The Chargers score another rushing TD and take a one-point lead. Late in the fourth, the Broncs QB gets chased out of the pocket and turns a busted play into a thirty-five-yard score, but his knee gets hammered as he crosses the goal line and he is carted off. His rookie backup, who has taken three snaps all season, will have to come in when they get the ball back.
The Denver defense holds SD down, all the kid QB has to do is pick up one first down and then he can kneel out the game. I’m banging my head into my pillow, willing the Chargers’ defense to do something. On first and ten, the rookie bobbles the handoff, tries to pick up the ball instead of falling on it, and the ball is scooped up by a Charger linebacker, who takes it all the way home. With SD back on top by one, less than two minutes on the clock, no time-outs remaining for either team and the kid QB pinned at his own seven yard line by a monster kickoff, I’m starting to celebrate a little. Then San Diego goes into a prevent defense and the kid starts throwing to the middle of the field and manages to put his team on the Chargers’ thirty-five before spiking the ball with three seconds left. The kicking team comes on.
If this was the Broncs’ kicker, I’d be worried. That guy’s been slamming fifty-yard field goals in the thin air of Mile High Stadium for the last decade. But it’s his backup, the punter. He sets up for the kick, and the rookie QB kneels behind the line to take the snap and hold the ball for him. And nobody on the San Diego special teams unit notices that the Broncs’ starting tight end has checked in on the right end of his line.
It’s ugly.
The ball is snapped directly to the punter, who rolls right as the rookie QB rolls left and the tight end releases his defender and runs upfield. The punter is pancaked, but not before a wobbly duck flops out of his hand, hangs in the air, and lands in the arms of the rookie, who is still behind the line of scrimmage. A Charger defender is running behind the tight end by now, grabbing on the back of his jersey, trying desperately to yank him down and stop him, perfectly willing to take the penalty in order to end this madness. The rookie sets up and launches the ball across the field just as he is speared in the chest and goes down. It is one of the most beautiful passes in the history of the NFL. It spirals as tightly as a drill bit and drops into the arms of the tight end just as the San Diego player behind him gives a heave that drags him to the turf. As he falls, the tight end stretches the ball forward, and breaks the plain of the goal line.
SD 35 DEN 40 FINAL.
SANDY TOLD me she knows the front desk guy at the El Cortez Hotel and Casino.
She sometimes works a hustle on guys she picks up at the club. She brings them to the El Cortez, gets a room, and starts to get frisky. Then Terry busts in like the jealous boyfriend and the mark empties his wallet to keep from having his ass kicked. The guy at the desk gets a cut, so he’s happy to take cash for our room and keep his mouth shut. I try to give her the last of my money, but she doesn’t need it. She grabbed her stripper/dealer stash on her way out the back window at her house, a clutch of rubber-banded cash rolls. Be prepared.
She goes in alone and comes out with a key. I drop my guns in her bag and lock up the car. We walk through the lobby together, my face buried in her neck; just another couple in romantic Las Vegas.
Upstairs, I stay in the room and she goes back down for a couple things from the drugstore and gift shop off the lobby. When she comes back she has cigarettes, shampoo, soap, deodorant, four Hershey bars, Band-Aids, Ben-Gay, a couple cheeseburgers from Careful Kitty’s Cafe, and a few airline bottles of vodka.
She showers while I eat my burger, and comes back into the room in red panties that say Friday across the ass, the AC/DC tank, and a towel wrapped around her hair. I go into the bathroom and strip out of my clothes. The jeans have a dark, crusty spot where my thigh has been leaking blood. I take the Band-Aids off my thigh and the makeshift bandage from my ankle and get into the shower. Fear and violence make you sweat. I stink of fear and violence.
Out of the shower, I use the vodka. Sandy said they didn’t have rubbing alcohol in the gift shop, this was the best she could do. I pour it over the bullet wound in my thigh and rub it into my various cuts and scrapes. I use several large Band-Aids to hold the wound closed, and cover all my lesser injuries, then I rub Ben-Gay into my sore muscles. There’s a bottle of vodka left. I could drink it. I pour it down the drain. I think about flushing the seventeen Percs I have left, but don’t have the willpower. They make me feel numb, and I may want to feel that way again. Soon. I pull on my dirty BVDs, my jeans, and my tank top, and go back into the room.
Sandy is trying to eat her burger. She says the Percs took her appetite. She’s starting to cry again, tears running down her face as she chews, and then she’s gagging and running into the bathroom, where I hear her vomiting.
When she comes back she asks for another Perc and I give it to her. She’s done. She’s had too much today and can’t fight off the things in her head anymore. She takes the pill, crawls onto one of the full-size beds and falls instantly to sleep.
I turn off all the lights, draw the curtains and shades so that the room is nearly black, and lie on top of the bedspread of my own bed. The clock radio on the nightstand glows 4:46 PM. I close my eyes. And I am instantly wired and restless. I lie on the bed with my eyes closed, praying desperately for a sleep that seems to be creeping further and further away, until, over an hour later, I finally give in and turn on the game.
And when that is over and sleep is still no closer, I surrender again to weakness, take two Percs, and return to the jungle.
I AM back at Chichen Itza, on top of Kukulkan. It is night. I’m alone, looking out at the darkness, the jungle black against the slightly lighter sky. I hear someone behind me and I turn. It’s Willie Mays, dressed in San Francisco Giants’ home whites. I smile.
– Say hey, Willie.
He smiles back at me.
– Say hey, kid.
He has a bat in his right hand, the barrel resting casually against his shoulder, and he’s tossing a ball up and down with his left. I point at myself.
– You won’t remember, but we met when I was a kid. I did a Giants fantasy camp and you visited one day and gave a hitting clinic.
– Sure, I remember you. You had a cap with Dodgers Suck written on the bottom of the bill.
– That is so cool that you remember. You signed a ball for me that I still have. Or, I don’t have it, ’cause it was in my apartment when I got into some trouble a few years ago. So now it’s maybe at my folks’ place or maybe the super or a cop or someone stole it. I don’t know.
– I heard about that, that trouble you were in. How’d that turn out?
– Don’t know, it’s still happening.
– What’s that about, kid? What’s all this trouble about? Kid like you in all this trouble.
– I wish I could tell you.
– What are you thinking out there, doing all that stuff?
– I dunno.
– I do. You’re
– Ya think so?
– I know so.
– Thanks.
– Kid with skills like yours. Yeah, I remember you, eight years old and I could tell you were a pro soon as I saw you. You could have been the greatest Giant ever.
He winks.
– Or the second greatest, anyway.
– Nobody will ever be greater than you, Willie.
– Weeeell.
– Nobody.
– Nice of you to say that, kid. Look, let me give you some advice.
– Sure.
Someone taps me on the shoulder. Willie tucks his ball away and gets into his hitting stance.
