The Franchise (17 page)

“You don’t even know what you’re asking ...
Forever!
Forever is one of those no-changing-your-mind jobs.” Taylor frowned. “It’s a son of a bitch. Chance has no meaning relative to forever.”

“Come on, marry me!” Wendy was suddenly pleading.

And Taylor was suddenly frightened. A man with the talented desire for command—thriving on conflict, violence and danger, executing tactics and strategy under extreme pressure—he had delivered two national championships, rewritten record books and always delivered. Yet, he was frightened at the thought of caring for someone, even himself. Forever.

“Wives and children aren’t all that bad, for Chrissakes,” Wendy said. “A lot of people do it.”

“We’re not a lot of people. I’m on the fast track, trying to survive.”

“But I have money. You don’t have to do this.” Wendy was tired, desperate.

“Don’t you see,” Taylor said, “I
want
to do it. At least in this game I call the plays. What am I if I’m not the quarterback?” Taylor frowned at what he was saying. It wasn’t coming out like he wanted. “If we get married now, it’s like I’m confronting Cyrus, and there’s no way to guess what he’ll do. He has some other plans for you. Well, let him think what he likes. We’ll do what
we
want and need. He can’t
make
you marry Lem, for Chrissakes. This isn’t the twelfth century.”

“No,” Wendy said, and her voice suddenly fell, resigned. She watched the moon. “It’s not the twelfth century, and I don’t know what you are if you’re not the quarterback.”

Just as Dick Conly had promised, Taylor
was
in camp when Lem and Wendy flew to Puerto Vallarta and got married.

Taylor got drunk and went crazy, ending up in a fight with A.D. Koster over who was the greatest all-time Comanche chief, Quanah Parker or Buffalo Hump.

Nobody thought it strange. All sorts of weird things happened at
that
camp.

“Y
OU COMING?”
S
IMON
D’Hanis looked down at Taylor Rusk on the small dormitory bed. It was the team’s first night off since camp began. It was also the first time the big guard had said more than “Hello” to Taylor since the camp began.

There was a big yellow school bus idling in the parking lot, waiting to take the players to the weekly dance at the Crystal Palace Dance Hall.

“No.” Taylor lay on the small bed with a paperback in one hand. His other hand rested behind his head. He was barefoot and wore khaki shorts and a Texas Pistols practice T-shirt.

Simon was freshly shaved and showered, wearing a red Ban-Lon shirt, black slacks and loafers. His face was slightly flushed; his oversize muscular body seemed to pulse with anticipation. He smelled like English Leather.

“You just going to stay here and mope about Chandler’s daughter marrying Lem Carleton III? Marriage ain’t all that easy.” Simon started to turn away. “I ought to know.”

“I’m just going to read and rest,” Taylor said. “I thought you were still mad at me.”

“What?” Simon turned back. He wanted Taylor’s company.

“You’ve been acting pissed ever since the day Cyrus tacked our dicks to the floor.”

“Buffy explained to me about Wendy and you and Cyrus. I figured out the rest.”

“He got us both.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“You’re a lineman, you’re forgiven.”

“Well, c’mon, let’s go, then.”

“I’m still tired. Simon, you’re a born curfew breaker; you like the thrill. As long as your wife sets a curfew, your marriage will last.”

“Why don’t you go get Wendy back? You could do it,” Simon urged. “That’s why you’re the quarterback.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be quarterback anymore.”

“You got something you want more?”

Taylor was silent for a long time. He wanted Wendy Chandler back.

“So ... what do you want me to do? C’mon, man.” Simon sat down. The tiny bed groaned and creaked. “It won’t be as much fun without you tonight,” Simon complained. “It’s going to be history in the making.”

“You’ll have plenty of fun. Find Kimball Adams and Ox Wood.” Taylor kept his eyes fastened on the book.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Simon said. “I’m playing in the same line with Ox Wood. The guy is my idol.”

“It’s not healthy to have idols, Simon,” Taylor warned, “especially when you’re supposed to be one yourself. It’s the guys you play with and the money you leave with ... That’s all.”

“You are a cynic and you would be no fun.” Simon left. Howling and beating on doors, making his way down the hall and out to the idling bus in the parking lot.

Taylor tossed the book onto the empty bed. He roomed alone; he demanded it in his contract. His privacy was important to him.

He heard the school bus roar and rattle out of the parking lot, drowning the howls and yelps of the oversize crazed men who hadn’t been anywhere since training camp began on July fifth.

Red Kilroy weeded them out fast and early.

The ones in the school bus, Taylor and others around the junior-college campus were the survivors. On the first day of practice there had been one hundred and fifty football players. Seventeen days later Red Kilroy, his staff and the Texas sun had reduced the number to ninety. Another ninety men would come and go before camp ended and the roster was set. Red had his scouting network searching the colleges and the pros around the country, checking waiver lists, keeping him posted on more available bodies.

After seventeen two-practice, three-meeting days, with just enough extra time to eat, tape and sleep, the survivors were at the breaking point. So Red turned them loose on the Crystal Palace.

Red would continually need replacements: more bodies and more skill. He would find them, too, because he never stopped looking. Never. After coaching twenty years, he had spies out everywhere. He kept track of everybody, everything—all in his head. The others were going to computers, but not Red. He never thought about anything but football and winning. And connections. His network. Red’s boys. Techniques, strategies, personnel, weight, and nutrition programs; he never stopped trying to improve, to increase, to grow, to conquer, to win, to succeed and achieve his long-term strategic goals. Ownership. Possession. Control.

Red developed methods and measurements of achievement and success, then committed it all to memory. He chose assistants and scouts on the strength of their memories, drove them all as nuts as he was and made them devoted geniuses. Technique, tenacity and good people—that was Red Kilroy’s system. So was alcohol and manic depression, fear and anger; but mostly it was genius. Damned genius.

Winning took exceptional men and ate them.

“Hey, Taylor? You still crazy?”

A.D. Koster stood in Taylor Rusk’s dormitory room doorway. His cheek was bruised and his chin scabbed over.

Taylor turned over on the unmade bed and looked at the damage he had done.

“I’m still crazy, A.D. I’m just not mad anymore.” Taylor absently rubbed the knuckles of his right hand. “How you feeling?

“Terrific. There’s something about being sucker-punched that really clears your head.”

“Simon’s on the school bus with the rest. They plan to sucker-punch the Crystal Palace Dance Hall.”

“Kimball Adams called it a search-and-destroy mission. He went off in his own car.”

Twenty-year veteran Kimball Adams, the much-traveled, controversial, study-by-the-jukebox-light quarterback, had been purchased from Cleveland to go along with veteran receiver Bobby Hendrix.

A.D. was in the room next to them. Red was keeping A.D. because he knew the system and was working his way to starting at free safety. A pure hitter rather than a complete defender, A.D. would often separate a receiver from the ball
and
his ribs. Fearsome on the field, he took between fifty and seventy milligrams of Dexedrine for games, earning the name Footsteps by hitting anything that moved.

The safety had been passed over in the draft and signed as a free agent for a $6,000 bonus and a good contract—a calculated gamble by Red. “I’ll sign you, A.D., if you’ll just run a slow forty for the Scouting Combine,” Red had promised. And Red delivered. A.D. was already collecting on his contract. He’d done better in real dollars than Simon D’Hanis, the number-two choice. Simon wouldn’t start collecting until the season started and was already having trouble making ends meet. Buffy, beginning to show her pregnancy, had rented a nice expensive apartment in Park City.

“Did Hendrix go with Kimball?” Taylor worried about Hendrix, one of the only two good receivers. The other was Speedo Smith.

A.D. shook his head. “No, Kimball was going to his drinkin’ place. Hendrix said he might join him later. He was studying his playbook. They are sure a strange pair.” A.D. rubbed his hands together. “I’m in, Taylor, I’m in.”

“How deep?” Taylor asked. “I heard you lost more money to the Cobianco Brothers.”

“I’m clean. Besides, even Cyrus Chandler gambles with those guys.”

Taylor just shook his head.

“I’m telling you, those guys Adams and Hendrix are real antiques,” A.D. said. “They were in the Old League.”

“They have seen the elephant and watched it die,” Taylor agreed. “Come on, A.D., sit down. I forgive you.”

“You forgive me? You hit me five times before bothering to even mention that we were having a disagreement!” He pointed to the bruises and scabs on his face. “Luckily I fell under the table, where you couldn’t get at me.”

“It was a bad time of the month. Wendy Chandler married our PR assistant and Simon was treating me shitty. I’m sorry.”

Before A.D. could accept the apology, Taylor’s phone rang.

“That’s for me,” A.D. grabbed the phone. He was right. It was Suzy Ballard, the roller-skating carhop, who had just driven up from the city in A.D.’s car.

“I’ll be right down, babe.” A.D. hung up and stared down at Taylor. “Tonight the fire, Taylor, is in Suzy’s eyes.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a roll of one-hundred-dollar bills, peeled off two and dropped them on Taylor’s bed, then glided out the door.

Taylor listened as the distinctive click of the taps on A.D.’s alligator shoes faded. The evening was silent.

Two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills lay on the bed and the rent was finally paid. Taylor decided A.D. would survive everything but the fire in Suzy Ballard’s eyes.

Taylor turned his thoughts to Wendy, recalling her delicate features and pale blue eyes.

Choose me.... Choose me.

“W
ELL, THERE THEY
go.” Red Kilroy stood at the window with a double Scotch and watched the yellow bus head off for the Crystal Palace. “Let’s hope none of the good ones get hurt.”

“I haven’t seen that many good ones.” Cyrus Chandler, dressed in white shirt, white pants and canvas shoes, was stretched out on a couch. The dormitory room was an exact duplicate of the room that the players lived in, except the small beds were replaced by a brown corduroy couch, several chairs, a low wooden table and a portable bar. Cyrus, Dick and Red had meetings and drank in this room.

Red kept his assistant coaches, trainers and equipment isolated in another wing of the dorm with the players, away from management and press.

“Cyrus ...” Red took a deep drink. “... what you know about football talent don’t amount to a fart in a whirlwind.”

“Maybe.” Cyrus was strangely unperturbed. “But I own this team and can say whatever I please.... Most people can’t tell.”

“I can”—Red bristled—“so keep it to yourself.”

Dick Conly just drank. He was familiar with the scene.

“Well, lookie here.” Red pointed out the window. A blue Chevrolet convertible rumbled into the lot; behind the wheel was Suzy Ballard. All three men looked out the window as the beautiful young girl wheeled the car through the white caliche lot and stopped right by their window. She was so close, they could see her breasts, unencumbered and jiggling delightfully as she brought the car to an abrupt halt by jamming the transmission into park.

“I’ll bet two hundred dollars she’s here for A.D. Koster.” Red watched the other two men gape as Suzy got out of the car and stretched and yawned, straining and rippling. She wore tight white shorts and a T-shirt. The late afternoon sun stretched her shadow across the dusty parking lot. She was barefoot with brown, tough little feet. She disappeared inside the lobby and shortly emerged with A.D. Red Kilroy turned and held out his hand.

“Give him two hundred dollars, Dick,” Cyrus growled. Cyrus never handled cash.

“Do I know my players,” Red said, “or do I know my players?”

“Are we going to keep him?” Cyrus said, watching A.D. steer Suzy and the Chevrolet convertible out of the lot.

Red did not respond. He never told anyone his plans. All Red had to sell were his plans, his program, from expansion team to world champions. He wasn’t giving it to Cyrus Chandler or Dick Conly over drinks. It was Red’s system, his program, his people. He was going to keep A.D. Koster, because A.D. was a Red Kilroy man. At least for the moment.

“Red, I’ve given a lot of thought to the idea of you being both head coach and general manager,” Dick started slowly, “and I just feel that the two responsibilities are beyond the capacity of one man.”

Conly was building a backfire against Red’s blazing ambition—ownership—fanned by Cyrus’s vague promise to consider a percentage for Red if the Pistols got to the Super Bowl.

“I’d like your input on who you could work with,” Conly continued. “We were thinking about bringing a man over from Chandler Communications. It seems logical.”

Red had been expecting this move—Chandler and Conly pushing to see if he would shove back. It was wasteful, ultimately costly to all of them.

“I guess it all depends on your definition of terms,” Red finessed. “I think we can work that out as long as I retain all game and field control and final say on player personnel. Who goes, who stays, is up to me. And I pay the players and coaches. I
hand
them their checks. Or I walk now, go back to the University and sue you for breach of contract.”

“I’ll give you player personnel. Red,” Dick said. “Calm down. Quit all this talk about lawsuits and contracts.”