The Law of Second Chances

18

At mid-season the Lexingtons were three and one and tied for first place. Johnny Tobin, the hero of game one, had allowed a receiver to get by him for a long touchdown pass in game four. Even though the team pulled the game out, Johnny felt terrible. That evening they were having a few beers at their usual spot, the Carlow East. Johnny was huddled with Rico and Floyd. Floyd was consoling him.

“Everybody gets beat once in a while, Johnny. You just gotta shake it off.”

Rico, however, was still coaching. “What happened on the play, Johnny?” he asked.

“I don’t know. He just beat me, I guess,” Johnny said, looking down into his beer.

“Look at me,” Rico said sharply. Johnny looked at Rico, who stared into his eyes. “You’re gonna continue to get beat until you figure out why. That’s the way it is, Johnny. You don’t let things pass. You correct them.”

“Man, leave the guy alone, he feels bad enough,” Floyd told Rico. Rico and Floyd were best friends although they were polar opposites.

“I’m not trying to make him feel bad,” Rico replied. “I just want to go over the play and find out what went wrong. Take me through it, Johnny.”

“Well, he came off the line and ran out about five yards, then turned to do a buttonhook. I saw the quarterback look at him and raise his arm to throw. That’s when I made my move toward him. I remember thinking I could intercept. He just turned and went right past me.”

“Did he give you a fake before he did his buttonhook?” They were on their third beer, but Rico was just as intense as he had been on the field that day.

“No, he didn’t.”

“Do you remember back in practice before the season started and we were talking about fakes?”

“Yeah.”

“And what did I tell you to be careful about if a guy doesn’t give you a fake before he makes his cut or turns for the ball?”

Johnny didn’t answer right away. His head was a little fuzzy from the beer. Rico had drilled the fundamentals into him, however, and eventually they started surfacing.

“If a guy doesn’t give you at least one fake before making his cut, then watch for him to go long.”

“That’s what happened, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Johnny felt as if a lightbulb had just gone on in his brain. “The buttonhook was really the first fake and I went for it.”

“Exactly!” Rico shouted. “So if he doesn’t fake before he turns, don’t charge until the ball is released, got it?”

“Got it,” Johnny told him. He and Rico smacked hands-the lesson was over. Johnny took a swig of his beer while Rico went to get another.

“Man, Rico is intense, isn’t he?” Floyd observed.

“Yeah,” Johnny said, “but he’s right. That’s the way you become a champion.”

Just then Frankie O’Connor yelled over to Floyd. He’d been talking to one of the regulars who had been upset when the team first came into the Carlow East weeks before. Frankie never stopped politicking.

“Hey, Pink Floyd, come on over here. I want you to meet someone.”

Floyd had earned his nickname only recently. At practice the week before, he’d opened his equipment bag and found that his white practice jersey and pants had changed color. His mother had washed them with something red and forgot to tell him about it. So Floyd had to dress for practice in a pink jersey and pink pants. The jeering was unmerciful; even Joe Sheffield got into it. Floyd laughed along with everybody else. Most guys would have gotten mad or at least embarrassed, but not Floyd. He had that rare ability to laugh at himself.

Floyd walked over to Frankie.

“Pink Floyd, I want you to meet Vinny Gaines.” They shook hands.

“That was a great story Frankie just told me about how you got your nickname,” said Vinny. “Man, you must have been surprised when you opened your equipment bag. I would have just gone home.”

Before Floyd could respond, he was interrupted by Joe Meeley, another regular, who had been eavesdropping on the story. “We outta be thankful the son-of-a-bitch washed his clothes at all. Most of them don’t.”

Nobody could say for sure what happened next because it happened so fast. As best as anyone could recollect, there was a brief awkward moment after Joe Meeley’s remark when nobody said anything, then Frankie hauled off and punched Joe Meeley right in the nose.

Joe flew off his bar stool and hit the ground hard, although he wasn’t knocked out. All conversation in the bar stopped as everybody braced themselves for a brawl.

Mary McKenna came out from behind the bar almost before Joe hit the floor.

“Joe Meeley, get the hell out of here!” she yelled.

“But Mary!” Meeley protested. He was on his feet now but going nowhere near Frankie O’Connor. “He hit me and I’m a regular customer here.”

“I heard what you said,” Mary told him. “He had a right to hit you. You won’t come back in here until you apologize to this young man.” She pointed at Floyd. “And anybody else who feels the same way Joe does, you can leave too. Now get going, Joe.”

Mary was taking a big risk. Her regulars came in every day. They paid the rent. With the Lexingtons it was once a week at best, and then only during the season. But there was something about the exuberance and the casual camaraderie of the young men that had caused her to change her opinion about them. She was gambling that many of her regular patrons had similar feelings, and she was about to find out if she was right.

Joe Meeley walked out of the Carlow East alone.

Ten minutes later everybody was laughing and talking like the incident had never happened. Frankie O’Connor’s punch, however, would become a part of the neighborhood folklore forever.