Bleachers

  In thirty-four years as head Coach, Rake had struck only two players off the field. The first had been a famous fistfight in the late sixties between the Coach and a hothead who had quit the team and was looking for trouble, of which he found plenty with Rake. The second had been a cheap shot that landed in the face of Neely Crenshaw.

  It was incomprehensible that he was now a shriveled old man gasping for his last breath.

  “I was in the Philippines,” Silo said at low volume, but his voice was coarse and carried through the clear air. “I was guardin’ toilets for the officers, hatin’ every minute of it, and I never saw you play in college.”

  “You didn’t miss much,” Neely said.

  “I heard later that you were great, then you got hurt.”

  “I had some nice games.”

  “He was the national player of the week when he was a sophomore,” Paul said. “Threw for six touchdowns against Purdue.”

  “It was a knee, right?” Silo asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How’d it happen?”

  “I rolled out, into the flat, saw an opening, tucked the ball and ran, didn’t see a linebacker.” Neely delivered the narrative as if he’d done it a thousand times and preferred not to do it again.

  Silo had torn an ACL in spring football and survived it. He knew something about the knee. “Surgery and all that?” he asked.

  “Four of them,” Neely said. “Completely ruptured the ligament, busted the kneecap.”

  “So the helmet got you?”

  “The linebacker went for the knee as Neely was stepping out of bounds,” Paul said. “They showed it a dozen times on television. One of the announcers had the guts to call it a cheap shot. It was A&M, what can I say?”

  “Must’ve hurt like hell.”

  “It did.”

  “He was carried off in an ambulance and they wept in the streets of Messina.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Silo said. “But it doesn’t take much to get this town upset. Rehab didn’t work?”

  “It was what they sadly refer to as a career-ending injury,” Neely said. “Therapy made things worse. I was toast from the second I tucked the ball and ran. Should’ve stayed in the pocket like I’d been coached.”

  “Rake never told you to stay in the pocket.”

  “It’s a different game up there, Silo.”

  “Yeah, they’re a bunch of dumbasses. They never recruited me. I could’ve been great, probably the first nose tackle to win the Heisman.”

  “No doubt about it,” Paul said.

  “Everybody knew it at Tech,” Neely said. “All the players kept asking me, ‘Where’s the great Silo Mooney? Why didn’t we sign him?’ ”

  “What a waste,” Paul said. “You’d still be in the NFL.”

  “Probably with the Packers,” Silo said. “Making the big bucks. Chicks bangin’ on my door. The life.”

  “Didn’t Rake want you to go to a junior college?” Neely asked.

  “Yeah, I was headed there, but they wouldn’t let me finish school here.”

  “How’d you get in the Army?”

  “I lied.”

  And there was no doubt that Silo had lied to get in the Army, and probably lied to get out. “I need a beer,” he said. “You guys want a beer?”

  “I’ll pass,” Paul said. “I need to be heading home soon.”

  “What about you?”

  “A beer would be nice,” Neely said.

  “You gonna stay here for a while?” Silo asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “Me too. It just seems like the place to be right now.”

  ______________

  The Spartan Marathon was an annual torture run created by Rake to inaugurate each season. It was held the first day of August practice, always at noon, for maximum heat. Every varsity hopeful reported to the track in gym shorts and running shoes, and when Rake blew his whistle the laps began.

  The format was simple—you ran until you dropped. Twelve laps were the minimum. Any player unable to complete twelve laps would get the chance to repeat the marathon the next day, and if he failed twice then he was unfit to become a Messina Spartan. Any high school football player who could not run three miles had no business putting on the pads.

  The assistant coaches sat in the air-conditioned press box and counted laps. Rake prowled from one end zone to the other watching the runners, barking if necessary, disqualifying those who moved too slow. Speed was not an issue, unless a player’s pace became a walk, at which point Rake would pull him off the track. Once a player quit or passed out or was otherwise disqualified, he was forced to sit at midfield and bake under the sun until there was no one left standing. There were very few rules, one of which called for automatic ejection if a runner vomited on the track. Vomiting was allowed and there was plenty of it, but once it was completed, somewhere off the track, the sick player was expected to rejoin the run.

  Of Rake’s vast repertoire of harsh conditioning methods, the marathon was by far the most dreaded. Over the years it had led some young men in Messina to pursue other sports, or to leave athletics altogether. Mention it to a player around town in July and he suddenly had a thick knot in his stomach and a dry mouth. By early August, most players were running at least five miles a day in anticipation.

  Because of the marathon, every Spartan reported in superb condition. It was not unusual for a hefty lineman to lose twenty or thirty pounds over the summer, not for his girlfriend and not for his physique. The weight was shed to survive the Spartan Marathon. Once it was over, the eating could start again, though weight was difficult to gain when you spent three hours a day on the practice field.

  Coach Rake didn’t like big linemen anyway. He preferred the nasty types like Silo Mooney.

  Neely’s senior year he completed thirty-one laps, almost eight miles, and when he fell onto the grass with the dry heaves he could hear Rake cursing him from across the field. Paul ran nine and a half miles that year, thirty-eight laps, and won the race. Every Spartan remembered two numbers—the one on his jersey, and the number of laps he finished in the Spartan Marathon.

  After the knee injury had abruptly reduced him to the status of being just another student at Tech, Neely was in a bar when a coed from Messina spotted him. “Heard the news from home?” she said. “What news?” Neely asked, not the least bit interested in news from his hometown.

  “Got a new record in the Spartan Marathon.”

  “Oh really.”

  “Yeah, eighty-three laps.”

  Neely repeated what she’d said, did the math, then said, “That’s almost twenty-one miles.”

  “Yep.”

  “Who did it?”

  “Some kid named Jaeger.”

  Only in Messina would the gossip include the latest stats from the August workouts.

  Randy Jaeger was now climbing up the bleachers, wearing his green game jersey with the number 5 in white with silver trim, tucked tightly into his jeans. He was small, very thin at the waist, no doubt a wide receiver with quick feet and an impressive time in the forty. He first recognized Paul, and as he drew closer he saw Neely. He stopped three rows down and said, “Neely Crenshaw.”

  “That’s me,” Neely said. They shook hands. Paul knew Jaeger well because, as was established quickly in the conversation, Randy’s family owned a shopping center north of town, and, like everybody else in Messina, they banked with Paul.

  “Any word on Rake?” Jaeger asked, settling onto the row behind and leaning forward between them.

  “Not much. He’s still hanging on,” Paul said gravely.

  “When did you finish?” Neely asked.

  “Ninety-three.”

  “And they fired him in—”

  “Ninety-two, my senior year. I was one of the captains.”

  There was a heavy pause as the story of Rake’s termination came and went without comment. Neely had been drifting through western Canada, in a post-college funk that lasted almost five years, and had
missed the drama. Over time, he had heard some of the details, though he had tried to convince himself he didn’t care what happened to Eddie Rake.

  “You ran the eighty-three laps?” Neely asked.

  “Yep, in 1990, when I was a sophomore.”

  “Still the record?”

  “Yep. You?”

  “Thirty-one, my senior year. Eighty-three is hard to believe.”

  “I got lucky. It was cloudy and cool.”

  “How about the guy who came in second?”

  “Forty-five, I think.”

  “Doesn’t sound like luck to me. Did you play in college?”

  “No, I weighed one-thirty with pads on.”

  “He was all-state for two years,” Paul said. “And still holds the record for return yardage. His momma just couldn’t fatten him up.”

  “I got a question,” Neely said. “I ran thirty-one laps and collapsed in pain. Then Rake cussed me like a dog. What, exactly, did he say when you finished with eighty-three?”

  Paul grunted and grinned because he’d heard the story. Jaeger shook his head and smiled. “Typical Rake,” he said. “When I finished, he walked by me and said, in a loud voice, ‘I thought you could do a hundred.’ Of course, this was for the benefit of the other players. Later, in the locker room, he said, very quietly, that it was a gutsy performance.”

  Two of the joggers left the track and walked up a few rows where they sat by themselves and stared at the field. They were in their early fifties, tanned and fit with expensive running shoes. “Guy on the right is Blanchard Teague,” Paul said, anxious to prove he knew everyone. “Our optometrist. On the left is Jon Couch, a lawyer. They played in the late sixties, during The Streak.”

  “So they never lost a game,” Jaeger said.

  “That’s right. In fact, the ’68 team was never scored on. Twelve games, twelve shutouts. Those two guys were there.”

  “Awesome,” Jaeger said, truly in awe.

  “That was before we were born,” Paul said.

  A scoreless season took a minute to digest. The optometrist and the lawyer were deep in conversation, no doubt replaying their glorious achievements during The Streak.

  “The paper did a story on Rake a few years after he was fired,” Paul said softly. “It ran all the usual stats, but also added that in thirty-four years he coached seven hundred and fourteen players. That was the title of the story—‘Eddie Rake and the Seven Hundred Spartans.’ ”

  “I saw that,” Jaeger said.

  “I wonder how many will be at his funeral?” Paul said.

  “Most of them.”

  Silo’s version of a beverage run included the gathering of two cases of beer and two other guys to help drink it. Three men emerged from his pickup, with Silo leading the way, a box of Budweiser on his shoulder. One bottle was in his hand.

  “Oh boy,” Paul said.

  “Who’s the skinny guy?” Neely asked.

  “I think it’s Hubcap.”

  “Hubcap’s not in jail?”

  “He comes and goes.”

  “The other one is Amos Kelso,” Jaeger said. “He played with me.”

  Amos was hauling the other case of beer, and as the three stomped up the bleachers Silo invited Orley Short and his pal to join them for a drink. They did not hesitate. He yelled at Teague and Couch, and they too followed them up to row thirty, where Neely and Paul and Randy Jaeger were sitting.

  Once the introductions were made and the bottles were opened, Orley asked the group, “What’s the latest on Rake?”

  “Just waiting,” Paul said.

  “I stopped by this afternoon,” Couch said gravely. “It’s just a matter of time.” Couch had an air of lawyerly importance that Neely immediately disliked. Teague the optometrist then provided a lengthy narrative about the latest advances of Rake’s cancer.

  It was almost dark. The joggers were gone from the track. In the shadows a tall gawky man emerged from the clubhouse and slowly made his way to the metal poles supporting the scoreboard.

  “That’s not Rabbit, is it?” Neely asked.

  “Of course it is,” Paul said. “He’ll never leave.”

  “What’s his title now?”

  “He doesn’t need one.”

  “He taught me history,” Teague said.

  “And he taught me math,” Couch said.

  Rabbit had taught for eleven years before someone discovered he’d never finished the ninth grade. He was fired in the ensuing scandal, but Rake intervened and got Rabbit reassigned as an assistant athletic director. Such a title at Messina High School meant he did nothing but take orders from Rake. He drove the team bus, cleaned uniforms, maintained equipment, and, most important, supplied Rake with all the gossip.

  The field lights were mounted on four poles, two on each side. Rabbit flipped a switch. The lights on the south end of the visitors’ side came on, ten rows of ten lights each. Long shadows fell across the field.

  “Been doing that for a week now,” Paul said. “Rabbit leaves them on all night. His version of a vigil. When Rake dies, the lights go out.”

  Rabbit lurched and wobbled back to the clubhouse, gone for the night. “Does he still live there?” Neely asked.

  “Yep. He has a cot in the attic, above the weight room. Calls himself a night watchman. He’s crazy as hell.”

  “He was a damned good math teacher,” Couch said.

  “He’s lucky he can still walk,” Paul said, and everyone laughed. Rabbit had become partially crippled during a game in 1981 when, for reasons neither he nor anyone else would ever grasp, he had sprinted from the sideline onto the field, into the path of one Lightning Loyd, a fast and rugged running back, who later played at Auburn, but who, on that night, was playing for Greene County, and playing quite brilliantly. With the score tied late in the third quarter, Loyd broke free for what appeared to be a long touchdown run. Both teams were undefeated. The game was tense, and evidently Rabbit snapped under the pressure. To the horror (and delight) of ten thousand Messina faithful, Rabbit flung his bony and brittle body into the arena, and somewhere around the thirty-five-yard line, he collided with Lightning. The collision, while near fatal for Rabbit, who at the time was at least forty years old, had little impact on Loyd. A bug on the windshield.

  Rabbit was wearing khakis, a green Messina sweatshirt, a green cap that shot skyward and came to rest ten yards away, and a pair of pointed-toe cowboy boots, the left one of which was jolted free and spun loose while Rabbit was airborne. People sitting thirty rows up swore they heard Rabbit’s bones break.

  If Lightning had continued his sprint, the controversy would have been lessened considerably. But the poor kid was so shocked that he glanced over his shoulder to see who and what he had just run over, and in doing so lost his balance. It took fifteen yards for him to complete his fall, and when he came to rest somewhere around the twenty-yard line the field was covered with yellow flags.

  While the trainers huddled over Rabbit and debated whether to call for an ambulance or a minister, the officials quickly awarded the touchdown to Greene County, a decision that Rake argued with for a moment then conceded. Rake was as shocked as anyone, and he was also concerned about Rabbit, who hadn’t moved a muscle since hitting the ground.

  It took twenty minutes to gather Rabbit up and place him gently on the stretcher and shove him into an ambulance. As it drove away, ten thousand Messina fans stood and applauded with respect. The folks from Greene County, uncertain as to whether they too should applaud or boo, just sat quietly and tried to digest what they had seen. They had their touchdown, but the poor idiot appeared to be dead.

  Rake, always the master motivator, used the delay to incite his troops. “Rabbit’s hittin’ harder than you clowns,” he growled at his defense. “Let’s kick some ass and take the game ball to Rabbit!”

  Messina scored three touchdowns in the fourth quarter and won easily.