Something must've stuck."

"I...um, okay, I guess."

" _You guess_? Maaaaannnn...listen, I'll repeat what I said at Pinky's: _You gotta move on_. Reinvent yourself, dude. Become a better Steve Ritter, Steve Ritter. Become a new-"

"Okay-"

"-man."

"I can tell what hasn't changed," Steve muttered.

"What?"

"The wham-bam-thank ya."

"Then don't make it a one-night thang. You like her, doncha?"

"I like her personality; I like talking to her; I'd like to get to know her. But jumping into bed lickety-split...stupid ole habits, Tommy."

"Who says you can't get to know her?"

"Those sheets are soiled."

" _Bah._ I'm phoning Lydia. You aren't leaving tonight until you have Natalie's number."

"Tommy, c'mon," laughed our pal. "Your Chuck Woolery impression is creeping me out."

The ole pal of our pal grabbed his smartphone and said, "If nothing else, maybe you won't feel like your stupid ole habits are rearing their ugly heads."

Exasperated (but also feeling a _l'il_ excited), Steve paced 'round the kitchen island while Tommy gathered the pertinent information from Lydia...

***

He arrived home a hair after twelve, dashed upstairs to his room and then dialed Natalie's digits from the filthy touchtone.

His call went direct to her voicemail ( _'Hi, it's Natalie, leave a message.'_ ); our pal cleared his throat during the quick beep and then said in an animated voice: "Natalie, Steve Ritter giving you a buzz. I'd, um, like to see you again and wondered if you'd be interested in getting dinner or something next week. So...let me know either way, okay? My number is..."

# 12. Natale's

She phoned the next afternoon.

The old man had run Enos to Canesoanke for a trim; Steve also deigned to make apt use of time...

But after padding into the damp cellar on bare feet, he decided cleanup could wait until it got a tad warmer.

Instead, he changed a handful of lightbulbs around the house, unclogged the drain in the guest bathroom and then called it a day.

We find him at one-fifteen loafing on the couch in a bathrobe, munching an asiago bagel and peeping one of those judge shows presided by a sassy black woman.

The shrieking cordless (Stan adjusted the ringer volume to old fart ear-piercing) startled our pal from an idiot box instigated stupor; the caller ID announced: _N. PINE, 585_ area code and all the rest.

He: pushed the grub aside; sat upright; took a deep breath; jabbed the _TALK_ button; and greeted in a neutral cadence:

"Steve Ritter."

"Hi, Steve Ritter," Natalie answered in seductive purr.

"Oh, _hey_ ," he said, permitting perky nuance to color his contrived monotone.

"I was wondering if I'd hear from you."

"Wonder no more. I would've called earlier but, you know, the holidays. Busy, busy, busy, heh."

"Well, I appreciate the thought. I've been thinking of you, too."

"Yea? What about?"

Seductive like, she purred: " _Loooootttt's_ of stuff."

His stupid dingus stirred, and not ever-so-slightly.

"Anything you'd like to add?" asked she.

"Only...are you free tonight?"

"Actually, I'm in Westchester visiting my parents until the fifth. Then I have a business trip from...let's see...the...um...the sixth through the ninth."

"The tenth it is," Steve said as his dingus wilted.

"Don't sound so thrilled."

"I sorta hoped it'd be sooner rather than later but...a'ight, I won't complain."

"Later will give you time to plan a real swanky date."

"You want swanky, huh?"

"The swankiest."

"I hate to tell you, but my idea of swanky is Nick Tahou's."

"Tahou's...is...good...but it's more a third date place. I'm picturing, like, candles and fine china, not garbage plates and plastic forks."

"Jeez, it's been ages since I went anywhere _really_ swanky in these parts. Let me think...maybe...Cicero's on...is it Monroe?"

"Good luck," she laughed.

"It's _really_ swanky, isn't it? Waitlisted like a mofo?"

" _Good luck_ cuz Cicero's closed years ago."

"Eh? Cicero's closed? Are you sure?"

"Positive. But if you want Italian, Natale's is the happening spot."

"Okeydokey. If you're fine with Natale's, I'm fine with Natale's.

"And just so were, like, clear and stuff, I would like to do more than make inane chatter while we stare at each other."

"Of course."

"I'm serious, Steve. I'm not a frivolous woman."

"I don't think you are, and I wouldn't have called if I believed otherwise."

"Good, cuz what happened...it's not my M.O."

"Ditto," he muttered. "Moment of weakness."

"Right. I usually get to know men before I...you know...sleep with them."

"Well, we'll try the other way and see if...

***

... _I don't think I can date a guy like you_ ," Natalie proclaimed.

(Other than a weak _hello_ , she had been quiet during the car ride to Natale's. Steve tried making _inane_ _chatter_ , but her halfhearted responses shut his trap. He figured she must've had a rough day at work or...

Or maybe she had second thoughts about him...

Or maybe seeming him again made her feel...skeevy...

Or something.

Whatever the case, her lack of enthusiasm vexed. When he phoned her after making the reservation, she mentioned nothing pressing.

In fact, she sounded excited.

In fact, she said she couldn't wait to see him again.

And he could tell she meant it.

So, what happened?

_What happened_ nagged at our pal is _what happened_.

Nagged in rush-hour;

Nagged when he parked the car;

Nagged as he stood shoulder-to-shoulder in Natale's crowded waiting area amongst _well-dressed_ men and women.

Yes, Natale's was both happening and fancy pants.

Our pal's bird dressed the part: black dress; high heels; neck and earlobe bling; a sparkling, bitsy purse, the whole nine...

But our pal did naught: baggy khakis and a short sleeved blue polo with one of them alligators on the breast.

Being underdressed nagged.

Nagging beget fidgeting.

Fidgeting beget a glance at Natalie.

Glances beget nagging.

And so on...

Nagging.

Fidgeting.

Glancing.

Meantime, the six-thirty reservation time came and went.

Sweaty, stinky, _well-dressed_ bodies congregated in the waiting area.

Windows dripped condensation.

Toto Cutugno crooned through a recessed speaker.

Nagging.

Fidgeting.

Glancing.

Quick-like, he tired of the same ole and whispered: "Is something wrong?"

She scrunched her nose and replied: "I-I was going to wait until we were seated but...fine, here it is: I told the morning guys I had met you and they...they laughed and asked if, by Steve Ritter, I meant _THE_ Steve Ritter. Then they said..."

Armed with gossip from her nitwit coworkers, Natalie culled the actual factuals from the world wide web. And tho our pal didn't need a refresher, she felt a desire to vomit his indiscretions in a languid, noninflected voice...

Which beget his icy: "I see."

What beget: "After what I read...and saw...Steve, _I don't think I can date a guy like you._ "

So, here be the spot where this portion of the story begins...)

" _Knightley_ ," a nasally voice beckoned from the podium.

"Do you want me to take you home?" Steve asked.

" _Knightley?"_

"No, it's fine. I'd rather talk about it face-to-face than have a stilted conversation over the phone."

" _Knightley, party of two! Final call for George Knightley, party of two!"_

"All right, come on," Steve said. "He's calling me."

"George Knightley?"

"My nom de plume," he whispered, nudging her forward.

For one obvious reason, the petite maître d' didn't raise a fuss about dress codes. Tho the fussy man recoiled when he spied our pal's garish attire, his pinched face and squinty eyes softened when confronted by Steve's breadth.

"Knightley," our pal growled. "Two of us. A quiet spot if you'd be so kind."

The prim escorted the couple to a mood lit nook and clucked about specials while a young man laid cutlery, poured waters, presented a wine list, and placed a basket of soft, steaming bread on the table...

When they were alone, at last, Natalie folded her arms across her chest and said, "Your nom de plume is George Knightley?"

"Old habits," he said, tearing into a roll.

"Why George Knightley?"

"I like the way it sounds."

"There's a character in-"

"Yeah," he interrupted. " _Emma_."

"You've read Jane Austen?"

He shoved bread into his mouth and grunted.

"Hmm...see, I don't know what to make of you," she said. "You _seem_ like a nice guy...but...what's the story? Are you possessed by a frat boy?"

Steve raised a finger, swallowed, and then said, "The story is, I drank too much one night in Ann Arbor and whipped out my dingus."

"I didn't watch the entire video, but Jim and Ray said-"

"Who?"

"The AM guys. They said there was more than just... _ahem_...dingus whipping."

"Yes...yes, there was... _more_. I don't remember any of the _more_ , but I've heard plenty. The next morning, an A.P. rang my room and..." Steve snapped his fingers and then continued: "All she wrote. I lost my job, marriage and-"

"You were married?"

"Um-hmm. Eleven years last May. My wife...ex-wife...she filed in October. I'm told it'll be official in April."

Natalie didn't seem thrilled by the information; she took a big gulp of water and then a second for good measure.

"Look," he said, lowering his voice, "I'm no saint, but I'm trending in the right direction. I'm not drinking and, uh, I...I'm not..." _Sleeping around_ , be the word on the tip of his tongue, but he thought better and shut the trap.

"Steve, I just got out of a four-year relationship three years too late. My ex... _Don_...things didn't end kosher. I'm not in the market for another train wreck."

"Fair enough, but I want you to know something: the old me wouldn't have called you the next day...or week...whatever."

"Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"Perhaps...a little?"

She cracked a smile and droned, "How often does that line work for you?"

"It's not a line. I've been thinking about you."

"I bet I can guess why," she said, snagging the wine list from the table.

He tossed the half-eaten roll onto the table and said, "For the record, I didn't ask you know whom to come home with you know whom."

Her peepers pinballed down the sheet, perused the inventory and then zeroed onto his face. "Maybe it's better we leave it there," she said. "Both of us aren't ready for anything serious, Steve. Now...where's the waiter? I'm dying for a glass of the house red."

***

Speckled by spells of the _dreaded U.S_., they piddled chow away with inane chatter.

Steeled by a split of merlot, Natalie nattered about her parents and job; he filled his stomach with food and grunted at appropriate times. Two hundred smackers lighter, our pal drove her home and received a hasty peck for the trouble.

"Don't bother walking me up," Natalie said as she climbed out of his car. "And I have your number so...goodnight, Steve."

"Goodnight," he answered in time to the closing door.

***

He strolled into the living room, found the same ole (Dad sleeping on his chair; Enos _fake_ sleeping in front of the fire; Michael Kay on the television), and then scoffed, "Lee Weyer had a bad day."

Enos raised his brow.

"I should be getting laid," our pal explained.

The dog stood, yawned, and then cocked its head.

"Yeah, you don't give an f," Steve said. "Nor should I, right? Easy come and blah blah blah."

" _Urrmmm_ ," whined Enos. Meanwhile, his tail beat the carpet like a frenzied feather duster.

"Eh?" chuckled Steve. "What has you hot and bothered?"

Enos padded forward and licked Steve's right hand.

"Whadda want, a treat or sumptin?"

" _RUFF!"_

Coming to like a cattle prop be shoved and rotated in the yazoo, the old man yelped: "Jesus! What's going on?"

Steve shrugged and said, "Sorry, Dad. Your mutt got a bee in his bonnet when I walked in."

"Ahhh, I see," Stan hummed. "Enos is giving you the sign."

"What sign?"

"He wants to stretch legs."

"Now? It's cold as balls."

"He's overdue for an evening amble. Looks like I fell asleep and forgot to walk him."

Our hero gazed into Enos's doe eyes and then grabbed the dog's collar. "Sit down Pop. I'll amble him."

"You sure?"

"I'm dressed the part; plus, I need to win him over."

"Win him over? Enos?"

"He's always giving me creeper peepers."

"Oh, phooey. You're imagining things."

"Believe you me, I know creeper peepers when I see 'em."

The old man hacked another, "Phooey," and then kicked down the footrest. "Keep him leashed until you get to the back," he instructed. "He'll dart across 42 if given the chance. And make sure you sit him in front of the fire when you return. I don't want snow pellets covering the hardwood."

# 13. Steve And Enos

Wheezing, whining, back legs kicking, Enos pulled the ten-foot cord taunt and damn near dragged our two-hundred twenty-pound pal through the snow.

"Easy, you!" Steve snapped. "My rotator cuff ain't a hundred percent."

But the beast did naught give a good goddamn. Charging past the burn pit, man's best friend led his anchor through clawing shrubs and withered vines. Dad claimed five acres of land, four of which sat unmolested behind the house. In the summer, dense foliage and insects hampered protracted forages, but combating those obstacles seemed an admirable undertaking for little Stevie back in the day. Besides, what else was there to do?

Yes, when Steve was a punk ass _bee-atch_ kid, he endeavored numerous expeditions into the jungle. Running the realm placed our pal on the southern tip of the MacLean fields which, depending on the season, were home to corn or soybeans crops. Miles of green...green melding into the hazy air of mid-summer...and pungent soil. Plopping his rear on the ground, punk ass _bee-atch_ Stevie felt like a world conqueror.

Pfft.

For a yokel from Cairo, the toppermost be a peep into organic perpetuity and a squat in manure.

Pfft.

Not long after becoming a Big Deal, he tried convincing his parents to move on up: a house in, say, Honeoye or Canesoanke...a house on a hill, overlooking a lake...triple the land...a barn...a pond...a grass maze...a pool...

Or a house _next_ to the water.

Or one of each.

Something a mite more exciting then forest and farmland.

Something a mite further from Cairo.

Steve even offered to buy them a place.

_If you want those things, knock yourself out,_ Stan Ritter told his son. _But your mother and I are happy here; we're happy in Cairo._

Pfft.

At last, Enos and his winded handler broke out of brush and stood on a lumpy berm overlooking Nathan MacLean's desolate plantation. Brisk wind smacked the snotbox; a nickel-sized moon showered gray light; snowy furrows rippled like breaking waves.

The beast strained, whined, and pawed the ground.

Our pal scanned the fuzzy horizon and then unclasped the leash. "Git on, fella," he hacked between chattering teeth. "I ain't chasing you, tho. When I say it's time, it's time. You hear me?"

Enos yipped and tore ass down the embankment; in seconds, he looked like a bitty black marble rolling atop the icy landscape.

In high school, when Stevie wasn't such a punk ass crybaby _bee-atch_ , he used to sneak outside late at night and venture...prolly to the spot he stood at present or thereabouts. He'd burn one...sometimes two...swill some Covington...and stare into space like a slack jawed primate.

An ordained future sparkled in the Milky Way...

A future what didn't include standing on this present spot or thereabouts.

"The future ain't what it used to be," he griped to nothing.

The wind kicked in response; it howled across the landscape, rustled branches...

The wind channeled Natalie's diplomatic voice:

Both of us aren't ready for anything serious, Steve.

***

Howie Douglass phoned during the taxi ride from Ann Arbor to Detroit Metro: "I found you a bed at a rehab center in SoCal called Open Arms. Top notch, I'm informed, and a hundred percent covered by insurance...not like it matters. Anyway, they're expecting you Monday, Steve."

Our chagrined, hungover hero rubbed his temple and whined: "Howie... _ugh_...like... _rehab_? I mean, yeah, I screwed up. You wanna slap my wrist, have at it. But you ain't sending Jack to rehab, are you?"

"Jack didn't get a handjob in a hotel bar."

"Well...fine...you're right...but-"

"No _buts_ , Steve. I've done the legwork, okay? On Monday, you need only step off a plane at John Wayne and follow the way."

"Monday is just...look, I have, no doubt, a helluva mess at home I need to address."

"No doubt," said Howie without compassion.

"Dude, my point is, two days won't be enough time for-"

"I'm not gonna tell you how to handle your domestic issues; however, I think your wife, no matter what her frame of mind, can't help but agree you need help. Regardless, _I know_ you need help...and you know it too."

"Howie-"

"Shaddup, Steve. Shaddup and _listen_. If you don't or can't understand that I, as your friend, am telling you to get your shit together then...then whatever. Horse to water, dude. But forget me, Susan, and whomever else cares about your wellbeing, and think about your future...in particular, your future at CCO. Charles, Max, Vivian...they're gonna fire your ass if you don't cleanup your act. I've gone on a limb to keep this from happening tout suite. Now, the ball is in your court. If you wanna say _hey, fuck off, Howie_...welp, it's your prerogative. But I'm _serious_ , and you gotta be _serious_ too..."

Serious.

After Howie's sermon; after the cab dropped him at the curb; after clearing security; after finding the gate; after settling into a chair; after checking his phone (blowing up with texts from acquaintances); after trolling the net and finding _Deadspin's_ snarky blurb (and the corresponding _NSFW_ link to the stoopid video); after calling Susan (surprise, she didn't answer); after texting Susan (surprise, she didn't respond)...

After all them things, _Serious_ Steve donned sunglasses, made a beeline for the T.G.I.F. across the concourse, planted his butt in a barstool and squashed three Biggie draughts quick-like before boarding the Delta 757...

Susan was less cordial than Howie...but getting _Seriously_ shitfaced during the three-and-a-half-hour flight to Phoenix (before the ball bearing stewardess cutoff our _Serious_ hero over New Mexico) didn't help the situation.

When he stumbled through the front door, the old lady shot daggers at him and then tossed a duffel at his feet.

"Git out," she growled.

"Looook," he slurred in response. "I bin thinkin'-"

"Git out," repeated herself.

Tho he wanted to avoid a _Serious_ confrontation, her unreceptive attitude rankled his already rankled nerves. "Firs oft," Steve garbled, "this is _my_ house, which means I'm stayin' here tanight. Secon, I'm goin' ta rehab Monday, so yewl have _my_ house all by yer lonesome."

"Rehab?" Susan snorted.

"Howie Douglass...he made the 'rangements...and...I...I'm goin' cuz I...I gots ta go, a'ight?"

"You come home wasted, tell me you're going to rehab, and I'm supposed to be...what? What do you want me to say?"

"Yer 'posed ta be supportive or sumptin."

She sighed and then fired a bevy of sarcastic questions: "Supportive? Supportive of my husband who let some bimbo grab his dick? Supportive of the man who embarrassed himself, and me, in front of the world?"

"Do yew think I'm happy 'bout any of dis?" groused he.

"You know what? I don't think you care. And I don't think you're _serious_."

Head down, Steve stammered: "I-I... _am_ seer-us."

"Uh-huh. Sure you are. Just like you're serious when I've told you about a million times how much you were... _are_ , rather...getting _high and tight_. _Oh, I'll cut back,_ you said. Bullshit! Now you're adding women to the laundry list of crap."

"It was an ack-c-dent, kay? Shit, I don't even 'member wha happened."

"Wow, how comforting."

"It's true! Geez, can't yew-'

"How long have you been fucking around on me?" she interrupted.

He mashed the toe of his shoe into the floor and ran a hand through his hair.

With tears in her eyes, Susan said: "I deserve it, right? I accepted your apathy, your anger, your self-loathing, and asked _nothing_ in return but my husband to do as he promised. Well, at this point, all I can say is, _whatever, Steve_. I realize you have a problem. Maybe rehab will help; maybe it won't. But after what you've done...Steve, I'm through listening to pledges and promises; I'm through being your punching bag."

"Jesus, can we talk 'bout dis later?" he snapped. "Now ain't the right time."

"Oh my god," the missus muttered. "I can't be around you. If you aren't leaving, I am."

"Then go," he said, waving a hand.

Susan narrowed her eyes and replied, "We're done, Steven. I'm _serious_..."

***

A snow-covered, tongue hanging Enos sidled next to our hero.

Natalie repeated: _Both us aren't ready for anything serious._

"She's right," he remarked, patting the dog's head. "Looks like it'll be you and me, fella."

Enos responded with vigorous tail waving.

# 14. Something About Steve

Sojourns with the dog became a regular, _serious_ thang. Thrice a day -snow, shine, or miscellaneous (ice pellets, graupel, whatevs)- Enos led Steve beyond the brush and ran until tired. Sometimes it took a long damn time for the mutt to tap out, but whatevs. Piecemeal, _serious_ stinkin' thinkin' dissipated to a trickle.

Spliced between Enos' walks, Steve tackled the cluttered basement. Over a ten-day span, he reorganized; swept; clawed spider webs; changed lightbulbs...

He lugged a ton of crap up the stairs; stationed said crap in the garage; and then packed it into the bed of Dad's F150. Five trips to the dump in Luxor later...

Our motivated hero arranged a nifty workout area around the old treadmill; he purchased dumbbells, a couple medicine balls, floor mats, a punching bag, a bench press, a television, a DVD player, a shit ton of DVD's...

At last, order returned to the cellar...

Steve began running again; outside be the preferred locale, but the shit ass weather didn't sometimes allow...

Which meant the tedium of the _dreadmill_.

What of it?

Clearing the head,

Working a sweat,

Focusing on the nuance of each step!

Pushing the body beyond what the mind claimed conceivable, a quality that made him the athlete he _was_...

Ennui, intoxication, fornication...Steve became soft, unfocused, and unwise.

_Never again_ , he'd tell himself during each run.

And when it was over...when the heart thud and legs quaked...

The rush of endorphins, a rush greater than gettin' ripped on dank...

Oh, the feeling of accomplishment!

Walks with Enos; exercise; gettin' shit done 'round the house...

Responsibilities, chores, and whatnots buoyed Steve's mood.

He and Tommy hung out, shot pool in the old pal of our ole pal's basement, talked football and swapped stories.

On mild days, they tossed the ball around...

Tho cliché, it felt like them _Glory Days_...without the boozin' and s-e-x.

In this vein, January crept to an end...

***

Upon returning from a frigid five-mile run on 29 January (a Thursday), the old man greeted our wheezing pal at the garage door and announced: "Hey, you missed a phone call."

"Tommy?"

"No, a woman who-"

Steve interrupted: "Missus Maxwell, I presume. No doubt more good news."

"What's your third guess?" Stan asked through a grin.

" _Ugh_ ," Steve groaned. "What does Susan want?"

"You're oh for three. Somebody named Natalie...uh...shoot, I can't remember her last name. I wrote her number down. The slip is inside, next to the blower."

Our pal _almost_ flinched; it'd been three weeks since their dinner at Natale's...

Two weeks of not thinking about her and all the _serious_ b and s.

_Poof._ Them two weeks were a rumor.

They never existed.

"Anyway, I'm running to the store," Stan said. "Need anything?"

_Humph_ , grumbled Steve's grouchy inner voice.

Natalie made it crystal clear she wasn't interested in anything serious...or otherwise.

So, why was she calling after...

After...

After...

"Nothing from Moore's?" Stan pestered. "Last call."

Zombie-like, Steve shook his head...

He wandered into the house, passed Enos without the usual head pat...

And approached the cordless in the kitchen.

On a yellow post it, Dad had penned _,_ _Natalie Gage_ , followed by seven digits.

After...

"Fuck me," he said, seizing the phone.

***

"God, no!" exclaimed she to the query.

Wiping his brow, our pal hawed: "Oh...uh...good."

"Jeez, your mind went straight to the stork?"

"I guess...meh, never mind."

"Look, Steve, I called because I've spent the last week thinking about...everything. I'm sorry if I came across as judgmental. Like I explained at Natale's-"

"I don't need an explanation, Natalie. My conduct was... _is_ , I mean...embarrassing, revolting...shoot, there aren't enough adjectives and nouns and whatnots. I gotta live with the consequences, which isn't easy, but there's no way around it. While in rehab I-"

"Rehab?"

"Yea, eight wonderful weeks in Santa Ana. While I was there, my wife filed; I got canned; and a lot of people tried and executed me. Afterwards, after those eight weeks, I returned home to Scottsdale and thought, _what's next_? Rehab is a controlled environment, kay? I didn't have temptation staring me in the face. I also didn't have to deal with normal people, quote unquote. The rich old farts in my gated community gave me suspicious eyes; the counter girl at Jack-In-Box ran the other way when I walked in; the burnout working at Circle K pointed to the cover of the _Enquirer_ and said: _'Hey, bro, that's you'._

"It didn't take long for my attitude to steam south of ornery...or more south than it already steamed. Rotting alone in a big house didn't help. I realized I wouldn't maintain sobriety if I depended only on A.A. meetings. And it's not like I couldn't appreciate the dangers of relapsing, but those dangers diminished when I started thinking about getting tore up. Before I crossed the tangible threshold, I decided a change in latitude and yadda yadda.

"You know, I could've gone to Cairo...the _real_ Cairo...or Fiji...Finland... _anywhere_. Instead, I came here; I came here because it's stable; and I came here to get myself intact. My crabby attitude didn't vanish on the cross-country drive, however my mood's improving. Less idle hands, kay? I'm doing things 'round the house; I'm exercising; I'm helping Tommy with the Cairo football squad in the fall. As they say in the sober rooms, I'm takin' it one day at a time. Anyway, there's the short version of the last six months of my life. When you brought up...know you...at Natale's, I, uh, had whatchacall a visceral reaction."

She cleared her throat and then said: "I've watched a few videos on YouTube...from when you were playing, I mean, not..."

"Whipping my dingus?"

"In so many words," giggled she.

"Aside from dingus waving, my highlight reel is pretty sparse."

"There are a few good ones."

"Do tell."

"Mmm...how 'bout your touchdown against the Bears in 1998?"

"Heh...the Bears...my rookie season...88 yards on a flanker screen," Steve recounted with a wistful inflection. "Not shabby considering I sat sixth on the depth chart. In fact, the only reason I made the cut is because Chris Walsh got hurt in a preseason game. A tough break for Chris, but a good one for me."

"I bet you're full of exciting football stories."

"Yea, but I'd rather stick to the boring ones."

"Maybe we could swap boring stories. I have quite the collection from marketing meetings."

"Whenever you get the urge to spin a yarn, you know how to reach me."

"I meant we should swap stories in person."

Steve did the ole comedic doubletake, side-eyed the phone and then said, "You didn't seem interested in seeing me again. What's changed?"

"You sound sincere, Steve. Maybe you're feeding me a line, but I want to know you beyond the superficial. Then...then, we'll see."

Self-control and self-indulgence fought a brief battle, which ended when our pal replied: "Say, Tommy's throwing a little shindig on Sunday for the Super Bowl. You could crash the party, not like he'd care."

"I'm picturing something more refined."

"More refined than the Super Bowl?"

"How 'bout The Eastman House on Saturday," she said, not asked.

"The Eastman House?"

"Afterwards, we'll hit Nick Tahou's for dinner."

"I thought you said _refined_."

"Nick Tahou's on our third date, remember?"

"For real? I assumed you were joshin'."

"For. Real. And, if all goes well, I'll crash Tommy's Super Bowl party."

"Kay, I'm game. Let's give Saturday a shot."

"Great. Pick me up at noon..."

# 15. Eastman House

In 1949, George Eastman's former residence (a three story, 35,000-square-foot, 50-room, Colonial Revival mansion) opened to the public as The George Eastman House. Bequeathed to the University of Rochester upon Eastman's 1932 suicide, the trustees executed hisself's directives as stipulated in the entrepreneur's will and testament. To wit: Eastman sought to collect and conserve the varied history of painted, still and moving images.

Eastman's philanthropic endeavors exceeded the donation of his estate (to list them in totality would take a page and a half), but the manse exhibited some 14,000 representations including: daguerreotypes; French glass negatives; a 19th Century American retrospective; and 20th Century contemporary art. Excluding Andy Warhol and Ansel Adams, our hero recognized none of the names affixed the displays...not like it mattered. Natalie slurped the extravagance like manna.

The Saturday afternoon crowd be of the stuffy, pinched cheek variety...which meant they knew naught of a barbaric sport named _football_ , nor of a dingus-wavin' barbarian what once played said sport. Alas, Steve was (in his humble opinion) the best-looking guy in the place...and the tallest. Eyes gravitated his way, and in those peepers he perceived what they perceived...

Which they wouldn't perceive cuz brainboxes didn't perceive Steve Ritter from the perceived Adam...

But maybe one of 'em might have perceived...

For instance, the brainbox elbowing his old lady...

Nagging uncertainty drove our pal's beak inches from each crappy picture.

He stared deep, arched eyebrows, grunted and shuffled to the next crappy picture.

In this manner, he snaked through several rooms as Natalie dictated information Steve could've read himself from them teeny cards tacked on ornate partitions.

After navigating a wing earmarked "Photographs of a Man-Altered Landscape", Natalie gushed, "I never tire of coming here! There's so much to see!"

"I'll say," our pal responded, wiping his brow with contrived exhaustion.

"I take it you've never been?"

"Here? Uhm...n and o. The Eastman House has never been one of my happening concerns."

"What a shame. To think the world's largest collection of photographs sits in our backyard..."

"This stuff...don't get me wrong, it's great...but it all looks the same after a while."

"Come on," she said, grabbing his hand. "I want to show you something."

She guided (or dragged) him into a large, single story room ( _Mr. Eastman's Library_ , the bronze sign on the wall announced); black-and-white diptychs of African Americans lined one wall; opposite those, illuminated by pink floor lights, hung the pictures of four smiling children, all girls.

"I've wanted to see this exhibit for months," she whispered.

"What am I looking at?"

" _The Birmingham Project_ , by Dawoud Bey. Those girls were killed in a church bombing in 1963."

_And you think you have problems_ , his brain yipped.

Natalie continued: "On the wall there, in those frames...they're called diptychs, Steve...are pictures of adults who grew up in Birmingham at the time of the bombing alongside children born around the year 2000, which makes them the same ages as the girls murdered in '63. It's a contrasting image of what was and what is."

"Jeez O'Pete, who killed them?"

"Who? Who do you think?"

"I assume the Klan, but I've read enough to know the Birmingham P.D. wasn't a fan of minorities."

"The KKK planted dynamite _knowing_ children would be there. And, like you mentioned, Birmingham had an awful man in charge of their police department. Bull Conner. Yeah, nice name, huh? When the streets filled with protestors, he let law enforcement loose. People were killed, beaten, thrown in jail...what you'd expect, I guess. The FBI tried investigating the bombing but ran into problems with the locals. Three men were tried thirty years later, gave or take, and found guilty. But the time they served is little consolation to the families of the girls."

"You're well versed in the depressing nuts and bolts."

"I minored in history at Allegheny."

"Never heard of it."

"History?"

" _Allegheny_ , smarty."

"It's a liberal arts college in Meadville, Pennsylvania."

"Another place I haven't heard of."

"Meadville or-"

"Did you major in wisecrackery?" interrupted Steve.

"Close. English."

"English, huh? _English_ , like the language we speak? _Pfft._ Sounds easier than my major."

She sized him up and laughed.

Steve straightened his posture and trumpeted: "I have a Bachelor's in Film Theory."

"Film theory? Did you want to make movies?"

"Yeah, right. As you have no doubt concluded, I'm not the artistic kind of sewer. The film school at the U was...I'm not saying it's lousy, but a lot of athletes graduated with honors, myself included. Not by coincidence, the football program had one of the highest graduation rates amongst the nation when I was there. Jim Wacker...the head coach, kay? He hung his hat on academic performance. Heh. We sucked at football, but ninety-eight percent of us got a diploma. Anyway, old movies kept my attention better than sports medicine, chemistry, and physics. I learned things too."

"Like?"

"Pre-Code...er, Hays Code...and some other stuff. I wrote my senior thesis on why Joan Blondell and Glenda Farrell affronted the sensibilities of... _ahem_...refined people. Interesting stuff, I suppose, but wringing hands about innuendo and miscegenation is..." Steve gestured at the four pictures and finished: "...trivial compared to kids getting murdered."

Natalie locked eyes with our pal, stared deep (as he had done with all them pictures minus the intensity) and then said, "It's important to put priorities in order, Steve. But everybody is guilty of overlooking the big picture, myself included." Before he could respond, she reclaimed his hand...

***

As promised, they stopped for dinner at Nick Tahou's, but our characters avoided the notorious (or praised, depending on one's state of fluidity), "Garbage Plate". The hodgepodge of food thrown together on said plate (cheeseburgers, hamburgers, red and white hots, Italian sausage, fish, eggs, and gravy) didn't appeal to Steve's newly refined palate; in fact, the idea of such a culinary catastrophe stirred his old gag reflex. There be a reason Tahou's drew the inebriated, and it wasn't because the Garbage Plate tasted great: Drunks cared naught what they shoveled down throats.

Sitting opposite each other in a homey, upholster-torn booth, they conversed between nibbles of grub (he, a burger and fries; she, a chicken sandwich) and slurps of soda:

"Explain how someone with an English degree finds their way into marketing," our pal said.

"Reality trumped fantasy," responded she.

"Come again?"

"I had a perfect plan, Steve: Take a year off after Allegheny, earn some money, tackle my Master's, etcetera...culminating in -at some point in the future- a cozy, _tenured_ seat at a university...probably the U of R. My father taught humanities there and...well, my parents live in Westchester now, meaning he didn't make peanuts. After I graduated in '99, I returned to Rochester. By this time, Lydia is working at WFFR in the advertising department. I needed a job; she told me the station was hiring secretarial temps. An _easy_ job, or so I thought...but most of the temps weren't the brightest bulbs and I caught an important somebody's attention.

"At the beginning of fall, I was offered a full-time position as a personal assistant to the assistant director of marketing. In two years, I went from making spreadsheets on Excel to presenting promo packages. My salary got better, I bought a nice house, and I decided things were solid. Five, six, seven...fifteen years later...I'm still at WFFR, just a bit higher on the ladder. Unless something drastic happens, I'll be staying a while."

Steve whistled and then said, "Dang. Fifteen years."

"I could've taken a job in Philadelphia a few years ago. A bigger market means more money, but it's also four times the work. Still, Philly is a neat city and...well, if I wasn't involved with Don...so...'nuff said. I spent five years with him. The first four were great; he worked at Paychex, an IT guy...we met at a golf tournament and he seemed put together. Mature. Nice. He didn't make a lot...which wasn't an issue...but I let him move in because he lived with three other guys in Spencerport. A year and half ago, Don lost his job. Downsizing, he told me. He musta thought I was stupid. Paychex wasn't going through hard times, and they weren't laying anyone off. I didn't pester him, though; I figured he'd find another job...but he didn't. Nope. Instead, he sat around my house, smoked pot, and played video games. Who smokes pot all day when they're thirty-five?"

"I did," Steve said. "I smoked every goddamn day."

Natalie's eyes narrowed.

"O'course, I wasn't, you know, mooching off my significant other."

"Was pot your thing?"

"No, grass was _one_ of the things...a minor thing. If I had stuck to pot, I would have planted my ass on the sofa and watched Turner Classic Movies all day and night. Booze and pills were my big ones. Mix the two and off I went. But, in the end, liquor pushed me over the edge. As my intake multiplied, my tolerance shrank. I blacked out all the time; I awoke in hotel rooms...not my own...with no clue how I got there; mornings of wondering if I said something stupid; did something stupid. And then one morning I found out...well, here I sit. But whatevs. The something stupid sent me to rehab, so something good came out of it. I'm sober for the first time since junior high school."

"Jeez...junior high school?"

"I mean, it didn't get bad until I retired. Too much time on my hands, you know."

"Kinda like now?"

"Um...sure, but I'm not gettin' tore the...er...getting hammered. I'm occupying time in a fruitful manner. Come spring, I'll be helping Tommy with his football team, so there's that. And, I attend meetings when I feel uneasy or...triggered."

"How often are you triggered?"

"Is it me, or is it getting hot in here," he asked, pulling his collar.

"I'm curious is all."

"Alright, here's the deal: Sobriety, while a great thing, also permits the luxury of introspection, and introspection...see, it's supposed to be healthy. Recovery demands you take a personal inventory, right those you've wronged, make amends. But every time I think about what I've done, who I've hurt...who I can't amends to...it drives me bonkers."

As he finished the sentence, four boisterous (prolly _tore the fuck up_ ) college-aged males rumbled into Tahou's. The waitress sat them in a booth across the aisle from Steve and Natalie; quick-like, newest patrons demanded _Garbage Plates_ _tout suit_. Then they went about the business of acting like four boisterous (prolly _tore the fuck up_ ) college-aged males: peppered with oaths, the kids yapped about _the ass on her_ and _the tits on her_ in loud voices.

Steve slid toward the partition, stretched his legs and then continued: "I'm living with my father, which provides stability...but there's a downside, too. Lot's of memories in the house, kay? I can't help but ponder, you know."

"Your father answered the other day when I called?"

"Uh-huh. My dad...Stan...he retired from Kodak three years ago. Since then, he's let the ole homestead go to shit. I'm getting it squared, tho. Seems only fair considering Dad became a non-entity in my life after my mom died. It wasn't anything he did; like everything else, I pushed him aside in the noble pursuit of getting tore up. When he needed me the most, before and after Mom passed, I wasn't there for him. Now I need him here for me...and...so...long story short, guilt is a bitch."

"I'm sorry if this is too personal, but what happened to your mother?"

"Breast cancer. She didn't do those mammograms on a regular basis or not at all. Maybe it wouldn't have mattered...who knows? One day she found a lump; thirteen months later, Mom was covered with dirt."

"Were you close?"

"No...not after high school. Mom...she didn't like a lot of choices I made. And she said things I disagreed with...still disagree with...and I held a grudge even as she died. I could've made peace, mended our relationship...took her hand and said, _I love you, Mom_ ; instead, I pushed her aside."

Herself sighed and tucked hair behind both ears. "Everybody has regrets," she said. "We can't help but dwell on the past. Letting it consume you, tho...look, I don't know how sobriety programs work, but aren't you supposed to let go at some point?"

Steve held up three fingers and then said, " _Three times_. I saw Mom three times when she was in the hospital. My ex-wife visited her more, and we lived in Phoenix, kay? Susan had no problem getting on a plane. Me? I complained about the inconvenience of my mother's cancer. The last month of her life, I came in hot, which-"

"Hot?"

"Scorched."

"Drunk?"

"Yup, tore up. So tore up, the nurses at Strong wouldn't let me see Mom. Well, I got angry...mouthy...my father...he..." Steve sighed, shook his head and then continued: "Dad never swears, but he let it fly. It was a bad scene. But what did I care? I even went to her funeral tore up. Anyway, there's some of the shit I think about all the damn time, which means letting go is easier said. Of course, I have an Everest of other shit to-"

"Steve Ritter!" one of the boisterous (prolly _tore the fuck up_ ) kids shouted. Dressed in flannel and sporting fuzzy hairs on his chin, he waved his hand at our pal like they were old buddies.

Steve nodded, returned the salutation, and hoped the pithy gesture placated the fool and his friends. But, of course, the pithy gesture did naught placate. The kid grinned and slithered out of the booth; slouching and slack-jawed, he sauntered to within arm's reach, gave Natalie the thrice over, and wet his lips.

Before the situation became contentious (a pat wager at the rate things were progressing), Steve said all cordial like: "Say, we're grabbing a bite, pal. You know what I mean?"

"Uh, sorry, dude, I hate to disrupt your date," the kid said through a big shit eating grin.

"Then don't," rejoined Steve through a bigger shit eating grin.

Unruffled, the kid looked our pal in dead in the eyes and said, "Hey, I just want an autograph, Steve. But, um, like...could you sign it with your cock?"

Two outcomes to this unpleasant request resounded in Steve's head:

The little angel said: _Let it go, Steve._

The little devil said: _Let him have it, bruh._

The little devil made the more persuasive argument; even if the outcome be, _at best_ , a misdemeanor and a night in the clink, the pleasure of wiping the smirk off the motherfucker's face trumped consequence.

Natalie saw his face redden; she watched him ball a napkin...

"If you don't leave us alone, I'm calling the police," herself said.

"Gee, chillax," the kid tutted, raising hands. "I'm playin' around, man."

"Scoot," Steve snarled.

He bowed, the little shit, and then strutted back the way he came; his buddies greeted him like a conquering warrior. High-fives, back slaps, the ruffling of hair...the whole nine.

Our pal eyeballed the quartet and gnashed teeth.

"Steve, we should go," Natalie said.

"The motherfuckers," he growled.

"Steve-"

"Did you see the way he looked at you?"

"Steve-"

"Two minutes is all I ask. Thirty seconds a motherfucker."

"Steve, if you do _anything_ , you'll never see me _again_ ," she said, grabbing her purse.

He fixed his baleful stare on her.

Said she, patting his hand: "I'm serious."

Th ultimatum served its purpose, but it took _a lot_ of Steve's chi to combat purgation.

A lot of chi, bruh.

***

He didn't speak until they passed over the Genesee on the Freddy-Sue. "Christ, I'm sorry about...you know," he said without inflection.

She watched ice floes bob the leaden water and, "Maybe a homecooked meal is the way to go next time."

"At least you got to see what I'm up against."

"Please!" jeered she. "Do you know how many times I've dealt with catcalls and boorish comments? Too many to count, I kid you not."

"C'mon, it's not the same thing, kay."

"Yes, it is. We can't control the enmity of strangers. I've developed a thick skin; you should do the same."

"It's just-"

"Steve, you _wisely_ listened to me at Tahou's...which is where this nonsense needs to stay. Don't let a conversation with an immature brat ruin our day."

He gave her the ole side-eye but _wisely_ kept his mouth sealed.

Thereafter, Natalie made trivial conversation about an upcoming business trip. The powers what be were sending her to L.A. at the end February; _'Five days of sun will do me good,'_ informed she. There be other inane stuff... _something-somethings_ and so forth...and he nodded his head in time to her voice...

Cuz Steve Ritter be wise.

Fifteen minutes later, the Challenger pulled into her driveway. He wondered if killing the engine be presumptuous; a peck on the cheek seemed more apropos...

Our woman took charge, tho, and posed: "I bet there's a good movie on Turner Classics."

"Chances are," he replied all wise and staid-like.

She opened the squeaky car door and said: "Good. I'm craving a serious dose of film theory."

As luck would have it, _The Caine Mutiny_ be playing on TMC.

Yea, our wise baller knew a thing or two about said classic:

The father from _My Three Sons_ ; Van Johnson's scar; Queeg and his metal balls...

# 16. Super Bowl Sunday

Steve strolled into the kitchen at ten past nine the next morning. The old man sipped coffee and scanned the newspaper spread across table; curled at Dad's feet, Enos beat his tail on linoleum.

Without lifting his head, Stan said: "I'd ask if the Amerks game ran late, but they didn't play last night."

Our pal poured hisself a cup of joe and then said: "Do you remember the woman who phoned on Friday?"

"Natalie," Pop said as he turned a page.

"Yea, Natalie. So...listen, we're going to Tommy's tonight to watch the game. Is it kosher if she stops by and says hello?"

"What if I said _no_?" laughed Stan.

"Considering I talked you up some, she'd be a mite disappointed."

Dad closed and folded the paper. "I figured something's up," he said. "You should've seen your face when I mentioned she called."

"That obvious, huh?"

The old man tapped his nose.

"If you want to be the third wheel..." Steve began.

But Stan held up his hand and said, "Enos and I will be fine by our lonesome."

Steve expected a peppering from Pop; a question or four about Natalie...how serious they were...other parental whatnots. However, unlike Mom, Dad didn't want to know, or he didn't care.

No, Stan returned attention to the _D &C_...

As Steve swirled the coffee...

And Enos thrashed his tail.

***

"Wow, the roads are slippery," Natalie greeted.

Steve ushered her into the house, brushed snow from her shoulders and then said: "You're not in Pittsford anymore. In these parts, the plows make a pass every four or five hours."

Meantime, Enos sauntered to the newest intruder and sniffed her boots.

"Meet Enos," Steve said, nudging the dog with a shoe. "He's as harmless as he is handsome."

"Then he takes after his owner."

"Wait until you see the old man before passing judgment. He's the fool who rescued this mutt."

She bent over and rubbed the dog's head; Enos moaned and closed his eyes.

"I guess he's tired of my rough hands," Steve said. "He never coos when I'm giving him the business."

"I love the name. He looks like an Enos."

"He was the runt of the litter," Stan announced as he emerged in the hallway. "Sam Kipp said he bottle-fed Enos. Can you imagine? Now look at him. But forget the dog..." The old man nodded at the guest and said, "It's nice to put a face to the voice, Natalie. Welcome."

"Thank you," replied she. "You have a nice place, Mister Ritter."

"Stan, to you," hisself said.

" _Nice_ is a matter of perspective," Steve declared. "This house is fifty-something years old. Everything either creaks or leaks."

Responded the old man: "Including moi, which means we're simpatico."

"Good heavens," Steve sighed.

"I love the country," Stan said. "Even tho Steven thinks I've worn out my welcome, I have no intention of leaving."

"The heating cost alone would push me out the door," said Steve. "And you ain't doing such a hot job keeping this place shipshape."

"Enough about the house, Steven," the old man fussed. "Natalie, who do you like tonight?"

She looked demurely at our pal and answered, "Tom Brady's team."

"Dad, Natalie's a _huge_ football fan," Steve said. "She could put you to sleep spouting stats and whatnots. Matter of fact, she could name the entire Patriot's roster, couldn't you?"

Chirped she: "Sure, but without Tom Brady there is no team."

"I'm partial to Seattle," Stan said in all seriousness.

"Because you hate New England," Steve retorted.

"Because the Seahawks got jobbed against the Steelers," countered the old man.

"He never forgave me for going to the Dark Side," Steve whispered to Natalie.

"No, I'll never forgave the Dark Side for sending Drew Bledsoe to the Bills," said Stan.

"All right, this is a pointless argument," our pal bristled. "The Bills are gonna Bill and Tommy's expecting us. We gotta am-scray. Are you sure you don't want to come, Pop?"

"Naw, I'm fine with my recliner and Enos. It's been a pleasure, Natalie. And keep an eye on my boy. Don't let him get too rowdy."

"He's in fine hands," she said, nudging Steve in the ribs. "I promise there'll be no misbehaving."

***

Tommy laid a generous spread on the kitchen counter: chips, dip, a vegetable platter, Italian sausages, and hot dogs. But it wasn't the food what caused our pal to blink eyes:

Stooped, shriveled, swathed in a rumpled, green tracksuit, Coach Greg Gray looked impassively at Steve while rooting through a bowl of Fritos with a shaky, age-spotted hand.

"Dad, Steve's here," Tommy badged for the third time.

Deaf to the statement, the ole ball coach licked chapped lips.

"Dad," Tommy said, snapping fingers in front of the Coach's puckered face.

Coach Gray drew a handful of corn chips and cawed, "Wha cha want?"

"Dad, Steve Ritter's here," Tommy said. "I told you he's coming, remember?"

"Of course I remember!" Coach spat.

" _Ahem._ Pardon my father. He can be...you know...ornery...sometimes," Tommy hawed.

Ornery be one thing; King George the Fifth-like behavior be something else...

Steve side-eyed Tommy and then mustered a jovial, "Hey, Coach. Long time, no see, heh?"

"Ritter," Coach said before shoving a jumble of Fritos into his mouth.

Tommy pointed to Natalie and said, "And this is-"

"Where's my water?" Coach interrupted, spitting shards of chips.

"It's...um...jeez, I don't know," Tommy said as he glanced around the kitchen. "Just relax and I'll get you another bottle from the cooler. What about you, Natalie? Soda, water-"

"Soda's fine," she answered.

"Cooler's in the garage," Tommy said, kicking his ole pal in the shin. "Mind giving me a hand? It's on the heavy side."

When they were cloistered in the frosty carpark, Tommy griped: "I made a ton of grub, bro. _A ton_. Scooter and his kids were supposed to come...but they're not. Lydia couldn't make it. B.C. bowed out. My neighbor might stop by if his wife loosens the leash. In other words, I hope you brought a doggie bag."

"Fuck the food, Tommy," snapped Steve. "What's up with your dad?"

"Ah...well, it's, uhm, it's not good, bro. Alzheimer's, the doctors tell us, and it's progressing to the moderate stage. He has good and bad days. Today...today is a good day, believe it or not. My mother deals with him most of the time, but I take Dad off her hands when I can."

"The fuck, Tommy? Alzheimer's? Why...why didn't you tell me?"

Tommy shrugged and said, "I figured...look, with all your problems you didn't need the blue news right away. So, um...surprise."

"How long?"

"Mmm...two and a half...three years. Something along those lines. I didn't mark the day on the calendar, bro. At first I thought it was Dad being Dad except with a spice of becoming an old man. But his short fuse got shorter; he repeated himself; he wouldn't get out of bed...on and on and on. Finally, after doing some research, I took him to a specialist in Rochester; the doctor diagnosed amnestic MCI, the beginning stage of Alzheimer's. She, the doctor, said the progression of his _illness_...like it's the flu...could be rapid or slow, but ten years, _best case_ , is all Dad has left. _Ten years_. Ten years of him growing crazier, wearing diapers, forgetting to wipe his ass...and that's _best case_. Given Dad's decline, I'm leaning towards the less than ten-year plan, which is why I'm willing to deal with him now. I'm told the advanced stage requires hospice care."

"Jeez, Tommy, if there's anything I can do..."

Our old pal's ole pal grabbed one of the Igloo's handles and said, "You can help me lift this thing."

"I'm serious-"

"Yea, yea, I know you're serious, but there isn't a thing to be done. This crap with Dad is no different than the crap with Chad, or the crap with your mother, or the crap with Ray Fraw, or the crap with Krissy. Death, divorces, taxes, amirite? It's life, man."

Tommy's trite response prompted a head cock from Steve.

"I'm not letting it get me down," Tommy explained as he hefted his end of the cooler. "I went through the wringer with Chad. At least I have time with Dad. Speaking of, let's get back before he runs Natalie out of here."

Brow knotted, our hero's girl sat next to Coach Gray on a sofa while the old man flailed arms and yapped. As Steve walked into view, the ole ball coach pointed a finger at our pal and rasped, "Ritter remembers, don't ya?"

"Heh...sure," Steve answered all uncomfortable-like.

Natalie informed: "Steve, he was telling me about a game where you caught two touchdown-"

"Not two, three!" Coach yelled.

"Sorry, three touchdown passes against...um..."

"Shale!" Coach bellowed. "Those motherfuckers!"

"Dad, your mouth!" Tommy shouted from the kitchen.

Steve plopped his ass on the armrest next to Natalie and put an arm around her shoulder. "Yes, the great Shale victory of '91," he boasted. "Division title on the line, an away game, hostile crowd, ice pellets and snow. Jesus, it was cold. But we kicked their behinds. Kicked 'em up and down the field to the tune of 45-6, if memory serves."

"Farnsworth stepped on your balls," Coach Gray chuckled.

"Yep, he sure did," Steve said. "Jesse Farnsworth mashed my gonads in the fourth quarter. Worthy of a personal foul, if you ask me, but high school refs tend to miss about ninety percent of the obvious penalties."

"And I got fired for hitting a kid with a fucking clipboard _in practice_!" Coach screamed.

"Dad, your mouth!" hollered Tommy.

"Ritter played pro ball," Coach whispered to Natalie as if _Ritter_ wasn't in the room. "He the _one_ kid I coached who went pro, and I ain't talking about the practice squad bullshit. _One_ out of _hundreds_. Derrick Devins shoulda gone pro, but he drowned in college, young lady. What a shame. And my son, Chad...he woulda gone pro 'cept he...hey, Tommy, do you remember when Chad got cancer?"

"I don't want to talk about Chad," Tommy said as he walked into the living room. He handed Natalie a Coke and said, "High test, dear, but I have diet at the ready."

Coach continued: "Tommy...Tommy went to Fredonia. Those fools moved him to defensive back. Can you believe it?"

Natalie took a small sip and shook her head.

"Tommy was a good quarterback," said Coach in a pensive voice. "If I woulda known Chad...got the cancer...I'd..." Then he locked eyes on his son and said, "Ritter went pro, tho."

"How 'bout we turn the pregame on," Tommy suggested.

Tapping Natalie's right arm with skeletal fingers, Coach said, "Ritter could've gone to Syracuse. Could you imagine him and Donovan McNabb on the same team? But he went to...Missouri...Michigan..."

"Minnesota," Steve said.

"It wasn't Minnesota," Coach grumbled. "Missouri...Michigan..."

A second later, the television roared to life. A table of six pundits talked shop; behind them, players in sweats jogged, tossed the ball, grooved to music...

Drawn by the noise, Coach snapped his trap and fixed eyes on the idiot box.

"Anyway, help yourself to the grub," Tommy said. "There's more than enough for thirds."

***

Tommy's neighbor, a big man named Raymond, arrived halfway through the first half bearing meager party favors: a twelver of Bud Ice and a bag of Doritos. Ray also be half-in-the-bag, but whatevs.

Upon seeing Steve, drunk ole Ray stuck out a paw and greeted, "Hey, brother, hang in there."

Alas, Big Ray's cordiality didn't extend to the New England Patriots.

Mid-way through the second quarter, Ray be all in the bag, but whatevs. The guy proved a stitch...a regular Dennis Wolfberg: snappy one-liners -complete with bulging eyes and protruding tongue- filled Tommy Gray's living room.

"I fuckin' hate Belichek," Ray carped more than a hundred times while waving his oldest or newest bottle of suds.

"When it comes to sports, some people have an emotional reaction transcending common sense," Steve whispered to Natalie.

"Oh, I know," she responded. "My father and brothers act the same way."

During Katy Perry's halftime performance, Tommy dragged Steve into a dark corner of the morning room and said, "I meant to say this earlier, but you haven't thanked me for my meddling."

"Come again?"

"You and Natalie. Seems like things are getting serious."

"Things got serious on the first date, bro."

"Yeah, and you dragged your feet after. Remember who gave you the kick."

"Well, it's a work in progress, kay? When she learned of my sullied past, I had some explaining to do."

"Doesn't appear your sullied past made much of a dent."

"She...she's a nice girl, Tommy. Better than I deserve considering."

"Uh-huh. And?"

"And nothing."

" _And?_ "

Steve snorted and then said, "Thanks, Tommy."

"You're welcome, Steve. Now, don't do anything stupid to screw it."

_Don't do anything to screw it up_ , our pals little angel seconded.

For once, the little devil be silent.

Tommy lobbed a playful punch into Steve's shoulder and said, "Because if you do, I'll never hear the end of it from Lydia."

***

Katy Perry came and went...

The third quarter three came and went...

New England took a 28-24 lead with 2:02 left in the game when Julian Edelman snagged a three-yard pass from Tom Brady.

Tommy groaned.

Ray blew a raspberry.

Coach Gray wrinkled his nose.

"Oh my god, this is a nail biter," Natalie squealed.

Meantime, our pal reminisced.

He missed his chance to play in the Big Game.

Oh, he was there...

There, in Glendale, standing on the sidelines, right arm in a sling, bedecked in warmup gear.

There, one of the 65,000 spectators.

There watching

Steve Ritter would never say: _I played in the Big Game._

Even a single reception for negative one hundred yards be something instead of nothing.

Or close to nothing; he got a ring for being a glorified cheerleader.

All cuz his stoopid collarbone got broken on a stoopid cheap ass hit by a stoopid punk ass-bee-atch...

***

Steve pulled into the driveway, gave the wipers a couple swipes and then twisted 'em off.

Seconds later, powder covered the windshield.

"Jeez, Natalie, I don't want you travelling in this mess," he pestered. "It's slippery, visibility sucks and...and it's not smart."

"You want me to stay the night?"

"I'd feel better if you weren't on the roads."

"I...I don't know," hawed she. "I've driven in snow before...and...and besides, what about your father?"

"For real?"

"It's uncouth, Steve. I met him four hours ago."

"He won't care."

"But-"

"Then we'll sleep in separate rooms...hell, separate floors, kay?"

"Look, I have a meeting at _eight-thirty_ tomorrow morning. Getting up super early, driving home, taking a shower, doing my hair...you see what I mean? I don't need the added hassle."

He wouldn't win the argument, but he badgered another five minutes until Natalie grabbed his thigh and intoned: "I'm a big girl, Steve. If I run into any problems, I'll call. And I'll phone when I get home just to rub it in your face."

So, tucked into the white Sportage, she departed into the snowy frenzy; he watched the vehicle disappear and fretted: _I should've followed her. White on white will be impossible to find_...

Vexed, he went inside, collected the cordless and began pacing the kitchen. From the living room, the old man greeted: "I've never seen a worse play call in my life. Why would you not hand the ball to Lynch?"

Head down...staring at the phone...expecting it to ring, Steve made a few dozen orbits of the kitchen table until Stan appeared in the doorway.

"What are you doing?" hisself asked.

Grumbled our hero: "Natalie insisted on driving home. She's gonna call if something happens, or even if it doesn't."

"I'm sure she'll be fine."

"Have you looked outside?" Steve asked as gestured at the window.

"I took Enos out a half-hour ago."

"Okay, then you know what's-what."

" _What's-what?_ Maybe you've lived in the desert too long. It's just a little snow, kiddo."

"Three or four inches isn't a little snow."

"Last March, we got twenty-three inches in thirty hours."

"So?"

" _So,_ you weren't waiting for my call with bated breath."

Steve sighed and then set the phone on the counter. "Greg Gray has Alzheimer's," he announced, crossing arms.

"Oh...oh, jeez..." Stan whispered.

"Uh-huh. I found out tonight when I came face-to-face with the poor guy."

"How bad is he?"

"Advancing to the moderate stage, Tommy said. I mean, there's a bulb shining; Coach can hold a conversation, he just...all a sudden, he loses his train of thought, kay? He zones out...stares into space...gets confused."

"I haven't heard a word about Greg Gray, but I don't run in those circles anymore. My involvement with Cairo sports ended the day you graduated."

"Well, Tommy's handling it a lot better than I would."

All matter of fact-like, the old man said, "Yeah, you weren't a peach when your mother got sick, but that's a discussion for another time, Steven. I'm headed upstairs. See you in the A.M."

"G'night," our pal garbled.

As winds buffeted the house and snow swirled around the kitchen window, Steve sat Shiva next to the cordless...

Scrunching his brow...

Clenching and unclenching his hands...

Thinking about his mother...

Until, at last, Natalie rang and rubbed it in his face.

# 17. Coaches Meeting

On a Saturday morning in mid-March, Tommy summoned Cairo's coaching staff for a meet-and-greet slash brainstorming session at Pinky's.

Walking into the diner kinda sorta made our pal apprehensive: he didn't wanna step on toes; he didn't wanna ruin cohesion; he didn't wanna be a distraction.

Tommy made it clear to his ole pal ( _many, many_ times): _Don't be nervous, bro. Everybody is jazzed._

Still...

It helped (or maybe it didn't) our pal knew several of the coaches:

Scooter ( _Our offensive guru_ , saith Tommy) shook Steve's hand and said, "Long time, Ritter."

Indeed, a long motherhumpin' time...which, in this instance, equated to twenty motherhumpin' years.

Twenty!

Gone were Scooter's blond locks; a shiny chrome dome now ruled the little fellow's melon. But disregarding the scourge of baldness, Scooter looked good for his age: creaseless baby face; single chin; no sign of the standard issue middle-aged beer gut.

B.C., on the other hand, kinda sorta let hisself go. He'd always been a big dude (two-twenty or so in high school cuz cornfed, cracker ass lineman from the sticks were seldom sprite-like), but twenty years of doing nothing but teaching p.e. added girth to B.C.'s frame.

A whole lotta girth.

At least one hundred pounds of girth.

"Ritter," B.C. said in a rumbling baritone. "How's it hanging, my man?"

"Just a smidge shorter than your turkey gobbler, Billy," Steve rejoined.

"This guy," chuckled B.C. "Mista Smart Mouth."

Jerking his head at black man standing to B.C.'s right, Tommy said: "Sam Rhoden, our linebacker coach and defensive coordinator. Sam coached at Rochester Union for ten years and brings a...a whatchacallit?"

"The cliché known as hard-nosed football," answered Sam.

Tommy continued: "Last, the skinny moke next to Sam is Adam Waters, also known as the Waterboy."

"I got high quality H2O," Waters said in a pedestrian Adam Sandler imitation.

"The Waterboy is a Saint John Fisher grad," Tommy explained. "He was also a free safety and wide receiver for me in aught-nine. Adam's our eye in the sky."

"I prefer Lord of the Scissor Lift," Waters said through a smile.

"We are missing one assistant," Tommy said. "John Timmons, our special teams guru, is coaching in an indoor soccer tournament this weekend."

"Indoor soccer," scoffed B.C.

"His kid's a goalie or something," Tommy said. "Anyway, Johnny sends his regards and so forth. Alright, whadda say? Shall we get this shindig underway?"

***

After commandeering a table at the rear of Pinky's, Tommy recapped the previous season ( _two wins, trial by fire, lots of returning starters, yadda yadda_ ), distributed the schedule for the forthcoming one, and then issued a bold directive:

"I want _The Block_ ," hisself said, crossing arms.

Cairo hadn't won _The Block_ -a Section Championship- in fourteen years...

(NYSAA, the New York High School Athletic Association, divided the state into eight geographical sections; furthermore, each section was separated into five classes based on school size: AA, A, B, C, D. Cairo played in Section V...had always played in Section V...but in the twenty years following Steve's graduation, Cairo's classification dropped from A to C. Suburban life culled those with money; those who remained in Podunksville would've prolly left too, but they be stuck in a lower middle-class rut.)

...Coach Greg Gray's second to last season.

"Uh, Bossman, we haven't made the playoffs in six years," B.C. said. "I'd do cartwheels if we won our division."

"Guys, I'm tired of watching this program swirl down the drain," Tommy said. "We're returning twenty-six players...half of them starters...who got kicked up and down the field last year. If our boys can't find inspiration in that, then we are terrible motivators."

"Everybody here wants _The Block_ ," B.C. said. "But going from two wins to section champs will be...it'll be a challenge."

"Billy...everybody...I want you to consider something," Tommy said. "In ten years, give or take, Cairo High will cease to exist. I mean, the writing is on the wall. Cairo, Luxor, Atlanta, Branchport...these and other shrinking communities will be smushed into one school. What do you have? The CLAB Whatnots with a storied history of _naught_. Before the Crows go the way of the Dodo, I wanna put another mark on the sign in front of Dewey Field. Being said, let's peek at the schedule..."

2015 Cairo Crows

9/4 at Baker (FL NORTH)

9/12 BYRON-BERGEN (ND)

9/19 EAST ROCHESTER (FL NORTH)

9/25 at Shale (FL NORTH)

10/2 at Lyons (FL NORTH)

10/10 CAYUGA (FL NORTH)

10/16 at Branchport (ND)

10/24 CLASS C QUATERFINAL

10/31 CLASS C SEMIFINAL

11/7 CLASS C FINAL

Said Tommy: "Steve, we're in the Fingers Lakes North Division now. Apart from Shale, we don't have a lengthy history with the other schools in the F-L-N. What's our record against Baker, Adam?"

"Two up, zero down," The Waterboy answered.

"Right, we've beat 'em the last two seasons," Tommy said with a head nod. "Byron is a non-divisional; I couldn't tell you spit about 'em. It doesn't matter, tho; our season is made or broken during the following four. Those divisional games determine playoff spots. F-L-N seeds four; there are six teams. Easy peasy math."

Ever the optimist, Scooter said, "I see seven wins, Tommy. Seven wins, plus the three playoff games...easy peasy math."

"Scoot, I don't expect perfection. Three divisional wins gets us a quarterfinal slot. After that...shoot, anything can happen in the playoffs. But forget about the playoffs for a sec. Three victories in our division won't be easy. We already talked about Baker. Shale...as usual, they're the team to beat. Lyons, East R-oh-C, Cayuga...who can say? Those three beat us last year, but graduating seniors have opened holes. In any case, our success swings on a couple hinges. One, Steve and Scooter will put their heads together and get us hummin' on offense. Two...er..." Tommy glanced around the table and then said, "We can't afford stupid injuries. I understand games are games and people will get hurt. 'Tis a fact o' life. But the stupid injuries are preventable. As such, I propose we don't hit in practice."

" _What?!_ " squawked B.C. "No hitting? No tackling drills?"

Answered Tommy: "The kids will go through the motion of form tackling, and we'll correct errors and so forth. But we won't complete the drill, B.C. And there'll be no more punitive blood circles and shit. I want to keep our players healthy."

"Jeez, Bossman," B.C. griped. "The point of Hell Week is getting so racked you can't see straight."

"Why?" Tommy asked.

B.C. gawked at the _Bossman_ and then growled, "Getting hit toughens them up."

"Steve, tell Bill what you told me about playing in college and the pros," Tommy said.

"Uh..." Steve garbled, feeling toasty as the others stared at him. " _Ahem_...I mentioned, you know, we didn't hit when I got to college and the pros."

"Bah," B.C. rasped. "I say, practice makes perfect."

Sam piped: "I like it. Something different, man."

"Me too," Scooter seconded.

"It ain't up for a vote," Tommy said. "However, the next couple suggestions are proffered for solicitation. So...guys, we need to think outside the box, and I'm not yipping about a flea flicker here and an all-out blitz there. I'm talking _novel_ ideas. I'm talking...for instance...regardless of field position, we go for it on fourth down. No punting...no field goal attempts...and no point after b.s. We're lining up for two when we score. And when we're obliged to kickoff, I propose only onside kicks-"

"Hold on!" B.C. cried. He looked at our pal and asked, "You talk him into this nonsense, Ritter?"

"Yeah, I don't know, Tommy," Scooter said. "No punting from _anywhere_ on the field? What if we're on our own one and its fourth-and-thirty?"

"Maybe we take a safety," Tommy said.

"And give our opponent two points?" asked The Waterboy.

" _And_ the ball," B.C. scoffed.

"What's the best-case scenario in a situation like this?" Tommy said. "Think about it. On a good day with a perfect snap, our punter _maybe_ crushes a thirty-yard punt. But maybe our punt is blocked; maybe the snapper sails it out of the endzone; may-"

" _Maybe_ ," Bill interrupted, "their returner muffs the ball and we recover. Or, _maybe_ , we can play _maybe_ scenarios for eternity. Or _maybe_ we're better off punting, Bossman."

"You want to know what the statistics say, Billy?"

"I bet they say every team since the dawn of football scored one hundred percent of the time when they started a drive on their opponents one-yard line."

Tommy opened a brown folder and dealt Excel spreadsheets around the table. Head down, eyes pinballing, hisself said: "I've been working on this since the end of December. The data goes back six seasons...and...look, line twenty. Seventy-seven percent of the time our opponents started with the ball on our half of the field they scored a touchdown. _Seventy-seven percent_. It doesn't matter if we punt or go for it from our one, B.C. Either way, our opponent is _probably_ going to score. And when they do score, it's _probably_ gonna be a touchdown. What do we lose?"

"Okay," B.C. said after a lengthy pause. "Okay...but if we're at our own thirty-nine and...say its fourth and ten...if we go for it and don't get the first down, then we're _statistically_ giving them a better chance to score than if we punt the ball into their end of the field."

Tommy shook the paper and said, "Dude, we've given up points on forty-three percent of all drives, regardless of where the drive starts. At our level of football, the field position battle is overrated. The longer we keep the ball, the better off we are."

"It sounds like you don't trust the defense," Sam said.

"I'm presenting facts, Sam," Tommy responded. "And here's another fact: if we keep doing the same thing, we can expect the same result. It's time we altered our strategy, doncha think?"

"What about the onside kick stuff?" The Waterboy asked. "Every time? Even if we're up by six with thirty seconds left?"

"There will be _certain_ situations when a regular kickoff is warranted," Tommy answered. "As for field goals and extra points...I mean, let's be real about our kickers. We've hit nine of twenty-three field goals in the last six years, and none of the made kicks were longer than thirty yards. Extra points? _Sixty-three percent_. _Pfft._ I say send the kicking game to the scrap heap. When you consider the..."

Our pal half-listened and perused the data as his ole pal spun a few more yarns from said data. Steve wasn't a fan of metrics, but gamblers and gurus swore by the stuff. Alleged those sage folks: algorithms and whatnots are discernable through meticulous study of the what's-what...

But the what's-what couldn't predict human behavior in the heat of competition...

Which meant playing voodoo with the norms of the sport would trigger unpredictable reactions...

Steve leaned back, smiled, and twiddled thumbs.

"Anyway..." Tommy concluded as he smoothed his sheet. "Those are my suggestions, reinforced by fact."

"How do I know your facts aren't manipulated?" B.C. asked.

"Billy, you've stood on the sidelines for the last six years. Tell me I'm lying."

"Then what're you saying, Bossman? Are your _suggestions_ the law of the land come spring?"

"Not until after we vote on the motions," Tommy said, all officious-like.

"Wonderful. I vote _no_ on _everything_ ," B.C. said.

"Noted," said Tommy. "Adam, what say you?"

Before the Waterboy could respond, Steve steamrolled: "Tommy, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but the-"

Interrupted Tommy: "You won't hurt my feelings by voting no, Steve."

"I'm not worried about your feelings; I'm worried about team cohesion. Everybody must agree or there'll be squabbling and finger-pointing. I'm not telling you how to run your boat, but these changes you're proposing? It has to be a unanimous consensus."

"He's right," Sam said.

Scooter nodded his head.

"All that aside, Tommy makes a salient point," Steve said. "Forget the novelty; it boils down to time of possession. The longer we have the ball-"

"I know how time of possession works," B.C. bristled. "I also know giving up the ball every four plays isn't a way to keep possession."

"Listen, I'm not saying there aren't kinks, but would it hurt to see how the kids react?" Steve asked.

"I guess it wouldn't," Scooter said. "They might even get excited."

Sam and The Waterboy concurred with grunts.

"You guys are saying _aye_?" Tommy asked.

"I see," B.C. grumbled. "The mob has spoken, eh? Well, I stand by my _nay_."

Scooter winked at Steve and said, "Ritter and I will devise some jive ass fourth down plays."

"The jivest," our pal said.

"What would it hurt to experiment in practice, Bill?" Tommy asked.

B.C. sighed and then pushed his paper aside like bad grub...

"Aye?" Tommy pressed.

"Fuck it," B.C. huffed. "You wanna play Doctor Frankenstein? Fine. No hitting? Fine. Have at it, Bossman. Let's see what happens."

***

The official meeting broke not long after B.C. threw in the towel, but Tommy told Scooter and Steve to stick around for a "brief" discussion about the offense.

"I didn't want another extended powwow with B.C.," Tommy explained. "Besides, his domain begins and ends with the line. We...the three of us...are gonna mastermind ways to get our big play guys the football."

"One problem is, we lack big play guys," Scooter said. "But we lack big play guys because lack big plays. I'll be the first to admit my scheme at the beginning of last season was too conservative. Pro-set formation, heavy on the run, feed the halfback. Abe Mora is a beast; he can handle twenty-five carries a game. Unfortunately, our o-line couldn't hold blocks between the tackles. Ergo, to get Abe space, the running game amounted to tosses and sweeps. Well, we had _a lot_ of three and outs. I wised up around week four, revamped the offense to a single-back, three-wide look, and told the quarterback to let it fly. Jonesy...Tyler Jones...threw close to ninety passes over the last three games."

"Ninety?" Steve laughed. "As in nine and zero."

"Ninety," Scooter confirmed.

"Tyler Jones has a live arm," Tommy said. "He played outstanding for a sophomore lacking varsity experience. I expect he'll be more potent this season, but the receivers need work, Steve."

"What's the blow-by-blow?"

"A couple returning starters," Scooter said. "Medium speed, decent hands, nothing special. I'd like four in the pattern, plus the back...up-tempo, spread it out, see? These teams in the F-L-N? They play run first man, which means Abe will get plenty of chances one-on-one with a linebacker. What I need are kids who can be the third, fourth, fifth and sixth receiver. We're blessed with wideouts lacing experience...some lacking football intelligence...but we gotta have them clicking. Part of the issue last year was...well, to be blunt, Ray-"

"Our receiver coach was a turd," Tommy finished.

"Yeah, he checked out long before the season started," Scooter added.

Tommy explained: "Ray Wheeler...you wouldn't know him, Steve...taught physics...retired in June...also coached track. Not real imaginative when it came to our receiving corps. _Run fast,_ he told them. Anyway, like Scoot said, Ray counted the days until the school bell rung for the final time in his head."

"I kept it dumb AF last year," Scooter said. "No bells, whistles, audibles or check downs. This year? We're doing a complete one-eighty."

"Some of these dudes gotta have JV experience," Steve said.

"The JV program got shitcanned three years ago," Tommy said. "Not enough participants. So, I'll take anyone who wants to play, whatever year they are, however uncoordinated they may be. The legless, the blind, the unsavvy, the-"

Steve waved his arms and joked, "Bossman, you're putting a lot on the plate of a _part-time volunteer_."

Snapping fingers, Tommy replied: "Welp, you and you have two months before spring ball begins. Blueprint the bitch now, get the foundation poured in April, build the structure in June during the passing league, and put the roof on in August. Bing, bang, boom..."

***

Our pal dropped the box of DVD's on the hardwood in front of the basement door and announced: "Study material."

While pouring a cup of joe, the old man squawked, "Wha?"

"Game film... _films_...dating back a couple years."

"Game films," Stan mused as he set the pot onto the burner.

"You should've heard Tommy. He wants to roll out the Greatest Show on Turf, high school edition. I'm gonna break down...stuff...and...you know...figure shit out."

"Sounds like you have a solid plan," laughed the old man.

"Baby steps."

"By the way, a Roberta Maxwell phoned. Call at your convenience."

"Nothing else?"

"Nope."

"My attorney," Steve said as he grabbed a coffee cup.

"I remember."

"My attorney on a Saturday, no less. Must be dandy news..."

Turned out the news be sorta dandy; when Steve phoned Missus Maxwell an hour later, hisself's attorney said the mediation date could be moved to the first week of March...

"...if you desire," finished herself.

# 18. Steve Goes To Phoenix

The factual: Slipping happens.

The actual factual: Steve knew goin' to Phoenix wasn't the smoothest move...

He knew goin' to Phoenix presented a slippery slope...

But he thought...

_Correction:_ The little devil on his shoulder said: _You can handle it._

And you know what? Our pal was gonna handle _it_. Showing Susan -and her cunt of a lawyer- Steve Ritter be a man of staid, sober disposition squashed his desire to get _tore the fuck up_...

...until he arrived at KROC for the 0600 flight to KDTW (Fun fact: our pal, the savvy traveler, knew bunches of ICAO codes...but whatevs).

The 50-seat regional jet ( _Operated by Pinnacle Airways_ , the haggard flight attendant reported) is not a comfortable mode of transportation for a tall drink of water or a squat fatbody; worse, Steve's seatmate be an _or_...

Her flabby arm; a screaming cabin missile from somewhere behind him; turbulence...

All he wanted was a l'il plastic cup of apple juice; but after takeoff, the FA announced: _'The captain has instructed me to remain seated due to choppy air.'_

Thereafter, the stew's ass moved naught from her jumpseat for the duration of the fifty-five-minute flight.

Fifty-five miserable minutes...plus a two-hour layover in KDTW...plus another three hours and forty-three minutes to KPHX...

Steve hated flying; he hated flying just a tad less than cancer and paroles who murdered young women for _no good_ reason.

747's blew up for _no good_ reason; 727's hit dinky Cessna's and rained body parts on sunny San Diego for _no good_ reason; DC-10's flew into windshear for _no good_ reason...or lost cargo doors over Paris for _no good_ reason...or had engines flip over their wing on takeoff for _no good_ reason...

Um-hmm. Steve Ritter knew a thing or two about airplane catastrophes...

Knute Rockne; Bo Rein; Payne Stewart; Marshall U; U of Evansville; Wichita State; the soccer team what crashed in the Andes and ate each other...

Point being, there be a lot of _no good_ reasons why flying sucked poopie elephant ass.

He considered the _no good_ reasons quite a bit while stuffed in airplanes and sitting in terminals.

Yet he hadn't thought of them _no good_ reasons when he booked the trip.

Stoopid Steve.

Stoopid Steve giving his mind license to wander...

Amidst the travelling maelstrom, those _no good_ reasons hounded!

Just one drink...

A predeparture beer in one of Metro's overpriced watering holes...

Or a teeny-weeny bottle of booze on the flight to Phoenix.

And if only he had a Xanax.

A pop and a pill...

_Poof._ Them _no good_ reasons ceased to exist after a pop and a pill.

But he didn't have a Xanax, which meant our pal required two predeparture beers...

Or two teeny-weeny bottles of booze on the flight to Phoenix.

Or maybe three...

Aye, he'd catch a nifty kip after three teeny-weeny bottles of booze.

Steve did the uncomplicated mathematicals in his head a dozen times.

He convinced hisself: _Hisself, you will stop at three. At three, you lay your pretty head back, close eyes, and fall asleep. At three, Steve. At three..._

_At three_...humph.

Lickety-split, _at three_ would grow to _at four_...

And then _at five_...

And then _at x_...

And then it be whooshy, down the slide...

And tho he knew sublime dislocation proved a fleeting respite...

If you haven't been there, the desire is difficult to describe!

When the clock is a demon,

When the _special place_ teases,

When gettin' stoned, swept of them _no good_ reasons...

_Bah!_ Our hero tossed the mathematicals aside; he clenched hands; ground teeth; closed his eyes.

Natalie offered to come.

Saith herself: _We'll make a week of it._

He pooh-poohed the idea.

Why drag her further into the wreck of his past life?

_You better call, mister,_ she ordered.

Like he was a toddler learning how to stand, Natalie knew he needed a steady hand.

Her intentions were righteous...

Tho...maybe a tad overbearing...

A tad overbearing _but_ righteous.

Kinda like the good angel what flicked his ear and implored: Y _ou've been sober 146 days, fella. Let's keep the streak rollin', kay?_

So, instead of a beer (or three), Steve bought two magazines.

Somehow, he kept his peepers glued to the small print.

Somehow, he kept his shit together.

***

Picture hisself in the stuffy conference room:

Dressed in a dark suit,

Neck cinched with a red tie,

Sitting ramrod straight,

Ten stories above the Phoenix asphalt.

It be hot for early March.

Eighty-something degrees.

Dust motes danced in the air.

The tinted windows behind him radiated heat.

From across the table, Susan's apathetic stare.

Next to herself, Mizz Rector slapped paper after paper on the mahogany top.

Next to hisself, Missus Maxwell collected and then slid said papers to Steve.

Quiet-like, Missus Maxwell told him where to sign (including middle name); where to initial; where to date...

The ass end of the rectangular table (or the front...whatever), the mediator perused the mounding stack.

It cost five thousand smackers for the whim-wham adjudication...

But in the lift afterwards, Missus Maxwell said our pal came out better than expected: spousal support...thirded; asset distribution...sixty/forty; the ex-missus couldn't touch his portfolio.

"This isn't a Pyrrhic victory," Missus Maxwell claimed over the dings of passing floors. "Arbitration is often a-"

"Can you get a message to my ex-wife," Steve interrupted.

"Uh...well, I can try, but I won't be wrangled into a testy back-and-forth with Miss Rector."

Ding. Ding. Ding.

"I just want to talk to Susan, Maureen."

"My advice? Wait a few days. She looked none too pleased upstairs."

Ding. Ding

"In a few days, I'll be in New York."

"Perfect."

"Perfect?"

"The thousands of miles between New York and Phoenix is a _perfect_ distance to _attempt_ a conversation with your ex-wife. Pick up the phone, dial her number-"

"Uh-uh. I gotta do it face-to-face."

Ding.

The elevator jerked to a stop.

"I'll pass the message," Missus Maxwell said as the doors opened. "Three rules, tho: one, you meet in a public place; two, if she's under the influence, you leave _at once_ ; three should go without saying. Understand?"

Our hero nudged past Missus Maxwell and said, "Everybody will be sober, kay?"

***

As always, she looked gorgeous:

Blond hair pulled into a ponytail; pleated black skirt; a tight, white 3/4 Foxcroft; the seven hundred seventy-five-dollar Christian Louboutin's...

Like the Raven tapping at the chamber door, Susan's metronomic heels _clacked-clacked-clacked_ on the Travertine floor.

He wasn't certain how the conversation would go, but he figured the eight customers in the Starbucks might be in for quite the show. The former lovebirds hadn't seen each other since she stormed out of _His_ house the day after Steve had his mostest Lee Weyer Bad Day.

They conversed once since then.

A brief but civil discussion over the phone.

Nothing what closed the door, tho.

Cuz if the door remained open...

Susan bypassed the counter, took a seat and fixed him with her S.I. apathetic stare.

Our pal cleared his throat and then said, "I'm glad you came."

"You look well," she said all prissy-like. "I guess sobriety has stuck."

He shrugged and said, "It hasn't been easy, but I've stayed clean."

"Good."

"Good, huh? I figured you'd feel otherwise."

She frowned and said, "What kind of a person do you think I am?"

A snarky response ( _One who served me papers in rehab, for starters_ ) crossed his mind. Instead, he added two packets of sugar to the scalding grande.

As if reading his thoughts, she huffed: "Steven, what do you want?"

"Look, there's something I need to get off my chest. I'm sorry, Sue. Sorry for putting you through the wringer; sorry for embarrassing you; sorry for everything I did. I know apologies probably don't mean-"

"Probably?" she snorted.

"I...uh...okay, you don't wanna hear it, but I thought I'd try," hacked hisself. "So...I'm gonna leave now and...like...I hope you have a good life, kay?"

"Hold on. You had your time; I get mine. I've been thinking about what I'd say to you; I've been stressing over how _I_ could keep my temper because _I_ didn't want to upset _you_. Ha! You think you're sorry? I have _soooo_ many sorries, Steven. Countless sorries. I'm sorry I spent eleven years in a marriage when I knew where it was headed. I'm sorry I didn't put my foot down with the _gettin' high and tight_ bullshit. Oh...you know what else makes me sorry? I'll never get over this; I'll never forget how you treated me like a road whore. I loved you; I gave myself to you; I wanted kids with you; I wanted to grow old with you. It meant nothing... _noth-ing_...to you."

Steve dropped his head; stared onto the coffee; felt warm steam on his face...

"But of all the sorries, I'm sorry you believe I'd ever wish you ill will," she hissed. "Your mind is fucked up, Steven."

And that was that.

Susan stood, smoothed her skirt, and then walked away...

_Clack-clack-clack_.

***

Alone, watching the Valley from his _soon-to-be_ old home nestled in the McDowell's.

Facing southwest, the third-floor bedroom balcony provided a panoramic view of Phoenix.

Many a night...

Many a night he stared at the twinkling city lights...

Many a _tore the fuck up_ night wondering who be fornicatin'...

Who be gettin' murdered...

Who be _tore the fuck up_ like him?

Sigh.

He checked his watch (ten after seven in Arizona...plus three...equaled...ten after ten in New York) and then punched Natalie's number in the cordless.

Five metronomic tones later, she greeted with a hoarse, "Hi, Steve."

"Shit, I woke you, didn't I?"

"Kinda...but it's fine. I'm glad you're calling."

"I meant to phone earlier, but between mediation and, uhm, other activities, time got away."

"How'd it go?"

"I'm not destitute so...splendid, I guess."

"You don't sound happy."

"Oh...I-I'm standing on my balcony, watching the sun set...thinking about...stuff."

"Stuff, huh? Sounds serious."

"Susan and I sat down today."

Silence.

"Anyway, the movers come tomorrow," he said. "Susan is taking most of the furniture, not like I care. I'm selling my crap to RAC...taking my clothes and shoes to Goodwill. Day after next, I'll be winging back."

"RAC?"

"Rent-A-Center."

"You're not keeping anything?"

"I already took what I wanted."

_And burned it to a crisp before pissing on it,_ the little devil chuckled.

Our pal cleared his throat and then said: "Look, it's late. I'll let you go."

"Steve, are you okay?"

"Sure, I'm swell."

"Nothing's bothering you?"

"Bothered? Hell and no. I'm putting a shitty portion of my life to pasture. Closing the door. Out with the old. Turning a new leaf. Have I missed a snappy cliché?"

"What did she say?"

"She...she let me know I'm fucked in the head, but I already knew as much."

"Then it didn't go well."

"Susan's right about everything she said. I shouldn't have married her, kay? Then I wouldn't be standing here wishing a thousand things went a thousand different ways."

"Okay, okay, I can tell you're stressed. Take a deep breath and let me help you focus on something else."

"Like the weather?" he laughed. "Surprise! It's hot as fuck here."

"Like...how 'bout dinner this weekend?"

"Yeah...great...dinner," teased he. "Our dinners are _never_ a stressful experience."

"I'll whip up something at my place. It'll be low key."

"What's your specialty?"

"Pizza rolls and ice cream."

He chuckled.

"See, I can change your mood in an instant. I have ninja skills, Steve."

"Pizza rolls and ice cream sounds perfect to me."

"You didn't ask what kind of ice cream."

"Does it matter? Ice cream is ice cream."

"You make a strong argument."

"Why don't we go out again? Someplace...swanky. A swanky someplace with a dearth of wayward youths."

"Dearth? Wow, I'm impressed."

"I know a few big words."

"Steve, I don't mind cooking. In fact, I insist. I'll light candles, we'll make eyes at each other...maybe watch a movie later..."

"Huh, go figure. I'm thinkin' the same thing."

"Then it's a date..."

***

Natalie whipped up _something_ which, in theory, looked edible. Starving people in one of them famine shitholes _might have_ consumed the grub as a last resort.

Rubbery spaghetti; freezer burned garlic bread; teeny turd looking meatballs...

She ate the latter, grimaced, and set her fork aside.

"They're a tad overcooked," Steve said through smile. "And so is the spaghetti. You might want to tell the chef."

"Ha-ha," she said, throwing her napkin at him.

"Why don't you let me pick the location next time? The food at this swanky joint is naught up to par."

"I bit off more than I could chew."

"Regrettably, I did the same," he side-mouthed à la Groucho Marx.

"Jeez," she laughed. "Message received."

Steve patted her arm and said, "It's the thought, right?"

"I more than capable of making thoughts count...except with food."

He shoved his plate aside and declared, "Then why don't you let me make popcorn and we'll skip to movie time."

"Popcorn...I can handle popcorn."

"With butter, kay? And make extra. Unlike _The Caine Mutiny_ , we're making it to the end of _Johnny Eager_."

" _Johnny Eager_?"

"I did my homework before I came over. The flick start at eight, which means you have thirty-nine minutes to conjure said popcorn with butter."

"To the end of _Johnny Eager_ , huh? Those are strong words."

"It's a classic, Natalie. Robert Taylor, Lana Turner...Van Heflin. Heflin won an Academy Award."

"You're quite the learned scholar."

"I told you I graduated _with honors_."

"And you like to read, which is also very sexy."

"Read?"

"George Knightly?"

"Heh...George," he snickered. "I hate to shatter your lofty picture of me, but I've never read _Emma_."

"Shucks. I anticipated a discussion about the book."

"Wishful thinking. Now, my high school girlfriend dug Austin, Marryat, the Brontës...all of 'em Victorian authors. She read me their stories and poems; I thought they were boring. Long-winded, you know?"

"She read to you?"

"Not cuz I can't read, in case you're wondering. Krissy enjoyed discussing the whatnots and whodats and all that mounding _boring crap_."

"Your ex-wife wasn't your high school sweetheart?"

"Susan? Please. Not even close. I met Susan in 2002, when I played for the Patriots. She bartended at a ritzy place in Easton, the Whittle Club, a joint my teammates and I frequented after practices and games. The chemistry between us was instant, but she didn't care about books and movies. We just had this, you know, outrageous sensual spark. Now, I admit, I pulled the trigger a hair quick on the marriage deal. Call it a...a moment of weakness; or I tired of the same ole; or I thought-"

" _The same ole_?"

"The life of a swinging bachelor gets tedious after a while."

"Oh, I'm sure," Natalie responded in a mock-baritone.

"Susan dug me, and it was nice to feel something more than the same ole. We had fun together, too. Both of us, in our late twenties, a prince and princess with disposable income... _my_ disposable income, but whatevs. I thought, foolishly as it turns out, I would have a good run in New England. Four, five, six years...maybe I'd never leave. We'd live a nice life, I'd be a Big Deal in Boston until I died, everyone is satisfied...roll credits. But I got hurt...we moved to Arizona...I got hurt again...anyway, you know how the story ends. Most of it is on me; I'm the one who cultivated an addiction. Susan saw what was happening; she tried slowing my roll...but there's nothing she could've done. For a while she harped this... _kid, kid, kid,_ mantra, and I-

"Kid?"

"I think she believed kids would've kept me from becoming an addled fool."

"Or maybe she wanted kids."

"Maybe, but Susan couldn't conceive. We did the tests; we got the whatchacall expensive options. The medical procedures weren't surefire; surrogacy seemed bizarre, at least to me; adoption...naw. So, I put the kibosh on the kid dreams. She didn't...Susan didn't understand. But I reasoned it wasn't meant to be, you know what I mean?"

"Do you want kids?"

Our pal immediately regretted blabbing about Krissy, Susan and rug rats; he coughed, checked his watch and then said, "I haven't thought about it in a long time."

"I'd like to have kids. Not a litter; two...three, at most."

"We should get the popcorn moving," Steve said as he tapped his watch face. "T-minus thirty-three minutes until _Johnny Eager_."

Natalie cracked a half-smile and pushed from the table. "I don't mean to be aggressive," she said. "I'm just curious about your thoughts."

"How 'bout this thought: no more kids, or wives or exes talk tonight," he said, tossing his napkin onto the table. "Tonight's a _Johnny Eager_ night..."

# 19. Spring, 2015

_Coach_ Steve Ritter was introduced to the Cairo football team on a dreary spring afternoon in mid-April.

Five days of nonstop rain turned Dewey Field into a swamp; with zero options, Tommy corralled everyone (forty-nine kids and seven coaches) into the gym. The players, sitting Indian style in a semi-circle around the brain trust, sounded like six thousand...and _Coach_ Steve Ritter felt like they were all talking about him. Attempting to portray an air of indifference, our newest coach stared at the far wall, puffed out his chest, and sucked in his gut.

"Attention!" Tommy hollered. "Silence! Silencio! It's football time, men!"

A beefy kid in front raised both arms and bellowed: "YO! FOOTBALL TIME! SHADDUP!"

"Thank you, Liam," Tommy said. " _Ahem._ Welcome old; welcome new. Most of you know me, but if you don't, I'm Coach Gray..."

Standing to Steve's left, B.C. elbowed our hero and whispered, "We're up a dozen from last year."

"A dozen?" Steve responded out of the corner of his mouth.

"We had thirty-seven for spring ball. Thirty-five stuck around through Camp Bristol."

"Thirty-five? Jeez, we carried fifty-five back in our day."

"Yep, and don't forget J.V."

Meantime, Tommy babbled hackneyed footballisms to the slack-jawed teenagers: Commitment _and_ enthusiasm; determination _and_ desire; sportsmanship _and_ accountability...

Steve stifled a yawn; he studied Cairo's Section V championship pennants tacked high on the opposite wall. _Boys Cross Country: 1995, 1996, 2001, 2002; Girls Track and Field: 2002, 2003; Boys Basketball: 1996, 1997; Football: 1990, 1991_ ; and a couple more ( _Hockey, Lacrosse, Soccer_ ), none more recent than 2004...

After the protracted rah-rah, the ball coach commenced introductions; he began with Scooter, who received a vigorous round of applause...

B.C....

Sam...

The Waterboy...

John Timmons...

"...and last but not least, Steve Ritter," announced our pal's ole pal.

Our stony-faced hero stepped forward as the air filled with adolescent whispers.

"Coach Ritter will work with the receivers and defensive backs," Tommy said. "This is his first year with the team, but Coach Ritter had a stellar collegiate and professional career. I expect his sage advice will prove invaluable. Anything to add, Coach?"

"I'm excited to be here," Steve said. "Like Tommy...er...Coach Gray mentioned, give one-hundred ten percent and...and all the rest, kay?"

"Thanks, Coach Ritter," Tommy said, slapping his ole pal on the back. "Okay, men, I know it's tight in here, but let's line up six deep for stretching...

***

When time came to split into indy groups, Steve shepherded his flock of eleven into the film room and told them to gather a desk. Lo, he fashioned a nice speech (practiced to perfection in the bathroom mirror), but standing in front of the boys, the nice, tidy speech petered to naught.

_They're only teenagers,_ the angel on his shoulder reminded.

_But they've seen your pee-pee_ , countered the little devil.

Steve cleared his throat and then said: "If you're not a receiver or defensive back, you're in the wrong place."

Nobody moved; somebody coughed.

_So much for the grand speech_ , the little devil said.

"We're gonna do something I learned in college," Steve said as he passed out papers and pencils. "Write your name on the top, then jot down both team and personal goals you'd like to accomplish this season."

A skinny kid in the first row asked, "How many, Coach?"

"As many as you can dream."

They went heads down and scribbled until, one-by-one, the sound of pencils hitting desks filled the classroom. When the last player dropped the Sanford No. 2, Steve collected the sheets and returned to the front.

"How many returning starters?" hisself asked.

Two hands went up.

"How many returning players?"

Seven hands.

"Kay," Steve said as he scanned the slips. "We're pretty-"

One of the papers (the only one missing a name), listed a single "goal" written in large block letters, underlined thrice, and circled for good measure:

MY GOAL IS TO ONLY SHOW MY DICK TO GOD AND MY GIRLFRIEND!

Without missing a beat, Steve continued: "-green, but Scooter and I are working on some offensive changes which means, in a sense, everybody is green, kay?"

Ten heads nodded.

Fishing a paper from the stack, Steve said: "Let's talk about our goals. Who is Mike Hastings?"

A smallish, four-eyed kid cursed with wicked acne raised his right hand.

"Are you a returning player?" asked our pal.

"I started both ways last year. Flanker and cornerback."

Steve shook the paper for effect and said: "Mike wants to win the division; win the section; and win the state championship. Also, Mike would like to have at least three interceptions and three touchdowns. How many did you have of each last year?"

"Four touchdowns and two picks, Coach Ritter."

"Thank you, Mike. These are great goals." Steve slapped the paper on the desk and selected the next sheet from the pile. "Isiah Howze," he announced, peeping the room with squinty peepers. A tall African American boy sitting in the front row cleared lifted his right arm quick-like and then slunk in his seat. "Hi, Isiah," our coach hailed. "What's your story?"

"I'm gonna be a sophomore, but I didn't play football last year," woeful Isiah reported. "My momma said football's dangerous, but she's gonna let me play as long as I don't get a concussion. If I get a concussion, she won't let me play no more."

Indeed, Isiah's solitary goal: _"I don't want cincusions."_

"Your goal is to not get concussed," Steve said as the room burst into laughter. Our pal quieted the tittering with waving hands and then said, "Hey, what's wrong with that? Concussions aren't fun. We try to prevent concussions, of course, but this is a contact sport. If you worry about getting concussed when you're on the field, then you're gonna play like you're worried about getting concussed. Distractions destroy focus; lack of focus destroys execution. A big piece of football...heck, I'd argue the biggest piece...is concentration. So, we'll work on the concussion yips, kay? In the meantime, let's tackle other goals. What else would you like to do this season, Isiah?"

"Uh...I dunno. Maybe...maybe catch a touchdown?"

"Mm-hmm, there's a solid goal, kid," Steve said, nodding his head. "In fact, I bet you get a touchdown before you get a concussion."

Thereafter, our pal went through the rest of the papers until there be the _one_ remaining. And the _one_ student who hadn't been called – a lanky bruh with long, dirty blond hair- sat in the back of the room studying his fingernails.

Steve jabbed the nameless missive and mused, "Hmm...this one doesn't have a name. How will I ever know who penciled such a clever goal?"

Said anonymous jokester expelled air from his lungs and raised his hand.

"Yeah, I thought so," our coach said with exaggerated kindness. "What's your name, son?"

"Brad Hearn," hisself mumbled.

"What's your story, Brad?"

"I started at wide receiver and free safety; I also did punt and kickoff returns. Eight touchdowns last year."

" _Eight_. Wow, bro. Impressive."

"Look, coach, I-I didn't know you were reading 'em."

"What did you think I was going to do? Wipe my caboose?"

Again, the room exploded into laughter.

Our pal held up the paper and declared, "Brad's goal is to not show his dick to anyone but the Good Lord and his girlfriend."

The kids hooted while poor Brad tried melting into the desk's congealed, pea green lead paint.

Steve smiled, crossed arms...

He waited while the laughter ran its course.

Then he cleared his throat and said:

"I won't pretend most of you haven't heard of me, and it's not because I played in the NFL, or won a Super Bowl ring, or caught a touchdown pass from Randall Cunningham, Tom Brady and Kurt Warner. I know some of you weren't born when I had my serviceable years. No, you guys have heard of me for all the wrong reasons. We can talk about my stupidity, but the moral of the story is: don't allow yourself to be singled out for one dumb moment in life. Trust me, it sucks elephant ass. Now, any questions, comments or whatnots? If not, I'll consider the matter ancient history."

Silence.

"Good," Steve said. "Now, back to the topic at hand. These goals? If we work together and you listen to me, we'll check every box...even yours, Brad."

Laughter.

"Alright, let's start catching footballs," our pal said.

The kids filed out...all but sour-faced Brad; twisting hands, hisself approached Steve, hat in hands.

"I'm sorry, Coach Ritter. I thought it'd be funny."

"It was funny. We all had a good laugh."

"You aren't mad, are you?"

Steve balled Brad's paper up and tossed it into the trashcan. "We're square," our pal said. "But tomorrow, I expect a real list of goals, kay?"

Brad nodded, backed away...

***

Practice in the gym amounted to diddley pooh conditioning.

A lack of space and the slippery floor made pattern running difficult; therefore, the strengths and weakness of the players amounted to guesstimation. Even after the rain subsided and the sun returned, the pitch remained saturated and unusable. Steve took much of the afterschool sessions watching film with his players. Scooter, with the three quarterbacks and four running backs, joined a handful of sessions what culminated in protracted "chalk talk" sessions. A new offensive playbook was distributed, and the ten double-sided pages were dissected to the smallest detail.

Few "new" plays were introduced into the up-tempo spread offense; instead, Scooter and Steve devised hand signals which were sent from the sidelines before the snap. Runs or passes were predicated on defensive formations, weak matchups and blitzing personal. Celluloid from the previous season made one thing clear to Steve: opponents feasted on the Crows inability to stop weakside blitzes. A variety of counter passes (tight end; halfback; slot receiver) and screens endeavored to exploit defensive exuberance.

Moreover, Steve revamped Cairo's pedestrian passing tree. Each of the ten patterns (hitches, slants, in, outs, posts, corners, streaks) received number designations from zero through nine, and each number matched receivers and ends from left to right in the formation. Thus, a "twenty three ninety" play call meant the furthest end on the left side of the formation ran a "2" (quick out), the receiver to his right ran a "3" (button hook), the receiver to his right ran a "9" (streak), and the flanker to the far right ran a "0" (hitch).

During a ten day stretch of dry weather during the second and third weeks of May, the skill players smoothed kinks, improved timing, and sharpened pre-snap formation changes while the lineman lifted weights or ran buffalos.

Junior Tyler Jones, Cairo's most seasoned quarterback, didn't lack moxie; it appeared getting wrecked throughout his sophomore year (forty-seven sacks in nine games) fashioned a trite ambivalence to personal wellbeing. Tho admirable, Jonesy would never survive a full season taking blow after blow. In fact, he'd been bounced from several contests the previous fall...

Jonesy's backup, sophomore Kevin Dana, wasn't as altruistic as his fearless peer. Nervous feet compelled Dana out of the pocket whereupon he either threw the football away or dashed out of bounds. When Dana didn't play rushed, he pitched descent balls, but a noodle-like arm limited his range to thirty yards in dry conditions.

One evening after practice, Steve told Scooter: "If we're gonna run the same offense for both quarterbacks, then it has to accommodate both quarterbacks. It's obvious Tyler's our man, but chances are he goes down at some point during the year. Whether it's a series or a game or nine games, Dana's gotta have poise when he steps onto the field. Poise begets confidence, kay? And confidence in the signal caller begets confidence from the ten others in the huddle."

"You're not telling me anything I don't know," Scooter said. "But Kevin likes to tuck and ask questions later. What're you gonna do?"

"I played with a dodgy quarterback in college. Guy didn't have a bad arm, but he cared about his welfare. Fine. We all can't be fearless. You know what helps slow them dancing feet, tho?"

"Do tell, wise one."

"Based on the film I watched from last year, Kevin looked at two dudes in the pattern. If Brad and Mike were covered, Kevin got off the pot. He needs to hone a rhythm with the other receivers."

"No shit," Scooter deadpanned.

"Perfect. We'll sweep Brad and Mike off the field when Kevin takes his reps."

"Remove the two best receivers we have?"

"Just in practice."

"But they're his favorite targets!"

"Then let's find him some new favorite targets. Kevin needs to build a relationship with all our receivers. Yeah, I know some of these kids are scrubs; some of these kids won't ever take the field. So what? Perhaps Kevin makes them better receivers; perhaps we boost their confidence. It can't hurt to give it a shot."

Steve's experiment helped sort through the short list of prospective starters, but only two sophomores stood out amongst their scuffling peers: John Spillane and Isiah Howze. The quiet Spillane was the quickest player on the team, turning in a 4.58 forty time. Spillane wasn't just a burner, tho: he had dependable, possession receiver hands.

Isiah's pass catching skills were a work in progress, but the young man ran sharp patterns. His lack of experience wasn't anything but a minor inconvenience; given a few months of practice and a little instruction by our pal, Isiah would become a regular Billy Johnson.

The first lesson Steve imparted to his apprentice came from the chapter on how to best an aggressive cornerback. Cairo played bump and run, which meant the corners took healthy chucks at the receivers coming off the ball. Isiah had a difficult time fighting through shoves and lamented the rough treatment.

"How come they can push me around when I'm goin' for a pass," the boy griped. "Ain't it pass interference, Coach?"

"The defense has three yards from the line of scrimmage to do anything short of hold you."

"Dude...I mean, Coach Ritter...sometimes I can't get past 'em before the ball is thrown."

"You see the strategy, right? Slow you down, throw off the timing...and it's working. Here's how to fix the problem, Isiah. Let 'em push you, kay? Let 'em get comfortable shoving you 'round one, two, three snaps. But come the fourth time, you side-step the yo and watch them fall on their face. Clear as mud?"

Isiah nodded and said, "Yes, sir."

Later, squared up against Brad Hearn, Isiah allowed the lanky (somewhat cocky) senior to jam him once, twice, three times...

On the fourth snap, Isiah jab stepped to his right...

As Brad shoved nothing but fresh air.

Our young pal ran a crisp ten yard out, caught a perfect pass from Kevin Dana, and then sprinted forty-five yards into the endzone.

"Your first touchdown, kid!" our coach hollered into Isiah's swirling wake. "The first of many!"

***

At the end of spring drills, Tommy and the coaches huddled in the annex for a little "b and s slash state of the team" session.

After B.C. spent a half-hour detailing the bench and squat performances for each of the fifteen linemen (the _b and s_ of the session), talked turned to the state of the offense.

Scooter reported: "The kids are adjusting to the faster pace and play calling. Could they be quicker? Sure. But after six weeks, I'm pleased by the progress. Tyler is throwing the ball well; Kevin has improved his pocket presence...though it will be hard to tell how much until he faces a live rush. The backs...we're four deep but only Abe and Freddy Boyd are battle-tested. As for the receivers, I'll give Stevie the floor."

"I have a depth chart eleven deep," our pal said. "Of those eleven, I'd only send six onto the field. Mike Hastings, Brad Hearn are Isiah Howze can lineup outside or in the slot. Isiah's paws need improvement, but repetition will make his right as rain. John Spillane is a quick, sure-handed receiver, and he has size. I foresee some tight end-centric plays in the future; Timmy paired against a linebacker is favorable matchup. The last two fella's...Dom Coffey and Shawn Hoover...they're competent placeholders when somebody requires a blow. Everybody else needs improvement. I mean, four freshman and a senior who has never played presents a serious learning curve."

"What about the secondary?" Tommy asked.

Answered Steve: "Mike at free safety, Shawn Hoover at strong safety, Brad at the corner and either Isiah or Timmy at the other corner. I also have some ideas on different looks we could throw at our opponents."

"Shoot," Sam said.

Steve perused his notes and then asked: "Sam, have you thought of pinching the corners and rotating the safeties to cover the wideouts?"

Sam leaned back in the chair, crossed arms behind his head and then said, "No way, my man. Who'd cover the deep middle of the field?"

"We'd bring in an extra safety."

"To cover the _whole_ middle?" B.C. cried. "What if they run two guys deep, Ritter?"

"It won't matter if the quarterback is lying on his back," Steve answered.

"It will matter if he ain't," B.C. rejoined.

"Just a thought," Steve said, tossing an apathetic shrug in for good measure.

"I've never run a 4-2-5," Sam said. "Given the amount of rushes we face a game, I'd rather keep a third linebacker, Steve."

"Yeah," seconded B.C.

Tommy stood, stretched his arms, and ended the debate: "Listen, we've had a good spring, and a good spring means we have a good springboard for the summer. At the end of June, we'll get together for seven-on-seven drills and go from there..."

# 20. Summer, 2015

Summer in upstate New York reinvigorates the soul before winter lords o'er the world for three, four or five months. Bookended by the lolling dawn and the late plash of ruddy sunset were days painted with a brush what spackled bright blue skies and swollen, cumulus clouds across the firmament. At times the mugginess thickened, but these stretches were short; dashed by fronts or destroyed by the downdrafts of thunderstorms, oppressive humidity wrested brief strangleholds. Even in late July, the temperature cooled enough to submit to the temptation of putting on a light coat. Wrangling into this garnish seemed like blasphemy, but there were worse things to bitch about. The South baked under the double whammy of record heat and high humidity; the Southwest and California experienced drought-instigated forest fires; along the East Coast, the potent mixture of triple digit mercury readings and smog led to Unsafe Air Alerts; across the Midwest, tornados wreaked havoc on a weekly basis. No, Western New York be fine and dandy...

Or so our pal convinced hisself...

The four of them sat behind home plate watching the Red Wings tangle with the Iron Pigs of Lehigh Valley, the girls in pullovers and the guys in hoodies. The digital temperature -displayed on the scoreboard in right field- reported _58F_ , but a brisk wind chilled the air. Steve draped his arm around Natalie and felt her shiver. She patted his thigh...smiled at him...and then laid her head against his right shoulder. By his count, our ole pal's girlfriend smiled at him one gazillion times since dawn...

And he reciprocated in kind.

But after his seat caught a stiff kick in the bottom of the third inning, Steve realized his response be a reflex more than a feeling...

...like cursing when stubbing a toe.

He should've been content and relaxed.

He no longer felt auspicious.

The crap of last winter...

_Poof._ He left the crap in the dust.

He be full steam, baby.

So why did our hero feel mired in the doldrums?

Aye, a familiar ache returned...

An ache what stirred his stupid dingus.

An ache what drove him batty.

'Twas the woman at the entrance -the _striking_ woman- standing in front of Joe Altobello's statue...

Mid-30s, blond hair, mirrored Wayfarers...

_The Boys of Summer-_ esque babe.

Our pal couldn't help but look at her...a harmless l'il peek...just for a Mississippi or ten...as he pretended to study the bronze figure of Altobello.

She musta felt his stare...

Cuz she looked at him...

Lifted her sunglasses...

And grinned.

But then Natalie threw her arm around him and spoiled the moment.

Steve _tried_ not to think of Miss Wayfarer as he watched the game.

He got through the National Anthem...

And the first pitch...

And the first, second and top of the third innings...

Natalie smiled at him; he smiled back.

Miss Wayfarer faded into black...

And then our pal's backrest caught a foot from the bozo in the seat behind.

Said kick...accidental or otherwise...kinda sorta annoyed.

Kinda sorta like how Natalie pestered...

According to herself, their relationship approached them _serious_ waters.

_Where do you think we're headed?_ posed she.

Instead of responding: _I like where we are; I like spending time with you but also having the luxury of leaving in the morning; I like my space; I like quiet dawns in the country; I like walking Enos at night; I like you Natalie, but I'm not ready for them serious waters yet._

Steve replied: _'I'm happy, Natalie.'_

Not that he wasn't happy.

Maybe a tad bored...but happy.

Natalie was a real gem: doting, clever, fun...

He enjoyed spending time with her.

Yes, sir.

But getting mucho _serious_ after seven months seemed...

It seemed kinda sorta quick...

_Cuz you wanna fuck my brains out,_ Ms. Wayfarer taunted in a perky tone.

Miss Wayfarer...and her perky 32D's...and her perky blue eyes...and her perky grin...

Lo, over and over and over...

Weather, Natalie, Miss Wayfarer, the doldrums...

As the man banged Steve's seat again and again and again _._

Intertwined with the seat kicking and tumultuous musings, Tommy babbled nonstop about _football_.

' _Football, football, football,_ ' he yapped. ' _Football, football, football..._ '

Our hero half-listened, grunted and said, ' _Yea_ ' and ' _Sure_ ' and ' _Fine_ ' and ' _Great_ ' when the ball coach stopped to catch his breath.

_Yea_...he couldn't knock Tommy's enthusiasm. Camp Bristol was less than two weeks away and damn if the skill players hadn't looked good in the seven-on-seven scrimmages.

( _Western New York is fine and dandy._ )

' _Football, football, football_...'

_Sure_...they stuck with Class A squads, losing by single touchdowns to Canesoanke, HFL and Victor. Against teams in their own class, Cairo walloped Fishers, Auburn and Romulus.

( _Where do you think we're headed?_ )

' _Football, football, football_...'

_Fine_...Isiah's maturation; Kevin Dana's confidence; Johnny Spillane; Mike Hastings; Brad Hearn...

( _You wanna bend me over, Stevie,_ Miss Wayfarer taunted.)

' _Football, football, football_...'

_Great_...Camp Bristol loomed; then Hell Week (' _Or not so Hell Week_ ,' B.C. groused); then the regular season; then the postseason (fingers-crossed); then the offseason; then...

Then winter; no sunlight; mounding snow; runs on the treadmill instead of outside...

( _The doldrums, bruh._ )

' _Football, football, football..._ '

JOLT!

During the top-of-the-sixth inning, a hunched hawker wearing a Conehead prosthetic made the circuit around the lower box seats.

"Beer! Beer! Cold beer!" Conehead bellowed. "Folks, it's the Conehead guarantee: If the beer ain't cold, it's free!"

Tommy raised his hand and called: "A bag of peanuts, Beldar."

"Hey, you knows your Coneheads," said the vendor. "You buy two bags and I'll throw in a third for free."

Steve was about to tell Tommy, _I'll take one,_ when his seat rocked _yet again_.

"The fuck," our hero rasped. He turned 'round and eyeballed the vermin; a fat man -face pebbled with sweat- stuffed popcorn into his hole and flailed legs.

"Wha?" the fatbody garbled.

"You've been kicking my seat for the last hour and a half," Steve growled.

"Haz I? Jeez, sorry, I guess."

The half-assed apology, popcorn detritus on the man's gut, his throaty voice...

Something rubbed our hero the wrong way:

"I'll tell you what," hisself said. "You kick my chair one more time and I'm gonna beat the shit out of you."

Fatbody sneered and then snarled, "Ah, fuck off, asshole."

"Steve," Natalie whispered.

"Do it again, dude," Steve said.

Per the request, Fatbody kicked. He kicked _hard_. War had been declared. Steve stood and felt the eyes of the section follow his ascent like he was one of them Saturn rockets blasting for the moon.

Natalie tugged at his right arm and moaned, "No, Steve, don't."

"Yeah, no, Steve, _don't_ ," Fatty mimicked.

"Get up," our hero demanded.

"Fuck you, asshole!"

"Hey guys!" Conehead interrupted. "Come on, gentlemen, let's keep it civil! We have a ballgame to watch!"

"Get up," Steve repeated, pointing a finger.

"How 'bout you suck my cock?" Fatty bellowed.

Before our hero could answer, a trio of ushers and one of Rochester's fined arrived. After Conehead provided a terse narrative, the officer nodded and then pointed at Fatty. "Conehead says youse been cursing and acting belligerent," the cop said. "There's zero tolerance for foul language, pal. Youse gotta go."

"I didn't do nothing!" the fatbody countered.

The policeman moved his hands towards his utility belt and spat: "I aints telling you again."

Fatty wrapped his left arm around the popcorn and shimmied out of the seat. "Bunch of bullcrap," he carped while squeezing through the row.

"Dude," Tommy cackled. "Aren't you Mister Bad Ass?"

Our hero grinned and wiped his hands.

Natalie sank in her seat.

***

She marched into the house and disappeared upstairs.

Steve slammed the front door and sighed.

Natalie hadn't spoken a word since the incident.

Not. A. Word.

What had he done wrong?

_Nothing,_ the little devil declared. _Youse ain't done nothing wrong._

He considered following her...pleading his case...but figured she needed space or something. So, he parked his rear on the sofa and jabbed the television remote. On TMC, _The Treasure of the Sierra Madre_ wound thru its second act. Steve settled back, crossed legs...

As Fred Dobbs turned paranoid, Natalie appeared in the living room wearing one of Steve's extra-large workout shirts. "Are you staying or going?" she asked in a tired voice while tucking hair behind her ears.

He stood and said, "I planned on staying but whatevs. I know you're mad at me...for what I'm not sure. I didn't do anything wrong."

"Jesus, Steve, what got into you tonight? Your behavior was embarrassing."

"Embarrassing?"

"Did I stutter?"

"I didn't do anything wrong."

"You instigated."

"The fuck? He kicked my seat a billion times and I'm the instigator?"

"He wasn't trying to pick a fight."

"You heard the part where he told me to suck his cock, right?"

She grimaced and then turned tail.

"The cop took him away," Steve called after her.

The creaking of stairs...

"A'ight, I'm going home," he said.

The closing of her squeaky bedroom door...

"Whatevs," he grumbled.

# 21. Camp Bristol

1 August:

He didn't call Natalie for a few days and when he did, she told him he was still wrong.

But whatevs.

It didn't matter cuz our coach had football camp to prepare for.

It didn't matter cuz Coach Steve Ritter had film to watch.

It didn't matter cuz the season was a little more than month away.

It didn't matter cuz-

"Can you explain what got into you?" Natalie asked.

"I'm not go through this _again_ ," Steve bristled.

"You don't care why you flew off the handle? You haven't thought about it?"

"I didn't...look...he triggered me or something, kay?"

" _Triggered you_?"

"I have a lot of shit coming up. The last thing I need is some fat turd jabbing my nerves."

"What's coming up?"

"Like...camp...two-a-days...football stuff."

"You're stressing over high school football?"

"You wouldn't understand," he scoffed.

The silence from her end lasted several tick-tocks. At last, she asked: "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, you didn't do anything wrong. I got triggered, kay?"

"Steve, I don't like violence, and I've made my feelings clear. Those boys at Tahou's...I understand why you'd feel triggered by them. The other night...it came out of the blue. One second you're smiling at me; the next, you're jumping out of your seat."

"Look, sometimes little things can...like...annoy, kay?"

"What _little things_? Can you help me understand?"

For no good reason, Steve answered: "Little things like you nagging me about little things."

He heard a bull-like snort through the receiver and then a click.

"Smooth," our insensitive pal muttered as he dialed her number.

Of course, Natalie's phone went to straight to voicemail...

Once...

Twice...

Thrice...

"Whatevs," he said, tossing the cordless aside.

***

3 August:

The mandatory parent meeting began at six-thirty in Cairo High's musty auditorium.

Tommy opened the discussion by detailing academic expectations: he stressed football wouldn't come before school _blah blah blah_ ; if a player struggled in a subject, the school had _blah blah_ blah; academic probation meant _blah blah blah_.

Next, came the requisite speech on drugs and alcohol: zero tolerance policy _blah blah blah_ ; if an athlete has an addiction problem _blah blah blah_ ; school suspensions prevented _blah blah blah_.

Third, the ball coach presented his gridiron brainboxes:

Scooter... _blah blah blah blah_...

B.C... _blah blah blah_...

Sam... _blah blah blah_...

The Waterboy... _blah blah_...

John Timmons... _blah_...

"...but not least is my dynamite receiver and secondary coach, Steve Ritter. Coach Ritter played high school football here; at the University of Minnesota, he was an All-Big Ten Conference selection in 1997; and he had an eight-year career in the NFL. Our athletes are fortunate to have a teacher like Steve, and his experience is already paying dividends."

Feeling them seventy something judicious eyes, Steve stepped forward and waved.

"Any questions for me or the coaches?" Tommy asked.

Nobody asked jack squat, but Steve knew what them parents were thinking as he sauntered to his seat.

But whatevs.

"We head to camp at Bristol in a week," Tommy said. "Then we return for three days of mandatory helmet and shoulder pad practices before the full suits of armor are donned. Every kid must get six practices in pads and eleven total practices before they're allowed to suit up in a game. This is a non-negotiable state rule, folks.

"One final matter before I cut you good people loose. If your son believes they aren't getting the playing time they deserve, I want them to _first_ come to me before contacting the vice principal or the principal. Ninety-nine percent of the time, issues -whatever they are- can be solved through respectful conversation. Your kids are a step away from becoming adults, and I will them treat them as such. Questions?"

There were a few protracted inquiries from people who were, it seemed, hellbent on holding everyone hostage in the hot-as-balls theater:

How long are practices?

Where are two-a-days?

_Who, what, when, where,_ _blah, blah_...

Blah.

"Jesus H.," B.C. whispered at one point. "I wanna get the fuck outta here."

At last, Tommy closed the assembly with an enthusiastic, "I can't wait for the season to _blah blah blah_! Go Crows!", and the parents filed out slow-like. Our pal lingered on stage until a few stragglers remained before attempting a sneaky escape.

He almost made it to the exit.

Out of his periphery, he saw the tall, busty black woman leaning against a wall, tapping a shoed toe, staring at him.

When he passed abeam, she cleared her throat then said: "Coach Ritter, I wanna word with you."

Steve halted and elevated his brow.

"My son is Isiah Howze, tho you prolly could figure _that_ ," herself explained all sassy-like. "My name is Kendra. Kendra Howze.

"Pleasure, Missus Howze," Steve said as he checked his watch.

"Am I keeping you from something?"

"Ah, no," he forced through a smile.

"Uh-huh, well, I'll keep it short and sweet, honey. I didn't want Isiah playin' football cuz football is dangerous. Lordy, he begged and begged. Fine, I says, but I told him if he gets hurt, there be no moe football."

"Isiah explained your reticence, ma'am. While injuries are a possibility, football is no more dangerous than baseball, soccer, or-"

"Isiah doesn't like baseball or soccer. He likes football."

"Well, I'm glad he's here. For having limited experience, Isiah's shaping into a nice player. In fact, I anticipate he'll start on offense."

"Starter or no starter, I'm serious 'bout him gettin' hurt. I don't care how much he complains, there'll be no moe football."

"I'll make sure Isiah catches more touchdowns than concussions, kay?"

Waving a finger, Kendra said: "I'm gonna hold you to it, Coach." Then she slid from the wall, strutted up the aisle and waved over her shoulder.

***

8 August:

"Natalie, it's Steve. I'm sorry about what I said. In fact, I'm...I...uh...damnit..."

Our pal lowered the phone and poked the * button.

The cheery automated voice replied: _"To save your message, press one. To listen to your message, press two. To rerecord your message, press three. For more options, press nine."_

Steve touched three, waited for the beep...

"Hey, it's Steve. I'm sorry about the whole nagging comment. Frustration, kay. I know it's not an excuse but...um, it's been a week, I've had time to think about...things...and, you know, I'm elbows deep in football right now. Maybe it's best to step back for a few weeks and take a breath. Anyway, you don't seem chatty these days so...we'll talk later. Bye."

He pressed one without hesitation and then disconnected.

It wasn't the best message...but after ten attempts, it was the best message hisself could offer.

Beggars and choosers, dig?

_Step back_ and _take a breath_ weren't the most romantic statements in the English language...

Still, he wasn't giving her the heave-ho; he _didn't_ wanna give her the heave-ho.

But he didn't wanna have serious discussions, either.

A little break...a step back...a breather...

An opportunity for perspective.

"Afterall, absence makes the heart grow fonder," Steve said under his breath.

***

10 August:

Spread between two yellow school buses, thirty-six rowdy teenagers (thirteen less than spring ball but whatevs) and seven not-rowdy-at-all coaches left Cairo High at half-past ten. Fifty-five minutes later, the diminutive caravan scaled Washington's Knoll and arrived at rustic Camp Bristol.

None of the ten, eight bed cabins had running water; or a t.v.; or lights; or electrical outlets; a dozen latrines crawled with flies; behind the stinky toilets, a single, rusty showerhead dangled from a warped, weather-beaten partition.

"Wanna explain how the bathing routine works?" Steve asked Tommy.

"Mother Nature. We go down the road to Canesonake Lake after the last practice of the day."

"A lake? I gotta clean myself in a lake?"

"You can use the shower, bro. It's been done."

"Then swimming it shall be. The world's seen enough of my dingus."

The kids were assigned six to a room; meantime, the coaches were paired with a bunkmate. The remaining cabin went to Tommy cuz, " _Bein' head coach merits a few paltry perks_."

Our pal assumed he received the short end by drawing B.C.

Assumption became fact ten minutes after they settled into the cramped cottage:

B.C. pulled a liter of Highland Park from his duffel bag and twisted off the cap.

"Here's to camp," he toasted. After a three Mississippi slug, B.C. passed gas like a trumpeter swan.

"Fuck's sake, Christianson," griped our pal.

"You want a nip?" B.C. asked, shaking the bottle under Steve's nose.

"Naw, man. Matter of fact, I'm going for a run. I need fresh air, go figure."

B.C. shrugged, took another drink, and then ripped more ass.

***

12 August:

One conditioning practice on the tenth (ten gassers),

Followed by two practices on the eleventh (one indy; one team),

Followed by two practices on the twelfth (same as the previous day),

Mixed with three dips into Canesoanke Lake (a frigid bath),

Led to the evening of the twelfth.

The last night at Camp Bristol.

Picture the scene:

Under countless stars, players and coaches, backs to a crackling bonfire, watched a slew of good, bad, and ugly skits.

With senior center Liam McGough at the forefront, a dozen lineman performed a strip tease act. Sporting a giant brassiere and flashing way too much pasty roly-poly, McGough pranced back-and-forth while the players whistled and hooted. At the conclusion of his gyrations, McGough tore off the bra and then winked all seductive-like.

"McGough, I said _skits_ ," Tommy laughed. "Skits are supposed to be funny, not traumatic. I'm going to have nightmares tonight. And where'd you get the bra? You have a secret you wanna share?"

"Itttt's myyyyy loooover's," Liam trilled, shaking his chest.

"Ay Caramba," Tommy muttered.

Mike Hastings and Brad Hearn did a " _who's on first_ " parody using the offensive lineup as the gag.

"Who's playing wide receiver?" Mike asked.

"What," Brad answered.

"Dude, who is playing wide receiver?"

"What!"

"I'm asking you, who is playing wide receiver?"

"For the third time, _what_!"

And so on...

After the skits, Steve was goaded into "running the gauntlet", which amounted to facing a slew of questions from the hyped athletes.

"Shit, you all know more about me than my mother did," our pal said. "Can I sit down now?"

"No way," Tommy laughed. "All new guys must run the gauntlet."

Steve rubbed his hands together and then said, "Just keep it tame, you baboons."

"What's your favorite color?" someone asked.

"Boring," catcalled somebody else.

"I once swallowed a goldfish at a college party," Steve confessed.

The boys laughed.

"Didn't you date Geisselle Bundchen?" squeaked a third voice.

"Come on, guys," Tommy said. "Look at him. Coach Ritter is not supermodel material."

Mike Hastings raised his hand and asked, "What's it feel like to win the Super Bowl?"

"Winning the Super Bowl..." Steve droned. "Um, winning the Super Bowl is hard to describe, kay? I didn't play in the game, so my experience is somewhat...bittersweet."

"But you were on a Super Bowl winning team," Mike argued.

"Seems pretty bitchin' to me," Liam McGough said.

"Yeah...yeah, I guess it is," our pal said with a nod.

"You guess?" B.C. cried.

"Forget the Super Bowl, I'll tell you a feeling like you no other," Steve said. "These memories were making tonight will stay with you forever. Someday in the distant future when you're married with kids-"

"Okay, Al Bundy!" Liam heckled.

Steamrolled Steve: "-you will look back on these nights and wish you could have 'em back. Young, amongst your friends, whooping it up, not a care in the world...ain't it great? Cherish this moment, guys."

Of course, there be more he could've added... _a lot_ more...

But the wistful ruminations of a divorced, disgraced, forty-one-year-old weren't anything anybody at Camp Bristol wanted to hear.

So, our coach took his foot off the go-pedal and said, "I'm done running the gauntlet, Tommy. How 'bout we roast marshmallows?"

***

Aided by the weak light of a small flashlight, B.C. poured another five fingers into a plastic cup and then slurred, 'The real question iz, how much shit did yew catch from yer bideo?"

"Your itching for a killer headache tomorrow," our supine pal said from his rack. "Eight bells is gonna come _mighty_ early."

"I'm serious, Ritter. Watch yer wife say?

Steve rolled over and muttered, "Turn off your flashlight and go to sleep, man." A second later, he heard the click of the stupid doodad and then a noisy slurp...

Followed by a noisy slurp...

Followed by a noisy slurp...

"You're gonna sit there in the dark and drink, huh?" Steve asked.

"Can I turn the flaz-lite on?"

"No...no, just dial down your slurping to a burble, kay? You're keeping me awake."

B.C. grunted but the slurping continued.

Slurp, slurp, slurp, slurp, slurp.

Steve tossed...

Slurp.

He turned.

Slurp.

He snorted.

Slurp.

He sighed.

Slurp.

At last, our pal said, "Git out."

In mid-slurp, B.C. spat a moist, "Wha?"

"Git out."

"Get out?"

" _Git_ out. G-I-T. O.U.T. _Git out_. My wife's words, B.C. _Git out_. It played out like a scene from a two-bit soap opera. Her...waiting at the door...tossing a bag at my feet...the whole nine."

"Wha you tell her?"

"I told her to leave."

"Yea..." B.C. purred.

"I was in a bad way," Steve said as he ran a finger along the wire springs of the bunk above him. "Deep in a bad way. Deep in Lee Weyer's Bad Day."

"Wha? Deep in Lee...wha you say?"

"Lee Weyer's Bad Day."

"Wha's dat?"

Steve cleared his throat and then said, "Lee Weyer boned Game Seven of 1987 World Series."

"He...how?"

"Mister Weyer was an umpire; he missed a couple easy calls at first base; hence, Lee Weyer had a Bad Day."

"Umpire mizz shit all the time, Ritter. I waz watchin' the Yankeez...laz week...I think...and...the umpire sucked."

"Game Seven of the World Series is a bad time to miss shit...easy shit, no less."

"How eee-zee?"

"A putout, a rundown...I'm not gonna explain the sequence of events. The point is, Lee Weyer had a Bad Day, and my Lee Weyer Bad Day is the morning I woke up to find out I had shown my dingus to the world."

"Not jus shown," giggled B.C.

"And there's the problem, dude. When people hear my name, what do they picture? I'll be dingus flogging Steve Ritter forevermore. What a legacy."

"I bet yew get the babes, tho."

Irritated-like, Steve said: "A'ight, I answered your question. Can we call it a night?"

B.C. slurped and then cackled: "Fuck Lee Weyer."

***

16 August:

" _It's Natalie, on the sixteenth, four in the afternoon. Trying to get a hold of you, Steve. I think you're back from camp...or maybe you're still there. I can't remember. I'm in New York City right now, but I'll be home on the twentieth. I'd like to see you if you're up for it. If not...just...call me. Talk to you soon._ "

Our pal called her; she didn't answer.

He left a message (' _Guess we're playin' phone tag, heh?_ ') and then went for a run...

Forty-three minutes and six miles later, Natalie had faded from his brainpan.

# 22. Pads And Misery

On the evening of 20 August, Cairo had their first full pads practice on the dandelion covered pitch behind Dewey Field, otherwise known as "The Ole Practice Field".

The Ole PF sucked in Steve's day...and it still sucked.

Ruts; rocks; mounds; thorny weeds; pollen; poison ivy; ant hills; mosquitoes; ticks; used condoms; empty liquor bottles; the smell of manure...

A cornucopia of suckage.

The Ole PF wasn't lit, which meant dusk hid them sucky impediments.

The Ole PF lacked facilities, which meant whizzing in yonder brush.

As the kids stretched, Steve stood with hands on hips; he sniffed the lush methane air; he mashed a dandelion with his tennis shoe...

The first day in pads...

The first day in pads amounted to a transcendental moment.

Pads meant shit be getting real, yo.

Or it used to mean shit be getting real, at least in B.C.'s opinion.

Speaking of, hisself lumbered next to our pal and bitched, "We'll see how this no hitting bullshit goes. I don't have high hopes."

After calisthenics, Tommy called the team around him and said: "Fifteen days from now, we'll be battling Baker. _Fifteen!_ We had a good spring; we had a great summer; we had fun at camp. But now we get serious, men. Now we put the pieces together. I wanna see gameday intensity during every drill; I wanna see hustle and bustle; I wanna see if you guys are serious, because I'm not certain you are."

"I _know_ they're not serious," B.C. bemoaned.

" _WE'RE SERIOUS!_ " Liam McGough screamed.

" _YEA!_ " rejoined the team.

"Then let's see it!" Tommy hollered. "Defensive indies! Double time!"

Our coach took his group to a distant corner and ran form tackling drills, minus the tackling part. Instead, Steve emphasized _technique_ :

"Head up. Lead with the shoulder. Wrap your arms. Drive to the ground. If you don't have a good angle, reach a mitt out and try to snag something. You might slow the runner, cause him to stumble...you get the idea. Now, we're gonna run through an exercise at half speed, kay? Split apart, form two groups. Ball carriers in one line; tacklers five yards away. The defender will wrap up but not take the carrier to the ground."

Most of the boys demonstrated satisfactory proficiency.

Isiah Howze did naught: he dropped his head before contact and lunged with rubbery arms.

Steve watched the kid do the same lousy thing...

Once...

Twice...

Thrice...

"Howze, you're gonna paralyze yourself!" Steve shouted after attempt number four.

Isiah spat out his mouth guard and stammered, "I-I-I'm trying."

"Trying to paralyze yourself?"

"Try-trying to tackle."

"Step back, square your shoulders and take me down."

"But you ain't got pads, coach."

"You don't say."

"You want me to hit you?"

"As hard as you can."

Sucking in the mouth guard, Isiah stepped back, slumped his shoulders, hung his arms and came at Steve with his head down. Our coach side-stepped a second before contact, and Isiah fell onto his tummy.

"You aren't going to tackle anyone with your head down," Steve lectured as he squatted next to Isiah. "Do you walk with your head down?"

"No, coach."

"Why?"

"I'll run into something."

"Cuz you can't see what's in front of you. You _will_ keep your head up, Howze. If you're out there one-on-one against the ball carrier, you _will_ get a piece of him. You _will_ slow him down until your teammates come and finish the job. But if you miss him, you'll be munching turf and he'll be high-stepping into the endzone."

"Yes, sir."

"Plus, you're gonna hurt yourself," Steve whispered into the helmet's earhole. "If you hurt yourself, your mom will not let you play. And if you hurt yourself, your mom will blame me. So, for our collective sake, we're gonna practice form tackling until you show proper technique."

Which is what they did for an hour straight.

At dusk, the team broke from indies and ran combined "o" against the scout defense. Execution was snappy; the offensive line adjusted to blitzes; Abe Mora ducked and weaved; Scooter's sideline hand signals were interrupted with few errors; routes were run to a "t".

They looked kinda sorta good.

"Whadda think?" Tommy asked as he sidled next to his ole pal.

"The line is hitting their blocks...making adjustments...B.C.'s got them humming."

"You sound surprised."

"Last season's film didn't impress."

"Well..." Tommy hawed. "If, um, nothing else, we're putting on a good show."

Steve followed the ole pal's gaze to the fringe of the Ole PF. Two dozen spectators loitered in small groups: parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, girlfriends...

A slim woman in a canary yellow sundress.

"Natalie's here," Steve said.

"Where?"

"In the yellow."

"Heh, aren't you special? Lydia would _never_ trudge out here to see my butt on The Ole Practice Field. Natalie's a keeper, bro."

"Eh...maybe...but we haven't talked in almost three weeks."

"Hm? What's up?"

"The thing at Frontier Field pissed her off. She found my behavior _embarrassing_. I explained...or attempted to explain...why it happened but, you know, wasted breath, kay? Nothing I said made a difference. Then I told her to quit nagging me..."

"You silver tongue devil," Tommy chuckled.

"Right. I didn't handle it with tact."

"You outta say hi, doncha think?"

"After practice."

"Go ahead. We're almost done."

"I should wait until-"

Tommy shoved the whistle into his mouth and let fly two piercing shrieks.

Shaking the din from of his head, our pal ambled to the woman in the yellow dress; she smiled and wiggled the fingers on her right hand.

He thought about hugging her, but he smelled like ass.

So, he stopped an arm's length from her and said, "What a surprise."

"I stopped by your house and your dad said you're here."

"Did you get my message? I called a few days ago."

"I did, but I was busy. Besides, I assumed you were tied up with the football stuff."

"Well, we're about finished. Can you stick around?"

"I'm thinking ice cream, Steve."

"Ice cream works. Just wait for me at the annex. I should only be ten minutes..."

***

In the chilly confines of The Big Cone in Luxor, our couple squared off in a tiny booth. They made small talk at first: Huddled over a bowl of raspberry ice cream, Natalie said she took a week of PTO and hung with a roommate from college who lived in the City. Steve, between mouthfuls of a creamy malted, described the happenings at Camp Bristol and the state of Cairo's high school football team.

But then talk turned from small to _serious_...

Natalie droned: "Between the way you acted at the baseball game and how you spoke to me...and then you left the message about stepping back?"

"I thought it was a good idea," our pal argued.

She set down her spoon and said, "Maybe it was...or maybe it wasn't. I did what you asked, Steve. I did some thinking..."

***

Enos sniffed brambles; he pissed on moss.

Steve swung the leash and kicked a rock.

He replayed the conversation in his noggin...

Natalie's _Serious_ talk...

Natalie's _Serious_ talk at The Big Cone.

"Fuck it all," he said to the rolling stone...

I'm not trying to nag or smother, but what are we doing? What is the plan?

The plan...

What kind of relationship do you want?

I like what we have.

Which is what?

You know...

The physical?

Well, sure...

What else?

Jeez, Natalie, I like what we have cuz it's not complicated.

Am I special to you?

Of course.

Do you love me?

Hold on. You're not trying to be smothering?

Steve, I wasted years of my life with Don. Years. Years I can't get back. I want to have a family someday; I want to spend the rest of my life with someone who wants to spend it with me. I...I want more than whatever this is.

You're the one who said we're both not ready for anything serious.

Yes, I did...back in January. Back before I knew you like I know you now. Back before I felt an emotional connection, Steve. Do you hear what I'm saying? I've fallen for you; I want to spend every second with you. I want to look at you...touch you...smell you...everything...everything and more. You call it smothering; I call it love. I'm not suggesting we get married tomorrow, or next month or in the immediate future. But you come and go to my house; you live with your father; you-

By choice, not necessity.

What are you doing with your life? Have you decided this is it? Living with your father, coaching high school football, coming and going from my bed?

I have done something with my life, and the something is over. I'm retired; I'm sober; I'm content with what you label as _this_. Marriage...a family...like, what happens if we can't have children? Are you gonna ride me like Susan? Cuz if you did...

I won't stop loving you if we can't have children.

Susan loved me too. Look how well that worked.

Argh. You need to deal with your past. Mistakes, regrets, whatever you struggle with...maybe you should talk to somebody.

I have. I met with a therapist twice a week at Open Arms.

Did it help?

No. Therapy didn't help; A.A. and N.A. meetings don't help; nothing helps but keeping things uncomplicated.

Listen to me: I know there's a man in there who wants to be loved, but that man won't let it happen. Until he does, this woman is just beating her head against a brick wall.

What are you saying? You wanna be done?

If you want your uncomplicated life, so be it. I don't want to...ahem...complicate things. But I'm not sticking around; I'm not wasting my time with somebody who doesn't love me enough to give me what I want. Before I go, you should think long and hard about what's important to you, Steve. You might not have a chance like this again.

"Fuck it all," our pal said again to the stoopid stone.

***

Steve's _fuck it all_ defiance was contagious...

Contagious like Captain Trips.

Practices in the August heat dragged on...

Player attitudes soured.

Adolescent facial hair -fuzzy patches on chins and cheeks; scuzzy dirt staches; solitary barbs poking from acne- was cultivated.

The humid, fetid locker room...

Stained, stinky, shabby practice unis...

Lukewarm water from flaccid hoses...

Fuck it all.

Grudges were born during drills and scrimmages...

Angst peppered with _fuck it all_ spice.

On 24 August, a fight broke out between the linemen during the latter part of a scrimmage. Liam McGough and the right guard, Matt Weatherwax, table-topped a scrub defensive tackle named James Keenan and almost broke him in two. To his credit, Keenan bounced up and shoved Weatherwax. Mayhem ensued.

As Tommy blew the whistle, B.C. rubbed his hands like a mad scientist. "They're going to be nice and ornery for Baker," he rasped with glee.

Steve was certain of one thing: The defense would be nice and ornery.

Scooter oversaw the collection of eleven yobbos playing scout team offense. Baker's vanilla "I" formation and laconic playbook didn't give the D fits; in fact, the Badgers rushed the ball about seventy-five percent of the time...at least, according to bygone celluloid. Bored by the repetition, Scooter decided _fuck it all_. He drew up gadget plays and incorporated trickeration...which drove Sam Rhoden nuts.

After one such play -a triple reverse resulting in a rare scout team touchdown- Sam screamed: "Scoot! What the fuck are you doing?"

"Keeping you on your toes, Sammy," Scooter said all smug-like.

Sam held up his clipboard and bellowed: "Run it like it's charted! Play eight is a fullback belly!"

Scooter shrugged and then said, "You better coach 'em up, Sam."

"Ah...fuck you and your fucking weak ass jive bullshit, Scoot!"

***

On a remote spot of The Ole PF, John Timmons -the lithe, long-haired special teams coach- spent countless hours working with senior kicker slash punter Dave Berger. If Berger's role entailed handling only onside kicks, John Timmons was determined to make Dave Berger the best onside kicker in the history of onside kickers.

The results weren't encouraging: seven out of ten kicks failed to roll or bounce the required ten yards; twenty percent sailed out of bounds. A ten percent chance at recovering the ball equated to an exercise in futility.

Before practice on 27 August, Sam questioned the onside kick philosophy during a coaches meeting:

"I ain't seen but a few kicks our guys could've recovered. Tommy, I know what your numbers say, but we're fixing to shoot ourselves in the foot."

"Do you know the recovery rate of onside kicks in the state of New York going back the last three years?" Timmons asked the table.

"Man, what do you think?" Sam laughed.

"Twenty-three percent," Timmons said. "Out of four."

"You're not making a compelling argument," B.C. said.

"One recovery is a possession we steal from the opponent," Tommy said. "One recovery equates to at least four minutes of game clock. Four extra minutes for us, four minutes less for them."

"Dave will get better," Timmons said. "By September fourth, he'll put every ball into play. I'm also working with him on pooch kicks; hang time will give the-"

"No offense, but I vote we shelve this kicking nonsense," B.C. interrupted.

Replied Tommy: "Uh-uh, Bill. We agreed to give it a look-see."

B.C. wrinkled his nose and spat, "Jesus, fine, fuck it all."

"But for your piece of mind, we'll spend the entirety of today's morning session on special teams," said Tommy. "And we'll practice normal kickoffs, punts, extra points for shits and giggles."

"Speaking of time of possession..." Timmons began.

"This outta be good," B.C. grumbled.

"It _is_ good," said Timmons. "Tommy, I know you like numbers, so I did a little poking around. Over the last five years, when we've deferred possession, we've lost an extra possession per game."

"Huh?" Tommy squawked.

"If given the choice, we should elect to receive the opening kickoff," said Timmons.

"Bill Belichek _always_ defers," B.C. argued.

"If Bill Belichek jumped off a bridge, would you?" Timmons needled.

Again, B.C. wrinkled his nose...

And again, hisself said, "Fuck it all."

***

31 August:

Tommy strutted around the panting athletes and waved a folded newspaper.

"This is yesterday's _Democrat and Chronicle_ ," the coach informed. "Some of you might have seen the so-called _thorough_ high school football preview in the sports section. Lots of good shit in here, men. Lots of rankings and projected finishes written by some hack who didn't bother coming here to take notes. No, he looked at last year's team and thought, _eh, why bother_? Do you know where Cairo is _expected_ , not predicted, to finish in the Finger Lakes North Division? Hmm? _Last!_ _Last_ beneath _Baker_!"

"Fuck the newspaper!" Liam McGough roared. His teammates seconded the remark with a hearty, "Fuck the newspaper!"

"Fuck the _D_ and _C_!" B.C. cried.

"Yeah, fuck the _D_ and _C_!" McGough screamed.

"The hens at the _D_ and _C_ don't respect you guys," Tommy lamented.

Boiling with outrage, Liam pawed at his crewcut and roared, _"FUCK BAKER! FUCK THOSE MOTHERFUCKERS! FUCK 'EM ALL!"_

The ball coach completed an orbit of the players and then stopped...

"Hmm..." he pondered, scratching his glistening dome. "Uhm...you know...I wonder, tho. I wonder why any of you are arrogant enough to believe the Cairo Crows won't finish last in the F-L-N. Nobody here has proven anything! You won two games last year, boys. Two! Hells bells, I'd be surprised if we get _half_ as many this year! Coach Christianson, do you believe these guys can beat Baker?"

Taking his cue, B.C. spat, "Fuck no! Bunch of loafers is what I see!"

"Yeah," Tommy said. "I'm starting to think the _D_ and _C_ is spitting facts. Coach Ritter, what's your hot take?"

Steve hocked a fat loogie and then said, "I'm with B.C."

"These primadonnas won't win a single game this year," Sam growled. "Gawd damn, you all make me sick. Fuck it all, I'm outta here." He pushed through the boys and walked towards the distant locker room across from Dewey Field. One-by-one the other coaches followed...

"Practice tomorrow night at six," Tommy called over his shoulder. "Be there or don't. Who gives a fuck?"

Snug in locker room, the coaches shared a nice chuckle at the expense of the dumbfounded kids.

"I haven't pulled the reverse psychology routine in a long time," Tommy said as he peeked out the door.

"I hope they show up tomorrow," The Waterboy snickered.

"They will," Tommy said. "But we're gonna mosey on down about a half-hour late and see what they do in our absence. We'll see what kind of leaders we have on our team. I hope they...um...you know...it's too fucking dark but...oh, man...you won't believe..."

"What?" Sam asked.

Bearing an enormous grin, Tommy shut the door and said, "They're lining up to run plays."

***

When our hero arrived home, he found the old man in his trusty chair watching a rerun of _The Michael Kay_ _Show_ on Yes.

"Can't sleep, eh?" Steve asked.

Stan stirred, lifted his head a millimeter and then croaked, "One thousand channels and this is the best I could find. Isn't it sad?"

"Worse than sad. It's a downright shame."

"If you're hungry, there's leftover lasagna in the fridge."

"Thanks, but I'll pass. I'm gonna walk Enos and then hit the shower."

"I can take him if you're in a hurry."

"Naw, there's no hurry."

"I thought you might want to scoot."

"Nope, no scooting being done."

"No?"

"No. N.O."

"Eh...you know, I haven't seen Natalie in a while," Stan said as he stood from the Laz-E-Boy.

"See, I knew you were digging for gold."

"Just making an observation."

"Thanks, but it's none of your business, Dad."

"What happened?"

"Did you not hear me?"

"Well, she seemed like a nice girl."

"She is a nice girl...woman...but she's also a mite aggressive."

"Oh?"

"Her biological clock and all the rest."

"The rest?"

"The road once travelled."

"Did she ask you?"

"Come on," Steve laughed.

Stan patted Steve's shoulder and whispered, "Your mother had to give me a push."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"Sometimes it has to be done."

"I'm not ready for a push or anything else."

"Women don't push unless they mean it, Steven."

"Gawd...listen, I liked what we had, but Susan wants more than I can give her. Better we-"

"Susan?"

"What?"

" _Susan,_ you said. _Susan wants more than I can give her_."

"You know what I meant."

"Maybe _you_ don't."

"Alright, I'm taking the dog for a walk. Anything else you wanna add before we never talk about this subject again?"

"If you ask me, you're being foolish."

"Uh-huh. What makes you an expert?"

"I know she loves you. I can tell by the way she looks at you. I also know you're much happier with her than without. When you arrived, you were in a terrible state. Angry. Sulking around with your beard. I didn't recognize you, Steven. Not in form, nor in spirit."

"Because of all the crap on my mind."

"The crap is still there, yes?"

"What's your point?"

"Oh, phooey, Steven. Do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Natalie isn't the only reason I haven't fallen off the rails."

"Those meetings you never go to sure seem to help."

"Pop, let me clue you in on something I learned in rehab: the less complicated I keep my affairs, the better."

Stan shook his head and said, "You have a childish inability to cope, Steven."

"Mmm...you're not only Doctor Ruth, you're also Doctor Phil," Steve said, adding a sarcastic chuckle for punctuation.

"Convince me I'm wrong," Stan said as he brushed past his son.

Ears perked, tongue hanging, Enos jogged from the kitchen and greeted our hero with a hoarse bark. Steve exhaled and watched the old man disappear up the stairs...

"You're wrong," Steve called to the sound of groaning floorboards.

The old man didn't respond.

It was at this moment Steve had vision of himself seen from above: a forty-one-year-old, unemployed man standing in the living room of his father's house...

Our chagrined loner grabbed the dog's collar and said, "Let's get the fuck outta here, Enos."

# 23. At Baker Badgers

Road games sucked poopie elephant ass.

Forty-five minutes of being cooped up in a bouncing school bus ratcheted tension and frayed nerves.

A foreboding mood settled over the players.

Butterflies swarmed in tummies.

Imagination conjured innumerable methods of failure...

Defeat.

Ugh, the sickening feeling!

The head ball coach wasn't immune to jitters; his left leg bounced so much, Steve grabbed his thigh and said: "You're driving me crazy, Tommy."

"I can't help it, man. I haven't been this nervous for a kickoff in years."

"Dude, the kids are stoked, kay? They're ready. We're ready. Relax"

Tommy grunted and glanced at Steve's hand. "By the way, if you're attempting to make a move, I'm taken," he said, slapping the paw away.

"Of course you are, handsome guy like yourself."

"Hey, I'm just nipping your perversions in the bud, bud. Considering you and Natalie are on the outs, I assumed you'd turn to me for me consolation."

"Ah, I was wondering when the poop would make its way to you."

"Lydia gave it up last night. I wasn't gonna say anything, but your creeping hand dun changed my mind. What happened?"

"She's a little pushy."

"Natalie?"

"Seven months in and she's ready to buy china and shit kids."

"What?"

"Swear."

"There's gotta be more to the story."

"Other than I'm not ready for another miserable experience...nope, nothing else."

"So, you two are done?"

"Maybe...I don't know. I haven't talked to her in two weeks."

"How come?"

"I'm not jonesing for another serious conversation."

"But you like her, right?"

"Yeah, I like her. I just don't understand why we need to peddle faster. Like...you and Lydia aren't living in sin, and you've been dating longer than seven months.

"Lydia has two kids and an asshole of an ex-husband; I have my father. For the time being, it's better we meet in the middle."

"See, you got your reasons; I have mine."

"Mm-hmm," Tommy hummed, all flippant-like.

"Mm-hmm," rejoined Steve, crossing arms.

***

In Baker's dinky visiting locker room, the players wrapped tape, fastened shoulder pads, tied shoes, pulled up socks, sat with eyes closed...

Steve watched the pregame rituals through the window in the coach's office and remarked, "We used to blast Gary Crozier's boombox in our day."

" _Queen's Greatest Hits_ ," Tommy said.

"And Metallica," B.C. added.

"The fuckin' sandman song," Scooter chuckled. "Over and over..."

"Crozier's ghetto blaster is in the equipment shed," B.C. said. "I oughta bust it out next week."

"Only if I get to spin Dwight," said Scooter.

"No, no fuckin' Yoakam," Steve moaned.

Grabbing his clipboard, Tommy announced: "I'm going out.

With those curt words, the ball coach strode to the middle of the locker room and waited for the music to die. Seventy-two bright eyes settled on their general...

Tommy tweaked the bill of his trucker hat several times and then said: "You've been working to this moment for months; it's time to see what you're made of. Play as a team, sacrifice for your teammates and make Cairo proud. Let's put on our lids, buckle the straps and line up."

Liam McGough walked the single file line and slapped his teammates hats like he was Benny Hinn delivering the Holy Spirit. One of three captains elected by secret ballot two days prior (along with Mike Hastings and Jake Davis), Liam served his role with gusto. If they had been storming a beach stacked with pillboxes and mines, Liam would've been first up the strand, and the first to die a gruesome death, but he'd lead by example, by God.

The ball coach looked at his watch, exhaled and gave a double thumbs up...

Liam went all Sgt. Hartman _war face_ as he kicked open the door...

" _LET'S GO CAIRO!_ " he bayed. " _LET'S GO!!!_ "

***

In their road uniforms -white bottoms and tops, red numbers, lusterless black lids devoid of fancy logos and stickers- the Crows took the field to receive the kickoff. In solid orange unis and white lusterless helmets, the Badger kickoff team exercised their arms as the kicker placed the ball on the tee. The bleachers on the home side were packed in orange and white; a short somebody in a Badger costume strolled back-and-forth and made the "Raise the Roof" gesture with their arms; cheerleaders yelled; a small pep band a played crappy rendition of "Louie, Louie"; swaying back and forth, the student section sang:

" _Louie, Louie, oh, no, we gotta go..."_

Steve turned around and beheld Cairo's meager showing. No cheerleaders; no mascot, no band...

He counted thirty-eight of Cairo's faithful...

Plus The Waterboy and John Timmons standing on high in the scissor lift.

" _Your Badgers have won the toss and elected to defer!"_ reported the enthusiastic p.a. announcer. _"It's time for kickoff! Make some noise for the Badgers!"_

The crowd responded with a roar; a trumpeter sounded "Charge" as the kicker raised his arm and awaited the signal from the ref. When the shrill sound came, the kicker dropped his arm, sprinted forward, and struck the ball with his left foot. Steve watched the follow-through, saw the orange tee spin in the air...

***

Cairo didn't have a local newspaper anymore; like hundreds of small rags across the United States, _The Notebook_ was made extinct by digital media. Somehow, the _Canesoanke Courier_ still kicked, tho procuring said paper necessitated a trip to Canesoanke. Fifty minutes later, Steve spread the Saturday morning edition on the kitchen table. The sports sections amounted to two pages, and one of 'em was filled with baseball box scores and standings.

_Whatevs,_ Steve thought as he studied the skeletal blurbs under the **High School Roundup** banner on page 4...

Cairo 39 Baker 0

Cairo feasted on five Baker turnovers to build an insurmountable 32-point lead at the half. Senior Mike Hastings had two interceptions and snagged a touchdown reception from quarterback Tyler Jones. Running back Abe Mora rushed 16 times for 100 yards and two touchdowns. Cairo (1-0 1-0) will face Byron-Bergen (1-0 0-0) in their non-divisional home opener next week; Baker (0-1 0-1) will travel to Shale (1-0 0-0). Baker was led by junior running back James Reed, who finished with 124 yards on 33 carries.

The Crows dominated from whistle to whistle:

Brad Hearn returned the opening kickoff forty yards; two plays later, Jones hit Hastings on a deep corner route in the end zone. Abe converted the two-point try and Cairo led 8-0 with one minute and change into the game.

Cairo's subsequent onside kick failed, but Baker fumbled the center-quarterback exchange on their first offensive possession. Three plays later, Abe took a toss-sweep thirty-yards to the house. Another two-point conversion, this by Jonesy on a designed quarterback draw, gave the Crows a 16-0 advantage.

Baker stuck with the running game most of the first half. Sam responded by stacking the box, and Cairo's aggressive linebackers limited the Star to short gains. Forced into third and long situations, Baker's quarterback forced several passes to covered receivers. Brad Hearn and John Spillane each dropped an interception, but free safety Mike Hastings snagged two, the second of which he returned fifty yards to the Badger fifteen.

The up-tempo offense both surprised and gassed Baker; by the middle of the second quarter, the defenders sucked wind and moved like they were in molasses. Up thirty-nine at the end of the third quarter, Scooter took his foot off the gas and inserted the second team.

"We've given enough for our future enemies to dissect," he told Steve.

The clean, clinical execution was both a blessing and curse. Conscious of the dreaded Big Head Syndrome, Tommy reminded the players _a season doth not one game make_.

"Enjoy tonight," the sweaty ball coach said. "But come tomorrow morning, we focus on Byron-Bergen."

***

The Bees speedy senior Star -a dusky six-three wide receiver- had broken single season Class C records (yards, receptions, touchdowns) in 2014; Star also signed an LOI to Toledo in April. Tho the Rockets weren't Alabama, getting courted by a Division One program as a junior wasn't anything to pooh-pooh.

Steve spent the entirety of Sunday watching film of Star's past season. Predictably, the Bees offense centered the wideout; Star caught short passes, long passes, ran the ball on jet sweeps and sometimes lined up at quarterback.

At the coaches meeting Monday afternoon, our pal stated the obvious: Mister Star required an aggressive approach of containment.

"He should draw two men in coverage," Steve said as he consulted his chicken scratch. "Brad's our best cornerback, and he's solid against short, slow, white guys...but Star will wreck him one-on-one."

Sam stood and shifted magnets on a hanging white board in the film room. "Let's bring Hastings over the top," he said, positioning the free safety _X_ ten yards behind the cornerback covering the Star marker. "Rotate Matt, tell him Star is his only concern and...uh...drop Hoover..." Sam slid the strong safety to the area vacated by Mike Hastings and declared: "Boo-yah. Cover one, my man."

"Agreed," Steve said with a nod. "Here's something else to consider, Sam: when Star lines up behind center, the play call is almost always run. Out of forty some snaps last year, he threw the ball eight times. Now, it sounds easy to key on him in those situations cuz everybody and their blind dog knows Star is probably gonna carry the ball. But if he gets the edge, forget about it. Those mokes pull the weak side guard and tackle, kay. Tight end blocks down; guard takes the end; slot back chips the outside linebacker; tackle paves the way."

Sam scribbled a few notes and then said: "I'll have McGough shift to the strong side and set the edge. And let's bring Hoover a yard behind the backers and tell him to spy Star."

Several scout teamers had the pleasure of donning the gold penny; none of them came close to replicating the real deal. But on the rare occasion Fake Star scurried around the edge or caught a pass, Sam was quick to chastise his defense:

"Woo-wee! Star's gonna eat you sad sacks up!" Sam teased.

By Wednesday's practice, the needling reached a breaking point; tho the "no hitting" rule remained the law of The Ole PF, defenders began giving Fake Star an extra shove at the end of each play.

And, sometimes, an elbow to the throat.

And, once, Liam McGough ripped the penny off Fake Star and stomped on it for five Mississippi's...

***

At Isiah's request, Steve spent a half-hour throwing frozen ropes to the young man before Wednesday's practice. Poor Isiah suffered a case of the dropsies against Baker...three, to be exact, and all three should've been easy receptions.

"Howze, you've caught hundreds of footballs in practice," Steve said. "What happened Friday?"

"I...I don't know, coach. I guess I heard footsteps or...or something."

"You heard footsteps and dropped the ball, right?"

"Yes, coach."

"Do you remember what I said about distractions on Day One?"

"Distraction ruins concentration," our studious pupil said.

"Correct, and a lack of concentration destroys execution. It's a chain reaction, kay? Forget Friday; it's ancient history."

_You would know about dwelling on ancient history_ , the devil on Steve's shoulder intoned.

Our pal chased the stupid devil away with a head shake and continued: "Let's run a couple more routes before practice starts."

***

Deep in thought as he traversed the parking lot after Thursday's practice, our pal didn't notice Miss (or Missus...whatever) Kendra Howze at his three until she tooted the car horn.

"Hey, Coach Ritter!" herself hailed from the driver's seat of a silver, rust-flecked Mitsubishi Lancer.

"Miss Howze," Steve said, doffing his Yankees cap.

Kendra mashed the squeaky brakes and then cried, "Lordy, Coach Ritter! What's goin' one with the mess on your head?"

"Huh?"

"Your hair!"

"Uh, I didn't realize anything was wrong with my hair."

"Hair tells _everything_ about a person; from orientation to status...even the kind of job they have...if they have one...it's in the hair."

He raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Fussed she: "Don't look at me like I'm crazy. I have a trained eye."

"Kinda like reading palms, huh?"

"Easier."

"Kay, I'll bite. What does my hair say about me?"

"It says you need a haircut," cackled she.

"My, what insight," he laughed.

"My game is hair, Coach Ritter."

"Your game?"

"I cut it for a living. If you want a new do, come see me at Pattie's in Macedon. I'm there Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, ten to eight. No appointment required. Fact, I'll give you a discount cuz you've been so nice to Isiah."

Steve waved a dismissive hand and said, "I don't need a discount; Isiah's been a pleasure to coach. He's a respectful young man and a quick learner."

" _Humph._ You should've seen him Friday night. I missed the game cuz I was working, but he came home head-hung, you know what I mean? He said he dropped a couple passes."

"Chalk it up to first game jitters. I guarantee he'll improve as the season progresses."

Isiah appeared then, walking from the locker room with his head down...

"Hustle you can, Isiah!" Kendra screamed out the window. "I was supposed to collect your brother up ten minutes ago!"

"I gotta split too," Steve said. "Hope to see you at the game on Saturday, Miss Howze."

Herself winked at our pal and said, "Oh, I'll be there. And I hope to see you at Patties, Coach Ritter. Remember, ten to eight on-"

"Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday."

"You got it."

He rapped the hood with a knuckle and then continued to his vehicle.

# 24. Byron-Bergen Bees

Lightning delayed Cairo's 2015 home opener two plus hours...

Serenaded by thunder, the first distant strike occurred at 1230...a half-hour before kickoff...and the refs pulled both teams off the field. Thereafter, the half-hour clock began.

More lightening at one...and the clock began again.

And then one-fifteen...

One thirty...

Two-oh-seven...

Two twenty-eight...

Forced into the hotbox known as the locker room, the players paced...

Dripping sweat.

Cleats clacked...

Freddy Mercury hissed from Gary Crozier's recovered artifact.

Upon hearing the bass line for "Another One Bites The Dust" for the third time, Steve fled for the less swamp ass-ish outdoors. He found Tommy leaning against a waist high chain link fence staring at blossoming cumulonimbus clouds...

The ball coach checked his watch and then reported: "Last one hit twenty-five minutes ago."

"Good, and it looks like the storm is pushing east. See the anvil? See how those tops are getting pushed by the wind?"

"Thank you, Scott Hetsko."

"What can I say? I learned a lot about thunderstorms when I lived in Arizona."

"Uh-huh," Tommy snorted.

"Don't believe me?"

"Sorry, I forgot Arizona is known for its thunderstorms."

"You'd be surprised. Summer is the monsoon season, kay? Those bastards form like clockwork around two or three in the-"

"Dad's comin' to a home game later in the season," Tommy interrupted out of the corner of his mouth. "In fact, I'm allowing him to give the pregame speech."

This grabbed Steve's giblets. He swung his head at Tommy and asked, "Why?"

"The kids might find him inspirational."

"Or he might scare them."

Tommy shrugged and then hawked a giant green loogie.

"You can bring 'em out at your leisure, coach," one the officials said as he walked past. "Kickoff at three bells."

"10-4," Tommy replied. Then he turned attention to his ole pal and said, "I'm trying to give Dad as much as I can before I can't give any."

"Fine, you have reasons. I just think letting the old man speak to the players isn't a good idea."

"Why do always try and play the buzzkill? Is it a good idea? I don't know. But sometimes it's okay to act with good intentions."

"Cool beans," Steve said, pushing from the fence. "How 'bout we get the team lined up?"

***

To the strains of the Cairo fight song...

( _We're Cairo, we're loud, we're mighty and proud_...)

The Crows stormed the field with bluster...

( _Stand up and cheer for your Cairo Crows_!)

After severing a paper banner held, at either end, by cheerleaders...

( _We have the rep, we have the pep and we have the crowd_...)

Our enthusiastic warriors jumped up and down at midfield.

( _We'll take victory from our foes! Goooooo Cairo!_ )

As the small band finished blasting Captain Beefheart like discord, Steve flashbacked to his senior season, the last home game, and the joyful thought he shared with the future:

_You'll never set foot on Dewey Field again,_ his juvenile mind promised. _Never, ever_.

Yet, here he be.

And everything looked the same...

The grassy lump at midfield; the janky ass wooden bleaches comprised of buckling bench seats; the scoreboard (sponsored by Moore's Grocery); the off-tune band (directed by old as fuck Mr. Crystal); the staticky p.a.; the smell of cotton candy and pizza...

_You're never going to leave_ , his adult mind promised. _Never, ever._

Cairo won the toss and elected to receive. Aided by the gusty wind, the Bees kicker walloped the ball out of the end zone. Thereafter, the Crows took possession at their twenty-five.

"Let's see how these mothers handle unbalanced trips," Scooter whispered to Steve. Split to ten yards right, Mike Hastings and Isiah Howze lined up in tandem; right of them, hugging the visitor's sideline, Brad Hearn assumed a three-point stance. The latest, greatest offensive wrinkle hadn't been displayed at Baker, and the odd formation confused the Bees. Their coaches screamed: _"Watch the flanker screen! Watch the flanker screen!"_ ; they yelled at some players to slide left, others to shift right; it be assholes and elbows, and Scooter giggled in delight.

As the defenders darted around the secondary, Tyler Jones slapped his hands for the snap. Abe took a toss from the quarterback, rushed laterally -away from the heavy side- and waited for John Spillane to seal the edge. The halfback followed the block, juked an off-balance linebacker, and gained twenty yards before the free safety managed a touchdown saving shove out of bounds. The pep band fired up "Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown"; the crowd hummed...

Scooter signaled in the next play and said, "Keep the train chugging."

The offense moved the ball to the Bees forty in three plays -all runs- before kicking themselves in the gonads.

A false start on first down pushed the Crows back five yards; Abe lost two yards on the ensuing play; Jones bounced a short pass to Isiah; Scooter called for a screen on third down, but Abe could only scratch six yards.

Facing fourth and eleven on their forty-nine, Steve turned to Scooter and said: "They're playing cover one, Scoot. Trips left, drag the middle, send Howze on a fly."

It was clear the Bees viewed Mike Hastings as the go-to receiver; dashing across the middle of the field, he attracted the attention of both a linebacker and the free safety. Meanwhile, Isiah played through the cornerback's bump; he fired the jets, left the defender in the dust...

Drifting to intercept Hastings crossing route, the free safety could only watch as Isiah zoomed past.

"Hot damn, he's open!" Scooter yelled.

Jones rolled left, scanned the field, and saw Isiah sprinting by his lonesome...

The football soared, a perfect spiral, thirty yards to the receiver...

Hands and rock met in perfect stride...

Our pal raised his arms in celebration...

But elation proved premature:

The ball thudded into Isiah's mitts, then wiggled on fingertips, before falling to the grass and bouncing twice. The home crowd groaned; the visitor's fans sighed...

"Well, that sucked," Scooter griped.

Kendra Howze screamed from the stands: "It's okay, baby! Next time!"

" _Tu n ov r on dow s_ ," the p.a. crackled. " _By on Ber en ba l_."

Isiah jogged to the sidelines staring at his hands as if they had betrayed him.

Two plays later, the Crows yielded their first points of the season when Star caught a forty-five-yard pass. The coverage wasn't terrible -both Hearn and Hastings were fingertips away from deflecting the ball- but Star's extra couple inches made the difference. The Bees kicker converted the point after, and Byron-Bergen led 7-0.

Utilizing short passes, Cairo strolled downfield on their next possession in five-yard chunks. However, Tyler Jones got complacent, or the Bees got wise: the seventh pass of the drive was intercepted by a corner sitting on a short route. Adding insult to injury, the DB shrugged off Isiah's feeble tackle attempt and ran fifty-eight yards for a touchdown. The extra point sailed through the peeling yellow goalposts, and Cairo trailed 14-0 midway through the first quarter.

After the pick six, Isiah moped to the bench, threw off his helmet and stared at his feet.

"Forget about it," Steve said, draping an arm around the kid's shoulders.

" _Forget about it?_ " Isiah cried. "I dropped a touchdown and I missed a tackle!"

Our coach pointed at the scoreboard and said, "We have three and half quarters to play, Howze. Quit pouting and get a drink."

After the ensuing touchback, the Crows showed trips again and ran Abe ran twice for minimal gains. Facing a third and long, Scooter listened to the warbling voice in his headset and then called timeout.

"Adam believes they're spying Abe with a linebacker," Scooter told Steve. "So, here's what we're gonna try..."

Following the timeout, the Crows spread out the field in a single back, quad formation. Abe motioned out of the backfield on two; an outside linebacker mirrored him in a sidestep shuffle. On the snap, Abe ran a three yard out and waited for the pump fake from Jonesy...

The ole out and up netted thirty-five yards...plus another fifteen for the facemask tackle made by the free safety. Two plays later, Abe scored for the third time in the young season on a fifteen-yard draw.

"Going for two!" Tommy yelled, holding up two fingers.

Several gruff, agitated voices hollered from the stands:

" _Kick the extra point, Gray!"_

" _What are you doing?"_

Sprinting right, Jones found John Spillane in the corner off the endzone, which silenced the naysayers for the moment. In their conspicuous silence, the band launched into the rouser.

Grinning ear to ear, Tommy sidled next to his ole pal and whispered, "If those mokes didn't like the two-point call, then they're gonna hate this onside kick."

John Timmons was the brainbox behind the forthcoming event; while watching film of Byron-Bergen's victory the previous week, hisself noted one of the up players on the Bees kick return team had a tendency to turn and run before the kicker struck the ball.

This player became known as TFK... _The Fat Kid_.

Thus, when Tommy told Dave Berger to, _Target TFK_ , Dave Berger knew what to do.

The squib kick bounced once and then died in TFK's vacated spot. A nimble Crow slid on the football and, finger-snap like, Cairo had their fourth possession of the first quarter.

When it came times to switch sides, our protagonists had advanced the ball into the redzone...

***

"We have another half to play," Tommy nagged in the locker room. "Let's not lose focus. This is our game to lose, not theirs to win. You go hard on every play. No slowing down..."

You get the picture.

Be all them trite coachy colloquiums...

An electric fan wheezed from each of the four corners but, in Steve's humble opinion, the stoopid doodads did jack and squat. Our pal mopped his brow with a wet towel and glanced around the room.

The players listened to the ball coach with half of an-ear. Some taped joints, others gulped agua, but most stared at Tommy in a heat-induced stupor. Cairo had run off 26 points in the second quarter thanks to an assortment of crazy plays and lucky bounces. Abe scored again, this time on a sweep. The go for two wasn't converted and neither was the onside kick (TFK had been replaced by a new improved FK), but the Bees went three-and-out before airmailing the long snap over the punters head. Like a bull at Pamplona, Jake Davis trampled the punter; then the senior captain scooped the rolling ball and carried it into the endzone. Mike Hastings scored on a fifty-five-yard reverse; Johnny Spillane caught a pass from Abe on the halfback option; the offense appeared unstoppable...

Meanwhile, the defensive front and blitzing linebackers harassed the Bees quarterback on every drop back; Hastings and Hearn limited Star to three catches. The Bees committed four holding penalties; they fumbled twice; Star chipped at his quarterback; the quarterback chipped back. Down 34-14, the game appeared out-of-reach for poor ole Byron-Bergen.

Sapped of catchphrases, dripping like a sprinkler, Tommy called the players together for a lukewarm _Go Crows_ chant...

Liam McGough added a guttural, " _FINISH THE SECOND HALF, BOYS!_ "

And then the team trod into the steamy afternoon.

After the door shut behind the last Crow, Tommy said: "Scooter, it's hot as balls. Let's keep the pace sloth-like."

"Great minds," Scooter said, tapping his melon.

Looking smug, B.C. strutted to the water fountain and said, "Just think, Bossman. We're twenty-four minutes away from equaling last year's win total."

"Let's not jinx it," Tommy said. "These are high school kids, after all."

***

Dad wasn't in his chair, which was a small miracle, and the sound of the treadmill from the basement suggested a head-scratching phenomenon.

You know, like when it rains frogs or blood...

Something so unbelievable, nobody knows what to make of it...

Something all them nobodies subscribe to supernatural tomfoolery.

Aye, hearing the treadmill was akin to God unleashing a deluge or blessing cancer on an infant.

For weeks, Steve hounded the old man to use _the thing_. If Stan Ritter wanted to scrutinize Steve's love life, Steve would bitch about the old man's lack of exercise.

_Get on the thing and walk your poocher out_ , our pal ordered a hundred plus times over the half-year.

_Walking on the thing is the epitome of boring,_ Stan carped.

Steve agreed, but with the television, cable and DVD player, Pop had _no_ _good_ reason not to use _the thing_. Instead of staring at a concrete wall and spiderwebs, Stan Ritter could watch Michael Kay (which was about the same in Steve's opinion), or one of them dopey Westerns he enjoyed. To add further incentive, Steve bought a John Wayne _Best Of_ collection and told Dad they were for workout viewing _only_.

Welp, the carrot worked. Face contorted in agony, the old man jogged as _Rio Bravo_ blasted from the television. A damp white t-shirt clung to Pop's skin; a rolled white towel draped around hisself's neck in a poor facsimile of Rocky Balboa. When the old man saw Steve, he slowed to a walk and lowered the incline.

Our pal held up his hands and said, "Don't stop on account of me. I was about to get my camera. This is as rare as catching a Sasquatch on film."

"Ha-ha. I was feeling motivated."

"About time. Just don't push it, kay. I'm not itching to give you mouth-to-mouth."

"There's little chance of my dying, but I won't be able to walk tomorrow. You might have to serve me breakfast in bed."

"Fat chance."

"So, how'd you guys make out?"

"40-21, us."

"Wow. Sounds like a beat-down."

"Yeah, I guess. It got sloppy in the second half, but my god was it warm. The kids were gassed -both sides- and everyone dragged ass by the fourth quarter. Matter of fact, you look about as spent. How far did you go?"

Stan wiped his face and stopped the machine, riding the tread to the rear of the platform. Then he jumped off and raised hands like the Italian Stallion. "Four miles in an hour," he boated. "Not too shabby for an old man."

"Stick with it, old man. You have plenty of movies to watch."

"Next time get something with t & a," Stan said as he patted his son on the cheek. "Walter Brennan doesn't do it for me."

# 25. East Rochester Union Bombers

Patties wasn't Steve's kind of place.

The boutique smelled of hairspray and disinfectant; blow dryers created an awful, jet engine like whine; old blue hair's read _People_ magazine (tho they paused to study the newest patron with curiosity). He thought about turning tail until the receptionist appeared from behind a plywood partition.

"Kendra...Kendra Howze...she told me to stop by," our pal said.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"I didn't know I needed an appointment."

"If you don't have an appointment the wait is..." the receptionist studied the book in front of her, frowned and then reported, "The wait is _at least_ an hour."

"Alright, it's fine. I'll come back another-"

"Coach Ritter!" Kendra screeched from the rear of the shop. "You wised up!"

"Well, I figured since I'm in the neighborhood...but I'm told the wait is at least an hour. I can come back later, or tomorrow, or whenever you're not busy."

"Nonsense," Kendra cawed. "I can get you dun in fifteen minutes. Git on back here..."

***

After a shampoo and rinse, Kendra seated her newest customer in a rotating leather chair. She dropped the seat a smidge and then begin combing his hair to the right. Tongue sticking between her lips, Kendra worked out tangles in quick, deft flicks.

Steve watched her in the mirror and said, "If it helps, I usually get it trimmed."

"I'll trim it up, but first I gotta get these kinks out...and you have a lotta kinks, Coach Ritter. How often do you wash your hair?"

"A couple times a week."

" _Humph_ ," grumbled she.

"Not enough, I take it."

"I ain't gonna lecture, but you oughta wash every day, otherwise it gets greasy and matted."

For the next ten minutes, Kendra clipped his hair until it was shorn around the ears; then she thinned the top and zapped the electric razor around his neck.

"Which way you part it?" she asked, dabbing cold gel onto his scalp.

He shrugged and answered, "I don't."

"Hm...let's try left."

When she was done using the comb, Kendra blew on it like a hot pistol and then asked, "Wasn't so bad, was it?"

"No," he said, sizing hisself in the mirror.

"How's it look?"

"I think I've found a new stylist."

Smiling like the cat what ate the canary, she removed the gown, shook hair to the floor and then said, "Isiah was bummed after the game. I told him he did his best but he isn't satisfied with trying. Isiah wants to do. I tell him to keep practicing; I tell him Rome wasn't built in a day; I tell him even you dropped the ball sometimes. Ha! He doesn't believe me; he thinks you walk on water."

"Shoot, I've dropped the ball plenty of times. I dropped the ball so bad I'm back in Cairo."

Kendra put hands on hips and said, "Maybe bein' back in Cairo is a good thing, Coach. Sometimes we gotta reset our brains. Lordy, I had to reset mine after my husband chose drugs over his wife and kids. But you know what? I came out better on the other side."

"I'm all for resetting, I just wish my catalyst wasn't displayed across the country."

"Nobody is perfect, honey. You need to hitch those pants and keep 'em up!"

Steve laughed and then said, "Sound advice."

To which she slapped his shoulder and cackled, "I know, right?"

***

The East Rochester Bombers napalmed Cairo 42-6 in 2014.

A steady diet of old-fashioned smash-mouth football did the trick; the Bombers rushed for 387 yards and passed for 6. Even though East Rochester entered Saturday's matchup at zero wins and two losses, Tommy dredged the past to stoke the future:

"I know ya'll think you're the cat's meow, but you haven't proven anything yet. Those kids at East Rochester can't wait to put a whipping on you like they did last year. They're itching for their first win, and they _know_ you're ripe for the taking. They _know_ you're soft; they _know_ you're cocky; they _know_ your record is a joke. Boys, they _know_ you are pretenders."

"We ain't pretenders!" Liam barked. "Fuck them!"

"Liam, you remember last year's game," Tommy said. "What was it like eating grass for four quarters?"

Liam garbled something under his breath.

"He still spittin' dirt," B.C. teased.

"I kid you not, East Rochester is coming here to administer a beatdown," Tommy bemoaned while nodding his head.

"You're goddamn right!" B.C. yapped "Get yer heads out of your asses!"

As if kicked in the balls, Liam jumped from the ground and screamed: "Line up, Crows! Saturday afternoon starts now!"

Spurred by their manic captain, the players assembled in straight lines and went about the business of getting loose.

Meanwhile, Tommy fixed Steve with a keen eye and asked, "What's with the hairdo? You have a fashion shoot I don't know about?"

"You likey? Isiah's mother is a stylist in Fairport. She did my do this afternoon."

"A stylist, huh? I didn't realize you're so bougie."

"At least I have hair, cue ball."

"Uh-huh, funny. _Ahem_...on another subject, Lydia's been bending my ear a bit."

Steve gave his ole pal the side-eye.

"Just give her a call," Tommy begged.

"Dude," Steve said, putting a hand on his ole pal's shoulder. "With your old man and this team, my personal life should be, like, way down on your list of priorities."

"My priorities aren't only about you. Tell her it's done or it ain't but tell her something."

"Natalie made it clear what's-what. Besides, she could call me."

"I bet she's pining next to the phone."

"I bet not."

"See, I think you're hoping she begs you to come back. _Oh, please, Steve, I need you so_. Right? Then you can march in and set the rules the way you want them."

"Wrong."

"Fine, I'm wrong, but you should still call her."

Our pal wiped a crocodile tear from his eye and whimpered, "God damn you're sweet, Tommy. If you weren't attached, I'd ask if you'd be mine."

"You could pull better tail than moi with your fancy-pants haircut."

***

He dialed the number from memory and then flopped onto his bed...

A fat fly made lazy circles above his head.

One warbling tone...

Then two...

And then her sweet...tho somewhat slurry...voice: "Ello?"

Steve closed his eyes and said, "It's me."

"I nowed."

The fly's buzzing receded to a low, harried drone; our pal opened the peepers and spotted the pest whacking the ceiling.

"So...um...how have you been?" he asked (which seemed like a _suitable_ query, all things considered).

"How haft I bin...well, Steve, Ima exhausted, testy and three...whoopsie...Ima four glasses into a biiiiigggg bottle of red wine; Ima leavin' for Californa in two days; I haft a present...a pres...in...ta-shon to range; I haft bags to pack; Ima litol overwelled and a litol intoxicated, he-he."

_Oh, great,_ he thought.

Continued slurry she: "The station is rollin' out a new market-ting campaign to tract a biiiiigggg name for the afternoon slot. John Charles ain't cutting the mustard, and I'm scramblin' to keep our advertisers from leaving the twelt-to-tree. It appears Max Aspinglia at WFCR is a force to be reckoned with, go figure. His ratings are through the ceiling!"

"Never heard of the guy."

"Haft yew hearda Jim Rome? He's the biiiiigggg name Ima tryna lure."

For the briefest moment, Steve considered, _Have I heard of him? I wanna shit down his throat,_ a _suitable_ response. But he found Zen or something in the fly what bashed its fat ass eight feet above:

"Jim Rome...nope, never heard of him, either. But those sports radio turds...they're a dime a dozen."

"Not cording to my bosses. Cording to my bosses, _Jim Rome_ is the Second Coming. _Jim Rome_ means I gotta fly to Los Angles on Wednesday; _Jim Rome_ means I must haft advertisers who will pay biiiiigggg money to _Jim Rome_ cuz _Jim Rome_ isn't a dime a dozen; _Jim Rome_ means Ima need Jim _Rome_ in order to secure the advertising for _Jim Rome_ and my bosses want _Jim Rome_ ASAP. Dat about covers it."

"Yea, it sounds like you're kinda...on edge."

She sighed and then said, "Yew know, I almost didn't answer the phone. But then I thought, _Ima answer it, but Ima give him grief_. And not a litol grief, Steve. I planned on giving _a lot_ of grief. Ida given yew _a lot_ of grief for not callin' me in almost a month. I even considered callin' yew an asshole. I woulda said, _Hey, asshole, why hafint yew called me in a month_?!"

"Heh, good thing you didn't," he joked. "I might have hung up."

"A _real_ good thing cuz if yew woulda hung up, I woulda not be able to ask yew somethin'."

"What?"

"Do yew wanna come over?"

***

Hair askew, wearing a t-shirt and panties, Natalie yanked him into her house by his sleeve and then got to work on his belt.

"Whoa," our pal giggled. "Miss me much?"

"Sha up," she mumbled. "Don't make me chain my mind."

It took her a few ticktocks to undo the clasp...

And a few seconds to unbutton his pants...

And then a few Mississippi's to wrap her arms around his neck.

She swayed against him...

She moaned...

Her breath smelled like vino...

"Uhm, how much have you had to drink?" he asked.

"I wan yew to fuck me, and then I wan yew to leaf," she whispered into his ear.

"You want me to leave?"

"Fill me up and go. It's what yew want, right?"

He pushed her back and asked, "What the hell is with you?"

"If...if it haz to be this way...to keep yew...I'll do wha-ever yew want."

"Listen, this ain't happening tonight," our pal said as he buckled his belt.

"But I wanna to happen!"

"No way. You're a mess."

"Ima not! Ima...Ima a litol tipseeee is all."

"You're _a lot_ tipsy, Natalie. How 'bout we get you to bed?"

Swaying to the stairs, she plopped her butt on the first step and wiggled toes; between hitched breath came a wheezy question: "Why dint yew call me?"

"Now isn't the time to talk about it, kay?"

"Then win are we gonna talk?"

"When you're not five sheets, for starters."

Muttered she: "I donna know wha yer 'fraid of. Ima not a bad person."

Exasperated, our pal crossed arms and said: "You know, this is one of those situations a recovering addict might find troublesome."

" _Pfft!_ Doan git all high and mighty. I dint tell yew to come here. No, yew came here an...an it's cuz yew wanna screw me!"

"I'm not arguing with you," he said tactfully. "You go upstairs, I head home, and-"

"And yew'll call me layer," she heckled through a leer.

"Maybe when you're rational I'll call. Then again, I'm not sure when that'll be."

Her face slackened and drained of blood. "Fine, Steve," she replied all icy-like. "Go fine somebody elf. Go fine somebody elf who can cept yer seletins. Go fine somebody elf who loves yew like I do. Go fine dem, Steve." Then she stood, wiped her eyes and weaved into the dark living room.

Steve checked his watch and said, "Natalie, c'mon, enough screwing around. Let's get you to bed."

She responded with a muffled, "Ima fine. Jus go."

No doubt she wanted him to drag her upstairs, but he wasn't in the mood to participate in stoopid games. A moment later he heard glass on glass-

Tink. Tink. Tink.

-and pictured her pouring another round.

"All right, I'm-"

Tink.

"-leaving," he called, grabbing his coat.

Tink. Tink.

_Fuck me,_ our pal thought as strode from the house. _That's the last time I do Tommy a favor_.

***

On Sunday morning, Steve poured a cup of joe and filled the dog's dish with kibble before sitting down at the computer and finding the game recap from WHAM's website. The Rochester news station made the forty-minute trip to shoot a quarter of football with a shoulder held camera. The herky-jerky clip began with an establishing shot of Cairo's cheerleaders waving pom-poms. Then an over-caffeinated sportscaster rattled in a machine-gun like cadence:

" _Saturday afternoon action at historic Dewey Field in Cairo! The winless East Rochester Bombers facing off against the undefeated Crows! Cairo took an early lead on this 60-yard bomb from Tyler Jones to John Spillane. Oh! What a catch! And lookit this! Cairo goes for two...and Abraham Mora plunges 'cross the goal line to give Cairo an eight-point advantage! Later in the first, watch senior Matt Hastings on the flanker screen! He makes a couple Bombers miss...tiptoes the sideline...touchdown Crows! Your final score, Cairo 38, East Rochester Union 3. Now on to Lyons where..."_

He closed the browser, laced hands behind his head and rocked in the chair.

Shale had beaten the tar out of Fishers, 49-0. Tommy hadn't received the film yet, but the brain trust already knew what to expect. Coach Farnsworth loved physical football with the prerequisite clichés: _pound the rock, blood, snot, mud..._

Aggressive, swarming defense...

Aggressive, swarming...

Aggressive...

Agg...

Steve pulled a green Stuart Hall pocket notebook from under a mound of envelopes and computer paper; he found an empty page and began doodling with a pencil...

"Trips unbalanced," he said under his breath, drawing the formation. "Except...split the right guard and tackle out...send the slot in motion." Our brainstorming coach sketched a theoretical defensive formation with theoretical offensive blocking assignments. "Kay..." he continued, as if speaking to Scooter, "Kay, Tyler fakes the strongside toss to Abe...hands off to Isiah..."

Aye, a misdirection tends to catch _aggressive defenses_ with their panties down...

"Their panties down," he muttered.

Our pal pushed the notebook aside and shoved the eraser end of the pencil into his mouth.

He tried forgetting Monday evening's nonsense...

Natalie's crying and drunken babble...

( _If it haz to be this way...to keep yew...I'll do wha-ever yew want._ )

Her grating derision...

( _And yew'll call me layer_.)

How her mug crumpled when he said, in so many words, _Fuck Off_.

( _Go fine somebody elf who loves yew like I do. Go fine dem, Steve_.)

Altho beating feet was a pragmatic decision (or so saith the little devil _and_ the little angel in a rare display of solidarity), hindsight needled like a million pushpins.

She was right: he hadn't come running to roast marshmallows.

( _Yew came here an...an it's cuz yew wanna screw me!_ )

Calling her had been stupid; going to her to house had been stoopid; and the stoopid events upset his tummy.

But apologizing also seemed stoopid.

He hadn't done anything wrong other than split from the stoopid situation.

End of discussion.

Besides, the last thing Steve Ritter needed were stoopid distractions leading up to the showdown between crusty Coach Farnsworth and his army of meatheads.

Right...correct...indeed...

Our pal removed the pencil from his mouth and refocused attention on the Stuart Hall.

# 26. At Shale Vikings

Outside the locker room, the Shale marching band played a rousing John Sousa number. Inside, a ranting Tommy Gray -face beet red, veins throbbing in his neck and temple- punted a trashcan from one end of the room to the other. Garbage lay strewn across the floor: a banana peel, some Kleenex and an issue of _Sports Illustrated._ With each kick, the aluminum side dented...

With each kick, the players winced.

Correction: thirty-five players winced.

Tyler Jones be the bell rung outlier.

Dig: Tyler Jones looked like a baked bruh.

Tyler Jones didn't blink, smile, frown, cry.

Tyler Jones stared into the Twilight Zone with them glassy eyes.

Our pal knew as much; our pal could testify.

If it'd been 1991, poor ole Tyler would've returned to the game after getting bell rung.

But in 2015, Tyler Jones be playing no moe against Shale.

The trainer claimed the quarterback suffered a _mild_ bell ringing.

_Mild_ be the operative word, cuz _mild_ didn't mean a trip to the hospital or an end to the season.

_Mild_ meant something else, tho; _mild_ meant Tyler Jones wouldn't play next week at Lyons.

Maybe the week after, too.

Newfangled protocols dictated bell ringings of the _mild_ variety required a week of no contact and then a doctor's consent to take the field again.

Administrative whatnots, in other words...which were good...

_Real good_ cuz teenage Tyler didn't wanna age into a stoopid, dingus wavin' fool.

Steve sighed and massaged his temple...

Shit hadn't gone south lickety-split: Cairo drove the opening kickoff seventy-four yards in three minutes; they gashed Shale with the up-tempo; they silenced the rowdy home crowd...

They made Coach Farnsworth toss his visor...

Which brought a tear to Steve's eye.

On the ninth play of the possession, Isiah scored on our pal's crafty jet sweep.

Thirty yards untouched galloped he.

While the Cairo sideline celebrated, our pal glanced at the line-of-scrimmage and saw the flag sitting atop the turf like a pile of yellow shit.

Thereafter, the referee signaled: _Holding, Cairo_ ; the ball was marched backwards ten years; the score came off the board...

The air came out of Cairo's sails.

"Hey!" B.C. yelled at the umpire. "Hey! Who held?"

"Sixty-seven grabbed a handful of jersey, coach."

"Bullshit!"

The umpire bent over, picked up a footlong streamer of purple fabric and shook it like a hankie.

B.C. clenched his hands and screamed: "Fitzgerald, you dumbass! You cost us six!"

Two plays after Isiah's nonexistent touchdown, Tyler got squashed between a fat defensive lineman and a blitzing cornerback. The quarterback hit the deck, the football popped from his hands, and Shale recovered the stoopid thing at midfield.

Poor Tyler. He'd come off the field strung between both trainers like Christ on his way to Golgotha. One look at him and Steve knew he was done-zo. Even if Tyler wanted to return (and from the look on his face he didn't), Tommy pulled the plug on that pipedream.

"Jonesy ain't returning, so don't even ask," hisself told Scooter.

Scooter considered his play sheet as Kevin Dana warmed up. "Guess we'll see what Dana's made of," he said with zero enthusiasm. "I just hope to God he doesn't get injured."

Two plays after the turnover, Shale scored on a forty-six-yard run.

The home crowd howled; Farnsworth pumped his flabby, old as fuck arms.

"We're toast," B.C. bellyached.

His diagnosis proved apt:

Brad Hearn misplayed the ensuing kickoff and kicked it out of bounds on the Cairo eight; Kevin Dana dropped the exchange from center; Shale claimed the pigskin...

When halftime arrived, at long last, Shale led 24-0. The Vikings dominance encompassed all three facets of the game...

Shale: 263 yards of offense, including 212 on the ground; fourteen minutes and change of possession; thirteen first downs; four takeaways; four sacks; a 37yard field goal.

Cairo's dismal statistics? Four turnovers, eight penalties, 98 _total_ yards of offense (74 of which came on the opening drive); five dropped passes (three by Isiah); one third down conversion on six attempts; none for five on fourth down; bunches of missed tackles...

Which brings up back to where this chapter began:

Tommy gave the trashcan a final, halfhearted kick and hacked: "I-I don't have nutin to add. Coaches? Any words of wisdom?"

B.C. yapped: "Get your heads out of your asses!"

Steve rolled his peepers and then patted his ole pal on the shoulder. "Go get a drink of water," he whispered before addressing the long faces:

"Men, I know this isn't what we expected. You're down twenty-four; you've made mistakes; you face adversity. Guess what? The first half is history. Even better, you have twenty-four minutes to show Shale, and their annoying, fans you aren't quitters. Those bozos in the other locker think you've given up. They're planning their post-game parties. How 'bout you take the field and shove their faces in shit, huh?"

If nothing else, Liam McGough found inspiration in the rah-rah: he stood on a bench and screamed at his teammates to grow a pair.

"I ain't rollin' over, and neither are you!" Liam barked. "C'mon! Strap 'em up!"

Joining Steve at the ass end of the line, Tommy said: "Nice sermon."

"I've been on plenty of losing teams to know a dressing down won't help."

"Frustration, bro. Any other season and I'd have left the theatrics behind the curtain. I just expected a better showing."

"Sometimes the cookie crumbles all crappy like. Besides, we have three games after tonight and a playoff spot hanging in the balance. A solid second half will build confidence for next week."

The trek from the visitor's locker room to Shale's Claude Raymond Field (named after the small town's hoary Nineteenth Century strident abolitionist and casualty of the New York Draft Riots) required an almost quarter-mile slog between rowdy fans milling on either side of the gravel trail. Opposing teams nicknamed it the "walk of shame", and them hecklers reinforced the moniker by vomiting their two cents at both kids and coaches.

Tommy and Steve lowered their heads and jogged the gauntlet as insults peppered from far and near:

" _You suck, Cairo!"_

" _Enjoying yer annual ass whooping?"_

" _I haven't seen a beating so bad since old man Gray beat on his players!"_

And, of course, there be a jibe aimed at our old pal:

" _Yo, Ritter, did you flog your players with your dick to motivate 'em?"_

Steve shoved hands into pockets, stared at his shoes and pictured fluffy kittens instead of creative ways to commit homicide.

"There's a reason I wanted to win this game," Tommy said out-of-the-side of his mouth. "I _hate_ these motherfuckers."

***

The mood in the bus was downcast but not funeral pallor-like. Some of the kids conversed in hushed voices; others played with their phones. Stewing in misery after defeat, while not nonexistent, seemed the exception not the norm. Even Tommy appeared upbeat...at least, more upbeat compared to his halftime demeanor.

"Second half went well," the ball coach said in an even voice. "The kids showed heart."

Head resting against the steamy window, Steve acquiesced with a grunt while reliving the episode...

After recovering the second half kickoff, Shale went three and out.

Brad Hearn returned the line drive punt to midfield; Kevin Dana (whose feet were made twitchy by the relentless pass rush), broke the pocket and scrambled for multiple first downs); at B.C.'s instance, wider splits by the offensive line spread Shale's 3-4 defense between the hashes, which allowed Abe Mora room to get to the second level. On fourth on goal from the Shale eight, Dana hit John Spillane on a picture-perfect tight end counter pass. The try for two failed, but Cairo tallied points and a modicum of momentum.

The ensuing onside attempt dribbled out of bounds, but Shale failed to gain more than a single first down before electing to punt. Sending Hearn and Hastings deep to receive the kick, the Crows executed a lateral from the former to the latter; the return team constructed a solid wall, Hastings advanced to the Viking's thirty-eight, and the Cairo faithful began to make noise.

Dana found his groove on the subsequent scoring drive: he spread the ball to Hastings, Hearn, Spillane, and Scott Hoover. Aided by a pass interference call, the Crows scored on a quarterback sneak from the half-yard line. The try for failed again (Abe mishandled a swing pass), but Shale's twenty-four-point cushion evaporated to twelve at the end of the third.

During the quarter interlude, the coaches fed upon the players rekindled passion. B.C. slapped his linemen's helmets; Sam lauded the defense; Scooter sweet-talked Dana; Steve pressed the receiver to find their fifth gear; Tommy paced the sidelines screaming encouragement.

The kids smiled; they jumped up and down; they slapped backs and woofed.

The comeback be on, baby.

When Scott Hoover stepped in front of a Shale pass at the start of the fourth quarter for his first interception of the year, the home fans moaned; Coach Farnsworth threw his headset and whacked a clipboard from an assistant's hand.

"Fuck those motherfuckers!" B.C. shrieked, showering the air with spittle.

Alas, three plays later, Dana heaved a throw across his body smack into a linebacker's paws. Thereafter, the Vikings burned six minutes while smashing forward four yards at-a-time. With three minutes left in the game, Shale rammed the dagger on a sixteen-yard screen pass to the halfback.

When the siren went off and the foes met to shake hands, Farnsworth greeted Steve with congenial words: "Your guys are game, Ritter. Keep up the good work. It'd be nice to renew the old rivalry."

Our pal didn't know what to say. He anticipated something less classy from the old ball coach, but it appeared Farnsworth had mellowed with age...

Later, in the confines of the Cairo locker room, Tommy shook the DVD of the game and said: "I see no reason to watch the film. We know what we did and didn't do tonight. I'm proud of you for not quitting; for digging deep; for showing Shale your resolve. They won the first half, we won the second, and if things work our way, we'll get a chance to meet them in the playoffs. Then we can whip on them for four quarters. Sound good?"

"Fucking A it sounds good!" Liam screamed, to which his teammates seconded with barks, whistles and the pounding of fists on lockers.

Tommy tossed the disk aside and said: "Fucking A it sounds good. Get a solid night's sleep, come in tomorrow for lifting, and we'll start prepping for Lyons on Monday..."

# 27. At Lyons Lions

Before Monday's practice, Tommy pinned the wrinkled _D &C_ sports page on the tack board in the locker room and then rapped it with his knuckles.

Saith the ball coach to his team: "Most of you know the deal, but for those who don't, here's the skinny: Four teams from our division qualify for the playoffs. If we beat Lyons on Friday, we clinch a spot. The math ends there. Any questions?"

There weren't any, at least from the kids.

Lyons 3-1 record looked impressive on paper, but the Lions defense struggled against winless Romulus (30-23), winless Baker (35-28), and winless Arcadia (a Class D school, by the be, 35-31). A week removed from a 38-14 defeat at East Rochester, Lyons appeared ripe for the plundering...

But the coaches crunched different mathematicals, mathematicals they discussed _ad nauseum_ after Monday's practice.

The _mild_ concussion Tyler Jones suffered against Shale meant the quarterback wouldn't dress Friday...and maybe the following week against Cayuga. Tho Kevin Dana played...eh...competent in relief at Shale, Scooter favored an uncomplicated, go-slow, run first strategy against Lyons weak, undisciplined 5-2 defense. East Rochester gained 196 yards on 35 carries; Baker tallied 156 yards on the ground; Romulus 135; Red Jacket 156.

"Lyons front five are sluggish fatbodies," Scooter said. "Provided the o-line is up for the challenge, I say feed Abe twenty plus times and let him carry the load. I'm thinking...well, let's drop a receiver, implement a hefty formation, and temper the pass attempts below a dozen."

"Damn straight," B.C. said. "We can't have _what's his name_ flinging wounded ducks."

"Kevin handled himself well given the circumstances," Steve argued.

"A fumble, two picks...shoulda been three if Shale's cornerback didn't have butterfingers...and the last one killed us," B.C. said. "Plus, the Howze kid is good for at least two drops a game. Sitting him for a Bubba on the line or...hell, play Boyd at fullback if you want...is better than a receiver who can't catch."

"Steve, given the circumstances, I can't help but agree with a conservative approach," Tommy said. "I like Kevin, but if he's a mess and shit goes south, then Cayuga becomes a must win. If Jonesy's taking a seat against the Chiefs...you see what I'm cooking? East Roc has Baker, Shale and Cayuga remaining. We hold the tie breaker over the Bombers, but should those mokes run the table, and Lyons and Cayuga hold tie breakers over us, we're up shit creek. If Arcadia and Baker can run on Lyons, we shouldn't have a problem."

Steve considered voicing a dissenting opinion; Cairo's up-tempo banged all season (even against hard-nosed Shale...with a backup quarterback, no less), but he sat back and buttoned his mouth.

If Tommy desired an alternative approach, then the onus rested on the ole ball coach.

Besides, Steve's melon wandered a different neon avenue...

***

Sunlight found its way through a crack in the curtains and shone on Steve's right eyelid like the probing lantern beam from "The Tell-Tale Heart". He snorted, covered his face with a pillow and stared at the blue fabric.

He didn't need the digital doodad on the dresser to tell him the date:

September 29 2015.

One year of sobriety needed no reminding, kay?

One year absent booze; pills; pot; wanton intercourse with indiscriminate strangers.

One year.

It seemed like a _Big Deal_...one year.

Pondering the path he staggered...where he be headed...

The resentment...

The hopelessness...

The self-pity...

Icky despondency condemned with a stab to the heart!

Our pal exhaled and recalled the morning he departed for Open Arms:

Phoenix Sky Harbor, Terminal 4...

Seven-fifteen in the morning...

There he slouched in a bucket seat...

Draining a lukewarm Bud heavy.

Piped mariachi music wafted from a speaker in the faux cantina.

A muted television broadcast an English football match.

Mid-slug, miserable ole Steve heard an amplified voice announce: " _Now boarding all passengers, Southwest Flight 2987, nonstop to Santa Ana's John Wayne Airport. Now boarding, Flight 2987, Gate 23._ "

_Sixty days,_ he thought. _Sixty days without a drink or anything else._

Sweat collected under both armpits.

Perspiration pebbled his forehead.

This is the end, beautiful friend...

His wife...MIA.

His job...in jeopardy.

His reputation...shitter city, baby.

My only friend, the end...

Steve downed the tepid backwash and slammed the mug on the counter.

He considered grabbing his duffel and turning tail...

He'd join the crowd leaving the airport...

He'd hail a cab...

He'd return to his empty house...

He'd roll a big fatty, spin The Doors, get _tore the fuck up_ and feel peachy. The repercussions of said behavior were a bridge to cross later...

Or never.

Lost in a Roman wilderness of pain...

" _Passengers Carlson, Franklin and Ritter, this is your final boarding call for Flight 2987 to Santa Ana, departing Gate 23._ "

Behind the bar, a warped mirror reflected our pal's not-so-clever disguise: blue Yankees hat pulled to the brow; sunglasses; budding facial hair...

And all the children are insane...

_I'm havin' a Captain Willard moment,_ mused our pal.

"Another one?" the soda jerk asked, gesturing at the glass.

It hurts to set you free...

"I...uh..." garbled Steve.

But you'll never follow me...

" _Passenger Ritter, final call, Southwest 2987, service to Santa Ana._ "

The end of laughter and soft lies...

The end of nights we tried to die...

For whatever reason, the teetertotter swung toward the fatbody of common sense, leaving Mr. Mojo Risin dangling in the air.

"I gotta chariot to catch," our pal said as he gathered the bag.

This is the end.

"I made it one fucking year," he said into the pillow.

Pop wasn't around when Steve climbed out of bed; a note on the kitchen counter informed hisself headed into the R-oh-C to have lunch with a former coworker. Steve's one year announcement would have to wait until the old man arrived home. But when he did...

Maybe they'd nosh a couple of ribeye's at Dwight's Chop House in Canesoanke...

" _To your one year of sobriety_ ," Steve pictured Dad saying before they clinked tumblers of soda.

Cuz one year is a _Big Deal._

Enos gravitated to the table while our pal consumed a bowl of Peanut Butter Crunch. Steve tossed a spoonful of the Cap'n on the floor and said, "One year of sobriety, dog. Dig it."

Dig it he did: Enos chowed down on the sugary treat and wagged his tail.

"Damn straight," Steve said, patting the pooch on its head. "One year is a _Big Deal..._ a _Big Deal_ worthy of a Big ole hunk of marbled beef, a loaded potato and..."

And then our sober pal snickered because the Big Deal be worth something else...

The _Big Deal One Year Chip_.

***

At Tuesday's practice, Steve pulled Tommy aside and said, "I'm bowing early."

"You and Natalie painting Cairo red?"

Steve hadn't clued Tommy into the Natalie Situation cuz the N.S. wasn't worth dissecting like game film.

( _She was drunk, I was irritated, it's been a week, we haven't talked since...and we'll prolly never speak again._ )

Our pal cleared his throat and then said: "Today marks one year of sobriety, which means I'm due a chip."

"A chip?"

"An A.A. rite of passage."

"Well, heh, congrats," the ole pal said, shaking Steve's hand.

"I couldn't have done it without you."

"I appreciate the praise, but I'm not the reason. _You are_."

"Uh-uh. When I arrived-"

"Lest you forget, I shoved a Boja red in your hand."

"Because you didn't know."

"Moi isn't the hand attached to the arm attached to the body. Your decisions are yours, not mine."

"But you gave me a push in the right direction, kay?"

Tommy bowed his head and -for a moment- Steve thought his bestest chum might shed tears. But the bestest chum inhaled and then said, "Shove off at your leisure, dude. Scooter can handle the slack."

***

On the empty road leading to Manchester, under a gray sky spitting rain, he drove to a meeting he hadn't attend in a long time to collect his _Big Deal One Year_ reward.

He pulled into the same distant parking spot and saw the same hunched, hacking, heater nursing knot of ex-sots. Nodding as he passed, Steve took the same metal chair in the rear of the seminary; he watched the same coughing men file in; he saw the same hairy, lumberjack fella (Vince...Vern...Varney -which be a stupid fucking name but whatevs) who, way back when, passed Steve seven digits.

Vince...Vern...Varney...whatevs...made eye contact with Steve; he grinned; he stood; he consulted a laminated sheet...

"Good evening, I'm Vern, and I'm an alcoholic," hisself declared.

"Hi, Vern," the assembled replied in unison.

Vern then recited the spiel spieled in recovery quarters across the world: he explained what A.A. did, what it meant, etcetera, ad infinitum...

After completing the busywork, the big man asked: "Anybody new to the Manchester meeting?"

Steve arched his back and looked around the room like he be a bonafide regular.

Continued Vern: "Alrighty, good to see you all again. Tuesday night is a speaker meeting in Manchester, and I'm proud to present my good friend Charles. Sir, the floor is yours for the next forty-five minutes."

A thin old man in bib overalls and a green John Deere trucker hat limped to the front of the room and wrinkled a bulbous nose. "I've sat in these meetings for twenty-two years, six months and three days," Charles wheezed. "March 1993, I came-to in a car after crashing into a telephone pole outside Palmyra. In thirty years of drinking, I wrecked nine cars. The last one belonged to my ex-wife's father; I stole it from him for no good reason. 'Tis the insanity of the disease, and the disease began for me at the age of twelve. My father drank, as did my uncles. The seeds were sown from birth, and I needed but one sip to know..."

Our pal adjusted his ass in anticipation of a meandering, disjointed sermon while his mind drifted...

***

He gulped three of them little airplane booze bottles on the forty-minute flight to John Wayne.

And when he stepped of the 737 in Santa Ana, he downed a draught (or maybits three) in an empty terminal watering hole before strolling for the exit.

As promised, a chaperone from Open Arms loitered outside security holding a sign emboldened -in Big black letters- _RITTER_. The stony-faced handler recognized our tight pal lickety-split, and he "helpfully" guided his tipsy passenger to a Town Car parked in short term parking. The stroll took forever; the guy said naught; Steve's little devil trumpeted: _You shoulda stayed in Phoenix, numbnuts._

The drive also took forever; stuck in Southern California's loathsome bumper-to-bumper, Steve's minder uttered his first words:

"You're comin' in hot."

"Jus a wee bit," slurred Steve.

"A lot of people come in hot, myself included," responded the driver with a nod. "Matter of fact, I couldn't walk. They had to pour me into a wheelchair."

Little comfort was this.

Steve blew a .23 during processing, which impressed the nurse.

"Haven't seen a plus two in a long time," saith she in a reverential tone.

This was also little comfort.

Thereafter, our pal surrendered his bag; removed his belt and shoes; handed over his wallet.

He received a Dixie cup containing two large, oblong pills...

"They'll help with any withdrawal symptoms," the nurse said.

_Whatevs_ , he thought, shooting the medication with five swigs of Culligan.

Then our pal was escorted to a room at the end of a long, dim hallway.

"The average say in our detox wing is five days," the nurse explained. "Provided no medical issues arise, you'll matriculate into the group setting."

The drugs conjured lethargy and fragmented thoughts; he wanted to lie down and sleep those five days away...

But sleep proved a difficult endeavor:

At night, he lazed in the small, rank chamber and caught patchy shuteye while a lumpy form in the bed next to him snored like a machine gun.

During the day, our tranquilized pal lounged in a common area set with a couple recliners and a television.

Over and over his foggy devil nagged: _What in God's name are you doing here?_

Other detoxers rambled corridors or congregated in front of the idiot box. Droopy-eyed, fuzzy-tongued, mired in worlds of addled denial, people blathered nonsense...

But naught Steve.

He watched and listened; he wondered why anyone wanted to spill beans about stoopid acts committed whilst drunk and slash or high and slash or whatever.

On Day 4, he filled out a ten-page questionnaire and spoke to a brainbox.

Day 5 delivered the promised transfer into the non-detoxing population of Open Arms.

Steve's latest, greatest roommate was a twangy, tobacco chewing pilot (or ex-pilot, as it turned out) for a major airline; hisself got pinched going through security after a TSA agent (or _Smurf_ , in pilot speak) smelled booze on his breath.

"The cops took me aside at the gate," the flier confessed all matter of fact like. "They acted cordial, but I knew my ass was grass. I blew an .05, which isn't bad, I suppose, but the FAA threshold is .03 and my company's BAC tolerance is zero so...yeah. The newspapers ran my name, I was terminated, my license revoked. Unless I want to start from scratch and acquire those ratings again...not chump change, by the way...and then jump through the FAA's medical hoops...listen, I'm not flying again. My rep, my marriage, my career...a job I loved...flushed. I faced five years in a Federal pen, partner. _Five years_. Provided I complete sixty days here, which my insurance won't cover, those five years turn into probation...five years of monitored probation...a fucking ankle bracelet...and random drug and alcohol testing. Anytime, anyplace, if I get a call, I have an hour to report to an approved clinic where I'll piss into a cup, blow into a tube and, if the NP feels the need, tolerate a blood draw. _Ugh_ , the reality of the situation triggered, you know...uhm, dark thoughts is the best way to put it. But after a few weeks here, I've begun to put the past behind me. What can I do? Nothing. Nothing but move forward. Fine, I'll work at Home Depot or wherever for minimum wage. But I'll see my kids; I'll get my shit together; I'll kick this fucking disease."

Similar rock bottom stories were bandied in Steve's first few group sessions (lost jobs, lost families, lost everything), and all narratives reached the same conclusion:

I'll get my shit together; I'll kick this fucking disease.

Steve's dingus wavin' didn't seem like such a _Big Deal_ in comparison.

Matter of fact, he embraced optimistic inclinations.

_I'll get my shit together_ , he thought. _I'll kick this fucking disease._

But after Howie delivered the employment death blow on Day 8...

And Susan said sayonara on Day 15...

Open Arms became a prison of wretched self-discovery.

A painful prison.

A shameful prison.

A stinkin' thinkin' prison.

A prison of his own devise.

_Maybe I'll never get my shit together_ , our pal concluded then...

***

...and now, One Big Deal Year later...

"...remaining sober is a day to day, hour to hour, minute to minute, second to second struggle," Charlie sermonized. "Stay out of sticky situations, avoid slippery slopes, and work the program because the program doesn't work if you don't work it. God bless and thank you for letting me share."

Applause followed Charlie to his seat; Vern patted the old man's back and reclaimed his spot behind the dais.

"We'll close tonight as we always do," Vern said as he held up a bronze, half-dollar sized chip between his left thumb and forefinger. "We recognize sobriety with a handy dandy reminder you can keep in your pocket, or wallet, or wherever you see fit. I have several of these coins, but the one I carry with me is, in my opinion, the most important. Who has, or wants to begin, their first day of sobriety?"

Hisself's peepers scanned the assembled and, when nobody came forward, he plowed through subsequent milestones: _Thirty days_ (nobody); _Ninety days_ (nobody); _Six months_ (nobody)...

"Anybody with twelve months of sobriety?" Vern asked.

Steve dry swallowed, raised his left hand, and announced, "I'm, uh, George, and today is..."

***

After the serenity prayer, our pal received handshakes from the ex-drunks and whatnots.

Tho the attention both embarrassed and kinda sorta annoyed, Steve played it cool: he fingered the round piece of plastic and rejoined each "congrats" with a docile "thanks".

Dallying on the fringe of well-wishers, Vern waited until the group reduced to naught before coming forth and proffering praise.

"I almost didn't recognize you without the beard, George," greeted the big man. "I'd ask how you've been, but the proof is in the pudding. One year. Well done. Do you have a home meeting, or is Manchester on the beaten path?"

Like it be no Big Deal, our pal said, "Heck, I haven't gone to a meeting since...January, I guess."

"Doin' it the ole fashioned way, huh? Grit and determination."

Steve studied the medallion ( _To Thine Own Self Be True_ , proclaimed the embellished words encircling the bronze perimeter) and then said, "I've kept busy with work, so to speak."

"So to speak?"

"Occupying the mind, exercise, trying to avoid those nasty triggers."

Vern raised his eyebrows.

"Somedays are better than others," clarified Steve.

"Have you worked the Steps?"

"Oh...sorta. I went to rehab and started the step working and, like, the whatnots in the Big Book."

"How far'd you get?"

"I'm powerless; I've taken a personal inventory; I've made some amends."

"Step One is a start. The other steps...they're down the list a bit."

"Below the Higher Power stuff, you mean."

"Not a fan of God?"

"Religious hooey isn't up my alley."

"I hear ya, but a Higher Power doesn't equal God, George. Remaining sober is difficult...not impossible, but difficult...when an addict relies on self-control to steer rationality. I can't speak for you, but the insanity of my thinking trumps self-control. It isn't like I don't comprehend the consequences of boozing; but those moments when the urge strikes, and the urge strikes often...if I relied only on Vern for support, forget it. Step Two states: We came to believe a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity. The power can be God, or-"

"The Group," Steve interrupted.

"Correct. I'm not a God drumbeater, but The Group keeps me grounded; The Group allows me to take a _continuous_ personal inventory; The Group provides _conscious_ contact with others who share the same insidious cravings; The Group gives me the will _and_ strength to remain sober. Now, I commended your year of sobriety. These chips, tho...they're good for the ego, and the ego is our enemy, George. I went three years sober before I fell off the wagon. And I fell off because my ego believed, _I can handle it myself._ Guess what? I handled my ego for a while...and then my ego got big in the britches again. So, here I am, round two. Last month I reached eight years clean and sober. Nice, huh? Too bad five of those years were spent in prison."

Our pal blinked eyes and whispered, "Dang."

"Yep, I t-boned a car full of high school kids at three in the afternoon on May the third, 2007. Me? I walked away without a scratch. Them? Well, somehow, thank God, they survived. But one of those kids can't walk today, and I live with the guilt every damn second. The guilt eats me up, George. The guilt of _my_ selfishness; the guilt of _my_ hubris; the guilt of believing _I_ was stronger than my addiction. You can admit you're powerless; you can make amends; you can take a moral inventory. Great. But mental fuckery will do you in unless you work the program. Sit in these rooms long enough and you'll hear recidivist anecdotes, many worse than mine. Mental baggage is like rocks in the pockets of a person jumping in river. Sane people don't forget things, but they come to grips with whatever keeps 'em blue. But addicts like us never forget things, man. Tell me I'm wrong?"

"No..." Steve said, running a hand down his face.

"Tired of my sermonizing?" Vern asked through a smile.

_Yes_ , the little devil on our pal's shoulder whispered. _Yes, indeedy. I wanted my much deserved One Year Big Deal chip, not a lecture!_

Vern _prolly_ couldn't hear the devil, but the big man had zero issue deciphering Steve's irritated facial expression. "Look, I believe in the program, but the program only works when you work it. Rehab is a starting point; rehab puts tools into the box. But what good are tools if you don't use 'em? What good is building a house and then letting it fall apart because you left the tool kit in your car? Given the nature of this disease, our houses require constant repair. Anyway," he said, digging a pack of Cowboy Killers out of his coat pocket, "I'm jonesing for a smoke and you, no doubt, are jonesing to shake a leg. It's good to see you again and hey, congrats on a year, George. Hope to see you again before next September."

***

The old man's snoring sawed through the ceiling.

Enos nudged Steve's hand with a cold nose.

The medallion spun like a top on the kitchen counter until the revolutions slowed and...

_Clink_...

The _Big Deal Year One_ chip settled on the auburn Hampton Bay laminate.

_To Thine Own Self Be True_ stared back at Steve...

As did the words: _Unity; Service; Recovery_...

Them three scrunched nouns ran a different edge of an equilateral triangle in the center of the _Big Deal_ reward. And in the middle of the pyramid, the Roman numeral _I_...

"I made it one fucking year," he said to the dog.

Humph.

One fucking year didn't seem a _Big Deal_ now.

Dad's whistling praise...

Tommy's _congrats_...

Felicitations from puffing lushes...

A lecture from Vern, an ex-con who almost killed four teenagers with his car:

These chips, tho...they're good for the ego, and the ego is our enemy, George.

" _George_ ," Steve scoffed.

_George_ and his stoopid ego boosting bonus.

He flicked said ego booster with his right pointer finger and watched it slide across the counter until it struck the floor.

Clang.

_George_ hadn't worked the problem.

_George didn't_ wanna work the problem.

_George_ dragged his grouchy ass to Cairo to make amends cuz _George_ be told amends paved the road to serenity.

What had _George_ done?

Nutin.

No apologies to Dad for being _tore the fuck up_ when Ma died.

No apologies to Tommy for not being around when Chad died. Nope, George couldn't be bothered to attend Chad's service cuz George be in the business of getting _tore the fuck up_. Tommy didn't even wanna reveal Greg Gray swirled down the Alzheimer's drain cuz _with all your problems you didn't need to know right away_.

No apologies to Ma, not on paper or at her grave.

No apologies to the Wrights...tho _apologies_ naught be the correct term...

Whispered Steve: "No closure, shit for brains."

Nutin.

Even George's half-assed apology to Susan...

George expected her to laud his hat in hands approach, and when she didn't...

What had George told Natalie about his ex-wife's saltiness?

Most of it is on me...

Most.

"It's _all_ on you," Steve spat.

_You have a childish inability to cope,_ Dad thundered.

_Mental fuckery will do you in unless you work the program_ , Vern declared.

Steve or George or whomever rasped, "What do I have to show for myself?"

Then, like a doyen, Leonard Cohen's achy voice lashed:

But I'm always alone,

And my heart is like ice...

(Enos pestered with another wet-nosed prod.

Another trundle through brambles awaited...

Another stoopid evening pondering the night...)

And it's crowded and cold

In My Secret Life.

***

The Lions old-school, zero wide receiver, snug (ten yards separated the left and right side of the offensive line) wishbone assault featured a quarterback who handled the ball like a magician. _Simple_ seemed the apt word to describe the run first philosophy, and it appeared the Lions were content on a meager passing strategy: Two tight ends ran complementary ten-yard hooks or outs; the wingbacks jetset deep. Nine out of ten times, however, the Star's three step drop resulted in a scramble from the pocket.

When Steve broke down the film with B.C. and Sam, our pal concluded the success of Lyons ground attack hinged (like all option offenses) on gaining the edge. Fullback dives comprised less than a fifth of the one hundred eight charted plays Lyons executed through four games; motion from either slotback resulted in traps, sweeps and misdirection. But the read option, performed by Star with silky poise, presented the greatest threat.

"As you can see, the bunchy formation makes it difficult to see who has the ball," Sam said. "Last year, I ran a 3-5 against Lyons, and we didn't even prep for passing. The end backers were supposed to collapse the D gaps; the corners zeroed on the slot. I had a spy on Star...shit, it didn't matter. Star killed us on the boundary. A little waggle with the ball turned everybody inside-out. Lots of missed tackles and confusion, man."

"Not to mention our kids were greener than grass," B.C. said.

"The Star's gotta have a spy," Steve said. "But five linebackers, Sam?"

"It's the way I ran things in the City," said Sam, shrugging. "Worked fine there."

"The defense at the U prepped 4-4 when we played option first teams, and the ends always set the edge," said Steve.

"Except you played wide receiver, Ritter," needled B.C.

Crabby after the previous evening's bleary introspection, our pal thought of telling B.C. to sit on a tack; instead, he glared at the fatbody and responded, "How many years of college and pro ball did you play, dude?"

"All right, all right," Sam said with a nervous laugh. "We don't gotta compare dick sizes."

Steve sucked air through his teeth and then said, "Listen, slide Spillane to left cornerback...he's a better tackler than Howze, and he's faster. Hearn remains on the right side...and those two should stand no deeper than seven yards from the line of scrimmage, kay? Reed Bishop is quick enough to handle rover; McGough's our spy; Hastings lords over the top. The ends play D gaps, the middle linebacker reads the fullback, and the tackles pinch in. Ain't nothing complicated about it."

"Hey, whatever," B.C. said all snarky-like. "I'll defer to the esteemed brain, Sam."

(Which was a wise decision cuz, as Steve determined way back in high school, B.C. had the intelligence of a ham sandwich.)

Isiah wasn't thrilled with his demotion; assigned to play Star on scout O, the kid donned the yellow penny and sulked through Wednesday's practice. During a water break, Steve took him aside and said:

"I know you're pissed about the situation, but your half-assing isn't cutting the mustard, Isiah. Get out there, play the role of Star, and make the defense better. Those fellas won't improve if you don't give them a good look."

"But I'm sitting on offense too," whined Isiah. "I can't catch the ball, can't tackle...man, I suck."

"Quit feeling sorry for yourself," Steve scolded. "Getting bumped to the second team is a tactical decision, kay? I'm not saying you can't be disappointed, but one thing you _won't_ do is quit out here. You have a..." Steve trailed off as diaphanous images of Susan and Natalie flickered in his head. Feeling sorta felt like a hypocrite, he cleared his throat and then finished: "...a responsibility to your teammates."

"I ain't gonna quit," Isiah mumbled.

"Just get your shit together," Steve barged. "I'm not in the mood to have this conversation again."

***

Lyons, New York -the capital of Wayne County- lists Jim Boeheim and Mel Hall among its notable residents; Lyons is also a poor community plagued by unemployment, substance abuse and petty crime. It wasn't like the kids in Cairo lived in milk and honey; in fact, Cairo had a median per-capita on par with Lyons. But shit had gone south of bad chess in Lyons.

If vagrants, shuttered houses, abandoned cars and potholed streets weren't an indication of the appalling situation, one look at the high school facilities cemented the notion:

Flanked by tiny, listing bleachers, the Crows plodded across a desiccated gridiron littered with rocks and lined without chalk; fizzling HIDs atop a trio of rusty mast poles bathed the field in jaundiced light; a portable scoreboard (the size of something used in a youth basketball game) sat on a hand trolley behind one them old-timey, twin stanchion, Rottman-esque goal posts.

Stuffed into a visiting locker room (a decorated in graffiti pillbox complete with steel bars stretched across four small recessed windows), Steve watched the players don shoulder pads and remarked to Tommy:

"Dude, Afghani soccer teams play in nicer digs."

Our old pal's ole pal cackled and then said, "It's also safer in Afghanistan. When we came here two years ago, somebody threw a forty of Old E at our bus."

"The fuck?"

"Yep. And don't expect a semblance of law enforcement. The cops have bigger fish to fry in Lyons."

***

Cairo warmed up on their half of the field while Lyons -dressed in crimson unis and white lids- stretched in disjointed lines. The Lions head coach, a rotund African American named Frosty Hunter, shook hands with Tommy before sauntering to Steve.

Tho Steve didn't know Frosty Hunter from Frosty the Snowman, the fatbody hailed: "Heya, Mister Ritter! How you like coaching Cairo?"

"It could be worse," Steve answered as he looked around the "stadium".

Frosty responded to the jibe with a snappish: "Not all of us are born with silver spoons, my man. Now, um, I don't wanna dampen your already sour opinion of this here place, but I gots to apologize ahead of time for whatevers you hear tonight. Some of these peeps can get mouthy."

"Couldn't be any more vulgar than what I heard at Shale."

"Shit, those crackers ain't got _nothing_ on my niggas," Frosty said with a wink. Then he slapped our pal on the back and ambled to B.C.

The Lions won the toss and elected to receive. Tho a homecoming game, a sparse crowd dotted the stands on the home side; a larger mob of dusky spectators pressed against the chain-link fence behind Cairo's bench. As Frosty presaged, the _mouthy_ banter began in short order:

As Dave Berger teed the ball, a woman declared, "Day has the molester coach!"

A second female asked: "Who dat? Who da molester coach?"

"The big guy, Tasha. He showed his pecker on the Facebook."

"Wha?"

"Um-hmm. The big guy showed his junk and got funky, girl!"

Scooter offered his headset to our pal and whispered, "The cups might help dampen the ribaldry."

"Keep 'em, Scoot," Steve gnashed.

After four games, Cairo's onside stratagem was no longer a secret; Lyons adjusted in kind and drew their return team forward, leaving a single man standing at the fifteen. Twenty-five yards of open field between the compressed ten and the returner lured like a Siren's song; hence, Coach Timmons instructed the kicker to deliver a little poocher into no-man's land. The ensuing scrum would result in either a Cairo recovery or a zero-yard return...

In theory.

But Berger struck the ball with too much oomph; the low trajectory pigskin smacked at the Lion's thirty-five and bounced backwards like a baseball on concrete. The returner sprinted forward and corralled the rock on its third hop. With a head of steam, he zigged, zagged, shed several weak tackle attempts (including an ungraceful dive by the kicker)...

And moseyed into the endzone with a hand on his helmet à la Neon Deion, which drew a flag for unsportsmanlike conduct.

But the late flag wasn't the only piece of laundry on the field.

The ref consulted with a side judge at midfield; thirty seconds later, the Lyons touchdown came off the miniature scoreboard...

An illegal block in the back at the fifty plus the unsportsmanlike penalty cost the home team thirty yards and six points. Even better, the cascade of insults directed at our pal were now honed towards the officials.

Whatcha call a _win-win_ situation.

Lyons first series netted three first downs and thirty-eight yards (all on the ground), but on a fourth and one from the Cairo forty-one, the Crows defensive line snuffed a fullback dive, resulting in a turnover on downs.

Cairo's ensuing drive started with a flourish: Abe gained twenty yards on a veer right and was hauled to the ground by his facemask. The added fifteen placed the offense in the redzone; two plays later, Abe scored on twelve-yard draw. On the try for two, Kevin Dana flipped the ball to the durable back on a toss sweep left, and Abe scooted untouched into the endzone. With six-fifteen left in the first quarter, Cairo led 8-0.

"And so it goes," Scooter said to Steve all confident like. "We might run for four hundred tonight."

Dave Berger's next kick took another wonky bounce and then rocketed out of bounds; after the five-yard penalty was assessed, the Lions began their second drive on Cairo's forty-eight-yard line. Thereafter, Star earned his moniker by executing several long gains on read options. Film speed was one thing; game speed another. Liam McGough, Star's spy, didn't have the lateral speed -or dexterity- to keep the shifty quarterback contained. Worse, the D gaps were sealed by cut blocks which left the cornerbacks on an island. Playing the wingback or attacking Star became a damned if you do or don't condition...a condition Star exploited with ease.

"We gonna score on you!" a woman taunted as the drive progressed. "We gonna score!"

Star validated the prophecy on the successive play: he juked John Spillane, stiff-armed Mike Hastings, and put Lyons on the board after high stepping across the goal line. The Lions chubby kicker knuckleballed the extra point over the crossbar, cutting Cairo's lead to a point with two minutes left in the first quarter.

"And they might run for four hundred on us," Scooter lamented over the grating hoots of the Lyons faithful.

Cairo's following possession consumed seventy yards and five minutes but drew no blood as Abe was stopped on a fourth-and-one at the Lions twelve. The spot seemed suspect, at least to the Crows supporters, who groaned when the measurement proved several chain-links short. One angry voice screamed from the visiting bleachers:

" _Kick the field goal, Gray! It's a no-brainer!"_

Tommy, hands on his knees, spit on the ground and then rubbed the phlegm into the dirt with his shoe.

Lyons mixed things up on their third possession: a combination of short passes and quarterback scrambles piled first down after first down while chewing the clock to a nub. Late in the half, Star scored again on a jaw dropping, twenty-five-yard primetime scramble. Like he be blessed as both a shapeshifter and Mack truck, the quarterback avoided six tackles and finished the spree by trucking Hastings at the goal line. Once again, the kicker's Gaylord Perry-esque extra point cleared the crossbar...

And Cairo trailed 14-8.

Across the field, the Lyons players hammed it up: bouncy yobbos high-fived and waved towels. Meantime, Cairo's players hung their heads and endured relentless jeering from the rowdy fans. Steve wondered if Sandman Sims would make an appearance and sweep the Crows off the field.

Aided by a nice return by Brad Hearn, Kevin Dana ran a competent two-minute drill with three short passes to Mike Hastings and another to Scoot Hoover. But the Lions held tough and stuffed Abe on another fourth-and-one. Lyons burned the remaining fifteen seconds with a quarterback kneel, ending the first half up 14-8.

" _You should've kicked the field goal, Gray!"_ the same angry voice bellowed from the bleachers as the team retreated to the sanctuary of the shitty locker room

"Fuck me, bro," Tommy mumbled. "We can't finish a drive."

***

"These are some funky stats," The Waterboy said in the locker room during the intermission. "We have thirty-eight yards passing and one forty on the ground. They've tallied a hundred thirty rushing and twenty-two yards in the air."

"They're bleeding the clock is what they're doing!" B.C. gnashed.

"We're not helping," Steve said. "Failed conversions, conservative play calling...they're not worried about us throwing the ball because we have a perceived second-string glass arm under center. Scooter, Kevin fired a couple nice tosses on our last possession. Let's spread the field and return to what's worked all season. Besides, Abe's carried the ball...how many times?"

"Nineteen attempts," The Waterboy said.

"Work horse or not, he's gonna be gassed by the fourth quarter," said Steve.

"It doesn't matter what we do if Star can't be contained," B.C. carped. "My ends are extending the edge just fine. Where's the-"

"The D gaps aren't as wide as you think," interrupted our pal.

"Where's the support of the linebackers?" B.C. countered.

Sam scrutinized his playset and then said: "The extra backer...McKellips...he's getting hung up in pursuit. Ritter, whadda think if we play two high? Two safeties, ten yards deep, each assigned a respective wingback. The corners crash on Star, force him to give the ball up...see what I'm gettin' at?"

"Back to a 4-3," Tommy said.

"Right," Sam said, nodding. "If Lyons decides to pass, the cornerbacks will still crash, the backers drop into zone and the safeties play man on the wings. If...rather... _when_...Star breaks from the pocket, I'm _hoping_ the secondary can keep him bottled between the tackles...at least long enough for somebody on the d-line to get a hand on him."

Steve ran a hand through his hair and watched the players in the locker room. A few whispered amongst themselves; Liam McGough flexed his fingers; Brad Hearn retied his cleats...

Arm's crossed, Isiah Howze sat Indian-style and nibbled on his bottom lip.

"Aye," our pal said, "let's go with your plan, Sam. We'll drop Spillane and insert Howze at right cornerback."

"Howze ain't our best tackler," B.C. said.

"You're right," Steve said, "but he's quick and itching to prove himself."

"So?"

Instead of engaging in a pointless argument, Steve strolled to Isiah and announced: "Buckle your chinstrap, kid. You're playing both ways in the second half."

Isiah tilted his head at Steve and squawked, "Huh?"

"Coach Scooter wants to throw the ball and we need a cornerback to target Star. You wanna prove something? Now's the moment. Think you can handle it?"

"I'll...I'll try..." Isiah hawed.

"Do or do not," Steve said, rubbing the boy's head. "But I'd rather you do."

***

The Crows started the third quarter by spreading the field and running their patented no huddle. Dana hit on three of his first five passes -dink and dunks to Hastings, Hearn, and Hoover- and then hooked up with Abe on a twenty-nine-yard swing pass what pushed the offense into Lions territory.

Steve wasn't watching the grand scheme; he fastened peepers on Isiah. Separated by two yards from the visitor sideline, the kid fired all six on each snap and outpaced the defensive back playing bump and run. The half-assed coverage combined with two free safeties who bunched the middle of the field, seemed a ripe apple to pluck.

But then the Crows shot themselves in the foot:

A first and ten at the Lions thirty turned into a first and fifteen after a false start by the right guard...

Which turned into a second and seventeen after Abe lost two yards on a delayed draw...

Which turned into a third and seventeen after Dana missed a slanting Hastings...

Which turned into a fourth and twenty after Dana was sacked on a slow developing screen pass.

"For Christ's sake," Scooter said as the quarterback peeled hisself off the ground. "Fourth and fucking twenty. Maybe we should try punting."

"Call a timeout," Steve told Tommy.

"You wanna burn one now?" the ball coach asked.

"I have an idea."

"Care to share?"

"Not unless you wanna take a delay of game."

Tommy elbowed the side judge and rasped, "Timeout." Then he turned to Steve and said, "Take the walk with Scooter and tell 'em what's-what."

While the trainer handed bottles of water to the huddled players, Steve took a knee on the grit, and whispered: "Nine route, Isiah. The rest of you, trips right. Matt and Brad, cross in and out. Scott, run a deep seven, and get your hand up. Kevin, look Scotty off and then fling it as far as you can to Isiah. O-line, hold yer blocks for five seconds."

"As far as I can," Dana said without enthusiasm, shaking his right arm.

Steve stood, brushed the pebbles from his knee and reiterated, "Run fast, throw far, five seconds. Do it."

Side-by-side, the two coaches retreated to the sidelines; behind them, the Crows lined up on the ball.

"Heh, run fast and throw far," snickered Scooter.

"Hey molester coach!" a woman yelled. "Whatcha doin' for the encore?"

_Get yer camera ready, bitch,_ Steve thought.

The ref blew his whistle...

Isiah leaned forward...checked the side judge...toed the turf with his front cleat...

Dana -five yards behind the center- took a small step backwards...scanned the defense...rubbed palms together...

The Lions middle linebacker sprinted forward...

"Blitz," mumbled Scooter.

" _Set...hut_!" Dana bellowed, clapping hands.

Liam McGough's snap shot between his legs; tho a tad high, the quarterback corralled the ball...looked right...stared down Scott Hoover...

A ragged pocket formed, allowing Dana to set feet...

The yo assigned Isiah back peddled but paused when he noticed the quarterback looking opposite field...

Head down, arms pumping, Isiah streaked past the indolent peeper.

Success...failure...

Consequences in life are governed by fractions of a second:

JFK's limo driver taking the corner at Dealey too fast...or too slow...

A surprised pilot jamming thrust levers to the firewall three instead of two seconds after getting a GPWS alert...

Krissy Wright givin' Stevie the business before heading to-

"He's open!" Scooter hollered.

Dana snapped his head left...

Spitting an oath, the cornerback wheeled, stumbled and then gave chase, but Isiah had put fifteen yards between them when the rock left Kevin Dana's hand...

The pass hung in the mild fall evening, allowing both the corner and a free safety to close the gap; Isiah slowed, tilted his helmet heavenward...

Our pal knew the receiver heard the approaching footsteps of the two panting foes...

And our pal could testify there wasn't a more exhilarating _and_ terrifying moment on the gridiron. Knowing the ball called your number; knowing the defense sought to tattoo the paint off their helmet on your jersey.

Knowing...

Waiting...

Anticipating.

Football, secondary and receiver converged at the ten-yard line; the collision knocked Isiah off balance but not down; hisself shrugged off the interference and secured the pass against his stomach. As the defenders fell, Isiah sprinted into the endzone as the side judge lobbed a flag.

Scooter shrieked; Steve pumped both fists; the sideline exploded in a cheer.

"Offensive interference!" a Lyons fan screamed in frustration, but the referee pointed a judicious arm the other direction.

"Holy fuck," Tommy said, punching our pal in the shoulder.

Steve knew the kid's insides were sparking -he remembered his first touchdown catch in a game- but Isiah played it cool. Like it be no big deal, he handed the ball to the back judge and accepted high-fives without demonstrative posturing.

Scott Hoover converted the two point try on a tight end fade from Dana, and Cairo retook the lead 16-14 with eight minutes remaining in the third stanza.

Beaming when he reached the sidelines, Isiah pinballed through the gauntlet of excited teammates and found a toe-tapping Steve on the other side.

"Heck of a play," our pal greeted. "But don't get comfortable. It's time to show these guys you can play defense. Get a drink and tighten the strap."

Rearranging his face into a frown, Isiah nodded and snagged a bottle from the bench.

Berger jerked another kick out of bounds, which merited a groan from the from the Cairo faithful. Once again, the Lyons started with good field position; once again, Star rolled proverbial sleeves. The new 4-3 scheme failed to stop the read action on first down: Star pulled the football out of the fullback's gut, faked a pitch to the wingback, and avoided the right defensive end; Liam McGough snagged enough of Star's jersey to hitch the ole giddyap, but only a Mike Hastings shoestring tackle prevented Star from notching his third score.

"One play, eighteen yards," Sam bitched. "Star's like Superman or something."

But Star wasn't Superman; Star was a high schooler, and high schoolers make mistakes. Isiah dropped passes; Liam missed tackles; Star fumbled the football...

Two short runs and an incomplete pass later, Lyons faced a fourth and five on the right hashmark of Cairo's seventeen. If the knuckleballed extra-points were an indicator, a thirty-four-yard field goal attempt exceeded the range of Lyons placekicker. A frustrated Frosty Hunter shouted, _"Timeout!"_ , and then sauntered to his team.

Meantime, Sam beckoned the defense to the sideline; huddled around an erasable clipboard, the coach scribbled _x's, o's_ and arrows.

"Star's taking the ball, and he's stretching it to the wide side," said Sam, jabbing the marker on the board. "Brad, you gotta squeeze him inside; safeties, crash the pitch man; ends, fan out. Now, he might step back and throw, but I'm betting this ain't happening. Attack Star; contain Star; bring Star down."

Lyons executed as Sam anticipated...sorta: motion by the right wingback, the snap, Star's swift movement left...

Dusty Walk, the senior right end, performed a perfect swim move around his blocker...

Brad Hearn tore ass from the corner...

Star hopped, faked a toss, spun from Walk's paw...

And reversed direction to the short side of the field...

Isiah's side.

"Counter!" screamed Sam.

The quarterback palmed the football in his right hand; Isiah -standing by his lonesome- squared shoulders...

A right jab step and hip deke by Star caught Isiah off-balance...

But as the quarterback planted to turn upfield, Isiah dove and wrapped his long limbs around Star's ankles. Swinging arms like a tightrope walker, Star tried kicking free...

It wasn't a perfect tackle, but Isiah slowed his foe until reinforcements arrived. John Spillane brought the hammer in the form of a helmet to Star's chest; Reed Bishop rolled into the ball carrier's legs. The collision snapped Star's upper body backwards; the ball popped into the air. A scrum commenced...big and little bodies piled atop each other...

A Lyons offensive lineman recovered the fumble five yards behind the line of scrimmage...not like mattered. The Crows took over at their own twenty-two.

One of the last to untangle from the heap, a dirty, tousled Isiah limped off the field holding his right forearm.

Steve straightened the kid's shoulder pads and shouted, "Yo, whadda say! You're making plays!"

"Man...they...they're dirty," Isiah huffed. "One of 'em...he poked my right eye!" He removed his helmet, closed the left peeper and added, "Everything's blurry."

"What color am I?"

Isiah grinned and answered, "You still look white."

The change in possession demoralized the Lions. Aided by two personal fouls calls, Cairo rolled against a fatigued, chippy defense. When John Spillane caught a ten-yard touchdown pass from Dana with a minute left in the third quarter, the cheeky bastards behind the bench decided other mischief could be had in Lyons on a Friday night...

***

Standing in front of the lidless boys, Tommy squinted at the distant, bitty scoreboard and said: "Damn, I'm gettin' old or something. What's it say, Coach Christianson?"

B.C. patted his gut and answered: "Eh...I think...something thirty to something not thirty, Bossman."

"It says we won!" Liam roared.

"You're darn tootin', McGough," Tommy said. "Who gives a _you know what_ about the score? But I'll tell you what is important: Men, we're playoff bound! We're playoff bound for the first time since I've coached here!"

The players raised their helmets in unison and barked like dogs. Tommy let them carry on for a few seconds before raising hands and saying, "This is where hard work, dedication and perseverance has taken us. The season isn't over, tho; we have two games remaining and an opportunity to earn a nice seed; we have a Section Championship to capture; we're gonna etch this year on the sign in front of Dewey Field! Come on, get it up! Crows on three! One! Two! Three..."

" _CROWS,"_ forty guttural voices boomed across decrepit Lyon Stadium as the lights sputtered off...

# 28. Cayuga Chiefs

Like the previous Tuesday, Steve left practice early to make the seven o'clock Manchester. He encountered Vern outside the seminary building sucking a heater; the latter grinned and extended his hand.

"George," the big man hailed, "great to see you!"

"Same," our pal replied. "Say...do you mind if we, um, grab a cup of coffee after the meeting?"

Vern plucked the cigarette from his mouth and said, "Something you'd be interested in sharing with the group tonight?"

"No, not...not yet," Steve said, tugging his left ear. "I'd rather jaw one-on-one."

"Sure, I understand. There's a diner down the road..."

***

"Something you said last week stuck with me," Steve said as he stirred the joe with a spoon. "I went home and...and I stared at my one-year chip and I thought, _Vern's right. This is nothing but an ego booster_. What have I done to earn it? I didn't get tore up, which is great. But I realized...like... _big deal_ , you know what I mean? What have I _really_ accomplished?"

"I'm not saying a year isn't a big deal," Vern said. "The problem is, addicts often reach milestones and then...welp, they think they've crossed the imaginary border delineating sobriety and intemperance. My ego booster remark was a reminder to keep things in perspective. The struggle to stay on the right side of wrong is a constant struggle."

"I know... _I've known_...but..." Steve set the spoon aside and said: "I teach kids, kay? I teach them to strive for excellence, forget mistakes and forge ahead. Meanwhile, I go home and dwell on the million stupid things I've done. I'm not forging ahead, Vern. I'm stuck; I'm stuck, and bein' stuck is driving me crazy."

"The _dreaded_ past," chuckled Vern.

"Affirm. The dreaded past is a motherfucker."

"We're about to walk the same road we walked last week. Mental baggage and rocks, remember? I told you how I handle my dreaded past. The Big Book, the Steps, The Group, and not always in this order. Listen, I'm not trying to preach, but working The Steps is an absolute. You said you went to rehab? You said you did some of The Steps? Is _some_ enough? For me it's not. I work The Steps _all the time_ ; I must work The Steps _all the time_. If I don't..." Vern shrugged and swigged from his steaming cup.

"I've made a half-assed attempt," our pal said through a frown. "I'm powerless, _check_. Made a moral inventory, _check_. Amends to others...I tried, sorta...at least, with my wife...my ex-wife...but it didn't go well because...I-I thought apologizing would be enough for her to-"

"Whoa, slow down," interrupted Vern, waving hands. "One, amends aren't a band-aid for your soul; two, those you've wronged aren't obligated to accept your apologies. Some will forgive; some won't. You can't and don't have control over their sentiments. In fact, you have no control over yourself because _you are an addict_. You admit as much, right? Step One: _I'm powerless; my life is unmanageable_. True?"

Steve nodded.

"All right, Step One is easy," Vern continued. "Step Two states: _I came to believe a Power greater than myself could restore me to sanity_. What Power restores your sanity? Will power? If so, wonderful. There are some who summon an innate Power within themselves. Me? I don't have the facilities, which is why I _must_ work Step Three: _I've turned my will and life over to the care of God as I understand Him_. Those last four words are important, George; those last four words clarify the wedge between atheists and Holy Rollers: _As I understand Him_. God is whatever you want Him, Her, or It, to represent. Like I said last week, The Group is my Higher Power.

"Thanks to my Higher Power -The Group- I've walked the subsequent Steps: _I've made a searching and fearless moral inventory; I've admitted to The Group, myself, and another human being the exact nature of my wrongs; I've asked my Higher Power to remove my defects of character and shortcomings._ George, I work these Steps every time I come to a meeting. _Every time_. I stand, admit, confess, and ask The Group for guidance because I cannot guide myself. I assume you did something along those lines at rehab."

"Oh, yeah, I did...but...er...I complained mostly. Going to rehab wasn't my idea, let alone blabbing all the reasons why I went. I didn't even wanna tell my best friend I had gone."

"I didn't want to go to prison, and I blamed everybody but myself for what I had done. My father; my mother; my boss; my wife...on and on and on the scapegoats. The bottom line? Vern manufactured justifications; Vern poured liquor down Vern's throat; Vern almost killed four kids; and Vern will do it again, or worse, if Vern doesn't deal with Vern's insanity. Jeez, do you think I enjoy telling strangers what I've done? But unless I acknowledge the _exact nature of my wrongs_ , I _will_ forget those wrongs. It's the Orwellian nature of our disease, George. Understand what I'm saying?"

"I won't ever forget," mumbled Steve.

"Hm?"

"I, uhm, I committed a public supernova...which is the irony, I suppose."

"What irony?"

Our pal cleared his throat and then asked, "Have you heard the name Steve Ritter?"

Vern nodded and then said, "It's called Alcoholics Anonymous for a reason...but I'm a Buffalo Bills fan. Steve Ritter played against the Bills a few times."

"I kinda look like him, don't I?"

"There's a resemblance."

"Right..."

"Steve...can I call you Steve?"

"Might as well."

"Steve, trust me, the men and women in A.A. and N.A. who judge aren't worth a second thought. Their egos aren't settled; their self-esteem is suspect. They need to take stock of their problems before condemning somebody else."

"I tend to judge," Steve peeped.

"Case in point."

"Yeah...yeah, I know. The thing is, I'm over what I've done. Walking the streets doesn't bother me. But I don't like reliving the shit, either."

"Then you're not over the shit, man. The worse news? We never get over the shit. We can only work through the shit to prevent the shit from getting us into deeper shit."

"This is what life has become," bemoaned out vexed pal. "An endless slog through shit."

Cocking his head, Vern said: "Tell me your story. Tell me why you started drinking or drugging. Tell me why it happened and then convince me it won't happen again."

"Oh...the usual song and dance. I heard it a million times at rehab, and I'm certain you've heard it too. I started in high school, enjoyed the feeling; the next thing you know, I'm in a mountain of shit."

"But something, or a lot of somethings, happened between _started in high school_ and _the next thing you know_?"

"I like getting tore up is the _somethings_."

"Why?"

"Escape...apathy...comfort."

"What were you escaping?"

"Myself, I guess. My life; my marriage; my unfilled dreams, stupid as they seem. In the process, I hurt a lot of people."

"We all hurt people along the way. It's the nature of the beast, Steve. But you're spot on about the desire for escape. Why we drink or drug; the inability to stop; the people we've harmed...man, when I pick at what I did and didn't do...when I dwell on those years of careless decisions and pissed away dreams...it drives me bonkers. Bonkers is bad; bonkers triggers irrationality; bonkers makes life unmanageable. You might not feel the urge to drink or drug now; you might never feel the urge again. However, speaking for myself -and _only_ myself- confronting the truth of my past is a loathsome experience. I'd rather not; I'd rather protect my ego and self-esteem. In other words, I'd rather escape."

Steve flicked the spoon with a finger and watched it complete a circle on the tabletop. "I've been good at escaping things," he confessed in a listless voice. "Intake...purge...my life in a nutshell. What I want to do is settle with those I've run from, but I'm afraid it's not possible. In some cases, _it is_ impossible."

"Like your ex-wife?"

"She falls into the impossible category."

"Who else?"

"The impossible?"

"Sure."

"My mother...she died when I was hitting full steam. We didn't have a good relationship because... _ahem_...she didn't approve of choices I made, but I thought she was...unsympathetic. Cruel. I resented what she said for years, damn near until her dying day. I couldn't...or wouldn't...let it go and...ugh, I don't know. I guess...I guess bein' tore up made it easier to handle it...her dying...and I didn't make the effort to mend fences before she passed."

"Then it's fair to classify _resentment_ as a _something_."

"God, it sounds terrible, doesn't it? And because of the way I handled Ma's demise, I upset my father. Bah. What did I care? I didn't talk to him but a couple times a year...and I never visited. When my best friend, a guy I've known since grade school...when his brother died...and Chad was a friend of mine...a few years older, but a friend....when Chad died, I skipped the funeral because...well, it's a long story. Anyway, it's amazing my dad and Tommy didn't drop me like a hot rock."

"Have you expressed your feelings to them?"

"Have I apologized? No. I've been meaning to but...eh, I haven't gotten around to it. Confessing all this to you makes me uncomfortable, Vern. Looking my father in the eyes and revisiting that awful time...I know it must be done, I just can't bring myself to do it."

"Not yet. You'll make amends, or you'll try...like I said, not everybody's receptive. Sometimes, rebuilding relationships takes a heroic effort. Also, it's not just those relationships from the past you should think about. Creating future connections...for instance, how you approach people in recovery and the attitude you do it with...are also a barrier."

Steve spun the spoon again and said, "10-4."

Vern rubbed the jumble of hair hanging from his chin and smiled. "Do you see what we're doing here?" he asked rhetorically. "We're taking steps...small steps, sure, but walking comes before running. Think of this process as...uh...say, you mentioned something about teaching?"

"I coach high school football."

"Are your players game ready on Day One?"

"Of course not."

"Uh-huh. First come the fundamentals; next the-"

"I understand," Steve interjected. "They learn, they make mistakes, they learn from their mistakes, they get better...sometimes. Sometimes they don't."

"Do you quit coaching them when they're struggling?"

"No...no, and I wasn't perfect when I played. Far from it. You motivate; you find positives; you strive for improvement."

"There's the key word," said Vern, slapping the table. " _Improvement_. Improvement, _not_ perfection. So it goes with recovery. And to improve, you need a..."

***

_A coach_ , saith Vern.

_A sponsor_.

A game plan.

_Oh, I'm in deep,_ our pal thought on the drive home.

_In deep_...but _in deep_ be fine.

"Don't make a peep, you," Steve said to the little devil on his shoulder. "I'm done with this mental bullshit."

The little devil didn't respond.

But Vern did; Vern reminded: _Creating future connections are also a barrier._

He -Steve- adjusted the rearview and glanced into his blue eyes.

_You should call her,_ harangued the little angel.

The left tires _thumped-thumped_ over them knobby lane reflectors. Refocusing on the road, Steve replied: "Not yet, dude. Not until I get intact."

***

Preparation leading to the Cayuga contest took on a Pop Warner feel. Relishing their playoff berth, the kids cracked wise during Monday's film session, half-assed Tuesday's practice and half-half-assed on Wednesday. The coaches observed the halved-half-assed shenanigans with escalating irritation until Tommy did a reasonable impression of Chernobyl during Thursday's offensive indies.

The ball coach blew his whistle _long and hard_ ; the shrill sound rebounded off the overcast, ricocheted in the bleachers and startled worm-pecking birds on the faraway baseball diamond. As the flock beat wings overhead, the ball coach hollered: "Everyone! Around me! I'm tired of yawls bullshit!"

Thereafter, a red-faced Tommy marched in front of the milling group and ranted: "It seems yawl believe the football gods have baptized the Cairo Crows! It seems yawl believe the football gods are gonna miracle your asses a win on Saturday! It seems yawl believe the football gods are gonna hand you the god damn state championship! Cayuga...shit, those bums are gonna concede victory to yawl cuz yawl are the cock of the walk! Next week, Branchport will do the same, right? Yawl just gotta strut on the field! Easy fucking peasy! Well, those teams are _fighting_ for a playoff spot! Their seasons ain't over, and neither is ours! The difference between wins and losses for yawl is whether yawl play here or somewhere else when the playoffs start! Yawl win out and Dewey Field hosts a postseason game for the first time in a decade! Yawl play grab ass and yawl be humping to LeRoy or Newark!"

"And I fucking hate Newark!" B.C. barked.

Tommy took a knee and continued in a gentler tone: "Seniors, Saturday might be your last home game... _ever_. If yawl keep practicing like yawl are football gods...welp, seniors, yawl are gonna wanna walk off Dewey Field as losers. I mean, what the fuck is going on here?"

Not a peep be heard from the castigated unit; even Liam McGough lowered his eyes and stared at his cleats.

"Since yawl aren't interested in practicing, I guess yawl wouldn't mind doin' a little running," Tommy said. "Yawl line up on the far goal line and get loose, cuz yawl are doin' ladders until Coach Christianson gets tired of blowing his whistle."

B.C. fingered the noisemaker hanging from his neck and declared, "Might be awhile, Bossman."

And it was awhile...

Goal line to the five... _and back_ ; goal line to the ten... _and back_ ; goal line to the fifteen... _and back_...

You get the picture.

Sam and The Waterboy yelled at the players to move, _"Faster!"_ ; keeping time with a stopwatch, B.C. allowed thirty seconds of panting rest for each _and back_ before blowing the whistle...

Again and again and again...

Swatting mosquitoes, Steve stood on the far goal line next to his glowering ole pal and yawned. With each down _and back_ , they watched the ranks widen. Pumping arms faster than legs, the lineman were speed walking by the time the down _and back_ reached midfield; the specialty players didn't move much quicker. But the faster yobbos got a longer blow; reaching _and back_ meant waiting for the lineman to _and back_...

Thirteen of B.C.'s whistle blows passed before Tommy emptied his throat and said, "The _Democrat and Chronicle_ is doing a story on us, bro. I got a call this afternoon from...what's his name...the high school beater...Howard something."

"A story on us," mused Steve between whacks of his neck.

"Ayup. A little something-something about Cairo's so-called resurrection. The reporter and a photographer are making rounds next week. Be an egg on our face kinda article if we lost Saturday. Anyway, Howard...what's his name...asked if you'd sit in."

"Me?"

"You can say _no_."

"Uh...I'm not wearing the crown of thorns, dude. We're all responsible."

"Everyone will get sufficient credit but...you know how reporters work. Human interest, feel-good yadda yadda is the B and B of plucky journalism."

"B and B?"

"Bread and Butter."

"I'll think about it," Steve said out of the corner of his mouth as he whacked another pest.

"Mike Maynard also phoned. Remember him?"

Our pal nodded. A cornerback for Greece Arcadia, Mike Maynard (along with his twin brothers, Mitch and Marty) tangled with Steve on the gridiron for three consecutive seasons. Matter of fact, Mike had been one of the best defenders in Section V, earning All-State First Team honors his junior and senior year. After high school, Mike received a full ride to Virginia Tech; in '98, he was drafted in the sixth round by San Diego. Alas, Mike hastened to his ED in 2000, when he fractured a vertebra. And in case you don't know, a fractured vertebra is one of those injuries a tad worse than a bell ringing; it's one of those injuries requiring a backboard, neck brace and ambulance; it's one of those injuries a guy didn't _bounce back_ from. Mike Maynard never played another down of football again.

However...

"Maynard's the defensive coordinator at SUNY Brockport," Tommy informed. "He's swinging by Saturday to scout a couple players."

"Who?"

"Hastings and McGough. And he asked about you."

"Oh, how sweet," chuckled Steve.

"I told him you've worked wonders with the kids."

" _Pfft_. I ain't the Miracle Worker, kay?"

The ball coach slapped his ole pal on the back and whispered, "Hey, asshole, can you at least _pretend_ to accept some praise for a job well?"

"I'm just sayin-"

Tommy held up his right hand and then walked towards the opposite goal line, leaving Steve in a swirling cloud of blood suckers.

***

Temperature at kickoff on the gloomy October afternoon hovered in the mid-30s, but a stiff west wind added a December bite to the air. Tethered to the rusty fencing and bleacher balustrades, red balloons and streamers -honoring both homecoming and senior week- churned in the nippy confluence. Dewey Field looked like a bucolic landfill; plastic bags, garlands, candy bar wrappers and Styrofoam cups littered the pitch. Cayuga's Star, a beefy but swift running back, added to the garbage by dropping seven Cairo defenders on his way to a forty-three-yard touchdown run on the Chiefs first possession. The extra point was pushed wide left by the gale, but the early 6-0 deficient didn't fill the tummy with them warm fuzzies.

"I told you these guys came to play!" Tommy yelled at the defense. "Where the fuck is the intensity?"

Back under center after clearing the concussion examinations, Tyler Jones' first throw in two weeks -a slant to Isiah- sailed ten feet over the receiver's head and into the arms of the free safety. Tho the Chiefs were blessed with good field position, the Crows defense stiffened, and Cayuga's second drive faltered at the Cairo fourteen. Facing a fourth and six, the Chiefs elected to attempt a thirty-one-yard field goal, which seemed a foolish decision considering the conditions. But the football crashed off the left upright with a ping and slewed through the goalposts...

Voila: Cayuga led 9-0.

Hampered by the wind and a rusty Jonesy, the Crows pass attack failed to generate a patented big play. Worse, Abe Mora rolled his left ankle on the second series; he hobbled through the nine-play possession, failed to gain more than a couple yards per carry, and took a seat on the bench after a turnover on downs.

"Mora rolled it something awful," the trainer reported. "I'd advise against letting him play. You don't want him missing the quarterfinals because he blew a wheel against Cayuga."

"No...I suppose...it ain't worth it," Tommy said, eyeing the taped icepack on the running back's ankle. "Shut Abe down. We'll roll with The Turtle and hope T.J. can find a rhythm."

"The Turtle", Freddy Boyd, had been the starting fullback from last season's pro-set formation. Slow, prone to fumbling in practice, and dyslexic (The Turtle struggled to understand, among other directions, _right_ and _left_ ), Boyd was nonetheless the best second-string ball carrier on the team.

Using Star to pound the rock, Cayuga's offense pushed the ball into field goal range on their third possession. A fortuitous holding call followed by a quarterback sack resulted in a line drive punt Brad Hearn returned to the Chiefs forty. Keeping things simple, the Crows meandered downfield on five short passes and three halfback dives, the last of which resulted in The Turtle's first touchdown of the year.

The remainder of the first half progressed in a sluggish cadence: Cayuga inched into Cairo territory only to stall on downs; Cairo responded with similar results. When the scoreboard klaxon sounded the end of the second quarter, Cayuga led 9-6.

B.C.'s fire breathing antics restored a measure of zip in the listless home team: Hearn returned the second half kickoff to the Crows forty-five; Jonesy zapped Isiah on a twenty-yard post; The Turtle broke a twelve-yard run...and then fumbled on the following play. Given the flow of the game, it appeared the turnover signified a deflating moment for listless Cairo.

"One thing is certain," Scooter said to Steve. "Even if we win, I'm burning this game film."

Aye, things seemed grim: Cayuga's offensive line opened holes; Star bashed forward...four, five, six yards at a time; the Chiefs whittled precious ticktocks with a ten play, fifty-seven-yard drive.

Another score, even a field goal, could've been the proverbial straw and whatnot.

But then the Chiefs tried gettin' clever:

On a second and five from the Cairo twenty, Star took a toss towards the short side of the field and hunkered behind a pulling guard and tackle. The Crows defense flowed in pursuit...

The quarterback completed his progression, lollygagged...and then sprinted upfield. From the free safety position, Mike Hastings saw something ( _The offensive line didn't fire out and Star didn't cover the ball with both hands_ , he later reported) and stayed home. Quick-like, Star slammed the brakes; he turned 'round, saw the open quarterback, tossed the football...

Steve reckoned the throwback play (the popular term today is the _Philly Special_ ) would've worked nine times out of a ten...

Too bad for Cayuga the ten percent failure turned into a Mike Hastings pick six. Stepping in front of the outstretched arms of the quarterback, the free safety caught the rock on the run. Eighty some yards later, the Crows grabbed their first lead of the day.

Hastings widened the margin to 20-9 on a double reverse midway through the fourth. Cayuga made it a nail bitter with a late touchdown from Star, but their onside kick attempt was smothered by John Spillane. Jonesy took two knees to drain the clock, and Cairo notched their fifth victory of the year.

***

Later, the sour coaches huddled in the annex office and compared notes. The trainer reported Abe's injury -a high ankle sprain- needed a week to heal. ' _Even then_ ,' Doc warned, ' _Mora ain't gonna be one hundred percent._ ' Tyler had played like doodoo; the defensive lineman were pushed around like sacks of feathers; the o-line didn't look much better...

"Credit where credit is due," Sam said. "Cayuga is more physical than I expected. The right side of their offensive line is-"

Mike Maynard (Steve recognized his ole curly-haired foe lickety-split) stuck his head through the open door and announced: "Knock, knock, gentleman. I hope I'm not intruding, but the wifey expects me home before seven."

Tommy tossed his steno pad aside and said: "C'mon in, Mikey. We're just bitching and moaning."

Maynard shook hands with those in the room and greeted Steve with a cheerful, "It's good to see you again, Steve. Last time was...dang, it must've been the '91 semifinal."

Tongue in cheek, our pal said: "I'm sure you've seen a little of me since."

"I meant in the flesh," Maynard said through a smile.

"So did I," Steve retorted.

"What'd you think of our torpid performance, Mikey?" asked Tommy.

"Not all victories are works of art. Hastings impressed, tho. I'd like to pull film on him and the middle linebacker...McGough, right? What's his first name?"

"Liam," B.C. said. "He's the fearless leader type. Great teammate."

"I used to be the same until I just about broke my neck," Maynard said, rubbing the back of his reedy collum.

"You what?" The Waterboy squawked.

"A bit of hyperbole," Maynard said. "I fractured my epistropheus...er, fancy-pants talk for my second cervical vertebra...when I played for the Chargers. My illustrious pro career spanned less than twenty-four months before the _Snap Heard Around Qualcomm_ , as I call it. Fifteen years later and the fucker still aches. What's funny is, or maybe it's pathetic, but when I was layin' there not feeling a thing, I worried I wouldn't play again. Of course, I _didn't_ play again, but at least I can walk. Who knows? Maybe God saved me the hassle of repeated blows to the head."

"Head trauma isn't such a big deal," Steve jested. "Look how I turned out."

"Shit, nobody's perfect," Maynard said. "And let me tell you, I fell into a shame spiral after my career ended. Good thing I married a patient woman; anybody else would've left me in the dust. But, you know, when one door closes, another opens. I straightened up, went back to VT, got my Master's, interned on the sidelines, listened to Coach Beamer and fell in love with coaching."

"How are things at Brockport?" Tommy asked.

Maynard jostled his head from shoulder to shoulder and said: "Eh...D-Three is D-Three, but I'm home almost every night, the road trips are short...there are worse gigs. My brothers are both assistants. You remember those mokes?"

"How could I forget?" Steve said. "Marty knocked the snot out of me more than a few times. And Mitch blocked the field goal against us in '90. Shit, you don't know how many gassers old man Gray made us run after we got back to the school."

"You guys got the last laugh in the semifinals," Maynard said.

"42-7," Tommy chirped.

"42-0," Maynard corrected. "The next year, 35-3...not like I remember. Nor do I remember the two of you torching me in those games.

Tommy said: "Oh, the good old days."

"Emphasis on _old_ ," Maynard said. "Anyway, Mitch is a defensive line coach at Ole Miss; Marty is the assistant offensive coordinator at Wyoming. I don't know which place is worse, but they probably think I'm a moron for sticking around western New York. We find what we like, and I like coaching at Brockport. Speaking of, how are you digging this coaching thing, Steve?"

"It's a different perspective," our pal said. "Working with the kids, seeing their progress...yeh, I've enjoyed it more than I thought I would, Mike."

"Right on. Being the method behind the madness is almost as fun as wreaking havoc. Are you thinking of sticking with it?"

"Coaching?"

"Yeah."

Steve glanced at his ole pal and said, "I haven't thought about the future."

"Ah, hey, you guys," Tommy said to the others. "How 'bout gathering tape for Mike."

B.C.'s piehole opened (Steve assumed he prolly wanted to add his ten cents worth of coaching acumen or maybe B.C. wanted to grovel for a job...whatevs), but Tommy shut him down with a curt, "Please and thank you."

After the room cleared, Maynard took an empty chair and continued: "Steve, I'm not trying to put you on the spot, but Tommy told me you've been a great addition. There are opportunities for guys like you exceeding the high school level."

"Guys like me?"

"Guys who played professional ball. How many years did you grind?"

"Eight full, minus injuries. But I don't have a degree in sports management or...medicine...or whatever."

Maynard waved a dismissive hand. "Degrees are a threshold hopper. Grad assistants who've never set a toe on the field, or stopped playing after college, or had limited tours in the NFL, are walking the sidelines. There's a gigantic amount of nepotism, too. I'm not implying Rex and Rob Ryan aren't good coaches...or maybe I am...but their father's name carries more weight than those two fatheads register on the scale."

"Lookit, Tommy asked me to help; I've helped. I coach teenagers-"

"You've coached 'em up," Tommy interrupted.

"If you're interested, I can make a few phone calls," Maynard said. "Mitch and Marty also have their ears to the ground. Trust me, the turnover rate at the college level is high. Coaches jump ship to the next gig like it's musical chairs. Even my school needs assistants and coordinators, though I know you could do better than Brockport."

"Mike, there's reason I didn't dip a toe into coachin' after I retired," Steve said. "Wanna know why? _Nobody called me_. Nobody called me in 2006 to do so much as play quality control coordinator. Besides, my reputation ain't squeaky clean."

"If you think being a moron is a roadblock to future employment, then you've forgotten the disposition of our brethren," Maynard said as he stood. "I can think of a hundred colleagues who have committed worse acts; some of 'em are head coaches...and you know of those whom I refer. They just didn't get caught with their pants down...so to speak. Do I understand your reticence? Sure. And if you're not interested, no problem. I'll mind my business and leave you to yours."

Our pal listened to the second hand ticktock of the archaic analog clock. Mikey spun a solid argument: _If you think being a moron is a roadblock to future employment, then you've forgotten the disposition of our brethren._

"A'ight," Steve said, reaching for a pencil and a notebook. "If you hear something, give me a holler. I don't have a cell, but I'll give you my home number..."

# 29. At Branchport Beavers

Howard Walters -the rotund, silver-haired reporter from the _D &C_\- had covered high school sports in and around Rochester for over thirty-years. Lo, Walters recalled the glory days of Cairo football, and he frittered a half-hour stroking Steve and Tommy's ego ( _Those 90 and 91 teams were phenomenal blah blah blah; Greg Gray was one of the best coaches in the State of New York blah blah blah; There hasn't been a better quarterback receiver combo in Section V blah blah blah_ ) before Tommy steered the journalist from the past to the present:

"Howard, I hope you didn't drag your ass here to remind us how old we are."

"No, of course not. This year's team is a pleasant surprise, Tommy. People are taking notice of Cairo football again."

"We noticed your rankings at the beginning of the year," the ball coach said through a smirk. "When the kids heard you were coming, they wanted to shake your hand. You've motivated them more than anything I could've said."

"I'll be the first to admit I'm not always right, but I'm not here to be contrite. Let's face it, reclamation stories are fun. After this week's season finale, Cairo will host a quarterfinal game for the first time in over a decade. What do you owe your team's success?"

Tommy laced his hands behind his melon and answered, "One, the kids are seasoned; two, our offensive coordinator, Scott Winchester, has devised a snappy offensive system; three, Sam Rhoden and Billy Christianson have drilled the defense up. Bing, bang, boom."

Walters considered Steve from across the table and then said, "No doubt your involvement has helped."

"I lend a hand when I can," Steve said. "But Tommy and the other coaches are the masterminds."

"I've always meant to ask: How'd you land at Minnesota? If memory serves, you signed a Letter of Intent to Syracuse."

Steve had dealt with hundreds of sports reporters throughout his career, and one thing about sports reporters always rang true: _The bastards never stopped fishing for juicy news._ "Off the record?" he asked. "Do I have to invoke those words?"

"God, no, I'm not digging for mud. You fell off the face of the Earth and landed in Minnesota, of all places. Their football program hasn't been relevant since Murray Warmath."

"Welp, I changed my mind about Syracuse, Howard."

"But _Minnesota_?"

"The way the cookie crumbled and all the rest."

"Fair enough. Minnesota, a career in the pros, radio...and then you arrive at Cairo after a public fall from grace. You're like a salvage project, wouldn't you say?"

"Are we on the record now?"

Walters chuckled and then said, "Why don't you talk, and then we'll figure it out at the end of the interview."

"Salvage project..." our pal mused. "Yeah, I agree. Coaching these kids has changed my life."

"How?"

"After my _public fall from grace_ , I wanted to crawl into a hole and hide from the world. What motivated me to step out the door? _Football_. Coming to the field; coaching; watching the players overcome adversity. You know, we preach _don't ever quit_. I had forgotten what those words meant until I returned to Cairo."

"How has the community been? Anything negative?"

"The only ridicule I've received is on the road."

"Shale?"

"I think you know the answer."

"No comment," Walters mumbled as his pencil danced across the paper.

"Look, I expect insults, kay? With that said, my biggest fear was stepping in front of these high school kids. I'll say this about the entire group: they've called me _coach_ from Day One. Heh, go figure, they've been more mature than the adults I've encountered..."

***

Two days later, the sports section in the _D &C_ ran a quaint seven paragraph story under the title " _Cairo's Resurrection A Team Effort_ ". A photo of Steve and Tommy accompanied the article:

Cairo Coach Tom Gray has a warning to those who face his squad:

"Conventional game plans are for the birds," Gray says with a smile. "We aim to keep our opponents on their toes."

The Crows don't punt the ball, and they don't boot extra points. A conventional kickoff is a rare treat for their opponents; through six games, Cairo has attempted 31 onside kicks.

Though the methodology is up for debate, Cairo has answered the charges. At 5-1, the Crows soar into the Section V playoffs for the first time since 2004.

Gray claims schemes and seasoned athletes account for the Crows success, but it doesn't hurt to have a former professional football player stalking the sidelines. Steve Ritter, a Cairo great, has arrived to lend a hand; he has also come to put an infamous past behind him.

"My biggest fear was stepping in front of these high school kids," Ritter confesses. "Go figure, they've been more mature than the adults I've encountered."

Cairo's season finale on Friday night at Branchport is...

***

Vern's trailer smelled of piss and coffee. Our pal figured the slobbering Doberman kept on a short chain in the yard didn't get out much...which was a good thing considering its temperament. The instant Steve stepped from his car, the dog lunged and snapped several hearty, _I'm gonna rip yer throat out_ , barks.

The Doberman hadn't dialed down the attitude after Steve disappeared inside the double wide. He heard it pacing and growling through the thin partition...

"Have a seat on the couch," Vern said, gesturing at a tatty loveseat. "Get you something to drink?"

"I'm kosher," Steve said as he settled on a flat, stained cushion. A slumped, question mark posture produced a somewhat comfortable position; resting elbows and knees, he ignored the needling ache in his lower back.

The humble abode sat outside Phelps, off CR8, on a weedy plot. Tho Steve hated to think as much, it seemed a homey spot for a convicted ex-con and recovering alcoholic.

_Don't be judgie_ , his little angel scolded. _Lest you forget, you live with your father, fella._

But still...

As if reading his guest's mind, Vern hobbled from the kitchenette and remarked: "This place ain't much, but I'm not a material guy. Never had a mountain of cash...and the cash I had went to booze. Used to drive my wife bonkers. We weren't living here way back when. Had me a little house in Cansoanke...worked at Pactiv...twenty-five grand a year. I hated working there. I hated the twelve-hour shifts; I hated my boss; I hated _everything_ except gettin' sauced."

Vern sank into a recliner opposite our hero and then continued: "I lost it one afternoon at work and told Jerry...my supervisor...to kiss my ass. Seemed like a rational decision at the time, _he-he_. Six months later, my old lady said, _see ya_...not like I cared. Nope, I cared about one thing: planting my rear at Calhoun's. My house? Foreclosed. I started livin' out of my car; I rooted through trashcans for bottles and cans, man. Talk about a low point. You know who sent me on the road to AA...I mean, the first time? The Canesoanke C-oh-P, guy by the name of Weinager. I got run on a disorderly for perhaps the hundredth time. Weinager visited me in the drunk tank and said, _'Vern, you're gonna die on the streets and nobody will give a goddamn except me.'_ Empathy...not the empathy of bar none's but genuine empathy from, of all people, a cop...pushed me into my first meeting. Too bad I didn't stick with it. But I'm one of those who believe everything happens for a reason."

"Riiiggghht..." Steve drawled.

"Don't believe me?"

"I believe life is a crap shoot, Vern."

"Okay, maybe believing in fate makes me a sucker. So what? I'm here; I shouldn't be here, but I am. Riding the storm out is worth something to me, Steve. If my experience helps somebody stay the course, then I've been blessed with a reason to share. The Twelfth Step states: _Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these Steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs._ How did I arrive at my spiritual awakening? In conversation, like we're doing now; participating at meetings; _working the program_. Remember: our disease is managed, not controlled. _Managed._ I can't help what the world throws at me; I can't control other people; I'm unable to command fate. I wish I could; I've tried; but control is impossible. For better or worse, all I can do is manage my powerlessness through the program."

Outside, the dog fired a flurry of throaty woofs...

Ruff! Ruff! Ruff! Graw-ruff! Ruff-ruff!

"Take Zelda," Vern said, jerking his head at the window. "She can't control herself, man. If I let her off chain, she'd run after a car and... _splat_. I manage her the best I can, which means staking her in the ground, but what options do I have?"

"Then...aren't you controlling her?"

"Nope. The second I believe I have control over Zelda is the second she makes her escape. See the difference?"

Steve knotted his forehead and said, "No offense, but you kinda lost me in the word hash."

"None taken. My mouth has been known to run a time or two. Besides, you're here to talk about you, not Vern. So... _ahem_...let's circle back to last week. We were chatting about amends, resentments, escape and guilt, and you mentioned a friend and a...a dead brother, I think. Ring a bell?"

"Right, my pal, Tommy, and his brother, Chad," Steve said as he adjusted his ass. "Chad was diagnosed with cancer in, like, February '92 and he...Chad...he didn't last long. Before he died, his family brought him back to Cairo because the cancer had spread everywhere. I meant to visit Chad; he and I used to play football and we hung out, kay? In fact, Tommy and Chad...more Tommy than Chad, I guess...were brothers to me. Well...I never made it to Cairo. I didn't see Chad, I didn't come to Chad's funeral in '93, I just phoned Tommy and said, _'Sorry, bro.'_ At the time, I was in Minnesota not doing a whole lot but smoking pot, drinking and chasing women so it wasn't like I couldn't have come...I _should've_ come...I just...I couldn't."

"Death isn't an easy thing to face at any age, let alone...how old were you?"

"Old enough," Steve mumbled. "Anyway, Chad's death wasn't what kept me away. When I left Cairo in '91, I swore I'd never return. _Never_. After I started making money, I offered to buy my parents a house, a _nice_ house, just so I wouldn't have to visit Cairo. I told my father he could pick the location. Honeoye, Geneva, Canesoanke, Bloomfield, Luxor...any place but Cairo. For whatever reason, my parents didn't wanna move and now, here I am, back in Cairo. It's fucking poetic justice."

Vern cocked his head and said, "It sounds like Cairo's a slippery slope."

"You know, I've thought about this a lot over the years. The course of my life was set in the summer of 1991. On the one hand, I got the fuck out of Cairo. I got the fuck out and through luck...or fate...made something of myself. Money, a little fame, a beautiful wife...the symbols of success, kay? But it's almost like...or it is like...I made a deal with the devil."

"Pride before the fall," Vern lamented with a nod.

"Naw, it had nothing to do with pride..." Steve paused for a second, but not for effect; saying the words took a profound effort. He closed his eyes, frowned and then said: "My girlfriend was murdered on July fifth, 1991. These two guys...ex-cons, I guess...kidnapped her...Krissy...in Clifton Springs. The police found her body near Ithaca."

"Jeez, man, I'm sorry to hear," Vern whispered.

Deep in the churn of recollection, our pal said, "Krissy spent the fourth with me. She had to work the next morning, kinda early, and she gave me the business because I was super hungover. My last words to her were, _'Get out of here. I'll call you later.'_ A couple hours later...and the entire time the phone rang until I took it off the hook cuz I didn't want to be bothered...her father pounded on my door all flustered and upset. He told me Krissy hadn't arrived at work and he wanted to look for her. I tried talking him off the ledge cuz I didn't think it was a big deal. We wasted a good twenty minutes at my house before he convinced me to get into his pick up.

"Gawd, we musta drove a hundred miles looking for her car. Every damn second, I bitched to myself cuz I was hungover, and it was hot; poor ole me could've been sleeping one off instead of wasting an afternoon sitting next to Krissy's aggravated father. I didn't think...you know...I didn't think she could've been abducted; I didn't think she might've been stuffed in a car trunk; I didn't _think_ , Vern. _I. Didn't. Think._ Welp, the years have given me ample opportunity to think; let me tell you, I don't wanna think about what she experienced...but I do. I pick over _everything_. If I would've kept her a few extra seconds; if I would've gone with her to the fucking Denny's; if I would've listened to her father and went looking the instant he barged into my house... _maybe_...but I didn't. _I_ was tore up; _I_ didn't want to be bothered. _I. Didn't. Think._

"The worst part...what drove me outta Cairo...was I felt this...this stigma. Until those two fuckers were caught, the police put me on their radar; reporters nosed around; and I knew what the townies thought. I hid in Buffalo with my parents; I skipped Krissy's funeral; I didn't get a chance to tell her parents, ' _I'm_ _Sorry; I'm sorry I didn't listen to you, Fred; I'm sorry_ _for being tore up; I'm sorry for not protecting her.'_

"Instead, I escaped, and you know what? Escape felt wonderful. Even tho I left a scholarship to Syracuse floating in the wind, I got in my car, drove to Minneapolis and tried forgetting _everything_. Alcohol, drugs, women...I went all in. Lo and behold, good shit...so-called...happened. I became a _Big Deal_ playing football; I made money; I married; I got a Super Bowl ring. The reason I hit the lottery kinda nagged, but the magnificence of distraction, see?"

"I can't imagine how you felt."

Steve opened his eyes and rattled, "How I _feel_ , Vern."

"Sure, I only meant-"

"I _needed_ to escape, and I had handy excuses for gettin' tore up," our pal steamrolled. "After I quit playing ball, I blamed boredom for my tore up behavior. Susan...my wife...got on my case, and I used to think, _Krissy wouldn't give me the business._ And then I'd think, _I wouldn't be gettin' tore up if I married Krissy_. Susan wanted kids but we couldn't conceive, which was fine with me because I reasoned, _I don't want kids with her._ Shit, I convinced myself I wouldn't have stepped out if I married Krissy because I loved Krissy. Oh, I had excuses up the caboose, kay? Excuses gave me license to avoided Chad's funeral. Krissy was buried in the same cemetery, and poor old me couldn't handle the strain.

"When my mother died, her final resting place was also First Cavalry. I couldn't excuse my sorry ass out of her burial, but I found a way to deal; I had _plenty_ of excuses for showing up hot. It helped that Mom didn't like Krissy; she told me I needed to get on with life, head to college, forget the _unpleasant situation_. Yep, I showed her, didn't I?"

Zelda answered with another bout of furious barks.

"Did you talk to someone at rehab about this?" asked Vern.

"Uh-huh. I spoke to a shrink twice a week for almost thirteen weeks. He told me to write letters to Chad and Krissy and the Wrights and Mom...but writing letters didn't help. They were shitty...full of excuses. I figured the only way to rid myself of excuses was to schlep to Cairo and square the ledger. Like I said before, tho, I haven't done any shedding."

"Steve, you might not want to hear this, but you should share your story in Group. I can one hundred percent guarantee somebody in the program has gone through a similar experience. Let them explain how they manage personal tragedy; let them give you tools to navigate the past and present. In fact..." Vern leaned to his right and rummaged through a stack of papers on a cheap side table. At last, he plucked and perused a single leaf before announcing, "There's a speaker meeting in Clifton Springs every Sunday morning. Would you consider taking the podium?"

"This Sunday?"

"I imagine the schedule is set for the next few weeks, but I can speak to the organizer and see if I can't find you a slot."

_Clifton Springs_ , thought Steve. _The scene of_ -

"You tell me to fuck if you want," Vern said. "I won't be hurt or-"

Interrupted our pal: "Can I bring moral support?"

"Bring a teddy bear if it helps."

"Hmm...I don't know how I'll be on the spot, but the Almighty Fuck Off hasn't served me well in the past. Still...how many people are we talkin'?"

"Maybe twenty. Thirty at most."

"Geez...thirty people?"

"You're not giving the Gettysburg Address, man. All you gotta do is what you did today: speak from the heart."

"I guess I'll be in for some long nights in front of the mirror...not like I have anything better to do."

Vern laughed and then asked: "You're saying _yes_?"

Over Zelda's boisterous hubbub, Steve emptied his lungs and nodded.

***

The Branchport game amounted to a glorified scrimmage...

At the behest of the trainer, Abe Mora didn't dress; instead, The Turtle carried 28 times for 90 yards, one touchdown and two fumbles.

Tyler Jones played the first half, went six of nine (including two touchdown passes to Isiah Howze) and finished with 103 yards.

Mike Hastings snagged his sixth interception of the season.

Brad Hearn returned a punt for a touchdown.

The Crows recovered three onside kicks.

Cairo led 32-14 at the half.

With an eye on the quarterfinals, Tommy elected to insert the second and third stringers in the second half. At 2-4, the Beavers had been eliminated from the playoffs the previous week, but when they scored the go-ahead touchdown with ten seconds left, the home crowd exploded like they had won the Super Bowl.

Nobody seemed too broken up over the 42-38 defeat. On the bus ride home, B.C. entertained the kids with crude jokes; later, in the Cairo locker room, Tommy lauded the effort of the backups.

Preached he: "Did we win? No. But every one of you left it on the field, like I knew you would. Take tomorrow off, enjoy the weekend, and we'll get to work Monday afternoon."

Steve attempted a quick escape after the ball coach concluded the sermon, but Tommy caught our pal at the exit.

"Wanna grab a burger and talk about LeRoy?" the ole pal asked.

One foot out the door, our pal attempted a curt brushoff: "Oh, man, I'd love to, but I'm bushed. How 'bout tomorrow?"

"One o'clock, and fasten your thinking cap. We're gonna roll sleeves scheming their offense, dude. They have two dynamite Stars."

"No problem," Steve called over his shoulder. "I'll bring the slide ruler."

Forty-five minutes later, our nervous pal planted his feet in front of the darkened door...

Exercising his jaw, he glanced at the light shining from the upstairs window...

And then jabbed the buzzer.

Natalie's face appeared from high...

A murky oval blotting the light.

He waved his right hand; she disappeared. A minute passed before the outside lamp came on. He steeled with a gulp of cold air as the door opened...

"I saw you in the paper," she said, tightening the belt on her robe.

"How'd I look?"

"Good, as always."

"Heh. You never saw me with a beard."

"You'd still look good. But even if you didn't, I wouldn't care. Looks aren't everything, Steve Ritter."

"You're right, and I-"

"Stop, Steve. First, let me say something: I should've apologized for how I acted. You're right; I didn't think about the situation I put you in. I'm sorry."

"Accepted, but its not a big deal."

"Yes, it is. I acted terrible."

"You had a Lee Weyer moment, Natalie. It happens to everyone."

"A Lee Weyer moment?"

"A bad day."

"I see," she laughed.

"It could be worse. My toppermost Lee Weyer Bad Day is forever memorialized on the internet."

"I won't forget mine either. I-I tried calling you, but I didn't know what to say. Plus, I figured you didn't want to hear from me."

He winced and then said, "Look, I've been standoffish, but this situation is complicated. I returned to Cairo...escaped, really...to get my life in order. Then you came along and turned my head around. Managing it all isn't my strong suit...at least, not yet. I'm tryin', tho. I hit a year of sobriety on September twenty-ninth, so there's a checkmark. The other things, my relationships and whatnots, are a work in progress."

"A year is wonderful, Steve."

"It's something, I guess."

"Don't be dismissive; a year is more than _something_."

"I'm not dismissive but...but...see, the deal is, I've half-assed through a year of sobriety. _A year._ Other than not getting tore up, what have I accomplished? I haven't worked the program; I haven't made amends; I haven't done anything except dwell on negatives. Take us, for example. This summer, I started thinking, you know, I'd figure out a way to screw things up. So what did I do? I pushed you away."

"It seems like you pushed me away because I asked you to make a commitment. What am I supposed to think?"

"Whether you believe it or not, you're the best thing that's happened to me since I came back."

She crossed her arms and sighed.

"It's true," he said, rubbing the toe of his shoe on the concrete landing. "You're beautiful, smart, and caring; you're better than I deserve, kay? Waaayyy better. Am I afraid of commitment? I suppose, but not because I don't care about you."

"So...what are you telling me?"

"I'd like to try again."

"Steve, _trying_ isn't the same as _doing_. You're either serious or you're on the fence. I-I made my feelings clear; I told you what I want. I can't handle any wishy-washy nonsense."

He looked into her eyes and said, "I'm serious, but I have to ask something of you. I've been invited to speak at a meeting...an A.A. meeting...and I'd like you there."

"Me?"

"Call it moral support."

"I thought you're implying I have a problem," she said though a grin.

"I'm implying it'd mean a lot to me."

"When?"

"To be determined. Could be next month; could be December; could be next year. You can say _no_ ; A.A. meetings aren't the most pleasant atmosphere. But I want to involve you in my life, my _whole_ life, and the program is a big part of it."

Tender-like, she whispered, "Of course I'll go."

A balmy wave of relief surged from the pit of his stomach, in all directions, until his extremities tingled. He tried to play it cool; melting in a puddle of thankful tears seemed a tad demonstrative.

Therefore, he cleared his throat and then said, "Well...um...good. Oh, and we have a home playoff game Saturday. We could use a dose of your moral support."

"Hm...why don't you come inside," Natalie said, sweeping an arm towards the homey interior. "It's too cold for a serious conversation out here, don't you think?"

# 30. Class C Quarterfinals vs LeRoy Knights

The defeat at Branchport hadn't affected the Crows spot in the playoff bracket: a number three seed, they faced the sixth slotted LeRoy Knights from the Western Region Division.

LeRoy's 4-3 record suggested a healthy dose of mediocrity, but the three losses were by a combined eight points. Moreover, the Knights spread offensive averaged 402.7 yards per game (split almost equally between the passing and running attack); tallied 235 total points (an eyebrow raising 33.5 per average); and committed only four turnovers during the regular season.

Tommy wasn't kidding when he claimed the Knights had two potent Stars: the quarterback -a 6'2, leggy senior- showed good pocket presence, threw a tight spiral and displayed Michael Vick-like dexterity. Sacks were rare, interceptions were rarer...

"Mini Vick's committed to Howard," Tommy said as the ole pals watched film. "You know who else has committed to Howard?" Before Steve could answer, the ball coach shined the laser pointer on a tall, thin wide receiver and reported: "This guy...mini Moss...is a junior. Six foot three, fast as blue blazes, sixty some receptions, seven hundred some receiving yards, ten-"

"Seven hundred?"

"Seven hundred _plus_ in seven games. And, like, twelve touchdowns."

"Jeez O'Pete. He's gonna be a handful."

"Yup. Any bright ideas?"

"Well...Hastings and Hearn did a serviceable job covering the yo from Byron."

"They did okay, but pressure made Byron's quarterback jumpy. Mini Vick is mobile, and he doesn't make bad throws. The one piece of good news? LeRoy's D yields 35 points per game."

"Wonderful, but if Abe isn't one hundred percent..."

"Then I guess you and Scooter best get noodlin'."

Steve pushed his notebook aside and said, "I'll ring him later."

"Tapping out?"

"I can't watch any more film, dude."

Tommy stood, jabbed the power button on the DVD player, and then declared: "I'm letting my old man give the pregame rouser."

"Does he know?"

"I've mentioned it a couple times."

"He's kosher?"

"When I told him it's a playoff game and the team needs a foot up their ass, Dad's eyes lit up. Of course, he could in no condition Saturday morning...but we'll see. He's been lucid of late, so I have high hopes. Say, you should talk your old man into coming. I'll get him a sideline pass and a voucher from the concession stand."

"My dad will prolly pass, but I have someone else in mind."

"Oh?" Tommy asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Natalie."

"Natalie? I thought you two are on the outs."

"Your source is incorrect."

"My source is one of her best friends."

"Your source doesn't have her ear to the ground."

Tommy socked Steve's shoulder with a weak right hook and said: "Hey, man, I'm glad to hear. No offense, but I thought you were being a dick."

"Meh. Me bein' a dick isn't a recent development, but this time I considered something besides myself."

"I only meant...you know...Natalie's the _perfect_ woman, and she's crazy about you. Breaking it off because she's too in love seems foolish, at least until she brandishes a knife."

"She _is_ perfect, which is the problem."

"I don't follow."

"I've been dragging my feet because I'm afraid I'll fuck everything up with her, and don't tell me I'm being dumb. I've managed to torpedo a few relationships, and I've tried to torpedo a few more. Shit, if you weren't such a moron, you'd have bid adieu years ago."

"Steve...listen, are you perfect? _No_. Have you irritated me? _Of course_. I wish you'd point your eyes towards the future and be thankful for the things you have...and the things you _could_ have."

"Yeah, I know," Steve droned.

"You made the smart move by getting clean; you made the smart move by helping me with the team; you're making the smart move with Natalie. It'll come up roses if you walk the line."

Our pal ran a hand down his face and chuckled.

"Am I wrong?" Tommy asked.

"Nah, you're dead nuts. I'm just thinking about how lucky I am to have a bud who cares as much as you."

"Ah shucks. You're gonna make me blush."

"I'm serious. I should've said it sooner, but I'm saying it now. Thanks, Tommy. Thanks for everything."

Hisself smiled, flashed a thumbs up, and said: "Anytime, bruh."

***

Later, our pal reckoned he kinda sorta flaked on the LeRoy week as personal whatnots took centerstage. Instead of dissecting formations, conniving plays and pushing magnets around a whiteboard, Steve took Natalie to dinner on Monday, attended an A.A. meeting on Tuesday, and watched the Second Game of the World Series (Metropolitans versus Royals wasn't a sexy matchup but whatevs) with his father Wednesday evening.

The dinner-slash-game satisfied one of Pop's request, and Steve decided the time had come to fulfill another...

"Best wings in town," Stan said after he finished the mild dozen. "Then again, there aren't many options. Morrison's in Canesoanke...boy oh boy, they have _great_ wings. We'll have to swing by in the future."

"Speaking of the future... _ahem_...you're going to be seeing less of me, Dad. Natalie and I are giving it another go."

Like Tommy a few days prior, Pop cocked an eyebrow and said, "I'm glad to hear. What changed?"

"I guess I'm growing up, turning a corner, getting on the right side of wrong. Pick a cliché; they all qualify."

"Maybe it's Enos," teased the old man.

"You joke, but our walks have given me time to mull. Do you remember when you said I have a _childlike inability to cope_? As much as it irritated me, you're right. There are many things I refused to address over the years. Some...well, I'm figuring out how to tackle 'em. Others are easier to handle; others stare me in the face, so to speak.

"Dad, I'm sorry for the pain and embarrassment I caused you. I'm sorry for being an ass when Mom died. I'm sorry for pushing you aside. I'm sorry it took me this long to apologize. Despite my shortcomings, you've chosen to maintain a relationship, and I'm grateful for your love and compassion. There's no telling where I'd be if you had turned your back on me."

Patting his son's hand, Pop said: "Kiddo, I've had a difficult time reconciling the man you became to the boy you were. Remorse, rage, responsibility...I've run the gamut of emotions. I know you and your mother butted heads; I even blamed her for chasing you away. I blamed Ted because you confided more to him than me; I blamed your aching heart; I blamed football; I blamed myself. Remember when I found liquor in your room when-"

"When I was in high school."

"Yes. I should've laid down the law instead of doing nothing."

"It wouldn't have mattered."

"I can't help but feel otherwise."

"There are a thousand _what if's_ in this crappy story. I-I live with the guilt of Krissy's death-"

"Her death wasn't your fault, Steven."

"As you said, _I can't help but feel otherwise_. But I'm done gripping the anchor. It's time to let go; it's time to get my life square. I'm talkin' the real deal, Dad. No half-assery.

Pop patted Steve's hand again and said, "You can't imagine how happy I am to have this conversation."

"Good...good because I want you to know how much you mean to me. I just regret the inability to tell Ma how sorry I am."

"Your mother...she wanted the best for you, Steve. I've never told you, but we had two miscarriages before you were born. Your mother wanted children more than anything, so when you came along, it made her happier than you can imagine. The pain she went through to deliver you..." Stan chuckled and then continued, "...it wasn't a comfortable ten hours. I always knew you were going to be a hell of an athlete. Walking at ten months, incredible hand eye coordination and the standard issue Ritter height gave you an advantage over the kids your age. Your mother wasn't a fan of sports, football in particular; she thought athletics distracted you from what would otherwise be a gainful way to make a living. I'm not saying she wasn't proud of you, but she felt your hobbies wouldn't amount to anything. Nobody from the Strasser tree graduated from college; her parents, brothers, uncles, aunts...they toiled and died working menial jobs. I know what she said after Krissy died, but it wasn't uttered out of malice. She was attempting to motivate you in her stubborn German way. Was she considerate? No. And she regretted it later, Steven. But by then, the two of you weren't on healthy speaking terms."

Steve hung his head as tears welled in his eyes. "God, I'm asshole," he carped. "Another lousy _what-if_ , the worst _what if_ , a _what if_ I can't _ever_ remedy."

Pop replied in a tender voice: "When you have children, you'll see it isn't easy to reconcile their aspirations to your desires. It's the old, contentious quarrel parents and children have regarding smart and poor decisions _._ Meeting in the middle is difficult, and the rift caused by disagreement aren't resolved until both parties are older...if at all. As I said before, I'm thankful we're having this conversation. I feared we'd never have the opportunity."

Brushing aside a tear, Steve said, "There's one more thing, Pop: I've been asked to speak at recovery meeting in Clifton Springs. You're welcome to attend."

"Do you want me there?"

"The decision is yours."

"Hm..." Stan pondered for a handful of Mississippi's. At last, he said, "I'm going to pass, Steven. Don't get me wrong; it's not like I don't care. But I'm not interested in listening to your dirty laundry among a roomful of strangers. I'd rather share our thoughts with each other."

"Fair enough," Steve said, blotting his cheeks with a napkin.

"But Saturday's game is marked on my calendar," the old man said, waving a finger. "I'm excited to see what the fuss is about."

"Natalie's coming too, Dad. You can tutor her in the finer points of football."

"Sounds like a plan. I just hope it doesn't pour. The weather doesn't look promising..."

***

Rain pelted the corrugated locker room roof.

The steady waterworks began overnight; when Steve pulled into the school's parking lot at eleven, Dewey Field looked like a swamp. He figured the lousy weather would temper both offenses...at least, the passing variable. However, watching the trainer apply athletic tape to Abe's bum ankle didn't fill the tummy with warm fuzzies. The kid had been gimpy in practice, but Scooter claimed, _a gimpy Abe is better than no Abe_.

But a gimpy Abe could be made gimpier (and no, _gimpier_ ain't a word, but you get the gist), and a gimpier Abe meant the Crows would be hamstrung if they advanced to the next round.

As they say: _'twas a bridge to be crossed later._

A more immediate bridge had to be crossed before the team took the field for stretching:

Earlier, Tommy told the assistants, _'Dad's in good spirits today, so I'm letting him crack the whip.'_ The declaration wasn't met with enthusiasm; everyone -including Steve- looked at their feet and shared an uncomfortable moment of silence...and the same questions:

What would Greg Gray say? How would he say it? Would he do something stupid?

_Like whip out his dingus?_ the little devil on Steve's shoulder whispered.

"Quiet, you," Steve whispered under his breath.

At T-minus ten minutes, Tommy told the assistants: "I'm collecting our VIP, guys. Get the fellas organized."

While B.C. ordered the anxious players to take a knee and _shaddup_ , Tommy slunk out the exit. Seconds later, hisself returned with the old ball coach, shepherding him by the elbow to the front of the room.

"Men, we have a special treat," Tommy announced. "My father, the O.G. who put Cairo football on the map, has asked to say a few words. Coach Gray, the floor is yours."

Bedecked in a Crows waffle cap and baggy attire (a black sweatshirt and heather gray Brooklinen Bergan joggers), the Original Gangsta examined the young warriors with bulging eyes and a compressed mouthline. Déjà vu smacked Steve in the noodle, and his memories flickered like ruffled pictures. Back...going back...and there he be, seventeen-year-old Stevie Ritter, knee on the floor, chinstrap buckled, bracing for the patented pregame theatrics of a lunatic: flailing arms, hoarse commands, curses, invocations...

But the Coach Gray of yesteryear be an obsolete automaton.

Present day Coach Gray coughed and then -in a temperate voice- said: "The playoffs are the beginning of a new season. There are no more games after today if you don't leave everything on the field. You play as a team; you help each other up; you _never_ give up. Our opponents...they're no pushovers, believe you me...and...um...you know what you must do. Let's send Shale back to their pissant town with their tails between their legs."

A baffled Liam McGough elbowed Brad Hearn and mouthed, _Shale?_

Tommy cleared his throat and stepped next to his father. "You heard the man," he said. "The second season starts today; the time for grab ass is through. Let's line up and get our game faces on."

With captains leading the procession, the Crows snaking line trundled into the maelstrom. A few patted the O.G. on the shoulder and-slash-or shook his hand; most nodded. The old ball coach slurred benign encouragement...

When the door slammed behind the last player, Tommy said, "I'm taking Dad to the box, fellas. I'll see you in a few."

Coach Greg Gray responded: "They look ready, Chad."

Tommy's grin slackened, but he replied in a cheerful voice: "Yeah, Dad, they're fixing to kick butt."

***

Fighting the elements, Cairo's pep band played a competent rendition of the "Star-Spangled Banner" as Old Glory billowed above the scoreboard. Steve gazed across the muddy field at the opposition and their delegation: the one-hour trip and shitty weather hadn't dissuaded LeRoy's faithful; the packed bleachers bled crimson and black. Cairo's turnout was also robust, and somewhere among the several hundred stood Natalie and his father. He resisted the urge to twist his neck and break patriotic bearing; besides, seeking them amongst the umbrellas and ponchos be a futile task.

Cairo won the toss and elected to receive. Wind in their faces, LeRoy -dressed in road whites and cherry hats (a jousting black knight slapped to either side of the helmet)- muddle huddled in front of the teed football.

"Watch the onside!" Tommy screamed, and the kickoff return team responded by pulling everyone but the two returners between the fifty and the home thirty-five. When the ref's whistle blew, LeRoy broke the tight bunch with a hand clap from the kicker and spread across their forty. Serenated by screeching trumpets, the end-over-end line drive lifted over the nine Crows and landed at the fifteen-yard line with a sodden _thump_ ; water and sludge spewed into the air. Brad Hearn sprinted forward and attempted to scoop the slippery rock with both hands. Planting feet, he flopped onto his ass and then pulled the ball into his chest as the Knights coverage team converged. Helped to his feet by the line judge, Brad's uniform looked like it'd been dipped in cow shit.

"Time to see how Abe's feeling," Scooter said as the offense took the field. Thus, the first three plays were handoffs to the featured back: a toss sweep netted six; a counter gained seven and a first down; another pitch to the short side of the field bore four tough yards.

Wiping his brow with the back of his hand, Scooter said, "Okay, I likey."

Play four, a jet sweep to Isiah, caught LeRoy in a stacked box. Mike Hastings stock blocked the cornerback ten yards backwards, the single safety over pursued, and Isiah crossed midfield for another first down. Had he not lost footing and slid out of bounds on his rear, the rush would've gone deep into LeRoy territory. Still, forty yards on four runs beget optimistic inclinations.

With one hand covering the can's mic, Scooter informed our pal: "Adam's telling me their backers are firing the gaps on the snap. The short middle is open, should we be inclined to give the quick slant a look-see."

"A'ight, let's take what they give us."

Scooter flashed requisite signals to Tyler; the quarterback cupped hands and bellowed hoarse commands; spreading Isiah by his lonesome a yard from the far sideline, the Crows receivers shifted into a compressed trips formation; the four cadence snap drew a Knights defensive end into the neutral zone on two; Liam responded with a quick snap, which Tyler handled with one hand as the side judge lobbed a flag.

Slanting behind the blitzing linebackers, John Spillane caught Jonesy's sloppy pass in stride, swept through the flaccid arm tackle of an off-balance safety, and zipped into the endzone for a forty-six-yard touchdown reception.

The pep band launched into the fight song -a warbling rendition muffled by a robust gust of wind- and cowbells clanged from Cairo's jazzed spectators. Jones' pass on the try for two slipped from his right hand during the follow through (the ball thudded into the rear of the left guard), but the Crows quick 6-0 lead sliced smiles across the muddy faces of the home warriors.

Before the ensuing kickoff, Tommy summoned the coverage team. Grabbing Dave Berger by the facemask, the ball coach proclaimed, "Coach Timmons says don't bother kicking it short cuz the ball ain't bouncing on this shit. We'll play the same game as LeRoy: bang it down the middle, let the slop kill the roll, and converge. Worse comes to worse, their returner will fall on the ball. But if they're slow to converge, we can steal a possession."

Unlike Cairo's recent adversaries, LeRoy positioned their return team in a conventional formation: hands on thigh pads, five beefy blockers guarded the fifty; four medium-sized kids stood on the thirty-five; Mini Moss and another receiver placed heels on the twenty. Berger's end over end line drive died on the forty, and the Knights mid-back smothered the football like a hand grenade.

Starting their first possession against the wind, Steve expected the Knights to fire quick passes, mix in some runs...keep things uncomplicated, in other words.

One yard went the fullback on a belly dive; play two gained three on a designed quarterback draw. Third and six seemed an obvious passing down...perhaps a screen or a short route to Mini Moss...

But LeRoy broke the huddle with both Star's split to the right of an unbalanced formation. In the shotgun behind center, the Knights sophomore running back rubbed his palms and bellowed a sting of nonsensical letters and numbers. Cairo's gesticulating, perplexed linebackers and defensive backs drifted from their nominal positions. The D was still getting situated when the running back handled the snap and then followed the pulling right guard and tackle (à la the Washington Redskins patented counter trey) to the formations soft edge. The two giant bodies pancaked Reed Bishop at the point of attack, a brawny tight end turned flanker crack-backed a pursuing Liam, and Scott Hoover missed an open field tackle...

The sixty-yard, one minute thirty second, three play "drive" tied the score at six. LeRoy also went for two -and failed- when a quick pass to the tight end tumbled out of his slimy hands.

Stalking past Steve, Sam complained: "Fuck me. They were asses and elbows out there. I should've called a timeout."

The wind shifted direction and the rain intensified on the Crows next possession. In the visiting bleachers, umbrellas turned inside out, hats flew from melons and people scrambled for cover. Though LeRoy's seven-man front begged for another dose of spun magic from John Spillane, Jonesy's throw on first down met the imposing hand of Mother Nature. Herself slapped the ball into the mud at the feet of a linebacker; he fumble-fingered the rock, kicked it sideways, and a scrum ensued while the back judge blew a whistle and waved the play dead.

One short run later, Cairo faced a third and eight from their thirty-two. A counter pass to Mike Hastings (the play action fake to a shambling Abe fooled nobody on the LeRoy defense) fell apart before Jones completed his progression. Forced to avoid several pursuing linemen, the quarterback committed the patron sin of a field general: he threw across his body -to the middle of the field- where naught a Crow receiver lurked.

The second Jonesy released the ball, Scooter lowered his head and blew a raspberry.

LeRoy's defensive back could've made a ham sandwich while he waited for the gift to flutter from the heavens. A first quarter turnover isn't a typical game breaker, and the bingo wasn't returned but ten yards, but prime real estate for an explosive offense spelled trouble...

Worse yet, the rain and wind subsided when LeRoy's offense retook the turf. Brilliant sunlight bathed Mini Moss in a golden halo as he motioned left-to-right; Mini Vick collected a low snap, pump faked, waited for his adroit partner in crime to make a smooth, hip-swiveling move what turned a corner pattern into a post. Brad Hearn twisted like a tornado; Mike Hastings also bought the boogie-woogie juke. The strike landed in Star's soft hands; he crossed the goal line, took a knee, pointed to the sky, and then handed the football to the ref. Exploiting the calm air, LeRoy opted to kick the extra point, which flew dead between the uprights.

Four minutes into the game, the good guys trailed 13-7.

Cairo settled into a pat groove on their third possession: Isiah racked twelve yards on a nifty catch along the far sideline, dragging a toe inbounds before tumbling into a handful of LeRoy's assistant coaches; Abe hassled for thirteen on a draw; a hitch to Hastings, followed by two missed tackles, tallied fifteen yards. Cairo's fans rattled cowbells; the pep band sounded the F and F sharp leading notes from the _Jaws_ soundtrack _._

Then the rain returned; finger snap-like, a spitting nuisance turned steady downpour. A first down swing pass to Abe from the Knights thirty-two netted nine yards...

But when the back emerged from the pile, he took two baby steps before falling on his ass and unbuckling the chinstrap.

"Ah, shitballs," Scooter muttered.

Though Abe limped off the field without assistance from the trainer, the frustrated kid chucked his helmet at the bench and pronounced, "My ankle is hosed!"

Shooed into the huddle by an agitated B.C., The Turtle plowed through the line of scrimmage for a meager yard. But the tip of the football exceed the spot marker, the offense earned their fourth first down of the nascent drive...

And the first quarter ended with the Crows platooned two yards from the redzone.

Alas, Cairo failed to move a millimeter closer to the Knights goal line. A series of catastrophic events -one holding call; an incomplete pass; a whirling, lateral scramble by Jonesy for no gain; and a fourth down reception by Isiah overturned by a dubious offensive pass interference call- handed LeRoy possession on their thirty-five.

Undeterred by climate, Dewey's cesspit, and a slick football, the Knights promenaded down the field like one of Caesar's conquering parades. Rushes gleaned five yards a pop; Mini Vick's savvy pocket presence made him untouchable; Mini Moss snagged four receptions, the last culminating in a leaping fifteen-yard touchdown over Mike Hastings fingertips.

For good measure, LeRoy executed a flawless onside kick -a ten-yard dribbler the kicker recovered- and carved up the defense for the fourth time in the half. A flea flicker completed the carnage: Mini Vick handled the pitch from the running back and hit an open slot receiver camped five yards deep in the endzone.

Down 27-6, Cairo attempted an oft practiced two-minute drill against LeRoy's prevent defense. Exploiting the soft coverage, Jonesy completed a trio of medium gainers to Isiah, Hastings, and Hearn; the quarterback then scrambled twenty yards, sliding to avoid a tackle at the Knights thirty-eight with two seconds remaining in the half. Utilizing the last timeout, Scooter sketched a poor man's Big Ben play on a wet whiteboard smeared in black marker. The receivers got the jist: run deep and catch the ball...not like it mattered; Jones' Hail Mary soared ten yards beyond the end line.

Soaked, soiled, shoulders slumped, the home team shuffled towards the locker room. A handful of parents attempted to raise spirits during the sullen trek, but the prospect of facing another twenty-four minutes of an exorbitant asskicking left the players both speechless and sullen.

Tommy didn't resort to theatrics; over the pattering downpour, he reminded the kids: _we have another half, play your game, keep your composure, blah, blah, blah._

After Tommy finished, B.C. lit into the pathetic, slouching lot; his inglorious motivational speech failed to inspire anything but a low growl from Liam.

Sam said something-something; The Waterboy said something else; John Timmons stood in a dark corner and yanked on a nose hair.

When time came for Steve conclude the halftime sermon, our pal offered an insipid (but tactful): "How you finish, win or lose, will stick with you for the rest of your lives. Remember what Coach Gray said: _'Leave everything on the field.'_ Seniors, this might be the last half of football you'll ever play. Don't leave the field bearing regrets cuz regrets make miserable baggage."

***

Mini Moss caught his third touchdown pass -a fifty yard go route- five plays into the third quarter; hisself's fourth score came on a flanker screen near the end of the period. Sandwiched between LeRoy's fourteen points, Cairo ran fifteen plays, gained one first down, and reaped twenty-two yards. The Crows offense clicked like a spent revolver: a hurried Jonesy's missed passes; The Turtle picked up four yards on five carries; Brad Hearn deflected a pass meant for an open Isiah; both fourth down conversions failed...

Up 41-6 at the start of the fourth quarter, the Knights called off the dogs and inserted their scrubs. While Cairo's moribund defense went through the motions on the field, a glassy-eyed Tyler Jones sat on the bench and surveyed the field like it was Flanders and he the survivor of the holocaust.

"Let's go, man," our pal said, rubbing Jonesy's tacky blond hair. "We'll get at least one more possession. Hit the field with your chin up."

"Jeez, coach," Jonesy scoffed, "enough with the rah-rah. We're down by-"

"Do you wanna give those dudes the satisfaction of saying their second teamers shut you down?"

The quarterback's face soured, but he grabbed his helmet. "Fine, whatever," he griped. "I just wanna get out of the rain."

So, on their last offensive possession of the 2015 season, Cairo drove the field in garbage time. When Isiah caught his sixth touchdown of the year, -a bullet from the frustrated Jonesy- Kendra Howze screeched: _"My boy! My boy! Dat's my boy!"_

The score mattered to her if no one else, and Steve turned and watched the proud mother jump up and down. Four rows beneath Mizz Howze, Natalie shivered beneath an umbrella. She offered a timid wave; Steve smiled in return. Herself sticking it out to the end after so many of the faithful had fled...

Well, it warmed his heart.

For the first time all season, Tommy allowed Dave Berger to attempt an extra point (he missed); LeRoy drained the remaining minute ten with two knees; and when the siren sounded, the Knights celebrated a 41-12 victory.

***

Natalie's wan, frowny face greeted him after he stepped from the annex.

"I-I'm sorry," she said between chattering teeth.

Our pal pecked her cheek and then said, "Sometimes it doesn't work out the way we want."

"Are the players upset?"

"They're...ahh..." he trailed off, letting his mind replay the solemn particulars...

The locker room bore the usual dramatics what followed defeat: inconsolable tears fraught with _what-if's_ and second-guessing.

Tommy attempted to pacify the long faces: he praised everybody for their hard work and dedication; he touted the success of the season; he thanked the seniors for laying the groundwork going forward; he hugged each player...

A whirlwind of sorrow swept through our pal's soul as he watched the emotional display. The team and its characters; spring drills; summer practices; Camp Bristol; Hell Week; the good and bad times...

It was over.

The 2015 Cairo Crows would never take the field together again...

"They're upset," Natalie pronounced, breaking his train of thought.

"Nobody's happy after a loss, but a playoff loss is a hundred times worse. It's hard to fathom the end of the season when you start. And when the end comes, you wanna go back to the start. Knowing you can't is a crappy feeling."

"I bet."

"Yea, there isn't much sugarcoating you can-"

From behind, Kendra Howze interrupted with a shrill: "Steve Ritter! Let me give you a hug!"

He spun around as the vivacious woman embraced him in a lung emptying squeeze. "I gotta thank you for bein' such a good influence on my Isiah," gushed she.

"I provided pointers," he said after catching his breath. "Isiah put in the hard work. You should be proud of him. He's a fantastic young man."

Kendra patted our pal's back and then released him. "Ain't he humble?" she asked Natalie. "Isiah never played before this season; he couldn't catch the ball eight weeks ago. Now look at my boy!"

"Natalie, this is Kendra Howze," Steve said. "Her son scored our last touchdown. We, um..." he smiled and then continued, "...what's the deal we made, Mizz Howze? A free haircut every time Isiah scored? If my numbers are correct, I'm up six."

Our pal's girl presented him with the side eye and asked, "A free haircut?"

"I'm a stylist at Patty's in Penfield," herself informed. "And _free_ ain't an option, but half price-"

"I'm kidding," Steve laughed.

"Half price or otherwise, don't be a stranger, Coach Ritter. Your hair ain't gonna cut itself! Plus, you gotta keep yourself lookin' sharp for Mizz Natalie." And with those words, Kendra winked and exited stage left.

"She seems to like you," Natalie said.

"It's wise to be on good terms with the person who cuts your hair," he said, draping an arm around her waist. "C'mon. Let's blow this pop stand. Where're you parked?"

"At your house. Your father and I rode here together."

"Heh. How sweet of him to leave you."

"Be nice. He was freezing, and I wanted to stay. He also mentioned something about rushing home and making dinner. I presume he'd like me to join."

"Some good ole bonding time with the old man, eh?"

"And your father, too."

"Gosh, you're a funny one," he said, pinching her arm.

"I have my moments."

"Well, despite your poor attempt at humor, I'm glad you stuck around through the rain and shitty football. When I saw you sitting there in the fourth quarter-"

She covered his mouth with a gloved hand and said, "If it's as you say -if you want to involve me in _your whole life_ \- then I'll stick around."

When he attempted a muffled response through the gray radiator fleece, Natalie whispered, " _Always_ , Steve."

# 31. Clifton Springs

He frowned and tallied heads for the fifth time.

The first count -taken fifteen minutes before the meeting- equaled eight.

Standing behind the podium, Steve thought: _I can handle eight_. Matter of fact, he felt downright cocky.

But then the influx of addicts quickened until a constant flow paraded through the doors.

The second count? _Twenty-two_.

Number three? _Twenty-nine_.

Quatro? _Thirty-eight_.

Numero five? _Fifty_.

Fifty!

Our pal concluded Vern had played fast and loose with the attendance numbers; thus, our pal wanted to kick Vern in the shins.

But whatevs.

Fifty...five hundred...fifty thousand...

He'd ignore the throng and concentrated on the most important person in the room...

Way in the back, sitting alone at a table, Natalie supped coffee from a Styrofoam cup and perused A.A. literature.

If you want to involve me in your whole life-

Vern leaned against the dais and whispered, "It's ten, Steve. You ready?"

-then I'm going to stay.

Though intonation implied otherwise, Steve answered, "I...yeah...I'm ready."

Calling the meeting to order, Vern presented the customary spiel to the assembled-

_Showtime, bruh,_ Steve's brain warned.

Woozy,

Over-caffeinated,

Swallowed by a sea of doubt...

His prepared opening words made like a banana, and quick-like.

There he stood, a refugee from his hamboned past.

There he stood without a safety net.

There he stood, a dry mouthed sap,

There he stood, his mind assembling testimony from a bizarre witness...

An unstrung violin warbling tapestries of insecurity.

_I should've practiced more_ , thought he.

Gehrig weaved elegiac humility: The luckiest man and whatnot...

Ruth's rough, cancer-ridden cadence rattled: _You know how bad my voice sounds. Well, it feels just as bad..._

His Eminence, Cardinal Terence Cooke: _He was a good family man, first and foremost..._

Mr. Mojo Risin: _Lament for my cock, sore and crucified..._

"-let's welcome our speaker," Vern concluded, stepping aside.

Gripping the sot's plinth, digitized text stretched across Steve's brainpan like a Times Square crawl: _World Prays For Apollo 13_...

Nasty Nas intoned: _I don't have time for the news clippings. I got my own mission._

He spotted the wall clock out of the corner of his eye.

Vern's pithy prologue consumed three minutes of the allotted hour.

Mr. Mojo, again: _We must tie all these desperate impressions together._

Natalie tilted her head...

Our pal squeaked: "I'm...uh..."

_(George_ )

Herself's eyes conveyed a clairvoyant: _Talk to me._

So, he gulped air and then began again: "I'm Steve, and I'm an addict."

"Hi, Steve," the room responded.

"This is...um...not easy for me. I've been sober a little over a year, but I didn't get serious about the program until a few months ago. Don't get me wrong; I know returning to alcohol and drugs won't end well. But I thought, _I can handle it on my own._

"Heh. _I can handle it on my own_. How? I went through rehab; I learned a few things; I made important decisions, quote unquote. I changed locations; I rekindled relationships with people who have my best interests at heart; I found positive activities. Did I address what caused my dependence? Not quite. I've thought about it, tho; I've thought about it _a lot_.

Steve circled around the dais and crossed arms. "Drugs and alcohol...but it's all the same...have been a part of my life for almost thirty years. I was a freshman in high school when I got tore up the first time; in short order, I discovered I loved getting tore up. By the time I was a senior, boozing and whatnot became a staple of my evenings. Not like I needed an excuse, but I reasoned there wasn't anything to do in boring ole Cairo except get tore up."

He wiped his brow, glanced at Natalie, and then continued: "I was tore up the morning my girlfriend was abducted and murdered...not far from here, as a matter of fact. Folks, I loved this woman with _all my heart_. But bein' hungover trumped her that morning; instead of driving her to work or whatever, I ignored the ringing telephone until...well, it wouldn't have mattered anyway by then, but I blamed myself for what happened.

"Not long after, I left this cursed place, but this cursed place never left me. I tried everything to erase the memories of upstate. For many years...er, rather, decades...I was a functioning addict. In college and then later...at my job...I hung with people who drank or smoked grass or sniffed lines or popped pills. Of course, I started doing the same. There came a point...about six years ago...when all I did was get tore up. Sometimes people would say, um... _you oughta slow your roll, Steve._ I heard 'em; I knew getting tore up was becoming a problem; I felt the requisite spiral to the bottom. But, hey, you know how the story goes: One day I'd swear to lay off this or the other; twenty-four hours later, I made new promises.

"Anyway, years of getting tore up got the best of me. I lost my marriage...my job...my self-respect. I was forced into rehab. I've been angry; I've been overwhelmed; I've confronted the person I was and it makes me sick. Guilt and resentment are difficult pills to stomach. Like I said earlier, I thought I could handle the Everest of crap because I was sober, but the mountain is slippery. One bad day, one needling thought, one teeny slip and I'm back at the base looking up. With the help of the program, the people in these rooms, and my sponsor, Vern, I've realized I'm not in alone in my struggle..."

***

Natalie said nothing to Steve after his fifty-five-minute recitation. She lingered on the periphery -a solemn wallflower- while our pal shook hands and chitchatted with his audience.

Most offered _thanks for sharing_...or _keep working the program_...and-slash-or _thanks_ and _keep working_...

But a few knew who anonymous Steve be...

And those few wanted to talk football -not sobriety- with anonymous Steve...

Which kinda sorta irked her.

At last, the line reduced to naught...

She thought he'd introduce her to Vern, but Steve had other plans:

He took her hand and said: "Let's get some fresh air."

Silent-like, they walked west from Saint John's Episcopal...

On a cracked concrete sidewalk...

Under the overcast.

Split north-to-south by CR13, downtown Clifton Springs (like Cairo, Luxor, Lyons, and dozens of rustic bergs in this depressed region of western New York) exhibited a few curio shoppes (purveyors of overpriced, junky antiques and secondhand clothes) inhabited by a trickle of patrons. The remaining buildings...

Barren...

Forlorn.

On the northwest corner of 13 and Pearl, our taciturn pal halted in front of a single-story structure and dropped her hand. He leaned his forehead against a smudged pane of glass; he cupped his hands to either side of his eyes; he mumbled: "Empty."

"What's this place?" Natalie asked.

Steve straightened, brushed his hands and said: "A bank, in its former life. Western New York National. Picture it: Krissy stopped here...there was an ATM machine, one of those jobbers mounted in the wall, except it didn't have a working camera. Early morning...five-thirty or so...on the day after the Fourth. Nobody around except for her and two murdering assholes."

She couldn't think of anything to say except the obligatory, "I'm sorry."

He took a seat on a snowy park bench and said, "After Krissy died, my mother told me I must _forget the unpleasant occasion_. She wanted me to head to school in August like nothing happened. Instead, I jumped into my car. The rest is history."

"Maybe your mother...maybe she didn't understand-"

"Ma understood how I felt. I couldn't even attend Krissy's funeral, Natalie. The media trumpeted the _missing girl_ narrative and Cairo turned into a hotspot for several days. In the beginning, they called me a _person of interest_. My Uncle Ted, the lawyer, said I'd probably meet with detectives, which scared the shit out of me. In the meantime, he told me to _lay low_ ; laying low meant staying in Buffalo until after Krissy wasn't missing no more. When I came back, I didn't do anything but drink and get high. Football? College? I wanted nothing to do with those stupid activities. Ma's words were straw over the camel's back."

Natalie sat next to him and put her head on his shoulder.

Said he to his feet: "I visited Krissy's grave for the first time after my mother died in aught nine. I cried more for her than Ma. Then I got so loaded...er, more loaded...I passed out during the wake. I was a hot mess; a...a whiny, fucking embarrassment. Jeez, I hope I didn't sound so whiny in there."

"You're not whiny; you're sad. I-I once read something...a poem by a woman named Nayyurah Waheed. She wrote: _There have been many times I've seen a man want to weep; instead, he'll beat his heart until it's unconscious._ "

He side-eyed the sun-bleached façade and said: "Along those lines, I thought of reaching out to Krissy's parents. After...everything...I couldn't summon the guts to tell them, _I'm sorry._ _Next year_ , I'd vow; the next year, I'd make the same vow. Years turned into decades, Natalie. I figured I owed them something, kay? Welp, I rolled up to the Wrights house last December. They still live in the same place; Fred Wright drives the same type of truck; everything looked the same, but it ain't the same. See, I sat on the side of the road and considered, you know, maybe the Wrights have moved on; maybe my appearance would cause them pain...again. What could I say to make things better? _Nutin_. Long story short, I didn't knock on their door...and I don't believe I ever will."

"Perhaps you could, like, write them a letter."

"Nah. It may sound cold, but I'll leave the Wrights to their world, whatever it is."

"You're not cold, Steve. Moving on isn't a sin."

"Right, I know. It took me too long to work everything out but...yeh, I've worked it out."

As Natalie opened her mouth to respond, a POS Plymouth Breeze rolled past, right to left, on CR13. Windshield wipers made a snapping sound; tires shot slush; the tailpipe burped black, smelly exhaust. Engine revving, the Plymouth skidded through a stop sign and started up the sloping road towards Manchester.

"Vern's car," Steve reported.

"Does he know how to drive? He blew through the stop sign."

"His wheels are for shit. And if he got stuck, guess who's pushing him out." They watched the Plymouth crest the hill before Steve continued: "I wasn't expecting such a turnout, but seeing you calmed me down. Thank you for coming."

She kissed his cheek and then said, "Request and receive."

"Huh?"

"Moral support, mister."

***

The team/family banquet -held in Pinky's upstairs banquet room- took place on Sunday, 6 December 2015.

Following the buffet-style dinner, the coaches took turns presenting accolades: B.C. handed Liam McGough a medal for "Best Offensive/Defensive Lineman (tho B.C. quipped: _'McGough's the most offensive lineman I've ever coached.'_ ); linebacker Reed Bishop received the "Defensive Ironman Award" from Sam; for the second consecutive year, Tommy named Abe Mora the "Top Offensive Threat".

Tasked by his ole pal with doling the accolade for "Most Improved Player", Steve took the riser amidst juvenile hooting and applause. He weighed the trophy in his left hand (a plastic, palm-sized stand decorated by a gilded, high-stepping, football carrying figurine) and scanned the faces until zeroing on Brad Hearn.

"Say, Brad, how you doin' on your goals this year?" our hero asked.

Those in the know -the receivers and defensive backs- snickered; Brad grinned and stretched a thumbs up.

"Uh-huh," Steve chuckled. "Call me a mystic, but I have a feeling only the Almighty is getting lucky, Mister Hearn."

More laughter from the players cued quizzical expressions from everybody else in the joint.

"A silly inside joke," Steve explained with contrived apathy. "All right... _ahem_...when Coach Gray asked me to join his staff, I hemmed and hawed because I worried about how I'd be received. Welp, old baldy -as we know- is a great motivator; he twisted my arm until I came around...albeit with doubts. As I stand here tonight, I can say -without hesitation- I'm grateful Coach Gray stuck a foot up my yazoo. It's been a privilege working with these young men. And to you parents, thank you for supporting your children and this coaching staff.

"I've been asked to present the award for _Most Improved Player_ , but selecting an individual wasn't an easy task. Everybody on this squad...top to bottom, bottom to top, inside and out...whatever the adage...improved in _all_ facets. At the same time, I've watched one of our players launch like a rocket. He began spring ball with limited football experience; as expected, there were growing pains. But he and I spent hours before and after practice -at his instance- working on routes and playing catch. By the end of the season, he developed into a bonafide deep threat. So, without further ado, Isiah Howze, front-and-center."

Looking dapper in dress clothes and a skinny red tie, a beaming Isiah slewed around tables and chairs...

"As long as his mother allows, Mister Howze will be back next year to crush the spirit of defensive backs," Steve said as he handed the trophy to Isiah.

"Don't you know it!" Kendra Howze exclaimed.

After the honors were bestowed, The Waterboy passed out DVD's to the players and coaches. "Our season condensed into ten minutes," said he, shaking a disk in the air. "In fifty years, you can pop this baby in and relive your glory days. However, before we part ways, I'm inviting everyone to the premiere showing of the 2015 Cairo Crows retrospective. The good news? You don't have to travel to Cannes."

Thereafter, the lights were dimmed...

And The Waterboy's creation splashed across the giant screen in the banquet room...

Game film mixed with still shots...

The players clapped, whooped, and laughed.

Boy did those ten minutes fly past.

Serenaded by Green Day's cheesy "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)", the video ended with a team picture taken on the last day of Camp Bristol.

"Christ, I'm on the verge of tears," Steve whispered to Tommy.

"Let 'em roll," our old pal's ole pal replied. "I've cried every year so far. Hell, even Christianson gets teary."

# 32. Winter, 2016, et al

The precious items were packed in the backseat of Steve's Charger: he contributed a single box labelled _Steve's Stuff_ and a panting dog ( _'Enos is sweet on you,'_ Pop claimed. _'He'll be heartbroken when you leave.'_ ); Natalie's cherished whatnots filled two cartons. The rest of her stuff -furniture and clothes- hitched a ride in the back of an Allied semi cruising to destinations south.

Tho she had little and he had less, our pal couldn't help but think _little_ _is good_. _Little_ meant _more_ had to be obtained, and _more_ would define their lives than the _little_ knickknacks of their respective pasts...

***

Marty Maynard phoned on a Saturday evening in late January.

Steve was sitting down to a steak dinner with Natalie when his Christmas present -a smartphone Santa had left in his stocking- hummed.

Fork in hand, he peered at the screen...

MAYNARD, M.

662-942-1212

...and then cocked his head.

"Who is it?" Natalie asked.

He grabbed the doodad and said: "Well, the area code is strange, but I think it's Mike Maynard."

"Mike Maynard?"

"A pal I played against in them olden days. Sorry, I should take this."

"Is everything okay?"

"Dandy," he said, bringing the phone to his ear. "Just give me a minute."

The call came at a crucial moment in our pal's life; later, before the Alzheimer's wrecked his brain, Steve opined he crossed the nebulous line separating past and future on 30 January 2016.

Could he have spent the remainder of his existence volunteering his services to Cairo football? Would he be satisfied minding the fort while Natalie schlepped to work? Prolly.

But she got in his ear a bit ( _Like I'm supposed to_ , claimed herself) and reminded him to think into the future.

_Far into the future_...

They talked of looking for a house; in secret, he perused jewelry stores for a flawless ring; he decided to train for a marathon and improve his golf game; she suggested he shop his radio voice (' _Maybe you can do high school games or something for Time Warner.'_ ), and even tho he swore his broadcasting days were kaput, the idea didn't seem so hairbrained the more he considered it...

Point being, our pal hadn't thought of Mike Maynard until Mike Maynard (it would seem) made a point of interrupting supper...

"Mikey Maynard," greeted Steve. "Long time and all the rest."

"Am I speaking to Steve Ritter?" a gruff, unfamiliar voice inquired.

Our pal furrowed his brow and hacked: "Who wants to know?"

"It's Mitch Maynard-"

"Mitch?"

"Correct. I'm trying to reach-"

"You got him."

"Steve Ritter?"

"Yeah, Mitch, it's Steve. Sorry, the call came up Maynard, M. 662 area code, tho. Where are you?"

"Batesville, Mississippi. Mike told you I'm at Ole Miss, right?"

"He did. And, um, Marty is...hold on...coaching in Wyoming."

"The middle of nowhere, you mean. Be thankful I'm calling instead of him."

"Is Ole Miss in need of a head coach?" joked Steve.

Natalie leaned forward and mouthed, _"What's going on?"_

"No, we're set," Mitch answered. "To be honest, when Mike passed me your digits last year, I filed 'em in my desk drawer. You know how it goes; the season trumps everything else. By the way, when I phoned tonight, I got your...your father, I think he said."

"Uh-huh, you reached my old man. I gave Mike my home number in October, but Santa brought me a new gizmat for Christmas."

"A what?"

"Cell phone."

"Well, your father gave me your gizmat's number...or he did after he gave me the wrong one the first time. Anyway, do you have a few minutes, Steve?"

He straightened in his chair and said, "Shoot."

"Are you familiar with Southern Mississippi?"

"My familiarity begins and ends with Brett Favre."

"It's a smaller D-One school, but the football program is competitive. Their head coach left for a job in Tampa after the season; the new H.C., guy by the name of Jay Hopson, was brought aboard on the twenty-fourth. Jay was a four-year starter at Ole Miss in the '80s, so he's a familiar face in Oxford. Yesterday, he stopped by to shoot the shit. Hugh asked how things are shaking at the new school; Jay mentioned most of his staff followed him from Alcorn, but some of the coordinator positions -like a wide receiver coach- are vacant. He was probably sweet-talking Hugh for a GA or two, but I took him aside and tossed your name in the air. Jay sounded interested, Steve."

"Then why are you calling?" our pal laughed.

"I'm giving you an opportunity to be proactive."

"How interested are you talking?"

"On a scale of one to ten I'd say...mmm...a seven."

"Even though I have no collegiate experience?"

Again, Natalie mouthed, _"What's going on?"_.

Mitch said: "Hey, how 'bout this? I'll text you Jay's number; do with it what you will."

Steve glanced at Natalie and said, "Sure, Mitch. Thanks for your help."

"Anytime. And when you get here, hit me up."

Natalie started running her mouth the second after he jabbed the little handset icon...

"What is it?" herself pestered.

"Mississippi..." garbled he, pushing the cell aside.

"Mississippi?"

"There's a-"

His phone jumped on the table: the promised text from Mitch Maynard.

"Natalie, there's a position...a coaching position...in Mississippi," Steve reported. "They guy I just talked to...Mitch...he, um, he said I should call the head honcho if I'm interested."

"Mississippi...where in Mississippi?"

"Southern Mississippi."

"Near the Gulf?"

"Mississippi's on the Gulf?"

"A portion."

"Huh...I had no idea."

"Are you going to call him?"

"I-I don't know. I never pictured myself rooted in the Deep South."

"I think you should call him."

"What if I get the job? Do you wanna live in Mississippi?"

"Why not?" she asked with a shrug.

"For real?"

"For real."

"Geez, you've already up your mind?"

"You want to coach, right?"

"Your job, tho."

"My job isn't a reason to stick around Rochester."

Her eagerness to uproot floored him; Susan bitched nonstop when they moved to Arizona...and Arizona was close to perfect (the heat in the summer sucked poopie elephant ass, but at least it wasn't humid).

"You never know what doors may open," Natalie argued.

"Okay, if you're onboard-"

"I am. Call him."

Thereafter, an anxious Steve buzzed Mister Hopson...

***

Hattiesburg -the county seat of Forrest County, Mississippi- is home to about 48,000 people, making it the fourth populous city in the state. The temperature on Steve's mid-February visit hovered below the freezing mark; snow showers made him wonder if the twenty-something seat twin turbo prop had taken a wrong turn from Atlanta. However, the little sign in the little terminal of the little airport (so little, the field didn't even have a control tower) declared: _"Welcome to Laurel/Hattiesburg"_ , and he realized the winters in Southern Mississippi weren't immune to snow.

But whatevs.

The chipper head coach gave our pal a tour of the athletic facilities; they shared college football war stories; Steve described his years in the pros, the players with which he rubbed elbows; he outlined his coaching methodology at Cairo High School. Later, he sat in front of the four-eyed, suit-and-tie AD and a sullen woman from HR; the one topic the two hammered for a half-hour wasn't coaching acumen.

But whatevs.

A thorny past, a termination, a trip to rehab...

Steve had no problem discussing the naughty bits.

He felt terrific during the interview.

Calm.

Silver tongued.

Confident.

If the job didn't pan out...

If the Southern Mississippi poohbahs didn't wanna risk their reputation on his frailties...

Whatevs.

Nobody could say Steve Ritter hadn't tried.

Maybe next time...maybe never...maybe he'd return to school and get a Master's in astrophysics or sumptin.

But the phone call came six days after the shindig...

' _Spring drills begin in April,'_ the Southern Miss AD said. _'Any chance you can join the team then?'_

When he broke the news to Natalie, she squealed and threw her arms around his waist.

"I take it you're still committed?" asked he.

"Of course!"

"Cuz if I accept, I ain't backing out."

"Then we better get things in order."

It occurred to him the moving game might become a happening event in the future; first Southern Miss; next Memphis...or Minnesota...or Missouri; then a professional team...maybe Los Angeles...or San Francisco...or Miami...

You get the picture.

And wouldn't you know? Steve got mighty excited.

As it turned out, they never left Southern Mississippi.

But whatevs...

***

The Ritters returned to New York every summer to escape the humidity of Mississippi...

They returned as Newlyweds.

They returned bearing a grandchild for Pop...and then a second...

They returned for Tommy and Lydia's wedding.

Those were good times.

They also returned when times weren't so good...

When Greg Gray died.

When Pop died.

When Natalie's parents died.

When Billy Christianson died.

Enos passed in the fall of 2025, but don't be sad; the ole dog spent his days fetching rubber balls from beneath pine needles; he chased raccoons and squirrels; he played with the Ritter brood...

He had a good life.

Steve Ritter's end is another story...

One characterized by an unhappy, slow demise.

The forgetfulness began in his third to last season as the Golden Eagles ball coach:

Misremembering players names and positions; losing situational awareness; roaming the sidelines, staring into space.

At the end of the 2037 season, the university gently suggested he step aside; tho he couldn't understand why, Steve acquiesced. Nine months after he retired, Southern Mississippi honored their former head coach before their first home game of the season. It was the last time he set a toe in a football stadium and the last time Steve Ritter felt like a _Big Deal_.

Not that he cared.

With increasing frequency, he called Natalie, _Krissy_ or _Susan_ ; he called his boys, _Tommy, Chad, Isiah,_ and other names culled from over twenty years of coaching; he raged for no reason; he stopped eating; he soiled hisself...

Our old pal lingered on the fringes of reality for a spell; but when a viral pandemic ravaged the world in 2040, Steve caught a dose of an aggressive Oriental bug what pulverized organs in those with compromised immune systems.

It was an inglorious way for a kinda sorta _Big Deal_ to go.

But whatevs. 'Tis life.

Natalie sat hospital bedside the morning her husband kicked off.

Hours prior, two nurses removed his ventilator; as it was being wheeled out, one of masked men patted Natalie's shoulder and said, "I'm sorry, but there are others who will benefit more from this than your husband."

What could the missus say?

Nutin.

Fighting tears, she took Steve's cold left hand and traced her initials on his palm...

N.L.R.

Over and over and over...

He didn't bat an eyelash; he didn't smile; he labored to breathe until breathing lapsed into a rattle...

_The Death Rattle_ , she thought.

Into his left ear she whispered: "Steve, I love you. I'll always love you."

Her voice failed to dent the swirling collage of disjointed images in his head.

But whatevs.

***

Natalie Ritter suffered a series of small strokes until the big one in the fall of '45 forced her into hospice.

Thereafter, the kids sold the old, roomy colonial in rural Pine Ridge to a developer who wanted to build an auto mall. While clearing out the attic with his brother, twenty-seven-year-old Jimmy Ritter (a lean towhead who swam and later coached at UT) stumbled upon a large cardboard box labelled _Steve's Stuff_.

"Hey, shit for brains!" Jimmy hollered as he dropped to knee. "Look what I found!"

Twenty-five-year-old Ben Ritter (a snarky, dark-haired meteorologist at the NWS in Jackson), set aside his warm bottle of suds and rejoined: "Deez nuts?"

Jimmy snorted and dug through the box like it contained pirate booty; peering over his brother's left shoulder, Ben crossed his arms and asked:

"Yo, what's in there?"

"A shitload of Dad's things! Programs, plaques, pictures, jerseys...a DVD...it says, um, _2015 Cairo Crows_. Heh. I forgot he coached in Cairo."

"Then...I suppose we shouldn't throw any of it away, right?"

"Damn straight we aren't throwing any of...of...hmm, lookit this..." Jimmy dug out a red binder and handed it to his brother.

" _Steve's Memories_ ," Ben said, reciting the words stenciled on the cover.

Jimmy stood, wiped dust from his hands and said, "Let's see what the hubbub's about."

Ben opened to the first tab...

A faded newspaper article from the _Cairo Notebook_ greeted the curious peepers.

"September 1989!" Jimmy hooted. "Damn, that's _fifty-six_ years old!"

"Dad was a sophomore in high school," mumbled Ben as he speedread the story. "Wow, check it out: he had an interception...a touchdown...and nine tackles."

"Go to the next one..."

Underneath a hanging lightbulb, the brothers wasted hours examining Dad's past. The old man never talked of his time playing ball in college and the pros; heck, despite being a football coach ( _'The Big Cheese_ , _'_ according to Ma), he rarely spoke about the sport. Dad steered Jimmy and Ben onto other athletic avenues: golf, swimming, cross country; and he encouraged the boys to use their brains instead of _bashing them into splinters, like I did._

(Dad's attitude struck Ben as hypocritical; as junior in high school, he asked his father:

"You tell me and Jimmy not to play, but don't you care if your players bash their brains into splinters?"

"I'm not gonna stop anyone from playing football...unless they're my children," Dad said, mussing the boy's hair.

"But-"

"But nothing. Trust me: You don't want to be remembered as a meathead, kay?"

"You're not a meathead."

"Benjamin, I'm not a meathead because I met your mother. Besides, we're not talking about me, we're talking about you. You aren't playing football. End of discussion.")

The Brothers Ritter reached the notional end of Dad's career with an article from the _Hattiesburg American_ dated 12 September 2038 ( _USM Honors Legendary Coach_ ); but as Ben began to shut the binder, he spied another _American_ article tucked into the torn rear pocket. He removed the slip, held it to the light...

Beloved Southern Miss Coach Dead At 67

Steven Ritter, the Golden Eagles head football coach from 2020 until 2037, passed away yesterday from complications related to the novel Harbin Pestis Epiglottidis. He was 67.

Surpassing Jeff Bower in 2035 as the winningest football coach in Southern Mississippi history, Mr. Ritter compiled a record of 126-111, including 7-4 in bowl games and 6 Conference USA Championships.

A New York native, Mr. Ritter arrived at USM in 2016...

"I-I can't read any more," Ben sighed, tucking the clipping into the binder.

"Okay, but whadda you wanna do? Halve the stuff or...or I can keep it at my place if you want."

Ben tossed _Steve Memories_ into the box of _Steve's Stuff_ and then said: "I think we should have a frosty beverage or six and talk about this later."

***

Anywho, the future transcended Steve and Natalie's comprehension...

They departed Cairo in mid-March, and what a beautiful day it be:

Blue skies.

Natalie's left hand on his thigh.

A five caret rock on her ring finger caught a glint of sun.

The Charger hurtled south on State Route 21...
