By now, Hoffer was becoming accustomed to the quarterback. Kit anticipated the ball, the spot, the velocity, the tightness of the spiral. He opened his large hands and “looked the ball in,” letting the spiral drive itself into his hands. No sooner had he made the catch than he spun away and was driving downfield, the ball securely tucked in the crook of his left arm.
Perfect.
Koesler looked over at Coach Bradford. He didn’t smile. But he did something with his lips. Perhaps it was the suppression of a smile. The assistant coaches were going wild. They sensed the new combination was beginning to jell.
Hoffer trotted back, his fine blond hair bouncing as he jogged. He wore a wide, self-satisfied grin.
“Okay, Hoff! Let’s go for the big enchilada. Let’s try for the flag with a one-step fake inside. And, Hoff, when you make your break, turn on the afterburners. I’m gonna lay this sucker dead over your right shoulder. Right! On one! Hut!”
Hoffer drove from the line, running low, moving toward some invisible target. After some fifteen or twenty yards straight down-field, he planted his right foot, took one feinting step to his left, immediately planted the left foot, and broke for that corner of the end zone where the small red flag was planted. As he broke, Cobb lofted a high, deep pass downfield.
Hoffer glanced back as Cobb released the ball. Instinctively, the tight end knew where the pass would come down. He extended himself, lengthening and quickening his stride. As he neared the goal line, he knew the pass was too long. He would never be able to get both hands on it. He would be lucky to get one hand on it. He stretched every fiber of his being as far as possible. The tips of the fingers of his right hand made contact with the descending ball. He wiggled it toward his palm. Stumbling, he crossed the goal, the ball firmly, triumphantly held in his right hand. None of those watching had ever witnessed a better effort or a better catch.
The assistants went wild. Bradford kicked the turf and shook his head.
Harris, Ewing, and Koesler approached Bradford.
“Nice catch,” Harris understated.
“I don’t believe I’ve seen better.” Bradford shook a full head of unruly salt-and-pepper hair. His accent was an Oklahoma-Texas mix. His permanently tanned face was creased by too much sun and wind.
“Looks like Hoffer could be an adequate substitute for Hunsinger,” Harris offered.
“Adequate?” Bradford raised an eyebrow. But for a few extra pounds around the middle, Bradford could have been the image of the classic cowboy. “Adequate?” he repeated. “Better than adequate, I’d say. He’s bigger, heavier, faster, and younger. The Hun had a few moves it’ll take the kid a couple of years to learn. But he’ll learn ’em. ’Sides, most of the Hun’s moves lately have been for self-preservation. He was gettin’ a bit long in the tooth.”
“So why didn’t you play Hoffer?”
Bradford’s eyes, for one brief moment, lifted to the owner’s empty box. “Orders from upstairs.”
“Management tells you who to play?” Harris, having judged the coach to be as tough internally as he appeared on the surface, was surprised.
Bradford’s sigh spoke volumes regarding long, heated arguments over who had final control over the game itself. “They sign the checks,” he commented simply.
“But why? If Hoffer could be better than Hunsinger was?”
“They’re convinced the crowd comes to see Hunsinger. Nothin’ I could say’d change their minds.” He looked sharply at Harris. “Now, don’t get me wrong. Hunsinger was plenty good and he was popular, and a great many people did come to see him play. But you can educate fans. They’ll turn to sumpin’ better if you give ’em a chance.”
“Hmph.” Harris stored this information with the rest he was gathering. “We’ll need to talk to Hoffer and then to Cobb.”
Bradford nodded. “I figured you wanted to talk to somebody when I seen you come up the ramp. You got your work to do. I’ll cooperate much as I can.”
Cobb and Hoffer were standing together surrounded by smiling assistant coaches.
“I think,” said Cobb, “I got it figured out now: I throw the goddam ball far as I can and Hoff runs under it and catches it. Man,” he cuffed Hoffer playfully on the shoulder, “we got some fine times comin’ up. We shall overcome!”
Everyone laughed.
“Hoff.” Bradford called, “these gentlemen wanna talk to you.”
Hoffer dropped the prized football to the turf and trotted over. Bradford performed introductions, then left.
Ewing led Hoffer through the questions that were becoming all too familiar to Koesler. Yes, Hoffer was well aware of Hunsinger’s compulsions. Even though Hoffer was a rookie with the Cougars, it had taken no time at all to learn to keep clear of Hunsinger’s obsessions. And there were lots of them. Hoffer guessed that not only his own team, but everyone in the league talked about Hunsinger’s endless routines.
Yes, he was aware that Hunsinger had a sight problem; he wore corrective lenses, didn’t he. Nearsightedness, maybe. Hoffer seemed not to be aware of any further vision problem Hunsinger might have had. Just needed glasses.
It was when they reached the subject of Hunsinger’s having strychnine in his apartment that Hoffer’s information caused the officers to perk up.
“ Shoot, yes. . I knew he had that poison in his apartment. I was with him when he got it.”
“Oh? How and where did he get it?”
“Well, it was when we were in Houston for an exhibition game. Well, it wasn’t, you know, during the game; it was, like the night before the game. And the Hun took me and Murray-that’s our kicker-out to supper.”
“Just a minute,” Harris interrupted, “why would he do that? Doesn’t the team usually eat together before an out-of-town game?”
“Basically, yes. But different teams, you know, do it different ways. We always eat together the day of the game. But when it’s, like, not game day and we’re on the road, well, you know, we get expenses.”
Funny, thought Koesler, how even fairly well educated college grads took on the contemporary speech patterns so prevalent in pro sports.
“We want to get this straight from the beginning,” said Harris. “Why would Hunsinger take you and. . uh. . Murray to dinner? Did he take you often? Were you especially close to him?”
Hoffer snorted. “I don’t rightly think you could call us close. Basically, I think he wanted to, like, dominate the people on this team. And he’d, you know, start with the rookies. The night we were in Houston, I think he maybe wanted to introduce me and Murray to, like, the world of booze.
“We went to La Reserve, which they tell me is like the best restaurant in Houston. The Hun had the money. No doubt about that. Well, from the time we sat down and all through the meal, the Hun kept ordering whiskey neat-no ice, no water; just, you know, whiskey. He put ’em down one after the other. And poor Murray matched him drink for drink.”
“And you?”
“I been there. I knew what that booze would, you know, do. After a couple, I just turned ’em down. The Hun could hold booze by the quart. So he was okay the next day for the game. Poor Murray was sick as a dog. But the Hun pulled him through for the game. Got him kind of sobered up. Threatened him if he should so much as, you know, york on the field. . made him very dependent, you know. . just like he wanted.” Hoffer shook his head. “That’s the way the Hun was.”
“The strychnine?” Harris pressed.
“Oh, yeah, I was just, like, comin’ to that. Toward the end of the meal, when Murray was about to slip under the table, along comes this dude-I’ve seen enough of them in Dallas: plenty of hat and plenty of cattle. Well, this guy sits down at the empty chair at our table. He didn’t have any, you know, trouble finding us. The Hun and me were bigger by several times ’n anybody else in the place. Then the guy recognized the Hun.
“You know how it is, Lieutenant, with some people: they just want to be seen with football players. Basically, they want to go back to work and say, like, ‘I had a few drinks with the Hun Saturday night.’ That’s the way it was with this dude.”
“And how did this go over with Hunsinger?”
