Heart of a Man - Part II

Part I - ending:
Even with a loaded gun, David still had trouble getting his feet to move further down the dark pathway.

Part II

Soon he heard the gurgling of the creek that signaled his arrival at the prime squirrel hunting area. David moved himself into position beneath one of the decaying, hollow, hardwood trees that lined both sides of the creek. His listened patiently for the tell-tale chatter of the gray squirrel. The darkness faded with the rising of the sun, and David’s surroundings became clearly visible. Suddenly the silence of the swamp was broken by a bedlam of chatter. David’s keen brown eyes turned skyward as they caught a slight movement on a leafless limb of a nearby oak. The fluffy tail of the fat squirrel moved slowly back and forth in a motion similar to that of a metronome, as he barked indignantly at those who had invaded his private play ground during the night. David’s muscles tightened as he slowly raised himself and lifted the heavy shotgun to his shoulder. His thumb caught the exposed hammer and pulled it back into the cocked position with a slight click. He gripped the large gun as firmly as possible, and planted both feet firmly into the spongy soil. His arm extended full length down the dark oil stained stock, and his forefinger stretched to make a slight arch around the trigger. David moved the barrel so that the silver bead at the end was centered on the squirrel’s body. His heart began to pound furiously, his face took on a powdered appearance, and shiny beads of sweat appeared on his brow. His finger nervously began to pressure the trigger. The guttural roar of the shotgun ruptured the early morning serenity of the swamp. David struggled to retain his balance as the barrel spewed forth its contents and arched skyward. His ears rang, his shoulder throbbed, and his nostrils were filled with the strong sulphur smell of burning gun powder. Beneath the tree, David could see a writhing lump of gray fur. He moved quickly toward his prize, pushing aside the underbrush as he went. He stopped and gazed down at the suffering creature in sickening horror. The wounded squirrel’s teeth were bared in pain, and his eyes focused momentarily on the creature that loomed over him. His hind legs moved in quick staccato jerks, and dark red drops of blood oozed from the bristled fur that covered his body. David’s stomach retched, and twisted. He wanted to cry. The squirrel twisted again and stirred the dry, spongy leaves. David knew that the job must be finished. He had seen his father do it dozens of times. He knew the suffering had to be stopped, but now it seemed so brutal. He leaned his gun up against a tree, and extended his trembling hand down, and grasped the warm underside of the squirrel. He could feel the tiny thumping beat of the heart, and see the rise and fall of the miniature chest as it expanded against his fingers. He knew if he was going to do it he couldn’t wait any longer. Carefully he placed the small head on the exposed root of a nearby oak. David’s jaw tightened. There was no time for second thoughts as he raised his boot and slammed it forcefully down causing the oak to resound with a muffled thud. He glanced at the squirrel once more, sighed, put the squirrel in his pouch, shouldered his gun, and headed home.

Youth is the period in which a man can be hopeless. The end of every episode is the end of the world. But, the power of hoping through everything, the knowledge that the soul survives its adventures, that great inspiration comes to the middle-aged. G. K. Chesterton

Heart of a Man - Part I

This story was first published when I was a Junior at the University of Southern Mississippi in 1968. The publication was featured in the student literary anthology, Contemporary. I am going to present it in two different segments. I hope you enjoy the early work of the Texican.

The Heart of a Man

The distant crowing of a rooster pierced the early morning silence. It was soon followed by similar, shrill, grating cry as another barnyard herald joined the fugue of the feathered symphony. Inside the front room of a weathered house, a pile of quilts in the middle of a big, old-fashioned, poster-bed began to unfold, and slowly assumed a more recognizable shape. A few short strands of matted red hair emerged from under the lumpy patchwork. Suddenly a freckled hand swept open the warm cotton nest exposing a sparsely clad body to the filtered chill of the room. Thirteen year old David Reins slowly raised himself into a sitting position, and turned so his legs slid off the edge of the bed, and dangled aimlessly as his mind focused on his surroundings. He glanced through the darkness and his eyes stopped as the luminous dial of the alarm clock came into view. The hands were spread to read five o’clock.

David knew his mother would object. Just in the last year she had become extremely overprotective. David eased his weight onto his bare feet. His hands kept steady pressure on the rusty bed springs until he was in a position to release them slowly and silently. Everything had been carefully placed so it could be found easily without the use of a light. His faded blue jeans, and his old checkered flannel shirt were carefully dropped on a short bench which stood in front of the dressing table with its three arched-topped mirrors. His worn leather boots were directly beneath the bench. From the top of each boot, a thick wool sock hung like a large worm about to escape a tin can. David was almost ready. All he had left to do was to pick up the canvas hunting coat, and the shotgun that stood by the dusty, old chifforobe next to the door. The coat and the shotgun had belonged to his father who died just the year before. The coat was stiff and heavy. The shell slots in each pocket were full, and the vinyl game pouch at the back of the coat still smelled of last year’s hunting successes. David’s arms hung inside the warmth of the sleeves which were several inches too long. He pushed them back in accordion fashion so his hand could grasp the cold, blued-steel barrel of the Winchester .12 gauge.

David opened the door and stepped outside. His eyes watered, his cheeks burned, and his nostrils ached as he followed the white puffs of his breath through the darkness. A November cold front was moving across the southern countryside. His boots crunched and grated on the gravel in his grandfather’s driveway as he moved toward the gap in the barbed wire fence that opened into the woods. David stopped at the gap. The roosters had stopped crowing. Everything was quiet. It was the silent time of dawn when everything pauses to await the crest of the sun. His heart began to beat faster as he gazed into the dark chasm formed by a large hickory-nut tree and some small pin-oaks whose branches arched over the narrow path that led deep into the swamp of the creek. Things were different; he missed his father’s presence on the trail beside him. David’s numb fingers fumbled in the pocket of his hunting coat as he pried three of the new magnum plastic shells from their slots. He pressed two shells into the magazine, then he moved the slide beneath the barrel all the way back, and with a quick, forward jerk slid it back into position, chambering one of the shells. Even with a loaded gun, David still had trouble getting his feet to move further down the dark pathway.

"...without heart a man is meaningless." Star Trek

Football and Life - Part III

The day soon came when the lineup for the first game was announced. Roy was chosen to play first team offensive guard. His mother rued the day when she had agreed to let him play. She believed he would probably quit before the first game. His dad on the other hand was quite proud. Central Jr. High was the largest in the division and they had won every game they played in the last several years. They were Golfview’s first opponent. During the week before the game the coach passed out the new purple game shirts with the gold numbers. Roy wore number 69. The Golfview Gators were ready to play.
The game was played under the lights at the high school stadium. Most of the Gator squad had never been there before, and most had never played under the lights. Their practice field didn’t have any markings on it. The referees had to line them up before the first kick-off. The Central squad looked huge. They won the toss and chose to receive. Coach Mays gathered the Golfview players in a big huddle and gave them a pep talk.
“Men, their return man is named DeAngelo and he is wearing number 32. All of you look for number 32. He is very fast. Hit him low, and hit him hard.”
Coach called Roy’s name for the kick-off squad. All of the team joined in a cheer that started low and got louder as they broke the huddle. “Gator bait, gator bait, gator bait….”
Roy ran onto the field. He looked at the other team and found number 32 near the goal line. He saw himself shedding blockers and plowing DeAngelo into the turf in front of the cheering masses. The referees whistle blew and Golfview’s kicker hit the football. It sailed toward number 32. DeAngelo got the football and started up field. Roy could see nothing but number 32. He was going to hit him untouched. Just as he took his angle, Roy was hit by a crushing cross-body block. He fell to the turf and caught the top of DeAngelo’s sock with one finger. The running back high stepped and jerked free. Roy watched as he crossed the goal line at the other end of the field. They made the extra point, and the score was seven to nothing in favor of Central.
The Golfview team lined up to receive the kickoff. Ronnie Massey, the scat back received the kick and ran it out to the thirty yard line. On the first play from scrimmage, Golfview fumbled the ball and Central recovered. On their next play, they scored another touchdown. They missed the extra point. The score was now thirteen to nothing after three plays. Coach Mays called a time out and the Golfview team ran to the sidelines. He didn’t call them men.
“I didn’t bring you here to have you lie down in front of the other team. You either get out there and stop them, or I’m going to forfeit and take you home.”
The team ran back on to the field. Roy and his team mates played an inspired game after that. They even scored. At the end of the game, the score was Central 13, and Golfview 7.
The rest of the season was a dream. Every team that the scrubby little Golfview team played lost. Central and Golfview met in the championship game. The scene was very similar to their first meeting except that Golfview had something to prove. Roy’s dad and mom had attended every game. Roy even had a girlfriend who ran on to the field and hugged him when the final gun sounded. The championship was a battle from the first whistle. The ball went back and forth between the two teams. At the end of the final quarter, the score was Golfview 14, and Central 7. The clock continued to run during the final two minutes. Central possessed the ball and drove to Golfview’s five yard line. The play gave them a first down. The big Central full back pounded the center of the line. In three plays he was at the one yard line. A defensive guard for Golfview fell and had to be carried off the field. Coach Mays looked to the bench and called for Roy.
“Get in there and seal off that gap. I don’t want anyone to make it through. Is that clear?” “Yes sir” Roy said as he buttoned his chin strap.
Roy got down in the awkward feeling four point stance of a defensive lineman. The center and guard across from him looked huge. He watched the center’s hands and moved when he snapped the ball. Roy lowered his butt and pushed his body upward with all his strength wedging himself into the gap. Through the mass of grunting, pushing flesh he could see the thighs of the big fullback coming straight for him. Roy lowered the crown of his helmet and strained forward with everything he had. The knees of Central’s big fullback hit Roy’s helmet and the runner fell just short of the goal line.
Roy could not hear the cheers or remember what happened on the play. He awoke minutes later on the sideline with his dad looking down at him and his girlfriend standing near by. His mother had already gone to the car. She just couldn’t stand to watch. Later he learned that he had held his ground. Golfview won.
Roy’s dad, who was gravely ill, didn’t live long enough to see another season, but sometimes one is enough.

Football and Life - Part II

He was at the practice field early. The Golfview physical training area was a large sandy expanse covered with sand spurs and bounded on three sides by palmetto, cabbage palms, and other scrub plants. The guys from Golfview subdivision were all wearing matching shorts and tee shirts. Some of the group from South Gate drifted into the brush on the other side of the fence for one last cigarette. Roy and his friends stood in between them. They watched and waited for instructions. The coaches held a clinic on how to properly put on the uniform. They told the players where to buy their cleats and other gear not provided by the school.
The practice started with fifty and one hundred yard time trials. Roy ran as fast as he could, but when the players were assigned, he was told to report to the offensive line coach. . He didn’t know the difference between offense and defense. He was just happy to be there. The rest of the afternoon was spent running. He had never run so much in his life. His lungs hurt, his legs shook, and his gym clothes were soaked and sticking to his body. Over the next few days they ran until they collapsed. The loose white sand made footing difficult. Roy hoped he wouldn’t give out. Some guys threw up across the fence at the edge of the practice field. The heavier smokers gave up on football altogether. Roy stayed. His mother was disappointed.
After a week of running, push-ups, jumping jacks, squat thrusts, and agility drills the coach told them to report to the field in pads. Roy saw the world for the first time from inside a football helmet. The curved nylon face mask looked like a small ladder just below the level of his eyes. The pads and other gear made him look like quite a physical specimen. On the other hand it made the really big guys look like giants. Roy lumbered from the field house with the rest of the team. The metal tipped nylon cleats made an awful racket as they ran down the concrete runway. The coaches and some of the football dads made a wooden seven-man blocking sled. It was a behemoth. Seven players lined up in a three point stance in front of the blocking pads attached to its front. On the coach’s whistle they lunged at the great wooden beast slamming their shoulders into the pads and driving their legs with short choppy steps. Because the field was sand, and because the blocking sled was homemade, it rarely slid. The runners of the sled tipped forward and dug into the loose turf. The linemen continued to drive with their legs until the coaches’ second whistle. A large deep hole formed beneath their cleated shoes as they strained against the immovable object. Roy’s calves cramped and his thighs burned but he continued. He wasn’t going to quit. His pads got heavy as the cotton backing soaked up the sweat.
The offensive line coach showed them how to make a proper block on a running play. He showed them how plays were diagramed with X’s and O’s, and where they were to block based on the play called. After that, they learned pass blocking, keeping their butts low and getting under their opponent. They practiced these moves over and over again. Then the coaches called the entire team back together for fumble drills and tackling practice. Roy thought he was going to die. Every time he thought it was time for practice to end they would start something else. In the early stages, they practiced everything at half speed concentrating on their form. The coaches taught them to tackle with their heads on the same side of the ball carrier as the ball. The wet pads picked up the grit from the sandy field and rubbed them raw. Just when Roy thought he could go on no more, the coach blew his whistle and lined them up at one end of the field. They were five or six abreast and on the coach’s whistle they ran one hundred yard wind sprints. At the end of the field they got back in line and repeated the drill. Before practice was over, players were stumbling and falling down. Roy drug his spent body to the showers and stood under the soothing blast. He left his equipment in the compartment with his name on it and headed home. He went to bed early that night.
The following days passed with the same intensity. The strong stench of ammonia and body odor filled the locker room and increased with each passing day. Roy thought they could probably win if the other team had to smell their pads before the game.
During the second week, the coaches picked up the speed. They added tackling drills at full speed. Bull in the ring and head on tackling introduced Roy to the physics of two large objects meeting helmet to helmet. He dreaded tackling their big fullback, Mike Rains. Mike weighed 180 pounds and had a beard as heavy as that of any man. Roy got up after some tackles looking out the ear hole of his helmet. If the offensive linemen missed a block, the coach would make them run the ball with no blockers. Several times the coaches pulled up on the belt of Roy’s football pants as he lay sprawled on the ground trying to regain his breath after a collision. He was playing football. Roy was put into the lineup at Guard. He was the smallest man on the line. He often pulled away from the line on an end run called to his side and led the running back around. Most of the players on the offensive and defensive interior line were over two hundred pounds. Roy had to try and hold them out on pass plays and block them on running plays. His battered and bruised body was evidence of his tenacity. He had been run over, stepped on, cleated, kneed, poked, jabbed, and flattened, and this at the hands of his own teammates. He wondered what playing against other players might be like. The players from South Gate were the toughest. They played dirty, and they enjoyed a good fight. Some had earned nicknames; Benny the biter, Knees Orton, Walrus, Scat. Benny would bite the nearest leg or arm in the pile after a tackle. Once, in the tangle of the pile, he bit himself, and spent the rest of the game trying to figure out who did it.

Football and Life - Part I

This is a life story in three parts. While the story is told through a single season of freshman football, it is a story of life.

The Season

Sweat dripped off of Roy Bond’s oily teen face. It glistened in the bright September sun. The temperature was still in the high 90s in south Florida. The registration line stretched from one end of the school to the other. The hallways were open and ran along the exterior of the building. Roy was leaning out to see how much further he had to go when someone stuck a permission form in his hand. Turning, he stared at the slender man with the crew cut.
“Son, get you parents to sign this form, and report to the field house tomorrow for a football physical.”
“But…” His stammering response fell short of the back of the man’s head. The speaker continued down the long line with another man following close behind. They were dressed alike in Khaki shorts and matching purple shirts. Both had whistles hanging from cords around their necks. They sized up each male in the line. If they had any size at all, they repeated the short speech and handed them a form.
Golfview Junior High School opened its doors just two years before. Roy stood in line to register for the ninth grade. The school sat between an affluent golfing community, Golfview, and the infamous South Gate, a place where the railroad tracks literally marked the boundary between the fortunate and the unfortunate. A few kids, including Roy, lived in a semi-rural area near the school. Both of Roy’s parents worked and had no time for golf.
He stared at the form in his hand and wondered about the possibility of playing football. Roy weighed 165 pounds, but most of it was baby fat. Very few kids in his neighborhood ever played any organized sport other than baseball. Still, the thought of putting on a football uniform and running onto the field in front of cheering fans excited him. Sweat continued to streak down his cheek as he waited in the slow moving line, but Roy didn’t notice. He dreamed of stardom. In the past, only the well-to-do kids played football at Golfview. The school win/loss record was dismal.
That evening when his dad got home, Roy gave him the insurance card and permission form.
“Dad, can I go out for football?”
Before he could answer Roy’s mother said, “You’re in the band.”
“I could do both.” He countered.
“You’ve never played football.” She said, looking at her husband for some support.
His dad was an athlete: a champion boxer in the Navy. Roy could sense that his dad was on his side.
Roy remembered how his dad tried to prepare him for life. It all started in grammar school. He was too young to start. He still had his baby teeth. But there he was at school, back against the wall, trying to avoid contact with strangers. A large boy stood in front of him looking down at his upturned face. His stare was unfriendly.
“What are you looking at?” The large boy asked...
“Uh, you look sleepy.” Roy said.
Apparently he took offense at Roy’s retort and pounded him into a submissive blob. This was his first encounter with a bully. His dad later told him that crying and rolling into a ball was not an acceptable defense tactic. He tried to teach him the “sweet science”, but Roy was left handed, and a bit of a bumble foot, so he progressed slowly and avoided physical confrontation. By the end of elementary school he gained some confidence, but, just when he began to feel comfortable, Junior High School started. The process had to be repeated.
His dad looked at him and then back at his mother. “Let’s let him tryout.”
His mother turned away in defeat. Roy started in on the usual list of promises related to what he would do if allowed to play. Dad signed the form.
The next day Roy stood in front of the concrete block field house with a great host of other potential players. Three major groups huddled in separate areas around the front steps. The kids from Golfview community stood nearest the door. Most of them had played before. Another group from South Gate milled around in the shade of a nearby palm tree. This group smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and Vitalis hair tonic. Roy didn’t know the South Gate kids very well because he spent most of the last two years trying to avoid them.
The new coach stepped out of the field house and addressed them. “Men, line up and have your signed forms ready when you get to the door. After you pass your physical, report to the equipment room and check out your pads. Practice will start this afternoon at four. Bring your equipment when you come.”
He called them “men”. Roy felt tougher already. He rubbed his hand across his face to see if he could feel a whisker. He thought for a second that he did, but realized that it was only a pimple. Once through the door they were told to strip down to their shorts. Roy looked around to see how he measured up with the rest of the guys. He thought maybe he should order the Charles Atlas muscle building course after he got home. Once the poking and prodding behind the curtain was complete, they redressed and picked up their equipment. All were fitted for a helmet, pads, practice uniform and game pants. They had to provide their own jock strap. Roy had never worn one before. He left with a hefty load of armor stuffed into his football pants. He purchased a jock strap at the local drug store on his way home. That was embarrassing. Now he stood in front of a full length mirror and practiced putting it on over his pants. He had a horrible vision of standing naked and afraid in front of strangers and not knowing how to put it on. Once he mastered his most basic piece of equipment, he worked on figuring out the rest. The remainder of the day whizzed by as he dreamed of flying tackles and crushing blocks. All of these delivered by him, of course.

The Wolf - Finale

When you go to Court you are putting your fate into the hands of twelve people who weren't smart enough to get out of Jury Duty. Norm Crosby

It's better to be tried by twelve than carried by six. annonymous

Continuation from Part II.

* * * *

It was Saturday. Now, instead of a leisurely ride in the stealth mode, I backed my motorcycle out of my garage and headed for Ken’s house with a sense of urgency. My stomach knotted with anticipation.
When I arrived, he was standing in the door leading from his garage into the dining room. I looked in all directions for some sign of vandalism. I parked my motorcycle, got off, and cautiously approached Ken as he stood in the doorway.
“What is it I need to see?” I asked.
Ken just stood there pointing at the wall across the dining room opposite the door. I looked, but I still couldn’t make out what he was pointing at.
“What am I supposed to be looking at?” I asked.
Ken answered, “The bullet hole.”
I strained to see the dark pine paneling across the dimly lit room. Then I saw it, a perfectly round puncture about chest high and in a direct line with the door leading to the garage.
“The slug is lying in the bathroom floor on the other side of that wall. It broke the tile, but the bullet is in pretty good condition.” Ken walked in the direction of the bathroom as he spoke. I followed. Ken and I both looked at the hole in the bathroom wall where the tile had broken. There was a big hunk of lead lying in the floor.
“How did this happen?” I asked.
“I had just gotten Judy and the kids off to her mother’s house. I came back inside and sat down at the dining table to eat a sandwich. I heard the venetian blinds on the door to the garage make a noise like someone was opening the door. My back was to the door, so I turned to see who it was. I’ve gotten so fat I had to lean to get around. I saw a muzzle flash and felt wind from the bullet as it passed my head.”
“Did you see the guy?” I asked.
“I only got a brief glimpse of him as he spun in the doorway and ran out of the garage. I fell out of the dining room chair, so I guess he thought he hit me.”
“Was he white or black?”
“White.”
“You couldn’t catch him?”
Ken smiled and looked a little embarrassed. “I got up and ran to the bedroom to get my pistol. I was so shook-up I forgot it was right on the dining room table in front of me. By the time I collected myself and got back to my gun, the shooter was long gone. I called the State Police then I came to get you.”
I couldn’t say anything. I just stood there looking at him. I bummed a cigarette and we both just sat there and smoked until Texas Ranger, Tommy Wells, arrived. Tommy notified the police department, since it was in their jurisdiction, and their detective, Jimmy Bragg arrived at about the same time. Both officers interviewed Ken. Tommy took the bullet to have it analyzed by the state crime lab.
After they left, Ken and I decided that it was time to shake the trees. Since he was a probation officer, he had numerous sources in the criminal community. We made several stops and put the word out we were seriously interested in finding out who tried to kill Ken.
The next day Tommy Wells called Ken and told him the ballistic test on the bullet showed it was fired from a .44 magnum. Wells said the gun was probably customized. He also said that because of the increased number of lands and grooves, they believed the gun probably had a target barrel.
Ken called later that evening and told me he would come by and pick me up. He said he talked to a source who told him a recently paroled ex-con named Corey House was drunk and bragging about killing a cop. Ken wanted to talk to him. The guy told Ken that House was still at the swimming pool of the Magnolia Ridge apartments.
We both knew we should call for backup, but Tommy Wells was out of pocket, and in light of recent happenings, we really couldn’t go to the P. D. We decided to try and find House ourselves before he disappeared.
Ken picked me up and we rode in his car. It was equipped with a police radio.
The Magnolia Ridge apartments were new and slightly up scale. We couldn’t figure out how a low life like Corey House could afford to live there. We pulled up in the parking lot near the entrance to the swimming pool. We both got out of the car.
“You’ve got the badge, so I’ll hang back until you make contact.” I said.
Ken nodded and opened the gate to the pool area. I followed and looked over the loungers for someone who might not belong. The prison tattoos on the ivory pale skin weren’t hard to find. Ken approached the dark haired male who occupied the lounge chair next to a pile of empty Coors cans.
“Hey! Corey,” Ken said.
“Yeah?” “What do you want?” Corey asked as he raised his head and tried to focus his beer-clouded brain.
“I’m a probation officer.” Ken said. He showed Corey his badge.
I positioned myself to the right and slightly behind Ken with an open field of fire. I watched closely as Ken talked to House. It looked like the light in his brain finally clicked on. He recognized Ken. House let his right hand slide slowly down to a wadded beach towel that lay next to his chair. I saw the towel start to rise off the concrete pool apron. I then saw the outline of a long barreled revolver.
“Gun! Gun!” I yelled as I reached for the magnum in my waistband.
Ken was very fast for a big man. He drew his pistol and stepped to his right gripping his pistol in both hands as he pointed it at House’s body. House fired wide as he swung the long barreled gun skyward. The big .44 magnum roared and tore a black hole in the white beach towel. Ken emptied his Beretta at point blank range into House’s chest. It was over in seconds. He was dead. Avant stared at House’s lifeless body. He started to shake. A healthy dose of adrenaline pumped through his massive system. We both waited for a few seconds before we put our pistols away. Everyone around the pool looked like they were playing freeze tag. They stared, but said nothing. I ran to Ken’s car and radioed the State Police. I asked them to contact Ranger Tommy Wells, and the Roseview Police Department.
I gathered the names and addresses of all those who were present, and I asked them to stay until the police arrived. No one knew what House told us, if anything. Only one or two needed to know right now anyway. We had survived the encounter, but we lost the witness. Not the best outcome, but, definitely better by a sizeable margin than not surviving ourselves.
We both smoked another cigarette as we waited for the police. We now had a firm resolve. All leads would be checked. We had to be thorough. The wolf was among us and removing the fleece would be no easy task.

The Wolf - Part II

Everywhere I go I'm asked if I think the university stifles writers. My opinion is that they don't stifle enough of them. There's many a best-seller that could have been prevented by a good teacher. - Flannery O'Connor

Continued from Part I

I returned to Roseview with some information, but a lot more questions. The Dallas DEA agent told me Coomer was part of a group of narcotics agents who thought that it was necessary to use drugs in order to do your job. Several of these guys became addicts themselves, and he believed Coomer was one of them. He said most of them were no longer cops. He wondered, and so did I, why Roseview hired someone with this kind of reputation.
I continued interviewing the clients for the attorneys who hired me. How could one undercover officer, operating with no help from anyone else, be successful with such a diverse group? Some of the defendants came from the most well to do families in town, others from the middle class, and some from the dregs of society. Until ten months ago Coomer and his girlfriend were strangers to Roseview. This just didn’t sit right with me.
The media-blitz continued and the anti-drug sentiment in the community was stirred to a boil. The trials began and the prosecution was scoring big points. During the first trail, one indigent mope was given ninety-nine years to serve for simple possession. He was charged with possessing a quantity of cocaine that weighed less than a paper clip. His attorney had no previous criminal defense experience. All of the clients who I interviewed told me Coomer, and his girlfriend injected cocaine, and smoked marijuana right along with them during their encounters. Many of them said Coomer provided the drugs they used. This story was repeated by all the defendants, young, old, white, black, rich, and poor. I saw a lot of smoke and I knew that there must be a fire burning somewhere.
I got a late night call at my home from an anonymous source. The mystery caller said that Coomer had just recently gotten a large dragon tattooed on the inside of his right forearm. The caller said it was put there to cover needle tracks. The next day I checked with the only two tattoo parlors in town, and I found Mark Gwaltney, the artist who painted the dragon.
Mark told me that just about a week ago a guy came into his shop and picked out a long dragon tattoo. He said that the guy told him he was on probation and he needed a long tattoo to cover up some needle tracks. Gwaltney told me he looked at the guy’s arm and told him he could do it.
“I really didn’t think that much about it until I saw the guy’s picture in the newspaper. When I found out he was a cop, I nearly freaked. I wanted to tell somebody, but this guy was a cop, so who could I tell?” Gwaltney said.
I took a sworn statement from Gwaltney and told him he would probably have to testify in court in the near future. He was a little nervous about testifying, but said he would.
I gave this information to Harry Beal. He was a skillful defense attorney, and one of the attorneys who used my services. His client was next on the docket. Harry used some of the background information I had obtained in Garland, and the sworn statement of Gwaltney as he cross-examined Steve Coomer. Coomer was taken by complete surprise. He was visibly shaken. Harry had opened “Pandora’s Box”.
Judge T. Erskin Ross ordered Coomer to take off his jacket and roll up the sleeve of his shirt and show his arm to the court. Much protesting ensued but to no avail. After the attorneys for both sides had a lengthy conversation at the bench, Coomer was allowed to show the judge his arm in chambers.
Judge Ross ordered his probation officer Ken Avant, to investigate the allegations of drug use by undercover officer Steve Coomer. Probation officers often act as the investigative arm of the court when the judge feels there is a need. The Dallas press picked up the story and started running an investigative feature that was not nearly as kind to Steve Coomer as the Roseview paper had been. The evidence in the case before the court went to the jury and Beal’s defendant was acquitted. The whole town seemed to be in turmoil.
Ken Avant caught me as I was leaving the courthouse.
“I want everything you’ve got on Steve Coomer. My judge wants to know everything.”
I called the attorneys who hired me and they told me to turn the entire report over to Avant.
“Ken, if you have any questions about the report just give me a call. I’ll be in my office all afternoon.” I left and went to my office to make some more calls. I knew we struck a nerve and this might loosen some tongues. The rest of the afternoon flew by. I was about to leave when the phone rang. It was Ken Avant.
“You’ll never guess what happened to me after you left.”
“You’re probably right, why don’t you tell me?” I said.
“I called the chief and asked if I could come and interview Coomer about the allegations made in court today. He told me he and Coomer would be at my office no later than 4:30. I was right in the middle of reading your report when the phone rang. The caller did not identify himself, but it sure sounded like Coomer to me.” Ken said.
“Well, what did he have to say?” I asked.
“That’s the weird part. He said if I knew what was good for me, I would use my influence with the judge wisely. Then he hung up.”
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I went in and told the judge about it. He was really upset, but we couldn’t prove who it was so he told me to really press the issue. I waited at my office until after 5:00, but Coomer and the chief didn’t show.”
“Big surprise right?” I asked.
“You haven’t heard anything yet. I went down to my car and started to leave the parking lot and my left front wheel fell off. I got out and looked at my parking space and all of the lug nuts were lying on the ground.”
“I guess we really hit a homerun with our little surprise in court today.” I said. “How did you get home?”
“I put my tire and wheel back on and drove to the house. I was really pissed, but it just keeps getting better. When I got home the phone was ringing. I answered, and the same anonymous person who called the office asked me if I made it home O.K. I told him yes, and he said I was lucky. He warned me again to use my influence with the judge properly. I assured him I would be very thorough and fair in my investigation. He hung up before I really got to tell him what was going to happen if I caught him.” Ken said.
“Man, I can’t believe these people. You be careful. Let me know if you need any help.” I said.
“Okay, you do the same. We’ll get the bikes out this Saturday afternoon if the weather holds and see if we can’t cold trail Mr. Coomer for a while. I need to get to know him a lot better.” Ken said.
“That sounds good, see you Saturday.”
Ken just lived two blocks behind me and after the strange events of the afternoon, we all decided to take extra precautions. I called the attorneys and told them what happened. Ken prepared to send his family to stay with relatives. Several of the attorneys did also. I loaded several shotguns and placed them strategically throughout my house. The remainder of the week flew by.

To be continued.

The Wolf - Part I

This will be a serial story in three parts. I hope you have time to visit over the next three days and read the complete story.

THE WOLF IS AMONG US


The roar of Ken’s big Harley caused me to stop chewing on the tuna sandwich I just started. I expected him later in the afternoon. I slid back from the table and walked to the back door. Ken Avant was huge. In his college days he was an offensive tackle for Kansas State University. Now he was a probation officer. I noticed his face was ashy white. He sucked hard on a cigarette, pinching the filter between his thumb and forefinger. A ring of red turned the white paper into gray ash. He flipped the butt into the yard. I could tell something wasn’t right.
“Hey. Stone, you’ve got to come to my house right now.” Ken’s words seemed to float out on a stream of smoke.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Just get your bike and come with me. I’ll have to show you. Bring your pistol.”
It was then I noticed the 9mm Beretta stuffed in the waistband of his jeans. He turned and walked back to his Harley. Rushing inside, I grabbed my keys and my snub-nosed Smith & Wesson revolver. Lately I kept it loaded and close at hand. I shoved it under my belt at the small of my back, and ran to the garage to get my motorcycle. Ken’s Harley rumbled away in the distance. I sat there on my cycle waiting for the engine to warm up.

* * * *

“Nine Month Undercover Drug Operation Nets 120.” This April headline in the Roseview Telegraph changed our lives.
I spent twenty years as a criminal investigator with the feds before I finally quit. I loved the work, but I hated the bureaucracy. I took a job teaching Criminal Justice at the local Junior College, supplementing my income by working as a private investigator. I enjoyed owning my own business and being my own boss. Stone Turner Investigations was a one-man operation, and until recently, it involved helping insurance companies check out questionable claims. The pace was comfortable.
Now, my old black rotary phone seemed to ring again every time I cradled the handset. The office of Turner Investigations was small and opened into a hall near the back door of an older business property. It seemed that every attorney in town suddenly needed my services. They all had either been appointed or hired to represent defendants arrested in the sweep. They wanted me to do the preliminary interviews with their clients. I was an expert at sifting bullshit, and sorting out jumbled accounts of criminal activity.
My calls to the police department left me puzzled. First of all, it surprised me I hadn’t heard anything about the operation before I read it in the paper. None of the local police officers seemed to know anything about it either. I could tell they weren’t just holding back. Police officers are terrible liars, and they usually share information with others in the fraternity. My teaching status kept me connected.
Undercover officer Steve Coomer had become the man of the hour. His picture appeared daily in area newspapers as he made the rounds of local service clubs talking about the evil influx of drugs in our quiet little community. Soon, the drug bust became the topic of conversation from the Club D’Lisa to the Country Club. The one big question in everyone’s mind was – Who is this guy Coomer?
I made a call after hours to the residence of a police sergeant who was a personal friend of mine.
“Hey, Bob, it’s Stone.”
“Yeah, what’s up on your side of the fence?” he said.
“Same as you – This drug bust. What do you know about Coomer?”
“Nada, amigo. I don’t think anybody here knows much about him. The talk is that the chief hired him, and that he reports directly to him.”
“Doesn’t strike you as being a little unusual?” I asked.
“Yeah, several people around here think the air smells a little funny, but you didn’t hear any of this from me.”
“I never talked to you – You know that.”
“Well, I’ve done a little checking on my own and you might be interested in this. He was a lieutenant with the P. D. in Garland. I hear he left under a cloud. He’s got his former female partner living with him here. You might want to go there and look under a few rocks.”
“I think I will. Keep me posted. I’ll let you know what turns up in Garland.” I said.
“O.K., but call me at home. Things around the station are a little strange these days and I might be able to help you more if no one knows I’m talking to you.”
“I don’t even know you. Keep you head down. I’ll talk to you when I get back.” I said.
I headed for Garland. My inquiries at the police department there were met with a chilly response. I didn’t get the feeling they weren’t talking because I was a private investigator. We often got snubbed when we approached cops who didn’t know us. I had a sense most of them wanted to say something. I was sure they had read the newspaper accounts. Finally, I found a police dispatcher, Hazel Mize, who was willing to answer some questions. It was her day off and she was at home. Hazel was beyond middle age. Her hair was dyed jet black and she wore a loose fitting cotton print robe and house shoes. We sat at the kitchen table in her small home and drank coffee as we talked. She lit a Virginia Slim cigarette and took a long drag. As we talked she alternated between the coffee cup in her right hand, and the cigarette in her left hand.
“I’m not afraid of Steve Coomer like some of these people are. I’ve been around a long time, and I don’t plan to leave any time soon. He had some people around here real scared before he left.”
“Why were they scared?” I asked.
“Well, there were all sorts of rumors about people who crossed him. He was running with a bunch of other narcs who worked on task forces in this area. They had a way of taking care of people who didn’t go along with their program. They made up their own rules.”
“Well what do you know from your own experience with Coomer?” I asked.
“I was dispatching one night when another officer came in and gave me a serial number from a pistol. He told me to check it to see if it was stolen. I did and I got a hit. I asked him if he had recovered the gun, and he said that Coomer was carrying it. I asked Coomer about it and he told me that he had gotten it in a recent drug bust. He said he was using it for a while before he logged it in. I don’t think he ever did put it in the evidence vault.”
“Was that the only thing you knew about?”
“Directly, yes, but there was a lot more. The city let him resign rather than fire him. There were drugs missing from the evidence locker, informants turned up dead, several other people had mysterious fires, and a lot of other strange things happened to people who had dealings with him. He had a fire at his apartment and had to jump from an upstairs window to get out. The firemen found a stash of drugs in his closet after the fire. He told them he had checked the drugs out of the evidence vault to use in his undercover work. You should check with the guys at the fire department.”
“What do you know about his partner, Kay Holtzcraft?” I asked.
Hazel shook her head and lit another cigarette. “Kay came here as a rookie patrolman. Steve asked the chief if she could work with him after she finished the academy. He said she looked young, and no one in the area knew her. The chief agreed to let her try. Steve was a sergeant back then. He was married to his third wife, Judy, at the time, and his second wife, Diane, lived with them in the same house. Rumor had it that he was fooling around with Kay too. Pretty soon he divorced his third wife and moved into an apartment. Kay resigned from the department shortly after he did. I heard that they were still living together.”
I finished my coffee and thanked her for her information.
In route to the fire department, I stopped by the employment office for the City of Garland and asked if I could see the personnel files of Coomer and Holtzcraft. I was given the standard answer about the confidentiality of files. I left my card just in case someone changed his mind. I did confirm their previous employment at the Garland Police Department. My investigator’s intuition told me there was a stink here that everyone wished would just go away.
My visit to the fire department was more fruitful. Several of the firemen present told me that Coomer had been at home at the time of the fire, and had jumped from a second story window to escape the blaze. They also confirmed Hazel’s story about a stash of drugs in his closet. One of the firemen said no one bought Coomer’s story about the drugs, including the police chief. He said that Coomer was asked to leave or get fired after the fire.
I interviewed several other officers who worked with Steve Coomer in Dallas and Collin counties. They would only talk in generalities about Coomer. They knew if they gave me specifics, they might end up in court testifying for the defense. No cop likes to do that. I also interviewed a retired DEA agent who worked with Coomer in the past. He told me straight out Coomer was dirty. They all knew the stories of the stolen pistol, the drugs and the fire, missing drugs, and dead informants. None of them however could point me to the source of any hard evidence. I sensed that some of them might still be afraid of Coomer and his former partners.

To be continued.

The Season - Part III

Happy Easter. I hope you have a great Resurrection Sunday.

Part III - The Game

The day soon came when the lineup for the first game was announced. Roy was chosen to play first team offensive guard. His mother rued the day when she had agreed to let him play. She believed he would probably quit before the first game. His dad on the other hand was quite proud. Central Jr. High was the largest in the division and they had won every game they played in the last several years. They were Golfview’s first opponent. During the week before the game the coach passed out the new purple game shirts with the gold numbers. Roy wore number 69. The Golfview Gators were ready to play.
The game was played under the lights at the high school stadium. Most of the Gator squad had never been there before, and most had never played under the lights. Their practice field didn’t have any markings on it. The referees had to line them up before the first kick-off. The Central squad looked huge. They won the toss and chose to receive. Coach Mays gathered the Golfview players in a big huddle and gave them a pep talk.
“Men, their return man is named DeAngelo and he is wearing number 32. All of you look for number 32. He is very fast. Hit him low, and hit him hard.”
Coach called Roy’s name for the kick-off squad. All of the team joined in a cheer that started low and got louder as they broke the huddle. “Gator bait, gator bait, gator bait….”
Roy ran onto the field. He looked at the other team and found number 32 near the goal line. He saw himself shedding blockers and plowing DeAngelo into the turf in front of the cheering masses. The referees whistle blew and Golfview’s kicker hit the football. It sailed toward number 32. DeAngelo got the football and started up field. Roy could see nothing but number 32. He was going to hit him untouched. Just as he took his angle, Roy was hit by a crushing cross-body block. He fell to the turf and caught the top of DeAngelo’s sock with one finger. The running back high stepped and jerked free. Roy watched as he crossed the goal line at the other end of the field. They made the extra point, and the score was seven to nothing in favor of Central.
The Golfview team lined up to receive the kickoff. Ronnie Massey, the scat back received the kick and ran it out to the thirty yard line. On the first play from scrimmage, Golfview fumbled the ball and Central recovered. On their next play, they scored another touchdown. They missed the extra point. The score was now thirteen to nothing after three plays. Coach Mays called a time out and the Golfview team ran to the sidelines. He didn’t call them men.
“I didn’t bring you here to have you lie down in front of the other team. You either get out there and stop them, or I’m going to forfeit and take you home.”
The team ran back on to the field. Roy and his team mates played an inspired game after that. They even scored. At the end of the game, the score was Central 13, and Golfview 7.
The rest of the season was a dream. Every team that the scrubby little Golfview team played lost. Central and Golfview met in the championship game. The scene was very similar to their first meeting except that Golfview had something to prove. Roy’s dad and mom had attended every game. Roy even had a girlfriend who ran on to the field and hugged him when the final gun sounded. The championship was a battle from the first whistle. The ball went back and forth between the two teams. At the end of the final quarter, the score was Golfview 14, and Central 7. The clock continued to run during the final two minutes. Central possessed the ball and drove to Golfview’s five yard line. The play gave them a first down. The big Central full back pounded the center of the line. In three plays he was at the one yard line. A defensive guard for Golfview fell and had to be carried off the field. Coach Mays looked to the bench and called for Roy.
“Get in there and seal off that gap. I don’t want anyone to make it through. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir” Roy said as he buttoned his chin strap.
Roy got down in the awkward feeling four point stance of a defensive lineman. The center and guard across from him looked huge. He watched the center’s hands and moved when he snapped the ball. Roy lowered his butt and pushed his body upward with all his strength wedging himself into the gap. Through the mass of grunting, pushing flesh he could see the thighs of the big fullback coming straight for him. Roy lowered the crown of his helmet and strained forward with everything he had. The knees of Central’s big fullback hit Roy’s helmet and the runner fell just short of the goal line.
Roy could not hear the cheers or remember what happened on the play. He awoke minutes later on the sideline with his dad looking down at him and his girlfriend standing near by. His mother had already gone to the car. She just couldn’t stand to watch. Later he learned that he had held his ground. Golfview won.Roy’s dad, who was gravely ill, didn’t live long enough to see another season, but sometimes one is enough.

If you don't learn to laugh at trouble, you won't have anything to laugh at when you're old. Edgar Watson Howe

The Season - Part II

Part II - The Practice

He was at the practice field early. The Golfview physical training area was a large sandy expanse covered with sand spurs and bounded on three sides by palmetto, cabbage palms, and other scrub plants. The guys from Golfview subdivision were all wearing matching shorts and tee shirts. Some of the group from South Gate drifted into the brush on the other side of the fence for one last cigarette. Roy and his friends stood in between them. They watched and waited for instructions. The coaches held a clinic on how to properly put on the uniform. They told the players where to buy their cleats and other gear not provided by the school.
The practice started with fifty and one hundred yard time trials. Roy ran as fast as he could, but when the players were assigned, he was told to report to the offensive line coach. . He didn’t know the difference between offense and defense. He was just happy to be there. The rest of the afternoon was spent running. He had never run so much in his life. His lungs hurt, his legs shook, and his gym clothes were soaked and sticking to his body. Over the next few days they ran until they collapsed. The loose white sand made footing difficult. Roy hoped he wouldn’t give out. Some guys threw up across the fence at the edge of the practice field. The heavier smokers gave up on football altogether. Roy stayed. His mother was disappointed.

After a week of running, push-ups, jumping jacks, squat thrusts, and agility drills the coach told them to report to the field in pads. Roy saw the world for the first time from inside a football helmet. The curved nylon face mask looked like a small ladder just below the level of his eyes. The pads and other gear made him look like quite a physical specimen. On the other hand it made the really big guys look like giants. Roy lumbered from the field house with the rest of the team. The metal tipped nylon cleats made an awful racket as they ran down the concrete runway. The coaches and some of the football dads made a wooden seven-man blocking sled. It was a behemoth. Seven players lined up in a three point stance in front of the blocking pads attached to its front. On the coach’s whistle they lunged at the great wooden beast slamming their shoulders into the pads and driving their legs with short choppy steps. Because the field was sand, and because the blocking sled was homemade, it rarely slid. The runners of the sled tipped forward and dug into the loose turf. The linemen continued to drive with their legs until the coaches’ second whistle. A large deep hole formed beneath their cleated shoes as they strained against the immovable object. Roy’s calves cramped and his thighs burned but he continued. He wasn’t going to quit. His pads got heavy as the cotton backing soaked up the sweat.
The offensive line coach showed them how to make a proper block on a running play. He showed them how plays were diagramed with X’s and O’s, and where they were to block based on the play called. After that, they learned pass blocking, keeping their butts low and getting under their opponent. They practiced these moves over and over again. Then the coaches called the entire team back together for fumble drills and tackling practice. Roy thought he was going to die. Every time he thought it was time for practice to end they would start something else. In the early stages, they practiced everything at half speed concentrating on their form. The coaches taught them to tackle with their heads on the same side of the ball carrier as the ball. The wet pads picked up the grit from the sandy field and rubbed them raw. Just when Roy thought he could go on no more, the coach blew his whistle and lined them up at one end of the field. They were five or six abreast and on the coach’s whistle they ran one hundred yard wind sprints. At the end of the field they got back in line and repeated the drill. Before practice was over, players were stumbling and falling down. Roy drug his spent body to the showers and stood under the soothing blast. He left his equipment in the compartment with his name on it and headed home. He went to bed early that night.
The following days passed with the same intensity. The strong stench of ammonia and body odor filled the locker room and increased with each passing day. Roy thought they could probably win if the other team had to smell their pads before the game.
During the second week, the coaches picked up the speed. They added tackling drills at full speed. Bull in the ring and head on tackling introduced Roy to the physics of two large objects meeting helmet to helmet. He dreaded tackling their big fullback, Mike Rains. Mike weighed 180 pounds and had a beard as heavy as that of any man. Roy got up after some tackles looking out the ear hole of his helmet. If the offensive linemen missed a block, the coach would make them run the ball with no blockers. Several times the coaches pulled up on the belt of Roy’s football pants as he lay sprawled on the ground trying to regain his breath after a collision. He was playing football. Roy was put into the lineup at Guard. He was the smallest man on the line. He often pulled away from the line on an end run called to his side and led the running back around. Most of the players on the offensive and defensive interior line were over two hundred pounds. Roy had to try and hold them out on pass plays and block them on running plays. His battered and bruised body was evidence of his tenacity. He had been run over, stepped on, cleated, kneed, poked, jabbed, and flattened, and this at the hands of his own teammates. He wondered what playing against other players might be like. The players from South Gate were the toughest. They played dirty, and they enjoyed a good fight. Some had earned nicknames; Benny the biter, Knees Orton, Walrus, Scat. Benny would bite the nearest leg or arm in the pile after a tackle. Once, in the tangle of the pile, he bit himself, and spent the rest of the game trying to figure out who did it.

You don't stop laughing because you grow old. You grow old because you stop laughing. - Michael Pritchard

The Season - Part I

I have decided to post a story in serial form for the next few days. The story is too long for one post, so I am breaking it up into three parts. Our lives are influenced by so many things when we are young, but we never consciously think of them until we are adults. Why are we like we are? Why do we think the way we do? Many of these answers come from the examination of our lives as youngsters. I hope you can relate.

My method is to take the utmost trouble to find the right thing to say, and then to say it with the utmost levity. - George Bernard
Shaw

The Beginning - Part I

Sweat dripped off of Roy Bond’s oily teen face. It glistened in the bright September sun. The temperature was still in the high 90s in south Florida. The registration line stretched from one end of the school to the other. The hallways were open and ran along the exterior of the building. Roy was leaning out to see how much further he had to go when someone stuck a permission form in his hand. Turning, he stared at the slender man with the crew cut.
“Son, get you parents to sign this form, and report to the field house tomorrow for a football physical.”
“But…” His stammering response fell short of the back of the man’s head. The speaker continued down the long line with another man following close behind. They were dressed alike in Khaki shorts and matching purple shirts. Both had whistles hanging from cords around their necks. They sized up each male in the line. If they had any size at all, they repeated the short speech and handed them a form.
Golfview Junior High School opened its doors just two years before. Roy stood in line to register for the ninth grade. The school sat between an affluent golfing community, Golfview, and the infamous South Gate, a place where the railroad tracks literally marked the boundary between the fortunate and the unfortunate. A few kids, including Roy, lived in a semi-rural area near the school. Both of Roy’s parents worked and had no time for golf.
He stared at the form in his hand and wondered about the possibility of playing football. Roy weighed 165 pounds, but most of it was baby fat. Very few kids in his neighborhood ever played any organized sport other than baseball. Still, the thought of putting on a football uniform and running onto the field in front of cheering fans excited him. Sweat continued to streak down his cheek as he waited in the slow moving line, but Roy didn’t notice. He dreamed of stardom. In the past, only the well-to-do kids played football at Golfview. The school win/loss record was dismal.
That evening when his dad got home, Roy gave him the insurance card and permission form.
“Dad, can I go out for football?”
Before he could answer Roy’s mother said, “You’re in the band.”
“I could do both.” He countered.
“You’ve never played football.” She said, looking at her husband for some support.
His dad was an athlete: a champion boxer in the Navy. Roy could sense that his dad was on his side.
Roy remembered how his dad tried to prepare him for life. It all started in grammar school. Roy was really too young to start school. He still had his baby teeth. But there he was at school, back against the wall, trying to avoid contact with strangers. A large boy stood in front of him looking down at his upturned face. His stare was unfriendly.
“What are you looking at?” The large boy asked...
“Uh, you look sleepy.” Roy said.
Apparently he took offense at Roy’s retort and pounded him into a submissive blob. This was his first encounter with a bully. His dad later told him that crying and rolling into a ball was not an acceptable defense tactic. He tried to teach him the “sweet science”, but Roy was left handed, and a bit of a bumble foot, so he progressed slowly and avoided physical confrontation. By the end of elementary school he gained some confidence, but, just when he began to feel comfortable, Junior High School started. The process had to be repeated.
His dad looked at him and then back at his mother. “Let’s let him tryout.”
His mother turned away in defeat. Roy started in on the usual list of promises related to what he would do if allowed to play. Dad signed the form.
The next day Roy stood in front of the concrete block field house with a great host of other potential players. Three major groups huddled in separate areas around the front steps. The kids from Golfview community stood nearest the door. Most of them had played before. Another group from South Gate milled around in the shade of a nearby palm tree. This group smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and Vitalis hair tonic. Roy didn’t know the South Gate kids very well because he spent most of the last two years trying to avoid them.
The new coach stepped out of the field house and addressed them. “Men, line up and have your signed forms ready when you get to the door. After you pass your physical, report to the equipment room and check out your pads. Practice will start this afternoon at four. Bring your equipment when you come.”
He called them “men”. Roy felt tougher already. He rubbed his hand across his face to see if he could feel a whisker. He thought for a second that he did, but realized that it was only a pimple. Once through the door they were told to strip down to their shorts. Roy looked around to see how he measured up with the rest of the guys. He thought maybe he should order the Charles Atlas muscle building course after he got home. Once the poking and prodding behind the curtain was complete, they redressed and picked up their equipment. All were fitted for a helmet, pads, practice uniform and game pants. They had to provide their own jock strap. Roy had never worn one before. He left with a hefty load of armor stuffed into his football pants. He purchased a jock strap at the local drug store on his way home. That was embarrassing. Now he stood in front of a full length mirror and practiced putting it on over his pants. He had a horrible vision of standing naked and afraid in front of strangers and not knowing how to put it on. Once he mastered his most basic piece of equipment, he worked on figuring out the rest. The remainder of the day whizzed by as he dreamed of flying tackles and crushing blocks. All of these delivered by him, of course.