anger when he had ordered the opening of the locker-room door. Now he was putting on his drawling good-ol’-boy Texas charm. “Don’t want the boys to ferget. Strike while the iron’s hot, and all that.”
“Was there any one play or player that turned the game around, Coach?” The obvious target of the question was the fullback and his fumble that had given Chicago the ball for its final, victorious drive.
“No. Now I know whatcher drivin’ at. But we’re a team. We’re a family. We win together. And we lost together. No one player’s more responsible than anyone else for either outcome.”
The reporters all knew that there was one glaring exception to the coach’s claim of togetherness philosophy.
“Coach, if you had it to do over, would you play that last series as conservatively as you did?”
“Fellas, if I ’llowed myself to second-guess myself, I’da strung myself up by the neck until dead long ago.
“No, that was the way to play it. Put the ball up and you’re just beggin’ for an intercept. You keep it on the ground. You don’t look for the fumble. I reckon we’ll be doin’ some work on ball-handlin’ this week.”
And in still another part of the room.
“What’s this loss do to the Cougars’ season, Mr. Galloway?”
“It’s not the end of the line. Don’t bury us too soon, fellas.”
The owner prized all media coverage. But he had a special place in his heart for television. Not all that many people read newspapers, and radio had a comparatively small sports audience. But everybody watched television. Every time he was on, friends went out of their way to mention they had caught him on the tube. It was an important way of his becoming Somebody.
“But it evens your season at five and five-and now Chicago is one up on you.”
“Let’s just not call the season over when we’ve got eight big games to go. And one more with Chicago. I’m confident at this point that we’ll make the playoffs.”
“Thank you, Mr. Galloway.” The TV lights were extinguished; the crew headed in another direction to interview someone else.
Galloway felt an impulse to call them back. They hadn’t talked to him nearly long enough. He had lots more to say. He would wait right where he was in hopes another crew would set up here and ask him some questions- interesting ones for a change.
And in another part of the room.
“How did you feel in that last series, Bobby, keeping the ball on the ground? That’s not the Bobby Cobb style.”
“Look, they pay me pretty good to toss the ball around. For the same amount of money, I’d be glad to throw in a little thinking. But, as it stands, all they want is a strong right arm and a loud voice. You guys want to talk strategy, go see the coaches.”
“You missed on that big third-down pass to Hoffer, Bobby. What went wrong?”
“Just a matter of timing.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all, my man. He’s a rookie, and he’s faster than the average tight end. We haven’t had a chance to work much together yet. But give us a chance. He’s got all the tools. He could be our next pheenom.”
“Playing behind Hunsinger?”
“The Hun can’t play forever.”
“The Hun’s got a no-cut contract.'
“Not with Father Time he doesn’t.”
“Seriously, Bobby; how’s Hoffer going to break into the lineup and get regular work, let alone a starting position, as long as the Hun is around?”
“You know, it’s like that old song: Old tight ends never die; they just fade away.”
“That’s soldiers.”
“Whatever.”
“Now, you know that Hunsinger is, in a manner of speaking, the franchise, Bobby. As long as he’s on the team, Coach Bradford’s got to play him. I mean, everybody knows the coach is under orders from Galloway to play the Hun. If the Hun doesn’t play, the Silverdome isn’t filled. And that hits Galloway in his most sensitive area, the wallet.”
“Now you’re talkin’ about the Man and the Man. And both of ’em are right in this room right now. I suggest you gentlemen go right over and ask them your questions.”
Most of the reporters did just that, leaving Cobb to peel off a perspiration-soaked jersey. Generally, he was among the last to leave the locker room.
Elsewhere in the room.
Kit Hoffer sat alone.
His locker was only one removed from Hank Hunsinger’s. It might as well have been a mile. No sungun had illuminated Hoffer’s space. No strobe lights had flashed to blind him briefly. No reporters had asked him a single question. No coaches had said anything to him. He sometimes thought Jay Galloway knew him only because his paycheck helped to drain the owner’s finite resources.
Hoffer’s uniform, clean and dry aside from some nervous perspiration, hung from its hook. He shrugged out of his athletic supporter. It fell to his ankles. He removed his left foot and, in a well-practiced move, propelled the strap into his locker. Naked, he stepped into the shower area.
There was little banter from the players already in various stages of showering. Even if some, like Hoffer, had been only brief participants in the game and felt like engaging in some horseplay, they would display only somberness. The coaches, especially Bradford, would appreciate the funereal atmosphere a loss should engender.
Hoffer stepped into the steamy, powerful stream of water. It pounded through his hair and into his face, and flowed down his body. It felt good, as hot showers do, but there was nothing special about it. From the days when he was a little kid playing football in the Catholic Youth Organization, through high school and college, he’d taken his lumps in games. And always in the shower he had assessed the damage the foregoing game had caused. Athletes generally experience an automatic sort of self-hypnosis during competition-unless the injury is very serious. Then, of course, they know immediately they’re in trouble. But the usual bruises and nicks would present themselves to be recognized only as the soothing hot water found them.
It had been a very long time since Hoffer had gone through such an accounting. Too long. He had not been noteworthily hurt since training camp. Which spoke volumes about his playing time during the succeeding games.
As far as his pro career was concerned, if Hoffer had not had bad luck he would not have had any luck at all. Twice he had been cut from teams before the season began. That both cuts had occurred in the final days of training camp was little consolation. But the Turk had visited him twice. And both times he was cut not because he was less talented than his competition for the position. No, the first time, his mother’s death had cost him a week of training-camp time. This, coupled with the fact that his competition had no-cut contracts and the head coach had no alternative but to retain the players whose contracts bound them to the team. The second time it was because he had been injured.
This year had been different only to the extent that while Hunsinger had the precious no-cut contract, no other lineman had one. So Coach Bradford, knowing the Hun was nearing the end of his career, and aware of Hoffer’s great natural talent, had kept him on the team.
But Hoffer, though technically still a rookie, had already lost two years in a profession that was notoriously brief. And he was rapidly losing a third year. Nothing stood between him and fame-and with it, big money-but Hunsinger.
Hoffer stepped out of the shower’s steady stream. He felt physically fine-unfortunately. Well, he asked himself, how many bruises do you expect to pick up running just a couple of plays and carrying a record of no passes caught?
But he had plans. It would be different. And soon.
“Do you know how many nudes there are in here?”
Father Koesler smiled. He and Father McNiff had just been seated in the lounge area of the Machus Sly Fox,
