outside with his father, but Bobby wouldn't hear of it. So here he was — alone — frozen out, in more ways than one.
Bobby had skipped eating on the plane in hopes of a hot buffet in the skybox. He was saved from the stadium concession stands by the generosity of some friendly Green Bay fans who invited him to join a tailgate of green- and-gold stuffed filets: steaks filled with prosciuto and cheese, garnished with yellow bell peppers.
Now, sitting high in end zone somewhere near Saskatchewan with beer and bratwurst locals who were dressed for ice fishing-rubber boots, parkas, ski masks-Bobby felt both ridiculous and frozen to the bone in his loafers, Miami-weight gray slacks, and navy blue blazer.
At the half, Dallas led 7–3 on a Stringer touchdown pass. For the time being, Bobby was ahead, too. A four- point Dallas win would split the two bets, giving him sixty thousand dollars in vigorish. But, as the talking heads on the tube might say: 'There's still a lot of football to be played, Brent. '
In the third quarter, an older couple in matching green and yellow parkas took pity on Bobby and draped a spare blanket around him, then fed him steaming coffee from a thermos. His own hands were trembling too much to risk bringing the cup to his lips. His ears were ringing and he was dizzy. Maybe it was an apparition, or maybe the beefy guy three rows in front really did strip down and bare his hairy belly for the TV cameras.
Green Bay marched down the field and appeared ready to take the lead, but a quarterback sack by the mammoth Buckwalter Washington stopped the drive. The Green Bay kicker booted a 33-yard field goal, and the Cowboy lead was sliced to 7–6. Still, it was money in the bank for Bobby who prayed that the clock would speed up, both to assure his wager and to end the game before hypothermia set in.
He looked toward the closed windows of the visiting owner's suite, imagining the festivities therein. A hot meal, mixed drinks, cushioned chairs, the benefits of privilege and class. Scott would be in there, munching popcorn, his mother on one side, his grandfather on the other. He imagined his son's happy cheers, Christine's quiet smile.
A groan from the crowd-the gasp of air after a punch to the gut-brought him back to the game. Number eighty-eight, Nightlife Jackson himself, had beaten the cornerback on a deep post and scored when Stringer hit him with a perfectly thrown pass. Bobby watched Jackson do a funky chicken routine in the end zone, looking like a long-legged Groucho Marx in shoulder pads. What was it Penn State Coach Joe Paterno admonished his players about end-zone celebrations? 'Try to act as if you've been there before.'
Ah, but Joe's a throwback. Nowadays, every tackle for a one-yard loss is greeted by self-congratulatory histrionics. As for Jackson, he was as gifted an athlete as he was devoid of morality. Nightlife's court appearances dated back to high school, long before the attacks on the perfume clerk and cocktail waitress. He'd grown up as a spoiled athlete, to whom few, if any, had ever said, 'No.'
With the extra point, it was 14-6 Dallas, and Bobby sat there stunned.
Eight points!
If the score remained the same, he would be middled. LaBarca would win both the bet on Dallas in which he'd given seven points and the bet on Green Bay in which he'd gotten nine. Bobby would owe the staggering sum of 1.2 million dollars. But there were still nearly five minutes left in the game, and…
'Five minutes is an eternity in pro football, Brent.'
It only took twelve seconds. Boom-Boom Guacavera, the Mustangs' rookie kicker and a native of Colombia, had never played a cold-weather game in four years at Tulane. Today, he'd been tentative as he seemed unsure of the footing on the frozen field. Now, his kickoff was short and low, and Elroy Harris took it on the run at the fifteen, headed straight upfield behind three blockers, then cut smoothly to the left. A reserve linebacker who seemed to have the angle on him closed the distance, planted, and…slipped on the icy field. The last Cowboy who had a chance to stop him was Boom Boom, who tried the only thing he knew-to kick or at least trip Harris-as he flew by. Sneaky little bastards, those kickers. But Harris leapt over the sprawling Boom Boom and scored. With the PAT, it was 14–13 Dallas, and Bobby's fortunes had turned from minus $1.2 million to plus $60,000 in a dozen heartbeats.
He roared with the crowd at this glorious turn of events, then waited through an endless time out for the television commercial. Green Bay kicked off, deep into the end zone. Touchback, and Dallas started at its own twenty yard line. Bobby watched Nightlife Jackson trot onto the field, splitting to the right side. Wide receivers are the soloists in the sport's orchestra. Complex men, narcissists with profound egos and equally momentous insecurities.
Bobby began to feel that he was surrounded by his tormentors. Below him on the field, the prancing Nightlife Jackson. High above in the sky box, the belligerent Martin Kingsley. Calling signals was Craig Stringer, whose name was plastered on Scott's jersey and whose head had rested on Christine's pillow for the past year. Just how much can a man take?
As his face stung with the numbing cold, Bobby's mind drifted. Maybe he could have done things differently two years ago. Maybe he could have buried his self-respect in the red clay of Texas. Why didn't he balance his morals against his checkbook and keep playing Kingsley's game?
He'd had his fifteen minutes of fame-actually three minutes twelve seconds on the local news-and even received a mention on ABC's Nightline. Kingsley publicly fired him the next morning, conveniently forgetting that Bobby had already quit, then filed disbarment proceedings that were so airtight he didn't even have to bribe a judge.
The past twenty-six months of Bobby's life leapt at him like a mugger pouncing from a dark alley.
Disbarred.
Divorced.
Bankrupt.
The disgrace he could handle. His entry into the nouveau pauvre meant little. Losing Christine was crushing. The day he committed professional suicide, he had returned from the news conference harboring the delusion that his wife would be proud of him. Like many a reformed sinner, Bobby's heart burned with self righteousness and zealotry. To hell with being a corporate lawyer. He would now work for victims' rights and demanded that she quit her job, renounce her father, and join him in a storefront office assisting battered women, evicted tenants, and homeless veterans.
'Have you lost your mind?' she asked, stunned.
A cheer from the crowd stirred Bobby. After nibbling away for two first downs, the Mustangs were stopped cold-damn freezing cold-on third and seven. They would have to punt, and Green Bay would get the ball back with just over two minutes remaining, trailing by one point.
'Let's see what Green Bay can do in the two minute drill, Brent.'
Bobby tried but could not let his heart feel even the faintest joy. Regardless whether Dallas held on to win by a point or whether Green Bay marched down to win with a dramatic field goal or touchdown, the two bets would be split, and he would pocket the sixty thousand in vigorish. With Green Bay in possession of the ball and the clock winding down, there seemed to be no way Dallas would win by the dreaded seven, eight, or nine. Even if Green Bay turned the ball over, Dallas would simply run out the clock and win the game, 14–13.
So why can't I enjoy the moment?
He didn't need expensive analysis to answer the question. He only needed to think of this morning when Kingsley's limo picked up Christine at the hotel. She was wearing a charcoal gray pants suit, a silken blue scarf and a leather jacket with a fur collar. Her blond hair peeked out from beneath a fur hat, and her pale cheeks glowed pink in the cold. She was as beautiful as he'd ever seen her.
Then, in front of God and his ex-father-in-law, Bobby shook handsshook hands! — with his ex-wife, mother of his son, the woman who had shared his bed in endless nights of fiery lovemaking. Awkwardly, self-consciously, he pumped her hand as if he were an insurance salesman about to explain the benefits of whole life. He had felt like such a fool.
Now, as the bundled multitudes stood shouting, exhorting Green Bay, he stomped his feet, trying to restore circulation. The cherished home team was chewing up yardage but was out of timeouts with a minute forty seconds remaining.
For Green Bay, the game clock ticked unmercifully fast, the sand pouring, not trickling, from the hourglass. A pass brought the ball into Dallas territory, but the receiver failed to get out of bounds, and precious seconds ran off the clock, draining the team of its blood, drop by drop. An incompletion and then another short gain on a sideline pass, and the clock stopped with thirty-nine seconds left. Another incompletion, a pass for a first-down, and then a
