'Something's wrong,' Bobby said as the trio-sportscaster, bookmaker, and son-moved out of the knot of reporters and across the practice field. 'Skar's been in the league half a dozen years. No way he should be feeling that kind of pressure.'
'It's his first Super Bowl,' Scott said. 'He's stoked to the max. Maybe he'll settle down.'
'I don't know,' Bobby said, feeling powerless. 'What good will it do if we foul up Dallas but Denver can't score?'
No one answered. Scott snapped off a few more photos, and Kravetz scratched some notes on his pad. This would be the last Denver practice open to the media, and they wanted to check on their team, which at the moment appeared incapable of beating Slippery Rock State.
Bobby had considered stealing the Mustangs' playbook and delivering it to Denver's coaches but had rejected the idea. Denver had tapes of all the Mustangs' sixteen regular season games plus the playoffs, so there was nothing new to be gathered. Besides, he doubted that Harry Crenshaw, the dean of the league's coaches, would even accept the tainted gift. It would have been too much like cheating. When Bobby stopped to think about it, he felt the sharp pangs of a guilty conscience.
I'm trying to fix the Big Dance, tampering with Americana.
If he succeeded, it would rank up there-or down there-with the most egregious sports sins of the century. Like the Black Sox scandal or point shaving in college basketball.
Say it ain't so, Bobby.
He could rationalize it. Martin Kingsley was a crook who didn't deserve to win.
But who in the name of Vince Lombardi appointed me the sport's avenging angel?
No one. It wasn't some universal good he sought. No, to be truthful about it, he wasn't corrupting the country's biggest sports event for some notions of higher justice. He was doing it to save his own skin and to protect Scott from the tentacles of the boy's avaricious grandfather. He would do anything for Scott. He would do anything to win…which, upon reflection, was a sobering thought.
So just what is the difference between Martin Kingsley and me?
Crossing the field, Bobby paused to watch the long snapper rocket hard spirals between his legs to the holder, who spun the ball around and held it at the proper angle for the field goal kicker to blast a long one through the uprights. The least appreciated play in football did not escape Bobby's notice. Like so much of life, perfection came from precise repetition and hard work.
The snap, the hold, the kick.
Each should be identical to the one before and the one after, as alike as sparrows perched on a line.
'At least the kicking game looks solid,' Bobby said.
'It's easy when there's no rush coming,' Kravetz replied.
'Yeah,' Bobby agreed. 'That's why it's so strange that Skarcynski can't hit the broad side of a barn. They're playing touch out there. What's gonna happen in the game?'
'Hey Dad,' Scott said, 'isn't that Mr. LaBarca?'
Bobby looked into the lower stands. Dressed in a warm-up suit was a stocky man in sunglasses. Two other men in sport coats with open-collared shirts flanked him.
'I don't know,' Bobby said, squinting into the sun. 'I can't see him from here.'
Scott raised the Nikon with the telephoto lens and peered through the viewfinder. 'It's him, Dad. Plus that dweebis Dino Fornecchio and someone else I've never seen.'
'What the hell's LaBarca doing here?' Bobby asked.
'Maybe checking on his investment,' Kravetz said. 'What do you think, Scott?'
The boy didn't answer. Instead, he steadied the camera and pressed the button, and Bobby heard the click- click-click over the shouts from the field.
Goldy bit into his sandwich, his false teeth crunching through the onion, chopped liver squishing out of the garlic-studded bagel. 'The Schlemiel,' he said, pointing at the image in viewfinder of Scott's digital Nikon.
'That's his name?' Bobby asked, confused. They were sitting in a booth at Goldy's favorite deli. For a guy with five million dollars on the line, Goldy Goldberg seemed remarkably calm. But the old man looked ancient tonight and more fragile than Bobby had remembered. The folds of skin at his neck were gray as toadstools, and the seersucker suit hung loose and baggy on his wire hangar shoulders.
'The guy in the picture. Shecky Slutsky, a bookmaker from Kansas City,' Goldy said. 'They call him 'The Schlemiel.''
'What's he have to do with LaBarca?'
'Wrong question, boychik,' Goldy said. 'What's he have to do with Skarcynski?'
Bobby signaled the waitress for a cup of coffee. 'I don't know, what?'
'Slutsky's cousin Izzy Berg is a bookie in Atlanta. Now, he's a real schlemiel or maybe even a shlimazel or shmegegge. Instead of being happy to balance the books and live off the vig, he takes positions.'
'Like a bartender who's an alcoholic,' Bobby said.
Goldy nodded and licked chopped liver from his fingers. 'Izzy Berg lays heavy wood on glamour teams, always bets the home team on Monday nights regardless of trends, bets against the Super Bowl champ the first month of the next season, all the cliche bets that can go wrong and usually do.'
'So?' Bobby asked. The waitress poured Bobby a cup of coffee and he wrapped both hands around it but made no effort to take a sip.
'Izzy is the bookie who took Skarcynski's bets when he played for the Falcons. The Commish gave Skar a private reprimand and that was the last anybody heard of it.'
'I don't get it. What's that have…' He stopped himself, because he did get it. It took a moment, just like the old Lincoln, which picked up speed several seconds after hitting the accelerator. 'Izzy lays off bets with the Schlemiel, who's hanging out with LaBarca who's at Denver practice with that ape Fornecchio. They're showing muscle to Skarcynski. Oh, jeez, don't tell me Skar's betting again, and they've gotten to him.'
'Who knows? But boychik, you better find out. '
Bobby sat there, brooding like a forlorn ghost. 'I'm sorry, Goldy. It's your money that's up. I'm sorry I did this to you.'
'You didn't do nothing to me. Hey, I been around a long time. Remember in '72 when the Dolphins won the Super Bowl?'
'How can I forget? They went 17-0.'
'No, they went 14-3 against the spread, which is what counts. With all the hometown money coming in on the fish, I couldn't balance the books. I lost my shirt and my Bermuda shorts, too. But I came back. With the vig, a smart, cautious bookie can't lose. I'm a rich man, Bobby, so don't worry about me.'
'But Goldy, I-'
'Feh!' Goldy said, hushing him. 'All right, it don't look so good, but that ball's not round. It bounces funny sometimes. Now, from what I hear, you got enough problems with your ex, so you worry about that. Take care of Scott. He's a good kid. Don't lose him, Bobby.'
The two men sat in silence a moment, huddled morosely in the booth. Bobby was spent, his heart a cinder within a fire that consumed him. Not only was he bringing an avalanche down upon himself, but upon those he cared about as well.
If I'd gotten a regular job, maybe they couldn't have taken Scott from me. If I hadn't turned to my old friend, I wouldn't be costing him a fortune.
'Goldy, I love you like a father.'
'You're a good kid, too,' Goldy said.
On the drive back across the causeway to the mainland, Bobby squinted into the bloody fireball of the sunset dipping into the Everglades to the west. Behind him, a slice of moon was rising over the ocean. Why, he wondered, did that luminous sliver of pearly white remind him of the blade of a scythe?
'I believe in America, the flag, freedom and the fact that people have had to die over the years so that we can do what we're doing right now.'
— Kevin Greene, Pittsburgh Steelers linebacker at Super Bowl XXX
