the freshly lined field. Scott wore a tattered Penn State jersey, number twelve, because it once belonged to his father.
Twelve was a quarterback's number, but Bobby Gallagher never played a down at that position in college. He held the ball for the kicker. With a weak arm and slow feet, he was third-string quarterback at Shanahan High in Fort Lauder-damn-dale. A walk-on at Penn State, his good hands and keen concentration made him a natural for the sport's least appreciated position: the holder on field goals and P-A-T's.
Three years and he never bobbled a snap. Repetition and focus. Consistency, the quiet confidence that coach Joe Paterno admired. Even now, Bobby could visualize the ball rocketing back to him from between the center's legs. Hundreds of snaps in practice, each time Bobby catching the ball with thumbs together, bringing it down smoothly, tilted ever-so-slightly toward him, simultaneously spinning the ball so the laces faced away from the kicker's foot, leaving a left index finger on top, and tucking his right hand into his crotch, out of the kicker's way.
The snap! The ball's down. It's up…and go-oood!
'Yo Dad, I've drawn up some plays,' Scott said, whipping out a sheet of paper filled with x's and o's. Scott was a towheaded, wiry 11-year-old with his mother's delicate features and an endless fascination with numbers. He did logarithms for fun and never understood why his father couldn't convert centimeters to inches in his head. Bobby looked at diagrams of intricate pass patterns and double reverses and shook his head. 'We've got wives and kids playing who think a quarterback is a refund, and you're giving me all razzle-dazzle plays.'
'C'mon Dad, don't bone out on me. We can score with the flea flicker. You hand off to me, I'll dive into the line like it's a running play, then lateral back to you, and you'll hit Mom slanting across the middle.'
Bobby laughed. 'Sure, why not? A family flea flicker. I love it, kiddo.'
Bobby's team was already two touchdowns behind when Christine arrived at the field. She had tied her blond hair back in a ponytail, and in her warm-up suit and running shoes, she looked like a college coed.
'Hello gorgeous!' Bobby greeted her, his spirits improving. He was in running shorts and a faded sweatshirt advertising a barbecue joint. The air was filled with the sweet smells of freshly cut grass, mesquite smoke, and roasting turkeys.
The game was being played with the casualness of a fraternity's coed volleyball match. A few Dallas players were distributed to each team but mostly just provided mischievous encouragement or heckled each other. Craig Stringer quarterbacked the opposing team, tossing soft floaters to the civilians and kids. Had he thrown with the same velocity he used in a league game, the ball would have ripped through the webbing of some accountant's thumb and broken his glasses.
'Mom, hurry up!' Scott shouted. 'We need you.' He turned to his father who was returning to the huddle with a motley, disorganized team consisting of his son, three women from season ticket sales, a guy from public relations, one Mustangs Cheerleader, and two reserve linebackers whose competitive fires were limited to a struggle for the cheerleader's attention.
'Dad, let's try the flea flicker now,' Scott urged in a whisper.
'Okay, explain it to your mother.'
'Mom, lemme show you this. We're gonna razzle-dazzle them.'
'Really?' she said, smiling. 'That's what your father did to me a long time ago.'
A moment later, Bobby's team was lined up in a raggedy formation that neither Vince Lombardi nor Joe Paterno ever envisioned. Hunched over the ball was cheerleader Shari Blossom, chosen to play center on the theory that she distracted the opposition when her breasts tumbled out of her top. The tall blonde was in full uniform, white short-shorts, bare midriff, exposing a flat stomach. In her white boots and silver-starred bolero vest, Shari was the ideal Texas girl-woman, eternally worshiped by Bubbas in the lower deck.
Playing tailback was Scott Gallagher, an eleven-year-old math wizard. His mother was split to the right as a wide receiver, and his father was barking signals. 'Hut, hut, hut!'
On the third count, Shari wiggled her rear and whisked the ball between her legs, bosom atwitter. Standing a few yards back in the shotgun formation, Bobby took the snap on one skittering bounce and handed the ball to Scott who started for the line of scrimmage, then suddenly stopped and flipped the ball back to his father.
Christine played possum, just hanging out along the right sideline as if admiring the dandelions. Suddenly, with a burst, she dashed 15 yards straight down the sideline, then cut hard, slanting left across the middle. Her defender, an overweight account exec in promotions, was left standing along the sidelines, dazed and confused.
Bobby watched Christine break open in the middle of the field. The defense was in disarray, some of the linemen tagging Scott, thinking he still had the ball. The only defender near Christine was Nightlife Jackson who'd never moved from what would have been the free safety's territory in a real game.
Bobby let loose a decent spiral, leading Christine, allowing her to run under it, ball and receiver meeting at a precise geometric point down the field. Bobby watched as several things happened at once.
Christine looks over her shoulder to spot the oncoming ball…
Nightlife takes two steps to his right, directly into her path…
And stops…
He never raises his hands, never goes for the interception.
The ball was thrown slightly high, and Christine leapt for it, watched it settle into her hands, then turned just in time to see Nightlife blocking her path.
What's he doing? Look out, Chrissy!
As she landed, she tried to pivot, but her left knee buckled underneath her, and the sickening pop was audible across the field.
The bastard! Why did he do that? He could have moved out of her way and just tagged her.
Christine sprawled to the ground, crying out in pain, the ball ricocheting off her hands and toward Nightlife who picked the interception out of the air just before it hit the ground.
Ignoring Nightlife who sprinted past him for a touchdown, Bobby raced to his wife and bent down over her, holding her by the shoulders, sensing from her cries that it was a serious injury. She twined her fingers through his, clenched his hand and moaned.
'Oh Chrissy, don't move,' he said. 'We'll get help.'
Scott appeared near tears. 'Does it hurt bad, Mom?'
Christine gritted her teeth through the pain and tried to shake her head, but Scott wasn't buying it. 'Do something, Dad!'
'Doc Joyner's in the house,' someone said, referring to the team physician.
Bobby swept Christine up in his arms and carried her toward the house, passing Nightlife who was doing a funky celebration dance in the end zone. Rage whistled through Bobby like the West Texas wind. 'What the hell kind of defense was that, Jackson?' Bobby demanded.
Nightlife threw up his hands in mock surrender. 'Hey, lawyer man, chill! I never touched her.'
'You purposely blocked her path! She tore up her knee to avoid hitting you.'
'Hey, it's a tough sport, but it wasn't my fault.'
'You son-of-a-bitch!'
'Bobby, just get me inside,' Christine pleaded.
'Not done with you, Nightlife.'
'Whatever you say, lawyer man.'
Furious, Bobby carried his wife up the steps and into the house, his son trailing alongside.
'My hero,' Christine said softly through her tears. 'You've rescued me again.'
'Too late, this time. My armor is rusty and my steed a step too slow.'
She nuzzled his neck. 'Promise you'll never let me down.'
'It's a promise.' Bobby believed his words. Never thinking he could blow it so completely. Never imagining he could lose her love, his career, and even his son on one day of dreadful luck and impulsive choices.
'You seldom, if ever, find an athlete who is a criminal. He is essentially a good boy, a good sport, and a gentleman. He adheres to the word of God and the Golden Rule, both on the field and off.'
— Vince Lombardi
