and rolled over several times. Then he lay on his back, holding the ball up as high as he could, like a trophy.
“Bobby!” an assistant coach yelled. “Tell me what the hell good it is to outrun the safety and have to come back for the ball!”
Coach Bradford might have been carved from stone.
“Okay, Hoff. Let’s try a little curl! Right! On one! Hut!” Cobb retreated.
Hoffer ran straight downfield ten to thirteen yards, then stopped and curled back toward scrimmage. The ball was delivered just as he turned. He barely saw it. He dropped it.
The assistant coaches shouted.
What seemed to be a frown appeared on Bradford’s face.
At twenty-five, Kit Hoffer was young by anyone’s standards. Yet he was a little old to be a rookie. The cause of his retarded career might have been buried somewhere in his background.
Hoffer had just missed the 1950s, the decade many say was America’s last age of innocence. Born in 1960, he would live through the age of power explosions: student power, radical power, black power, drug power, fem-lib power, consumer power, rock power, rocket power.
Much of that had taken place beyond his awareness. He was only a teenager during Watergate. And Vietnam was over before he would have been forced to go.
Actually, despite growing up during a time of turmoil, Kit Hoffer had had a comparatively tranquil youth.
An only child, he had worshiped his father, Harold. And the affection was returned. Kit wanted to grow up just like his dad. Fortunately for that wish, he took after his father in that they were both mesomorphs with an abundance of bone, muscle, and connective tissue. Harold was, and Kit would grow to be, a muscular athlete with a large skeletal frame. And, as was so often the case, the son would far surpass his father in both size and athletic ability.
Harold Hoffer had grown up in New York City. He had attended Catholic schools, and had been an outstanding athlete from grade school through college. But while his scholastic career had been exceptional, he was not quite up to the standard of a professional in any sport. He went into sales for American Airlines. He was highly successful, using many of the contacts he had made during his life as a sports hero. He was transferred to Dallas- Fort Worth, the once and future headquarters of American.
Harold had married while living in New York. Kit was born there. When they moved to Texas, Kit was too young to know that everything about him would have been perfect if he had been Baptist. That anomaly diminished significantly as Kit grew and grew and grew.
He attended public school. But his parents made certain that he also attended catechism instructions faithfully. By so doing, he learned the Commandments, the Sacraments, and the Creed, over and over. His parish was not in the catechetical avant-garde.
For a while, young Hoffer toyed with the notion of becoming a priest. But he discovered two effective barriers to that vocation. He liked girls far too much to go through life without a wife. And his grades never reached a level that would encourage an academic career demanding scholastic achievement.
By no means was he stupid. He could have become a serious and successful student. But his desire to follow in his father’s tracks forestalled that.
His parents would have been pleased enough had he wanted to be a priest. But his father would have been convinced that his son had missed a vocational vehicle. So father and son played endless catch, shot numberless baskets, hit countless baseballs. At the proper time, Kit began to invest regular hours in pumping weights and working out on exercise machines.
It worked. In senior high school, he was all-state in football, baseball, and basketball. Most major colleges tried to recruit him. The best package was offered by, in effect, his hometown university, Southern Methodist.
He had it all. All but luck.
College baseball and basketball have their value. But neither attracts the publicity nor garners the income for the school that football does. Considering Kit’s build and natural talent, Harold and his son put all their chips on intercollegiate football. Kit became fullback for SMU. The best fullback in the conference. Perhaps the best in the nation.
But almost every time SMU would play one of its traditional rivals-a Notre Dame or a Texas A amp; M-on national television, for one reason or another Kit Hoffer would be sidelined. An injury, the flu, once, unbelievably, housemaid’s knee. Thus, he gradually earned a reputation for unreliability. The word went round that Kit Hoffer could not be counted on for the big ones.
It was unfair. Kit Hoffer played, and played well, against Notre Dame, Texas A amp; M, Texas, Oklahoma, but generally not when national TV covered the event. Unlucky.
He should have been chosen in the first round of pro football’s draft. He went in the eighteenth, to Chicago. Just as training camp opened, his mother died. He was late for camp. Unlucky. By the time he got there, he had fallen hopelessly behind in learning Chicago’s system. Two veteran fullbacks were well ahead of him. The coach decided to go with the two veterans. Unlucky.
His father got Kit a job in sales with American Airlines. His was a very big name among sports fans in the Metroplex area. Many travel agents and business people wanted to be seen in the company of the big, if former, college football star at the Fairmont, or the Pyramid or the Carriage House. Kit did well for American Airlines. But his heart wasn’t in it. His heart was in football.
The next season, as a free agent, he was invited to Tampa Bay’s training camp. On the first day of contact drills he injured a knee. Because he was unable to participate in any further drills or practice, he never did catch up-and failed to survive the final cut. Unlucky.
He returned to Dallas, where he continued to please influential people who reserved a lot of space in air travel. American Airlines was pleased with his work. But he and his father shared a common disappointment. They knew it was all a matter of bad luck. However, there seemed to be nothing either could do about it. Kit stayed in shape, working out regularly at the Y.
The following season he contacted no one. And no team contacted him. But he continued to maintain his excellent physical condition. He played softball, basketball, and touch football with amateur groups, while keeping in mind that he could not afford to forget to hold back. Otherwise, he would be likely to injure someone.
He married. He and his childhood sweetheart had agreed to wait till his career in pro football was well established before marrying. That they went ahead with the marriage was a tacit admission that he had given up hope.
Then the phone call came from Coach Bradford. The coach wanted to reinforce the position of tight end. He was certain Kit could master the new position. Yes, even if he made the team he would be playing behind Hank Hunsinger. But nobody lasts forever. And he would finally attain his dream of playing professionally.
Kit, his wife, Grace, and his father agonized over the decision. They even went to their parish priest and had a Sunday Mass offered for guidance. They decided to take the chance. Actually, Harold and Kit had known from the start what the decision would be. The agonizing had been for Grace’s benefit.
For once, he sailed through training camp uninjured and unencumbered. He more than mastered the position of tight end. But there was that brick wall: Hank Hunsinger. A no-cut contract, and orders that he play every moment he was capable of playing. Unlucky.
Kit had practically no opportunity to even work out with the first string. In practice, he was on the squad of reserves that ran the plays of the coming week’s opponent for the benefit of the Cougars’ first-string defensive team. Kit had little more than a nodding acquaintance with Bobby Cobb, the perennial starting quarterback.
And so it would go, he was convinced. The recipient of one bit of rotten luck after another.
Unless. . unless he could make his own luck.
Bobby Cobb and Kit Hoffer had reverted to the simplest pass patterns. Little more than playing catch. But as they grew increasingly successful, Hoffer grew increasingly confident. The shouted encouragement of the assistant coaches became more sincere. Coach Bradford watched the progress intently but impassively.
Hoffer jogged back to what passed for the line of scrimmage.
“Okay, Hoff, let’s just try that curl again. Right! On two! Hut! Hut!”
Hoffer left the scrimmage line driving and at full speed. As he reached a point just behind where the middle linebacker would play, he planted his right foot and curled back toward scrimmage. At the moment he turned, the ball was there, in a tight spiral, thrown hard and aimed at his chest.
