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Bleachers

By John Grisham

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 score-board.

“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 heck.”

“He was a darn 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 butt and take the game ball to Rabbit!”

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

Rabbit survived too. His collarbone was broken and three lower veterbrae were cracked. His concussion was not severe, and those who knew him well claimed they noticed no additional brain damage. Needless to say, Rabbit became a local hero. At the annual football banquet thereafter Rake awarded a Rabbit Trophy for the Hit-of-the-Year.

The lights grew brighter as dusk came to an end. Their eyes refocused in the semi-lit darkness of Rake Field. Another, smaller group of old Spartans had materialized at the far end of the bleachers. Their voices were barely audible.

Silo opened another bottle and drained half of it.

“When was the last time you saw Rake?” Blanchard Teague asked Neely.

“A couple of days after my first surgery,” Neely said, and everyone was still. He was telling a story that had never been told before in Messina. “I was in the hospital. One surgery down, three to go.”

“It was a cheap shot,” Couch mumbled, as if Neely needed to be reassured.

“Darned sure was,” said Amos Kelso.

Neely could see them, huddled in the coffee shops on Main Street, long sad faces, low grave voices as they replayed the late hit that instantly ruined the career of their all-American. A nurse told him she had never seen such an outpouring of compassion cards, flowers, chocolates, balloons, artwork from entire classes of grade-schoolers. All from the small town of Messina, three hours away. Other than his parents and the Tech coaches, Neely refused all visitors. For eight long days he drowned himself in pity, aided mightily by as many painkillers as the doctors would allow.

Rake slipped in one night, long after visiting hours were over. “He tried to cheer me up,” Neely said, sipping a beer. “Said knees could be rehabbed. I tried to believe him.”

“Did he mention the ‘87 championship game?” Silo asked.

“We talked about it.”

There was a long awkward pause as they contemplated that game, and all the mysteries around it. It was Messina’s last title, and that alone was a source rich enough for years of analysis. Down 31-0 at the half, roughed up and manhandled by a vastly superior team from East Pike, the Spartans returned to the field at A&M where thirty-five thousand fans were waiting. Rake was absent; he didn’t appear until late in the fourth quarter.

The truth about what happened had remained buried for fifteen years, and, evidently, neither Neely, nor Silo, nor Paul, nor Hubcap Taylor were about to break the silence.

In the hospital room Rake had finally apologized, but Neely had told no one.

Teague and Couch said good-bye and jogged away in the darkness.

“You never came back, did you?” Jaeger asked.

“Not after I got hurt,” Neely said.

“Why not?”

“Didn’t want to.”

Hubcap had been working quietly on a pint of something much stronger than beer. He’d said little, and when he spoke his tongue was thick. “People say you hated Rake.”

“That’s not true.”

“And he hated you.”

“Rake had a problem with the stars,” Paul said. “We all knew that. If you won too many awards, set too many records, Rake got jealous. Plain and simple. He worked us like dogs and wanted every one of us to be great, but when guys like Neely got all the attention then Rake got envious.”

“I don’t believe that,” Orley Short grunted.

“It’s true. Plus he wanted to deliver the prizes to whatever college he happened to like at the moment. He wanted Neely at State.”

“He wanted me in the Army,” Silo said.

“Lucky you didn’t go to prison,” Paul said.

“It ain’t over yet,” Silo said with a laugh.

Another car rolled to a stop by the gate and its headlights went off. No door opened.

“Prison’s underrated,” Hubcap said, and everyone laughed.

“Rake had his favorites,” Neely said. “I wasn’t one of them.”

“Then why are you here?” asked Orley Short.

“I’m not sure. Same reason you’re here, I guess.”

During Neely’s freshman year at Tech, he had returned for Messina’s homecoming game. In a halftime ceremony, they retired number 19. The standing ovation went on and on and eventually delayed the second half kickoff, which cost the Spartans five yards and prompted Coach Rake, leading 28-0, to start yelling.

That was the only game Neely had watched since he left. One year later he was in the hospital.

“When did they put up Rake’s bronze statue?” he asked.

“Couple of years after they fired him,” Jaeger said. “The boosters raised ten thousand bucks and had it done. They wanted to present it to him before a game, but he refused.”

“So he never came back?”

“Well, sort of.” Jaeger pointed to a hill in the distance behind the clubhouse. “He’d drive up on Karr’s Hill before every game and park on one of those gravel roads. He and Miss Lila would sit there, looking down, listening to Buck Coffey on the radio, too far away to see much, but making sure the town knew he was still watching. At the end of every halftime the band would face the hill and play the fight song, and all ten thousand would wave at Rake.”

“It was pretty cool,” said Amos Kelso.

“Rake knew everything that was going on,” Paul said. “Rabbit called him twice a day with the gossip.”

“Was he a recluse?” Neely asked.

“He kept to himself,” Amos said. “For the first three or four years anyway. There were rumors he was moving, but then rumors don’t mean much here. He went to Mass every morning, but that’s a small crowd in Messina.”

“He got out more in the last few years,” Paul said. “Started playing golf.”

“Was he bitter?”

The question was pondered by the rest of them. “Yeah, he was bitter,” said Jaeger.

“I don’t think so,” Paul said. “He blamed himself.”

“Rumor has it that they’ll bury him next to Scotty,” Amos said.

“I heard that too,” Silo said, very deep in thought.

A car door slammed and a figure stepped onto the track. A stocky man in a uniform of some variety swaggered around the field and approached the bleachers.

“Here’s trouble,” Amos mumbled.

“It’s Mal Brown,” Silo said, softly.

“Our illustrious Sheriff,” Paul said to Neely.

“Number 31?”

“That’s him.”

Neely’s number 19 was the last jersey retired. Number 31 was the first. Mal Brown had played in the mid-sixties, during The Streak. Eighty pounds and thirty-five years ago he had been a bruising tailback who had once carried the ball fifty-four times in a game, still a Messina record. A quick marriage ended the college career before it began, and a quick divorce sent him to Vietnam in time for the Tet Offensive in ‘68. Neely had heard stories of the great Mal Brown throughout most of his childhood. Before a game Neely’s freshman year, Coach Rake stopped by for a quick pep talk. He recounted in great detail how Mal Brown had once rushed for two hundred yards in the second half of the conference championship, and he did so with a broken ankle!

Rake loved stories of players who refused to leave the field with broken bones and bleeding flesh and all sorts of gruesome injuries.

Years later, Neely would hear that Mal’s broken ankle had, more than likely, been a severe sprain, but as the years passed the legend grew, at least in Rake’s memory.

The Sheriff walked along the front of the bleachers and spoke to the others passing the time, then he climbed thirty rows and arrived, almost gasping, at Neely’s group. He spoke to Paul, then Amos, Silo, Orley, Hubcap, Randy he knew them all by their first names or nicknames. “Heard you were in town,” he said to Neely as they shook hands. “It’s been a long time.”

“It has,” was all Neely could say. To his recollection, he had never met Mal Brown. He wasn’t the Sheriff when Neely lived in Messina. Neely knew the legend, but not the man.

Didn’t matter. They were fraternity brothers.

“It’s dark, Silo, how come you ain’t stealin’ cars?” Mal said.

“Too early.”

“I’m gonna bust your butt, you know that?”

“I got lawyers.”

“Gimme a beer. I’m off duty.” Silo handed over a beer and Mal slugged it down. “Just left Rake’s,” he said, smacking his lips as if he hadn’t had liquids in days. “Nothing’s changed. Just waitin’ for him to go.”

The update was received without comment.

“Where you been hidin’?” Mal asked Neely.

“Nowhere.”

“Don’t lie. Nobody’s seen you here in ten years, maybe longer.”

“My parents retired to Florida. I had no reason to come back.”

“This is where you grew up. It’s home. Ain’t that a reason?”

“Maybe for you.”

“Maybe my butt. You got a lot of friends around here. Ain’t right to run away.”

“Drink another beer, Mal,” Paul said.

Silo quickly passed another one down, and Mal grabbed it. After a minute, he said, “You got kids?”

“No.”

“How’s your knee?”

“It’s ruined.”

“Sorry.” A long drink. “What a cheap shot. You were clearly out of bounds.”

“I should’ve stayed in the pocket,” Neely said, shifting his weight, wishing he could change the subject. How long would the town of Messina talk about the cheap shot that ruined his career?

Another long drink, then Mal said softly, “Man, you were the greatest.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” Neely said. He’d been there for almost three hours and was suddenly anxious to leave, though he had no idea where he might be going. Two hours earlier there had been talk of Mona Curry cooking dinner, but that offer had not been pursued.

“Okay, what?”

“Let’s talk about Rake,” Neely said. “What was his worst team?”

All bottles rose at once as the group contemplated this.

Mal spoke first. “He lost four games in ‘76. Miss Lila swears he went into solitary confinement for the winter. Stopped goin’ to Mass. Refused to be seen in public. He put the team on a brutal conditionin’ program, ran ‘em like dogs all summer, made ‘em practice three times a day in August. But when they kicked off in ‘77 it was a different team. Almost won state.”

“How could Rake lose four games in one season?” Neely asked.

Mal leaned back and rested on the row behind him. Took a swig. He was by far the oldest Spartan present, and since he hadn’t missed a game in thirty years he had the floor. “Well, first of all, the team had absolutely no talent. The price of timber shot up in the summer of 76, and all the loggers quit. You know how they are. Then the quarterback broke his arm, and there was no backup. We played Harrisburg that year and never threw a pass. Makes it tough when they’re sendin’ all eleven on every play. It was a disaster.”

“Harrisburg beat us?” Neely asked in disbelief.

“Yep, the only time in the past forty-one years. And lemme tell you what those dumb sumbiscuites did. They’re leadin’ late in the game, big score, somethin’ like thirty-six to nothin’. The worst night in the history of Messina football. So they figure they’ve turned the corner in their sad little rivalry with us, and they decide to run up the score. With a coupla minutes to go, they throw a reverse pass on third and short. Another touchdown. They’re real excited, you know, they’re stickin’ it to the Messina Spartans. Rake kept his cool, wrote it down somewhere in blood, and went lookin’ for loggers. Next year, we’re playin’ Harrisburg here, huge crowd, angry crowd, we score seven touchdowns in the first half.”

“I remember that game,” Paul said. “I was in the first grade. Forty-eight to nothing.”

“Forty-seven,” Mal said proudly. “We scored four times in the third quarter, and Rake kept passin’. He couldn’t sub because he had no bench, but he kept the ball in the air.”

“The final?” Neely asked.

“Ninety-four to nothin’. Still a Messina record. The only time I’ve ever known Eddie Rake to run up a score.”

The other group on the north end erupted in laughter as someone finished a story, no doubt about Rake or some long-ago game. Silo had become very quiet in the presence of the law, and when the moment was right he said, “Well, I need to be going. Call me, Curry, if you hear something about Rake.”

“I will.”

“See y’all tomorrow,” Silo said, standing, stretching, reaching for one last bottle.

“I need a ride,” Hubcap said.

“It’s that time of the night, huh, Silo?” Mal said. “Time for all good thieves to ease out of the gutter.”

“I’m laying off for a few days,” Silo said. “In honor of Coach Rake.”

“How touchin’. I’ll just send the night shift boys home then, since you’re closin’ shop.”

“You do that, Mal.”

Silo, Hubcap, and Amos Kelso lumbered down the bleachers, the metal steps rattling as they descended.

“He’ll be in prison within twelve months,” Mal said as they watched them walk along the track behind the end zone. “Make sure your bank is clean, Curry.”

“Don’t worry.”

Neely had heard enough. He stood and said, “I’ll be running along too.”

“I thought you were coming to dinner,” Paul said.

“I’m not hungry now. How about tomorrow night?”

“Mona will be disappointed.”

“Tell her to save the leftovers. Good night, Mal, Randy. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”

The knee was stiff, and as Neely crept down the steps he tried mightily to do so without a limp, without a hint that he was anything less than what they remembered. On the track, behind the Spartan bench, he turned too quickly and the knee almost collapsed. It buckled, then wavered as tiny sharp pains hit in a dozen different spots. Because it happened so often, he knew how to lift it just so and quickly shift all weight to his right leg, and to keep walking as if everything was normal.

Wednesday

In the window of every shop and store around the Messina square there was a large green football schedule, as if the customers and the townsfolk needed help in remembering that the Spartans played every Friday night. And on every lamppost in front of the shops and stores there were green-and-white banners that went up in late August and came down when the season was over. Neely remembered the banners from the days when he rode his bike along the walkways. Nothing had changed. The large green schedules were the same every year the games in bold print, outlined by the smiling faces of the seniors; along the bottom, small ads of all the local sponsors, which included every single business in Messina. No one was left off the schedule.

As he entered Renfrow’s Cafe, one step behind Paul, Neely took a deep breath and told himself to smile, to be polite these folks, after all, once adored him. The thick smell of things frying hit him at the door, then the sound of pots rattling in the distance. The smells and sounds had not changed from the time his father brought him to Renfrow’s for hot chocolate on Saturday mornings, where the locals relived and replayed the latest Spartan victory.

During the season, each football player could eat once a week at Renfrow’s at no charge, a simple and generous gesture that had been sorely tested shortly after the school was integrated. Would Renfrow’s allow black players the same privilege? Darned right came the word from Eddie Rake, and the cafe became one of the first in the state to voluntarily integrate itself.

Paul spoke to most of the men huddled over their coffee, but he kept moving toward a booth by the window. Neely nodded and tried to avoid eye contact. By the time they slid into their seats, the secret was out. Neely Crenshaw was indeed back in town.

The walls were covered with old football schedules, framed newspaper stories, pennants, autographed jerseys, and hundreds of photos team photos lined in neat chronological order above the counter, action shots lifted from the local paper, and large black-and-whites of the greatest of Spartans. Neely’s was above the cash register, a photo of him as a senior, posing with the football cocked and ready to fire, no helmet, no smile, all business and attitude and ego, long untamed hair, three days’ worth of stubble and peach fuzz, eyes looking somewhere in the distance, no doubt dreaming of future glory.

“You were so cute back then,” Paul said.

“Seems like yesterday, then it seems like a dream.”

In the center of the longest wall there was a shrine to Eddie Rake a large color photo of him standing near the goalposts, and under it the record 418 wins, 62 losses, 13 state titles.

According to the predawn gossip, Rake was still clinging to life. And the town was still clinging to him. The chatter was subdued no laughter, no jokes, no windy stories of fishing triumphs, none of the usual spats over politics.

A tiny waitress in a green-and-white outfit brought them coffee and took their orders. She knew Paul but did not recognize the guy with him.

“Is Maggie still around?” Neely asked.

“Nursing home,” Paul said.

Maggie Renfrow had been serving scalded coffee and oily eggs for decades. She had also dealt relentlessly in all areas of gossip and rumor surrounding the Spartan football team. Because she had given free meals to the players she had managed to do what everyone else in Messina tried to do wiggle in a little closer to the boys and their Coach.

A gentleman approached and nodded awkwardly at Neely. “Just wanted to say hello,” he said, easing out his right hand. “Good to see you again, after all this time. You were something.”

Neely shook his hand and said, “Thanks.” The handshake was brief. Neely broke eye contact. The gentleman took the hint and withdrew. No one followed him.

There were quick glances and awkward stares, but the others seemed content to brood over the coffee and ignore him. After all, he had ignored them for the past fifteen years. Messina owned its heroes, and they were expected to enjoy the nostalgia.

“When was the last time you saw Sara?” Paul asked.

Neely snorted and looked out of the window. “I haven’t seen her since college.”

“Not a word?”

“One letter, years back. Fancy stationery from some place in Hollywood. Said she was taking the place by storm. Said she’d be a lot more famous than I ever thought about being. Pretty nasty stuff. I didn’t respond.”

“She showed up for our ten-year reunion,” Paul said. “An actress, nothing but blond hair and legs, outfits that have never been seen around here. A pretty elaborate production. Name-dropping right and left, this producer, that director, a bunch of actors I’d never heard of..”

“That’s Sara.”

“You should know.”

“How’d she look?”

“Tired.”

“Any credits?”

“Quite a few, and they changed by the hour. We compared notes later, and no one had seen anything she said she’d been in. It was all a show. Typical Sara. Except that now she’s Tessa. Tessa Canyon.”

“Tessa Canyon?”

“Yep.”

“Sounds like a gal from inappropriate movies.”

“I think that’s where she was headed.”

“Poor girl.”

“Poor girl?” Paul repeated. “She’s a miserable self-absorbed idiot whose only claim to fame was that she was Neely Crenshaw’s girlfriend.”

“Yes, but those legs.”

They both smiled for a long time. The waitress brought their pancakes and sausage and refilled their coffees. As Paul drenched his plate with maple syrup, he began talking again. “Two years ago, we had a big bankers’ convention in Vegas. Mona was with me. She got bored, went to the room. I got bored, so I walked along the Strip, late at night. I ducked into one of the older casinos, and guess who I saw?”

“Tessa Canyon.”

“Tessa was shuffling booze, a cocktail waitress in one of those tight little costumes that’s low in the front and high in the rear. Bleached hair, thick makeup, twenty or so extra pounds. She didn’t see me so I watched her for a few minutes. She looked older than thirty. The odd thing was how she performed. When she got near her customers at the tables, the smile came on with the purring little voice, she was flirting with a bunch of drunks. The woman just wants to be loved.”

“I tried my best.”

“She’s a sad case.”

“That’s why I dumped her. She won’t come back for the funeral, will she?”

“Maybe. If there’s a chance she’ll bump into you, then yes, she’ll be here. On the other hand, she ain’t lookin’ too good, and with Sara looks are everything.”

“Her parents are still here?”

“Yeah.”

A chubby man wearing a John Deere cap eased to their table as if he was trespassing. “Just wanted to say hello, Neely,” he said, almost ready to bow. “Tim Nunley, down at the Ford place,” he said, offering a hand as if it might be ignored. Neely shook it and smiled. “Used to work on your daddy’s cars.”

“I remember you,” Neely lied, but the lie was worth the effort. Mr. Nunley’s smile doubled in size and he squeezed Neely’s hand harder.

“I thought you would,” Mr. Nunley said, glancing at his table for vindication. “Good to see you back here. You were the greatest.”

“Thank you,” Neely said, releasing his hand and grabbing a fork. Mr. Nunley backed away, still waiting to bow, then took his coat and left the restaurant.

The conversations were still muted around the tables, as if the wake had already begun. Paul finished a mouthful and leaned in low. “Four years ago we had a good team. Won the first nine games. Undefeated. I was sitting right here eating the same thing I’m eating now, on a Friday morning, game day, and, I swear this is true, the topic of conversation that morning was The Streak. Not the old streak, but a new one. These people were ready for a new streak. Never mind a winning season, or a conference title, or even a state championship, they’re all peanuts. This town wants eighty, ninety, maybe a hundred wins in a row.”

Neely looked around quickly then returned to his breakfast. “I’ve never understood it,” he said. “These are nice folks mechanics, truck drivers, insurance salesmen, builders, maybe a lawyer, maybe a banker. Solid small-town citizens, but not exactly earthshakers. I mean, nobody here is making a million bucks. But they’re entitled to a state championship every year, right?”

“Right.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Bragging rights. What else can they brag about?”

“No wonder they worship Rake. He put the town on the map.”

“Take a bite,” Paul said. A man with a dirty apron approached holding a manila file. He introduced himself as Maggie Renfrow’s brother, now the chef, and he opened the file. Inside was a framed eight by ten color photo of Neely at Tech. “Maggie always wanted you to sign this,” he said.

It was splendid picture of Neely in action, crouching behind the center, calling a play, ready for the snap, sizing up the defense. A purple helmet was visible in the right lower corner, and Neely realized the opponent was A&M. The photo, one he’d never seen before, was taken minutes before he was injured. “Sure,” he said, taking a black marker from the chef.

He signed his name across the top, and for a long moment looked into the eyes of a young, fearless quarterback, a star biding his time in college while the NFL waited. He could hear the Tech crowd that day, seventy-five thousand strong and desperate for victory, proud of their undefeated team, thrilled that they, for the first time in many years, had a bona-fide ail-American at quarterback.

Suddenly, he longed for those days.

“Nice photo,” he managed to say, handing it back to the chef, who took it and immediately hung it on a nail under the larger photo of Neely.

“Let’s get outta here,” Neely said, wiping his mouth. He placed some cash on the table, and they began a quick exit. He nodded, smiled politely at the regulars, and managed to make an escape without being stopped.

“Why are you so nervous around these folks?” Paul asked when they were outside.

“I don’t want to talk about football, okay? I don’t want to hear how great I was.”

They drove the quiet streets around the square, passing the church where Neely was baptized, and the church where Paul was married, and the handsome split-level on Tenth Street where Neely lived from the age of eight until he left for Tech. His parents had sold it to a certified Yankee who’d been brought down to manage the paper mill west of town. They passed Rake’s house, slowly, as if they might hear the latest just by driving down the street. The driveway was crowded with cars, most with out-of-state license plates, Rake’s family and close friends, they figured. They passed the park where they’d played Little League baseball and Pop Warner football.

And they remembered stories. One that was now a legend in Messina was, of course, about Rake. Neely, Paul, and a handful of their buddies were playing a rowdy game of sandlot football when they noticed a man standing in the distance, near the backstop of the baseball field, watching them closely. When they finished, he ventured over and introduced himself as Coach Eddie Rake. The boys were speechless. “You have a nice arm, son,” he said to Neely, who could say nothing in response. “I like your feet too.”

All the boys looked at Neely’s feet.

“Is your mother as tall as your father?” Coach Rake asked.

“Almost,” Neely managed to say.

“Good. You’ll make a great Spartan quarterback.” Rake smiled at the boys, then walked away.

Neely was eleven years old at the time.

They stopped at the cemetery.