patronize the business of the other members of the God Squad. But since attending in person, I realized that TV just doesn’t cover the game.”
Ewing sat back and for the first time appraised Koesler carefully. Redistribute the weight a little and take off maybe thirty years and he would at least look like a pro football player.
“How about you, Father? Did you ever play the game?”
“Me? Yeah. But I went through high school and college in the seminary and we played touch. Which sounds a lot more innocent than it was.” He grinned. “No conditioning, no pads, the blocking identical to tackle football-and there were some pretty big guys playing.
“Teams like the Cougars have thirty seconds to huddle and get the next play under way. Our plays originated in maybe a three-minute huddle. And we didn’t call the plays in shorthand. It was more, ‘You block so-and-so. You block so-and-so. You go out for a deep pass. You go out for a short pass. You go out in the flat and buttonhook-that means turn around-and you get out and cut behind the wheelbarrow.’
“So there’s a limit to how much I am able to identify with the Cougars.
“Before I got involved in this discussion group, the closest contact I had with a pro football player was a gentleman I’ll never forget. The name wouldn’t mean anything to you. But he played in the years just after the professional league was formed in 1922. I met him in his last days. He had terminal lung cancer. We became quite good friends. When he died, I had his funeral Mass and because I’d come to know him so well, I gave a eulogy that, I guess, was kind of affecting.
“Anyway, after the Mass, I went back to the rectory to get ready to go to the cemetery. The doorbell rang. It was a huge, elderly gentleman, who, it turned out, had been a teammate of the deceased. I don’t know whether he was embarrassed or just didn’t have the words to express himself, but he stammered something like, ‘I just wanted to tell you. . I mean. . I just wanted you to know. . uh. . that. . I thought. . well. . you played a good game!’”
The two officers smiled.
“I got to thinking about my friend this morning while I was listening to Mr. Galloway and Mr. Whitman explain what the loss of Hank Hunsinger would mean to the Cougars. How attendance would drop as it always did when he had to be out of a game.
“I remembered that my friend had told me of a similar experience. He had been a good player, but not nearly as famous as players like Red Grange and Bronco Nagurski. In fact, attendance in those early years was very poor until Grange became a professional. Anyway, my friend told me that when word got out that one of the superstars would not be able to play, attendance always suffered. But when, inevitably, a superstar retired, it had no effect at all on attendance.
“It was as if the fans felt cheated when a superstar-a pheenom I believe they call them now-would not perform. The star played last Sunday and he’ll probably play next Sunday. But this Sunday, when I pay my hard- earned money, he’s not going to play. So I’m not going to pay until he plays again.
“Whereas, when the player retired, the fans didn’t feel cheated when he no longer played. In fact, if it went anywhere, attendance used to go up because the fans wanted to see who would be taking the star’s place.
“So I thought it rather odd that both the owner and the general manager would assume that the Hun’s permanent loss to the team would necessarily hurt the gate. Seems to me attendance is just as likely to improve.”
There was a moment of silence. Toward the conclusion of Koesler’s monologue, Harris has paused with his coffee cup halfway raised. It was still in that position. “Out of the mouths of babes,” Harris murmured.
“Galloway and Whitman know, of course, who they’ve got back of Hunsinger. And they know how good he is. Who is it?” Ewing asked.
“Kit Hoffer,” said Koesler, “and I think he’s quite good. But he hasn’t had much of a chance to play. . what with the Hun’s being the superstar.”
“I think we’d better get back to the stadium and check out the new kid in town,” said Harris. “Then we’ll know a little bit more about just how motivated management was in keeping Hunsinger alive and well.”
Monday mornings in the Cougars’ locker room and training facility were devoted mostly to the walking wounded. The wounded who could not walk were usually in the hospital.
By the time Harris, Ewing, and Koesler entered the locker room in search of Kit Hoffer, much of Monday’s customary routine had taken place.
The players had begun to straggle in about nine. Some were dressed in the identical clothing they had worn when they left the stadium the evening before. They hadn’t been home. They had partied long and late. Most of these were in the arms of a bleary-eyed but good-humored hangover. Others, the more mature or serious athletes, were rested and ready to go.
A high percentage of those who had seen considerable game time yesterday now needed at least patching. Trainer Jack Brown had been steadily taping extremities, chests, and groins. At eleven-thirty, the team doctor arrived, checked the halt and the lame, and examined the more seriously maimed.
In general, the Cougars were far more subdued than usual. Most of the conversation, naturally, revolved around Hank Hunsinger. It was truly shocking for one athlete to contemplate the death of a fellow athlete, much less his murder.
After the examinations were completed, the trainer and the doctor delivered their reports to the coach, so he could begin to consider the personnel around whom he would build this week’s game plan.
It was at this point that the detectives and the priest entered the locker room. A few questions to players, some in varying stages of dishabille, others wrapped like mummies, disclosed that Hoffer, Cobb, the coach, and several assistants were on the field in the stadium. And yes, that was out of the ordinary for a Monday. But the coach wanted Cobb and Hoffer to have the maximum time in working together.
The three walked up the gentle incline toward the field with its artificial surface. Koesler considered the view from the field awesome, a sports cathedral. Not far from them, a group of men were clustered. Four wore team jackets. Koesler recognized only Coach Bradford. The three others, it would turn out, were assistant coaches on the offensive team. In nondescript sweat clothes were Bobby Cobb and Kit Hoffer. Koesler vaguely hoped the officers wouldn’t immediately halt the workout. He wanted to watch for a short while at least.
So did the officers.
At about the 10-yard line, Cobb and Hoffer stood approximately six or seven yards apart, roughly where they would be had the rest of the team been in playing position.
Cobb, holding a football in his right hand, turned toward Hoffer. “Okay, let’s try a dragout. Right. On two.”
Cobb hunched as if crouching behind an imaginary center. Hoffer assumed a three-point stance.
Cobb called out, “Hut! Hut!” and slapped the ball against his left hand as if it had been thrust there by the center. He retreated rapidly, four, five steps.
Hoffer began a pattern, swinging slightly to his right, and continuing downfield. Abruptly, he broke for the sideline, looking over his right shoulder.
The ball was thrown behind Hoffer. He tried to twist his body in the opposite direction; his legs became tangled and he fell, rolling over and over.
Cobb cursed. One of the assistant coaches returned the ball. The others shouted either correctional advice or encouragement. Coach Bradford stood silent and motionless, arms locked across his chest, face expressionless.
Hoffer, obviously feeling as graceful as a puppy whose legs are its worst enemy, returned to the imaginary line of scrimmage.
The two players conferred with one of the assistant coaches, then set up for another play. This time, Hoffer lined up to Cobb’s left.
“Okay, Hoff! Gimme a dragout and go! Left! On one!”
Cobb crouched. Hoffer balanced on his toes and the knuckles of his right hand.
“Hut!” Cobb slammed the ball and backpedaled.
Hoffer slanted slightly to his left, heading downfield. He abruptly broke toward the left sideline, then, just as abruptly, headed down-field at full speed.
Koesler thrilled to the exuberance of it: Hoffer, like an animal, seemed to run for the joy of running.
Cobb sent the ball in a high, deep arch. Hoffer slid to a halt, keeping his balance with one hand on the turf. He returned several yards and caught the pass just before it touched the turf. Clutching the ball to his chest, he fell
