The Jook

Chapter 6

Tommy Earl blew off Ward Pruitt and one-handed the ball thrown by "Hack" Hassendorn. He skated past the goal line, the ball tucked under his arm like a stuffed goose. Even I had to admit he looked good. We'd been given the Barons' uniforms to do our scrimmage in that morning. They were dark blue and teal green, Davida had called the color. The practice field in El Segundo had been some kind of missile and plane place back in the day of us sweatin' about the Russians. For the first time in a long while I couldn't get to sleep the night before, I was so worked.

Around 4 in the morning I was desperate to bring my anxiety down and was about to have a little crank I had left from my date with Wilma, but for once I practiced self-control. I did some cals and went jogging before the sun was up. I felt good by the time I rolled up to the field, even though there'd been another message from Davida's mother telling me when the funeral was. Why did she have to mess with the focus I was trying to bring on? Can't people think of more than just themselves?

I got past Jon Grainger, my hands up for the ball. We'd been trading off on offense and defense since early afternoon. The ball stung as I started to bring it down and turn my head towards the goal line. Then the hip decided to act up and I dropped the ball, overcompensating from the sudden pain jabbing at my fibula.

Don Cannon, the head coach, leaned over to say something to Nolan Blake, the offensive coach. Blake shook his head like a doctor about to give you the bad news. I walked with my hands on my hips like I was getting wind, but I was really trying to massage the upper thigh.

"Nice try," Tommy Earl said as I walked past him. He didn't try to keep the arrogant look off his face.

We ran more one-on-ones, then scrimmaged from the 'I' formation. I went out, cut across two defenders' zone, and Hassendorn planted that pill just right. I stepped and came up on the side of my right foot, the hip responding like it should, my legs pumping. Antoine Palupo, the 310-pound, 6'5", mobile-as-hell linebacker they'd drafted from Penn State filled the slot I was trying to make it through. I went over on my side, holding onto that ball like it was my first paycheck.

"Not bad, old man." He pushed himself off me, giving me a hand up.

Cannon blew his whistle. "How's the hip, Zelmont?" Him and Blake came onto the field.

"Ain't nothing." I tossed the ball to Palupo.

"You seemed to be favoring it this afternoon." Cannon stood close to me. He was a robust dude with heavy arms that swung back and forth while he walked. He had black glasses, flat feet, and a brown-gray beard he was forever scratching at.

I told you, it feels fine." I lied.

"Yeah?" He did that thing he does, looking at me over the top of his glasses, which he pushed down from his nose.

"Everything's cool, baby"

He looked at Blake, who was looking at me. "You been going to support groups or something like that?" Blake worked something around inside his mouth.

"You want me to pee in a bottle after practice?"

"What if I said yes?" Blake was gonna be on my jock.

"Show me the way." I hoped the big vein in my neck wasn't pulsing.

"Get ready to run the R-9 play I went over with you." Blake walked over to talk with Earl.

"I guess I don't need to tell you those days of chasing pussy and partying till all hours are supposed to remain ancient history, Zelmont." Cannon was making notes on his clipboard as he spoke, and didn't look up.

"I'm cleaner than a skeeter's peter, coach."

"Get ready to run the play." He still hadn't looked up.

They put Earl at safety and me at tailback. I came up, then shot through the gap Gilman and Travers opened. I made the block for Earl and he got seven yards. The next down we reversed the positions and I veered right off Earl's block but didn't get two steps when cornerman Langdon slowed me up, then Malcolm Washington got me around the waist and took me down. I landed right on the hip. But I couldn't show it, I just couldn't show the pain, goddammit.

I jumped up, playing the hit off. I trotted over to the sideline. Grainger was redoing the tape around his calf.

"You don't look like you lost too much, Zelmont." He finished wrapping the tape, checking out his work.

"You got something in front of you, youngster." I lifted my helmet up and chugged down some Gatorade. "I got to be on it 'cause I ain't got nothin' but the past creepin' up."

He picked up his helmet, holding it gladiator style against his leg and wrist. "This ain't nothing but a game, Zelmont."

I drank some more Gatorade. He put on his helmet and went in to run his series. I didn't want to face it, but he looked all right. Grainger didn't have what you call steady speed, but he made up for it in his ability to drive on tacklers like Barry Sanders used to do.

Cannon signaled me to get ready. I snapped my helmet back into place, snuggling the mouth guard between my teeth. I chewed on the plastic, the old feelings swooping over me. In the stands I pretended there were thousands who'd skipped mowing the lawn or doing the wash, fixing that fence for Aunt Sarah, or changing the oil in the station wagon. It was live time, and I couldn't let the fans down.

I went in and did a simple pattern toward the flat, then broke right. Trevor Grier, the cornerback, stayed with me. The ball went over both our heads. He gave me a shove and I went down.

''Punk.'' I got back up, walking away from him.

"Your mama."

"At least my mama washes under her arms. Yours got a garden growin' there." He was a born-again Christian who once, before he saw the light, got caught giving it to a 19-year-old beauty contestant in the men's bathroom of the Dallas airport. Damn hypocrite.

The second play was a run for Blake to see how their $10 million running back out of Texas A &M, Orlando Matthews, was doing. He got six yards before coughing up the ball. But he recovered, then looked nervously over at the sidelines. Blake had his arms folded, making his jaw work like he was tasting rotten meat.

On third and three, I beat Grier on a stutter step, turned my upper body, and easily caught the throw from Dillworth, the second-string QB. By then Grier had turned, and him and free safety Leroy Collierthe only white boy I knew named Leroy were coming for me. I faked left, but Grier was too quick. He got me, and tried to spin me around to throw me to the ground. I put my shoulder pads into his chest as Collier's arms locked around my legs. I went down on top of Grier, trying my best to make it as painful as possible for him.

"Back off." He slapped the side of my helmet.

Collier rolled off my legs. I laughed and gave Grier a jab with my elbow, close and tight. "That's what you get for being a pussy." I got up and trotted back to the huddle. I was on my J and everybody knew it. We had first down, and Blake and Cannon decided to keep the ball on the ground. On third and nine, Sistrunk, the second-string center, hiked. I pivoted left and went into motion, but before I could get fifteen yards, Grier came charging and upended me.

"Motherfuckah," I hollered. Cannon was blowing his whistle as I hit the turf. I jumped up, throwing off my helmet. Grier stood there like he was bad. I leaped on him and we started trading blows. Hands were on both of us, people yelling at us to stop.

As Grier was being pulled back I got a punch in under his chin strap. His head jerked back like he'd gotten whiplashed. Then Cannon got in my face.

"This isn't how I run my team, Raines."

"Tell him, he made the illegal tackle."

"Don't tell me how to deal with my men, Raines. You haven't earned your spot yet." His chest was rising and falling rapidly, and he was snorting air through his nose. "Go sit down."

"Hey, look"

"Go sit down." He pointed towards the bench. I was gonna argue, but I was in a weak position.

Blake was talking to Grier, who was glaring at me like I tripped his grandma going to the store. Walking over to the bench, I could see Stadanko had come out onto the field. He was talking to somebody with his back to me. I knew that funny hat. Fahrar.

I got close to them to show him he couldn't get to me and mess with my flow. Be like Clinton and deny everything. The cop shook hands with Stadanko and started to walk off, pretending like I wasn't there. I was about to call him but thought better of it. I sat down, stretching out my right leg. It seemed to be okay as long as I was moving, but once I rested, I didn't trust it not to lock up.

When scrimmage ended we ran some laps and hit the weight room. Cannon called me into his office.

"You've got some convincing to do with me, Raines." He sat behind one of those executive desks, the playbook open on it.

"I looked good, didn't I?"

"Attitude is a big part of how I see a team coming together."

In the old days I'd have made a crack, then walked out and found some honey to curl up with for a few hours while the front office argued about how much they had to pay me and how I was worth the hassle. Then some college boy would mention how much gate I brought in, how I delivered on clutch plays, and they'd shake their heads and get on with how'd they have to put up with me 'cause I put butts in the seats. But those days were behind me.

"I realize that, coach." I hoped that satisfied him.

"You realize what?"

"That it's your team and your rules." Like your ass can't get replaced anytime Stadanko thinks you're dragging his profits down, clown.

"You don't sound sincere to me." He put his hands together, leaning his elbows and hairy arms on the desk. He bored in on me, waiting for the right response.

"I'm for real about wanting to play ball again." Take it or shove me off, there's only so much ass I can stand to kiss.

Cannon pulled his big frame back from the desk, measuring me. "Go on and get your gym time in. We'll talk again in the next few days."

"Okay"

After my two full sets of weights and a whirlpool with me and Grier staying out of each other's way, but looking at each other like we molested somebody in the other's family I headed out into the parking lot. Grainger came up beside me.

"So what do you think, man?"

I wanted some crank, that's what I thought. "We'll see," I said.

"You was haulin' out there today"

I figured I was supposed to give him props too. "You looked good too, Grainger. Take it slow or any way you can get it."

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah." I got in my ride and away from that Cub Scout. Dude was all worked about being sportsmanlike. That wasn't my trip. You come on the field, it's dog eat motherfuckin' dog. You gotta do for yourself and get your thing in order. Only thing I was concentrating on was how bad I was gonna make Grier look when we hit the field again in the morning.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, Wilma's Phaeton was about to pull in. I almost drove past her, but she'd stopped and let down her window.

"'Zup?"

"You." She was wearing deep red lipstick, and when she smiled I got that feeling you know where. "How'd it go today?"

"All right."

"I talked to Napoleon today, he's doing better."

So she and Nap were talking to each other. Could they be bangin' a girlfriend or boyfriend together? Maybe that halo consultant queen Pablo. "He's too tough to stay down long." A car pulled behind me and honked. I didn't glance back.

"That's what I figure about you, Zelmont." She gave me a look to make a man forget his own name. "I'm sorry about what I said." She put her car back in gear. "But not about what I want to do.'' She drove into the lot as the car behind me went around. It was Grainger, and he looked pissed.

All the way to the pad I should have been reviewing the plays I was gonna have to run again tomorrow. Or maybe wondering about Fahrar talking to Stadanko. Instead, I couldn't get Wilma Wells off my brain. Damn.

By the next day I really was back in the groove. Even Stadanko had to nod as he stood on the sidelines, trying to be all that. I zagged on Grier, and though Pruitt was ten years younger than me, I got past him too. If I didn't at least make the exhibition season then God didn't make titty rings.

"How you like me now," I capped. Grier stood there, hands on his hips, tucking in his bottom lip. He had a four-year, $20 million package plus shoe and gear endorsements. I knew his agent had probably been on the phone to him yesterday soon as he heard about our set-to to let him know he had way more to lose than me if he wanted to act out.

Especially since that asshole Weems had his spies all over the place. Talk was Coach Blake was one of his brown nosers, had been forced into it. Weems was supposed to have fag files on the secret bungholers in pro ball. Nap had told me about playmates of his who'd spotted Blake tipping out to his share of gay spots.

Either' cause of his agent or Weems' jive, Grier played it cool this time. He didn't say anything much the rest of practice 'cept grunt now and then when we bumped.

My hip was twinging and moving in and out a little, but I did my best not to show any sign of pain. Cannon was the one I was worried about. He was watching me like a homeless dog eyeing a crippled cat, waiting for me to slip. I leaned against the wall leading to the gym after our sprints.

"Out of gas, old timer?" Grainger put a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm all right." I shook loose, straightening up and heading off to the gym.

"If you say so." He walked past me, his cleats blending in with the rest of the men stamping on the concrete.

I went easy on the leg lifts so as not to aggravate the hip. By the time I got in the shower, everything was smooth. I soaped up, trying to remember when Davida's funeral was. Tomorrow? Or was it Friday? I should have written it down when her moms told me the other day.

I was dressed and on my way out when I spotted that big bruiser Trace loitering around. That had to mean Weems was talking to Stadanko. I tried not to think if it was about me.

The flaming cross on the bodyguard's cheek looked funny in daylight. He was standing near the entrance to the locker room, tossing a football to himself in the air. He had hands like a line man kept dropping the pill.

Just to mess with him I said, "How come you ain't out there tryin' out, Trace?"

He caught the ball this time, then frowned at me as his tiny brain kicked in. "The question is, what are you doing here?"

"I belong here, baby. But you still ain't answered my question. You young and in shape."

"I have more serious work to pursue."

Posing nude for Weems, I imagined. "What's that?" Grier floated past, making like he had some place important to get to.

"You and these others have a responsibility, Raines. Children in the ghettos and barrios, even in the suburbs, follow what you do. They buy the obscenely overpriced shoes you sell for athletic companies. These sheep cut and shoot each other over these shoes or jackets with your signature on them."

"Them clothes and shoes are a reward for those kids, man. Ain't nobody spendin' the rent money on them things."

"Really, Raines, is that so?" He twirled the ball in his glovesized hands.

Enough of this chump. "You just happy being Weems' strongarm."

"It serves a purpose."

He tossed the ball to me, thinking he'd catch me off guard. I snatched it out of the air with one hand. "Then it must be righteous." I heard footsteps and turned to see Blake coming out of a door down the side of the building. He started to walk toward us, then changed his mind, taking off in the other direction.

Trace scratched at his cross with the back of his nails, not looking in Blake's direction.

"Raines, I'd like you to step in here." It was Cannon. He'd come out of a room down the hallway. I knew what was up.

I went over to where he stood holding the door open. Inside he had me pee into a bottle, and some dude with latex gloves on drew some of my blood.

"I'm not going to be surprised, am I?" Cannon fooled with his glasses, moving 'em this way and that on his large face.

"Nothing to be surprised about, coach. Only how good I'm doing."

He folded his arms but didn't say anything. Afterward, driving home, I got that old urge for a controlled substance boost. I guess it was something about my wiring that made me want to go out and get high right after taking a drug test. For more than a few moments, I considered going all the way east back to the 'hood to score some rock.

Instead I smiled at myself and got my ass back to the pad. There were two messages on the machine.

"You better had sent some money, Zelmont." Terri was all class. Then she put some sugar in her voice. "Why don't you come down here and spend some time with me and your son? You should make an effort." I was. I was trying to get my career going again.

The other message was from Alicia. "Don't be late for mija's funeral, Zelmont. It's at St. Benedict's at 10 this Saturday Don't forget, you understand."

I sank into the couch, sipping on a jolt of V.S.O.P, and nodded off. I woke to some knocking and got up slow, my hip having stiffened. I opened the door to see Fahrar's silly mug.

"Why don't you go roust some hoes on Spring Street?"

"There's always more fun at Zelmont's pad." He made to enter, but I didn't move out of the way "May I come in?"

"You think you like Dracula, don't you? Ask some moron to let you in and that way you say later in court you was just talkin' to me, like I voluntarily asked you inside my house." I'd had enough dealing with the law to know what was what. "If you ain't here to arrest me, then you best get to steppin'."

He fooled with his hat. "Why'd you bring up court, you got something you need to tell me?"

"Tell you like you deaf, home. I got shit I got to do."

"Like work on your alibi?"

"Work on my chill. See ya." I closed the door and sat down again. He was letting me know he was gonna stay on my jock like a bad rash. But there wasn't nothing he could really do to me. He didn't have anything 'cept his own hard-on about me being a player and him not.

I took a long drink of my brandy and put my head back. On the ceiling a daddy longlegs made his way across, looking for grub. Being that size, the world must have seemed like this endless place with no way out. But if he found an ant or fly, he was the man. That spider would show 'em who was the eater and who was the eaten.

I knew exactly how he felt. It was feast time.