Coach Bradford will do. Will he punt and try for the corner? Or will he try for a field goal? The next few seconds will tell.”
“That’s right, Lou.” The color man watching his monitor began analyzing the previous play, being shown to the TV audience in all the glory of instant replay and stop-action. “That was a simple ‘flag’ pattern with a three-step fake inside. See, now we’re isolating on Kit Hoffer, the tight end who replaced the injured Hunsinger.
“See, he leaves the scrimmage line-and right there he gets bumped by the linebacker. That’s okay; that’s within the first five yards. Now he’s heading downfield. See, now the strong safety picks up the coverage. Now watch Hoffer plant that right foot and break to his left. The safety buys the fake and heads inside. One, two, three steps. Then Hoffer cuts toward the flag. And see, the pass is thrown behind him.
“Lou, I think it’s just that Cobb hasn’t had enough work with Hoffer. Bobby knows Hunsinger’s every move, when he’s likely to cut, and most important, how fast he can run. It’s tough on Hoffer having to play behind an old pro like the Hun, who’s out there on almost every offensive play. But this young man has got the goods. On that last play, he just outran the ball. Cobb didn’t allow for Hoffer’s speed. For a big guy, he sure can move. But you just wait. Once the Hun hangs ’em up for good, this young Kit Hoffer is going to be one of the great ones. He’s got all the tools and he comes to play.”
“Okay, Eddie. Now back to the live action. Coach Bradford has decided to go for a field goal. But I don’t know: That’s gotta be a try of about fifty-two yards. Cobb is kneeling just at the 42-yard line. The Towers are jumping around, trying to distract Niall Murray, the Sligo Sidewinder. But Murray looks pretty cool and collected. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a kicker look that calm. He’s just standing perfectly still, not flexing his arms or anything.
“There’s the snap! Murray moves into the ball. It’s up. It looks true. Has it got the distance? Yes! Yes, it’s just over the crossbar. It’s good! A 52-yarder! How about that!”
“That’s right, Lou. A 52-yarder. Not a record, but certainly something to write home about. You can see in this isolated replay. The kicker is waiting for the snap of the ball. That’s not a still picture, folks; it’s just as Lou described: Murray standing just like a statue. There, now: Cobb places the ball; Murray moves into it. Cobb and Murray are following the flight of the ball. Now they know it’s good. See Cobb. He’s jumping up and down. But look at Murray. He’s just standing there with a smile on his face. Very strange.”
“Right, Eddie. Strange. Maybe that’s the way they do things in Ireland.
“Well, that makes the score Cougars 34, Towers 32. The Cougars went from a one-point deficit to a two- point advantage. But you can see why Coach Bradford would have preferred a touchdown. Now the Cougars can be beaten by a Chicago field goal. So, that’s it: 34–32, Cougars up with 3:28 to go in the game. And we’ll be right back after these commercial messages.”
On the floor of the Silverdome, Niall Murray was teeing up for a kickoff, after the TV and radio commercials, of course. He had come out of his quasi-trancelike state and began to realize what he had accomplished. Wasn’t that fine, then: a 52-yard field goal! He’d have to explain the significance of that to his wife, Moira, tonight. From time to time, she would say, “What you do is fine and all. . but just what is it exactly that you do then?”
Moira was a fine lass, but she had an amazingly difficult time comprehending some of the basics of football.
Now that Moira had come to mind, it was only natural that Murray should return to the pleasurable recollections that had so relaxed him before the field goal.
He was startled, then, by the referee’s whistle. It took him an extra moment to remember that he was expected to do something. Kick the ball.
With a pleasant smile playing about his lips, Murray kicked off. The ball soared high and deep to the other end of the field.
Ordinarily, play immediately after a kickoff actively involves twenty-one of the twenty-two players on the field. Usually, the kicker is exempt from any further contact. And mercifully so; most modern kickers are veterans of the game of soccer, not football. Generally, they are much smaller than the standard-size football player. And more fragile. They are expected to pursue and attempt to tackle a ball carrier only under conditions that would anticipate suicide.
It was odd, then, that Niall Murray, still wearing a silly grin, continued down the field after having kicked off. He wandered into the path of a burly lineman, who, having nothing better to do, flattened him.
Murray was the recipient of a swinging elbow that caught him across his face mask. He went down like a felled tree. The back of his helmet bounced once off the hard artificial turf before coming to rest. Then, the entire body of Niall Murray came to rest.
The Cougars’ trainer and his assistant rushed to the side of the fallen warrior.
Murray appeared to be unconscious. Still the smile remained.
Before calling for the gurney, Brown tried smelling salts. Murray moved his head, at first tentatively. He opened his eyes. The smile disappeared.
“What’s your name?” Brown asked.
“Uh. . Murray. . Niall Murray.”
“What should happen in Ireland?”
“The Brits should get out.”
“He’s okay. Let’s see if we can get him on his feet. It’s a lucky thing he was wearing that cage or his face really would look like the map of Ireland.” Brown assisted Murray to his feet.
The crowd applauded appropriately. Obviously, they appreciated anyone’s unexpected recovery.
“Shit! Look at that! There goes my kicker!” Jay Galloway had just resumed his seat for the kickoff. Now he was back on his feet. “Maybe they ought to outlaw the whole goddamned Chicago team.'
“That’s the bad news, Jay,” said Dave Whitman. “The good news just came up from the bench: Hunsinger seems to be okay now.'
But Galloway was inconsolable. “What happens if we need another field goal? There isn’t another player outside of the Mick who’s that accurate.”
“There’s another bit of good news, Jay: They just announced today’s attendance-80,902, SRO.”
In spite of himself, a smile appeared briefly. “Yeah, but where they gonna be next week if we can’t field our best men?”
Whitman eased back onto his upholstered stool and sipped his Scotch-and-soda. It had crossed his mind many times that joining Jay Galloway in this enterprise might not have been an entirely smart idea. But it had become a venture to which he had grown increasingly more committed.
Galloway and Whitman had grown up together in Minneapolis, attended the same public schools, primary and secondary, followed by the University of Minnesota. But when they began their business careers, their paths diverged. Galloway tried various entrepreneurial roles with varying degrees of moderate success. Whitman started with International Multifoods and attained a responsible position in public relations before Galloway had lured him away.
Galloway had a burning ambition to be Somebody. Whitman was very much more the hard-headed businessman. Secretly, he planned to take over ownership of the Cougars some day and make the team into the franchise he knew it could be.
On the field, the Towers had used up little more than a minute’s playing time in moving the ball from their 25 -yard line to their 42, where their drive, stalled. They were forced to punt to the Cougars, whose punt-return specialist caught the ball at his 10-yard line and advanced it to his 35. At that point, two minutes remained in the game. The automatic timeout was called as the two-minute notice was given to both teams.
The Cougars’ offensive team began to gather on the field. Kit Hoffer, on the assumption that Hunsinger was still disabled, trotted onto the field, pulling on his headgear.
Near the Cougars’ bench, Hunsinger approached Coach Bradford. “I can play,” Hunsinger informed him.
Bradford wordlessly looked over his shoulder at the trainer. Brown, who had expected the query, nodded. Bradford looked back at Hunsinger and nodded.
Hunsinger trotted out to where his teammates had loosely gathered. The crowd, noting his reentry to the game, cheered loudly.
“Get outta here, kid,” Hunsinger said to Hoffer, “the Man’s arrived.”
Disappointed at not being allowed to continue, and angry at the cavalier manner in which he’d been dismissed, Hoffer left the field red-faced.
Orders from the Cougars’ coaching staff to Bobby Cobb were to play conservatively, chancing as little as
