Paydirt

3

Christine was late for the game because she had stopped to see her father in his macho den. It was a place of dark leather sofas and tobacco humidors, red Mexican tile floors with Navajo rugs, rough-hewn knotty pine walls mounted with crossed swords and rifles used in the defense of the Alamo. On the wall behind her father's desk, the head of a wild boar, fangs exposed, greeted her with a macabre smile.

She found her father standing at a reading table. He was a ramrod straight Marlboro man who looked younger than his sixty-seven years. He stood six feet-three-taller in his ostrich cowboy boots-and was a fit, rangy one hundred ninety-five pounds. His skin was a leathery parchment from too much West Texas sun in his youth, and his deeply set blue eyes looked out from under bushy white eyebrows. He had let his trademark long hair go silvery white, sweeping up at the neckline. He did not discourage sports writers who compared his looks-and actions-to Buffalo Bill Cody.

Christine had intended to tell her father about her encounter with Nightlife, but something stopped her. At first she thought she was afraid what her father would have done to his All-Pro receiver. But upon further review — as the replay officials say, it might have been just the opposite.

So what if Nightlife had beaten his girlfriend? So what if he had frightened Christine?

Her father wouldn't suspend his star player. She could almost hear him.

Now Chrissy, it's part of their culture, and you best not stick your nose into any of my players' personal affairs.

Bobby might exaggerate her father's flaws, but he was right about some things, she thought. Daddy was obsessed with winning and the glory that came with it. Overlooking his best player's sins would not be all that difficult. Christine felt a sisterhood with Shaina and every other woman who knew the terror of a man's fist. But her father, with no connection to Shaina, no stake in her life, would be insensitive to her pain.

"I need to talk to you about the Kingsley Women's Shelter," Christine said, after they said their hellos.

"That again?" He leaned back in his black leather judge's chair and propped his boots on the mahogany desk. Breaking into a crooked grin, he exhaled a long whistle, then spoke in his West Texas twang. "Christine, darlin', I'm trying to get to the Super Bowl. I don't have the time or inclination to get involved with those problem women."

" Abused women, Daddy."

"I know. I know. But my point's still the same. I got bigger catfish to fry."

"The Super Bowl isn't everything, Daddy."

"Sure it is! It's the American way. Winner take all. When the final gun sounds and the music stops playing, one guy goes home with the girl, and the other guy's singing the big dance blues."

"Is winning a football game more important than saving a woman's life?"

"Depends on the woman," he said, cracking a smile to let her know he was only semi-serious.

"We need another ninety thousand dollars for roof repairs," she said.

He let out another whistle. "If I keep giving money away, I won't have a pot to pee in. Hell, I won't even have a window to throw it out of. Sometimes I wonder if you realize the value of a dollar."

"I realize the good it can do when it's well spent."

"I guess I look at money differently. After my old man lost everything, we were so poor the roaches had to eat out or go hungry."

That was part truth, part amiable fiction, she knew. True, her grandfather, Earl Kingsley, went from poverty to riches and back to near-poverty again, but there had always been food on the table.

"All that oil and gas in the ground but we couldn't afford any for the car," her father went on, rehashing family folklore. "I filled up my old man's Ford with the help of a West Texas credit card. Do you know what that is, Chrissy?"

"A rubber hose."

"Right! We'd just siphon it out of the banker's Buick. Only time in my life I ever got anything from a banker without signing enough papers to choke a horse."

Christine let him ramble on, telling tales she'd heard dozens of times. Her father always had to bleat and paw the earth for a while before giving in. While he blathered, she planned her strategy. She wouldn't tell him about the panic-stricken women who would be forced back into the streets or worse, into the homes of men who brutalized them. He couldn't relate to women, so she'd make it personal for him.

"Remember the great publicity when you opened the shelter. Pictures in the paper, TV interviews."

"Sure. It was damn near worth the half million you talked me out of."

"Well, give the ninety thousand now and hold a press conference challenging all your Ashbrook Country Club pals to each match it. Get enough to endow the Shelter so we don't need to do this again."

"Hey, I like that, put the squeeze on those cheap bastards."

"It'll make the local news for sure, probably the NFL pre-game show on Sunday."

He chewed over a thought for a second, then said, "Done deal."

Christine smiled to herself. Now, if she could only teach Bobby how to handle her father. He wasn't that difficult."

— 4 Razzle-Dazzle

"C'mon Dad, put a spiral on it," Scott Gallagher urged, as a wobbly pass fluttered over his head.

Bobby was looking at the world through a tequila haze as he warmed up, tossing the football to his son on 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