circumstances, that would be Western Michigan. He studied that option. Only one athlete from WMU had made it big: Charlie Maxwell, nicknamed Ol’ Paw Paw after the western Michigan town that was Maxwell’s point of origin. Maxwell had played baseball for a number of years for the Detroit Tigers. His career was marked by penchants for hitting home runs on Sundays and hustling back to the dugout after strikeouts. No, not WMU. Scouts would have to dig to find him there. And nothing must be left to chance.
He settled on Michigan State University. It had a big-time football program. But not so big that one could not be serious about one’s academic life. And Bobby did intend to be serious. He would be an attorney. And he would be one in the white man’s enclave. The white man’s world would be his field of combat. He would be articulate, well-educated, cultured, poised, cool, and armed with a well-publicized sports portfolio.
He was already handsome in a white context, with caucasoid features and chocolate-colored skin-evocative of a king-sized Harry Belafonte.
And that caused a problem which demanded the careful planning that was becoming his general modus operandi.
During Bobby’s teens and young adult years, in both college towns of Kalamazoo and East Lansing, consciousness-raising became very popular. Racist as well as sexist attitudes were roundly condemned, especially by high school and university students. But not infrequently an opposite swing of the pendulum would occur. Not only were racial disparities downplayed, but there was a mindset group of white females whose objective it was to merge with black men.
This, Bobby promised himself, would not happen to him. The quantity and at times superior quality of young white women students who plainly made themselves available to him were tempting, most tempting. But giving in to that temptation was not a part of his plan. The stratum of white society he would be a part of was not altogether prepared to accept miscegenation. So, neither was he.
Things went pretty much as planned. There were few surprises in Bobby Cobb’s life. And when an occurrence extraneous to his plan threatened to upset his modus vivendi, he always managed to bring things to order expeditiously.
He was an All-Everything in high school football. Most of the major colleges had heard about him, even though he came from little Kalamazoo. Feelers came in from as far away as Florida and California. He chose Michigan State, as he had planned long before MSU recruited him. He continued to develop both mind and body. He was cordial to, but stayed clear of, white coeds. He first dated, then courted, a gorgeous girl whose complexion was soft chocolate like his. They made a fine-looking couple. He knew the white world he would enter would accept the two of them unreservedly.
From his sophomore through his senior year he quarterbacked a football team whose success depended, in large part, on his excellence. He graduated cum laude and was drafted by the Cougars in the first round. He married his college fiancee. He was counseled to take no more than one semester a year in his postgrad march toward a legal degree. That way neither the demands of law school nor those of professional football would be too taxing.
Now he was in his seventh season with the Cougars and only a few short months away from taking the bar examination. His marriage was a success. He had two rather perfect children, a boy and a girl.
His program was right on schedule. There was but one fly in the ointment. Hunsinger.
It was part of Bobby Cobb’s plan that he be Numero Uno with the Cougars-the star attraction. It would not do to court the most illustrious law firm in Detroit unless one were indisputably the most prestigious candidate in applying for entry into the partnership. And that prestige must be across the board, in studies as well as professional accomplishment.
As it turned out, he was Numero Dos. Hunsinger always managed to get a tad more publicity. He was good copy, mainly because he was flamboyant. He could afford to be; he was not seeking the button-down life of a corporation lawyer. He wasn’t searching for anything but pleasure, security, and fame, in that order.
Worst of all, Hunsinger didn’t deserve the publicity he received. He was beginning to go over the hill. He wouldn’t even be getting in all that playing time were it not for those jackasses in management who assumed the capacity crowds were coming primarily to see Hunsinger in action.
Another part of Cobb’s plan was that the team he represented be of championship caliber. Nothing but the best for the area’s top law firm.
In Cobb’s eyes, for some reason, Hunsinger seemed to try his best to ruin the careers of his teammates- introducing the younger members to booze, breaking curfews, entertaining playmates, and flirting with drugs, including cocaine, and stopping just short of heroin.
For six full seasons Cobb had tried to neutralize Hunsinger. For six seasons Cobb had made little headway. In fact, it appeared to Bobby Cobb that Hunsinger’s popularity and his influence upon the Cougars were stronger than ever.
Hunsinger stood directly in the path of Bobby Cobb’s carefully laid plans.
Something would have to be done.
“Where did everybody go?” Ewing asked of the assistant trainer, the only person in the locker room.
“Oh, they’re probably in the projection room.”
“Bobby Cobb in there?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Get him for us, will you?”
“Sure.”
“The assistant trainer did not need to ask who the two plainclothes detectives were, nor who the priest was, nor why they were at the Silverdome. Word had gotten around.
Moments later, Cobb entered the locker room. He wore cutoff jeans and a T-shirt. Koesler marveled, as he had many times this day while viewing partially clad pro football players, at the muscle tone. It was as if a Renaissance sculptor had chiseled out an entire team. None of them seemed to have a neck. Massive shoulders sloped gracefully into a head. It made him wonder about the cartoon Father McNiff had described wherein the lady explained to her companion that the football players were wearing falsies. Up close and in person it was obvious that, except for protection, the players needed no padding.
Ewing greeted Cobb. “Sorry to have to disturb you.”
“No sweat. You just saved me from suffering through yesterday’s game again. Watching us fumble it away. They were just getting to Hunsinger’s fight. Come to think of it, that’s the last film of the Hun inaction.”
Koesler was unable to tell whether there was a touch of relief, remorse, or just thoughtfulness in Cobb’s tone.
“How can I help you?” Cobb asked.
“Just a few questions. We’re trying to get to know a bit more about Hunsinger and some of the people around him. What kind of man was he?” Ewing asked.
Cobb smiled. “That’s a big order.”
“I mean, did he have any eccentricities?”
“Eccentricities? What pops to mind immediately were those weird routines-compulsions, I guess you’d call them. Used to drive me nuts watching them.”
“Many of them?”
“Oh, yeah, let me count the ways. Shoelaces had to lie flat against his shoes. Going on or off the field he would run by the right side of the goalpost only. First step up the stairs had to be with the left foot. Before going into a game the first time he’d have somebody slap his shoulder pads exactly three times. The long white sleeve of the sweatshirt we wear under our jerseys always had to be visible. He always sat in the last row of the plane- claimed it was safer. . shall I go on?”
Ewing smiled. “You watched him pretty closely.”
“Couldn’t help it. Fascinating. Besides, it wasn’t boring. Every so often he’d come up with something new to add to the list.”
“How about showers?”
“Showers? You mean the way he showered? Never noticed. I’m usually last in the shower and last out of the stadium.”
“Not the quality, the quantity.”
