'Number 31?'
'That's him.'
Neely's number 19 was the last jersey retired. Number 31 was the first. Mal Brown had played in the mid- sixties, during The Streak. Eighty pounds and thirty-five years ago he had been a bruising tailback who had once carried the ball fifty-four times in a game, still a Messina record. A quick marriage ended the college career before it began, and a quick divorce sent him to Vietnam in time for the Tet Offensive in '68.Neely had heard stories of the great Mal Brown throughout most of his childhood. Before a gameNeely's freshman year, Coach Rake stopped by for a quick pep talk. He recounted in great detail how Mal Brown had once rushed for two hundred yards in the second half of the conference championship, and he did so with a broken ankle!
Rake loved stories of players who refused to leave the field with broken bones and bleeding flesh and all sorts of gruesome injuries.
Years later,Neely would hear that Mal's broken ankle had, more than likely, been a severe sprain, but as the years passed the legend grew, at least in Rake's memory.
The Sheriff walked along the front of the bleachers and spoke to the others passing the time, then he climbed thirty rows and arrived, almost gasping, atNeely's group. He spoke to Paul, then Amos, Silo, Orley, Hubcap, Randy —he knew them all by their first names or nicknames. 'Heard you were in town,' he said toNeely as they shook hands. 'It's been a long time.'
'It has,' was allNeely could say. To his recollection, he had never met Mal Brown. He wasn't the Sheriff whenNeely lived in Messina. Neely knew the legend, but not the man.
Didn't matter.They were fraternity brothers.
'It's dark, Silo, how come you ain't stealin' cars?' Mal said.
'Too early.'
'I'm gonna bust your ass, you know that?'
'I got lawyers.'
'Gimme a beer.I'm off duty.' Silo handed over a beer and Mal slugged it down. 'Just left Rake's,' he said, smacking his lips as if he hadn't had liquids in days. 'Nothing's changed.Just waitin' for him to go.'
The update was received without comment.
'Where you been hidin'?' Mal askedNeely .
'Nowhere.'
'Don't lie. Nobody's seen you here in ten years, maybe longer.'
'My parents retired to Florida. I had no reason to come back.'
'This is where you grew up.It's home. Ain't that a reason?'
'Maybe for you.'
'Maybe my ass.You got a lot of friends around here.Ain't right to run away.'
'Drink another beer, Mal,' Paul said.
Silo quickly passed another one down, and Mal grabbed it. After a minute, he said, 'You got kids?'
'No.'
'How's your knee?'
'It's ruined.'
'Sorry.'A long drink. 'What a cheap shot. You were clearly out of bounds.'
'I should've stayed in the pocket,' Neely said, shifting his weight, wishing he could change the subject. How long would the town of Messina talk about the cheap shot that ruined his career?
