hear from me tomorrow!” Jay Galloway, the Cougars’ owner, was furious.
He was in the owner’s box, his face almost pressed against the pane of the permanently sealed window that gave a panoramic view of the stadium. In the booth with him were his wife, Marjorie; the team’s general manager, Dave Whitman; his wife, Kate; and several of Michigan’s movers and shakers.
A subtle smile played at Marjorie Galloway’s lips. The smile had been there from the moment of Hunsinger’s injury. She hid it by cupping a hand over her mouth, as if in horror or concern.
“Somebody do that to a dog anywhere in town and the cops’d have the guy in jail before he knew what hit him. That’s a million-dollar property that bastard was pounding on!” Galloway lit another Camel. His previous cigarette was only half smoked. He noticed it when he placed the newly lit cigarette in the ashtray. He snuffed the smaller butt.
Dave Whitman noticed the double-cigarette incident. From long association with Galloway, Whitman recognized the signs. Ordinarily a decent fellow, Galloway could and frequently did present a Mr. Hyde side when it came to his team.
A big part of the problem was that Galloway’s team was also his bread and butter. Unlike owners of other pro football franchises, Galloway was not enormously wealthy from independent enterprises. Every nickel he paid in rentals, advertising, salaries came out of his pocket. That alone made him one of the testiest owners with whom to do business.
It had been a near miracle that he’d been able to secure this franchise. He had put together a consortium of wealthy local merchants and businessmen, convincing them that they would find both himself and the franchise profitable investments. Both of which had proved true. Then, one by one, he had bought them out until now he was sole owner.
But the crown rested uneasily on his head. Now there was no one to fall back upon. From time to time, frankly, it frightened him. But he held on to his expensive trinket. Among the goals Galloway set for himself, his ultimate goal was to be Somebody. The Cougars were his vehicle toward that goal.
Basically, Galloway was an insecure man. And insecure people can be trouble.
It was typical of him to think of one of his players as a property. To Galloway, the players, trainers, and coaches represented investments and expenditures. And Hunsinger was one of his most expensive investments. Hunsinger’s salary was second only to Bobby Cobb’s.
It was not all that common that a tight end be paid so much. But Hank Hunsinger was as vicious at the bargaining table as he was at virtually everything else in his life. He had come to the Cougars from the University of Michigan, where he had been Big Man on Campus, accumulated an abundance of press clippings, made a national name for himself, and become extremely popular locally; hordes of Michigan fans showed up at the Silverdome just to catch the Hun’s act.
However, instead of being on the field performing for the customers, he was now on the bench and injured. And no one knew just how injured he was.
Jay Galloway trained his binoculars on the activity surrounding Hunsinger on the sidelines. As he pressed the glasses to his face with his left hand, his right hand was shaking so badly that cigarette ashes fell to the floor.
Dave Whitman noted the trembling right hand and shook his head. Impossible, Whitman decided, for the man to slow down enough to smell the flowers.
“Hurt?” Jack Brown, the Cougars trainer, pressed a few likely spots on Hunsinger’s back where fresh discoloration promised more hematomas. Not all that many bruise-free areas remained on the Hun’s body.
Hunsinger winced. “Congratulations, Brownie; you found ’em. Now go play with your tape and leave me the hell alone!'
Brown knew well that he was not alone as a target of Hunsinger’s verbal abuse. Undaunted, the trainer raised Hunsinger’s jersey and sprayed ethyl chloride lightly over the newly injured areas.
He should have expected it, but the freezing mist against his back startled Hunsinger. “Goddamn it all to hell, Brownie, I told you to leave me the hell alone!'
Brown shrugged and sat down next to Hunsinger. Acrimonious as he was, Hunsinger had been injured. And it was the trainer’s responsibility, short of involving the team doctor, to make a judgment on whether the player could return to the game or whether he was done for the day. He would watch Hunsinger closely for any sign of further distress.
Meanwhile, on the field, the Cougars were not faring well.
Cobb’s pass to Hunsinger had advanced the ball to the Towers’ 35-yard line. But the next two running plays had netted only a yard. At third down with a long nine yards to go, it was an obvious passing situation. If that failed, it was field-goal time.
Niall Murray, the soccer-style kicker imported from Ireland, sat down on the other side of Hunsinger. Murray, like many of the rookies and younger players, looked up to Hunsinger as the old pro who had paid his dues and had amassed experience in this game.
“Well, then, man. .” Since the Hun continued watching the action on the field, Murray found himself talking to Hunsinger’s profile. “It looks as if they’ll be callin’ on me soon, don’t you t’ink?”
Hunsinger, without turning his head, nodded.
“I’ve been tryin’ to figure it, Hun. Near as I can tell, the way it lines up right now, I’ll be goin’ to be kickin’ from about the 42-yard line. “ He paused to see if there was any objection to his calculus thus far, “That means a field goal of over fifty yards.”
Hunsinger nodded again.
“Well, then, that’s stretchin’ my limits a bit, don’t ya know.” He paused again. “Hun, I’m a bit nervous about that.' He paused once more. “Hun, d’ya have any words for me at all?” As some indication of the straits in which he found himself, Murray extended a hand before Hunsinger. The hand trembled slightly.
Hunsinger took note of the tremor. “Think,” he prescribed, 'of something tranquil. A rural scene in Ireland.”
Murray’s brow furrowed. He returned in memory to cherished vistas in counties Sligo, Mayo, Galway. Searching for something tranquil, he could think of nothing to surpass a waterfall he had once spent several hours contemplating. That would be Slaughan Glen in County Tyrone. In the North.
The very thought of the North and its troubles was disquieting.
“Hun, it’s not workin’.”
Hunsinger kept his eyes on the field of play. Clearly, this was an annoyance. “Try thinking of how relaxed you are just before going to sleep.”
That would not work; Murray knew before trying. From childhood on, he’d always had trouble falling asleep. If he now dwelt on this painful process, he knew he would become even more unsettled.
“No, Hun. That’ll not do it at all.'
“Okay,” Hunsinger would turn to the ultimate weapon. “Think about the best lay you ever had.'
First, Murray had to translate. He knew English well enough, of course. After all, hadn’t it been said for centuries that the best English in the world was spoken in Dublin? But sometimes he had problems with American colloquialisms. Now he had to ponder the sexual connotation of the verb
Well, now, this would not be difficult; he’d never had intercourse with anyone but his wife. But which of their many couplings had been best?
Certainly not their wedding night. That had been a disaster. But shortly thereafter, they’d got the hang of it. And it just kept getting better as time passed. So, it was reasonable to consider the most recent bit of lovemaking just the other night.
Murray became almost lost in the most pleasant memory. As his mind became more and more absorbed in the lingering, unhurried love play leading to simultaneous fulfillment, a warm serenity glowed in his loins and suffused his entire body, indeed his entire personality.
Trainer Jack Brown, who had taken a more than casual interest in this process, noticed the tremor leave Murray’s hands, and noted the bemused smile on his face, indicating the kicker was physically many miles removed from the game.
Damn! thought Brown, if that isn’t about the best demonstration of Transcendental Meditation I’ve seen.
“Incomplete pass,” the play-by-play man shouted needlessly into his microphone. His viewers had seen for themselves. “Eddie, the Cougars needed that one. That brings up fourth and long. Now we’ll have to see what
