Ruffians Page 8

  "Clay," Walton said, "I want to welcome you to the Ruffians and thank you for coming down. This is something all the teams do with their first-round picks. The press wants to meet you because you'll be the big news item for the next few days, and probably for much of the season. Anyway, I'll take you to our press room, Mr. Lyles will greet you, and you and he will answer questions for the press. I told them they could have you for about forty minutes if that's all right?"

  Walton gave Clay an inquisitive look, and Clay smiled and nodded.

  "Sure." Clay couldn't get over how much his life had changed already. It was only twelve hours ago when he crawled into his parents' house, a drunken college student.

  "Good. Then when you're done, the coaching staff wants to meet you, and of course, Mr. Lyles himself will want to have a chance to talk with you without the press," Walton said.

  "That sounds fine," Clay said.

  He entered the press room, and the TV cameramen that had been behind him scurried past to set up their cameras on tripods. The room was filled with people that Clay knew he would soon come to recognize. They were all members of the media from across the state of Alabama. At the front of the room, a man stood behind a podium that was sprouting microphones. He reminded Clay of a chemistry teacher from High school. Although he wore a suit, Clay could see that the man had never had anything to do with the game of football himself. He had a pudgy softness about him. Although his eyes looked cold, the man smiled warmly at Clay, and Art Walton motioned him forward. Clay shook a small hand that fit snugly in the palm of his grip. Clay realized then that Humphry stood on a platform in back of the podium. The platform made him almost as tall as Clay, and Clay chuckled to himself, thinking of Pat Sajak.

  Lights from the TV cameras filled the room with harsh white light.

  "Gentlemen," Humphry Lyles announced with a note of arrogance and pomp in his voice as he slapped Clay on the back, "I present to you, the Ruffians' newest edition and number one draft pick . . . Clay Blackwell."

  The room broke into applause, then the questions began.

  "Clay, how do you feel about coming to Birmingham?"

  "Birmingham's great. I think you have a great city down here." Clay was doing his thing with the press. He had no notion of Birmingham, but he knew that the people would want to hear about a first-round pick that was glad to come to their town. "I'm looking forward to getting to know it better, and I'm really looking forward to being part of a winning team and building a winning tradition."

  Newspaper reporters made furious notes as he spoke.

  "That's right," Humphry Lyles interjected, "Clay is going to be a part of a winning tradition. I intend to give the people of this city and this state a winner that will take us into the twenty-first century. The Birmingham Ruffians are the NFL's team of the future."

  Who had asked him anything? They had come to see and talk to Clay. But the reporters seemed to take it in stride, and Clay wasn't surprised- After all, Mr. Lyles was the owner, and rich enough so that he was probably used to getting whatever he wanted. As the owner, whatever he had to say would have to be heard. Still, it was annoying.

  "Clay, how do you feel about playing for Vance White?"

  Clay knew of White's clouded past, but that wasn't something he'd talk about. Who cared?

  "I only met Coach White once, but to me he seemed like a nice guy, and his coaching record is very impressive. You probably know better than me, but I think he's taken his college teams to bowl games for the last four years as well as a national championship. Any time as a player you get to play for a winner, you have to look at it as a positive experience."

  "Clay, what about the Birmingham Ruffians, are you disappointed that you were chosen by an expansion team?"

  "I'm glad to be here. A lot of guys hope to get picked by a playoff team, that's only natural. But to me, there's something very challenging about being part of a team that's on the rise. I hope to contribute to what I'm sure, as Mr. Lyles said, will be a team of the future."

  "Historically, Clay," said the same reporter, "expansion teams struggle for at least ten years before they experience any success whatsoever. What makes you think Birmingham will be any different?"

  Here Clay glanced at the owner, who was staring at him intently. "Well, I think when you get a coach like Vance White, in a great football state like Alabama, you can't help but be successful."

  The reporters all knew, as Clay did, that he was bullshitting now, but that didn't keep them from smiling and liking what he said. This was part of the game with the media, and Clay was well versed in it. No player or coach or anyone in the game of football ever told the media the real truth or their real feelings. It was all planned, and each sentence was carefully edited before spoken, omitting words that would look bad if printed, stating the positive in order not to step on anyone's toes. Although there were occasional players who spoke openly, they were considered renegades, and Clay knew that things he said to the media could always come back to haunt him.

  When Clay finally finished answering questions about himself and the Birmingham Ruffians (the latter of which he knew virtually nothing about), Art Walton thanked him and led him to the staff office. Humphry Lyles had left Clay to himself after about ten minutes of questions from the media. Clay couldn't get over the feeling that the owner had left almost in a pout, miffed over the attention that was being paid to what he considered one of many employees. But it was a crazy thought, so Clay forgot about it.

  Gavin Collins had met Clay and Art on their way down the hall. He wore a broad smile on his face.

  "Clay, Gavin Collins, damned glad to see you again."

  "Coach Collins, it's good to see you too."

  "In here, in here, everyone wants to see you," Collins said, and showed Clay into a large wood-paneled office where about a dozen men sat around a large conference table. They each had notepads and papers spread out in front of them, and the room was smoky. The men all turned their heads, and Collins introduced Clay to them one at a time. Clay recognized Box and wondered at the man's indifferent attitude.

  "Clay, these guys still have a full day to put in, so let me and Art take you to see Vance and Mr. Lyles."

  The owner's office was a grand room, and it reminded Clay of a library. There was a large leather sofa and some other chairs that were arranged around a fireplace, but Lyles and White sat on the other end of the room. The owner behind his desk and White in a burgundy leather overstuffed chair opposite the desk. The scene had a dignity about it that didn't seem to fit with the owner's personality. Clay suspected a man like Collins would look much more natural behind the big desk rather than the short, chubby Mr. Lyles. Also, the room exuded money and power, something inherent with the NFL, but foreign to the grass-and-sod world of the gridiron.

  Collins and Art Walton had remained outside, and Clay stood alone for a long minute while the two men sat silently, as if thinking, before the owner offered Clay a seat.

  "Clay," Lyles said, opening his arms as if to present to Clay the entirely new world of the NFL, "welcome to the Birmingham Ruffians."

  White leaned over and shook Clay's hand, "Welcome to the club, son. We're all glad to have you on board."

  "Clay," Lyles said, "as you probably realize, we have to get back to the draft room and finish picking our other boys, but I did want you and Vance and myself to sit down and have a little talk to break the ice."

  "Thank you, Mr. Lyles. It's a pleasure to meet you, and I'm sure I can do some good things for the team."

  "Oh, I have no doubt that you will do tremendous things for my team," Lyles said with a forced smile. "And Vance and I wanted to just use this opportunity to let you know what page we're on so that we're all working toward the same goals."

  Clay nodded his head.

  "Clay," said White, "we have what we consider advanced training methods here in Birmingham. Methods that are integral in taking this team to the Super Bowl. So naturally, we want you here in Birmingham, working
with our staff and using our training methods in order to best prepare yourself for the upcoming season. Pm sure you experienced the same kind of thing in college, but here it will be even more intense. The players on this team will not view their job as only lasting during the season. Winning is a full-time job, and we will be going at it around here three hundred and sixty-five days a year."

  "What Vance is saying, Clay, is that we want you here soon ... to get ready. Now we know that your agent--"

  "Bill Clancy," Clay interjected.

  "Yes, Bill Clancy. We know that he will be advising you, and that obviously you have a certain amount of trust in him. But we want you to know that we are perfectly willing to give you a very lucrative offer right up front because we want to get you into our program right away. Does this make sense to you, Clay?" Lyles said.

  "Yes, I know what you mean, and I want to get down here and get into things as soon as I can. But if you and Bill don't reach an agreement right away, Mr. Lyles, I assure you that Pll be training as hard as anyone. I always have. That's why I'm here now."

  "This is a team game, Blackwell, and you better get used to that right now!" White snapped, glaring at Clay.

  Lyles chuckled. "Now, Vance, this is business, just business. This is the NFL. Agents are part of it, and when Clay gets his contract signed, he'll be here. All we're saying, Clay, is that sometimes agents complicate things for the sake of justifying their existence, and we want you to know that we're anxious to get you here and begin working with you."

  "We've got a formula for success here, Blackwell," White said, "and if you're interested in it, then you won't mess around with your agent all summer. We picked you because you seemed like a football player, not a businessman. You tell your agent to get his job done quick so we can get going. Don't forget that you have to work for the money we'll be paying you. We're not paying you because you were a good college player. We're paying you to help take the Ruffians to the Super Bowl."

  Clay sat on his hands to keep from fidgeting. He'd never really seen anyone behave so abruptly and so inconsistently before. One minute White was greeting him like an old friend, the next he was practically screaming like a lunatic. This was only the second time he had met White. This was draft day, a day for celebration. They were supposed to be welcoming him to the team and making him feel good. It was bad manners to act like a drill sergeant at this point in the game. White's behavior was insane.

  He was still staring at Clay as if daring a contradiction. Definitely off the deep end, Clay thought. But deep end or not, he also knew that he'd be working for White. Maybe this was just his way of establishing some macho bullshit between him and his players.

  That must be it, Clay thought. It was just White's method of letting him know from the start that he was all business, a real hard ass. If this was the NFL, then this was the NFL. It was nothing like college, when a player was recruited and could let some hard-ass coach go screw himself if he had an attitude like White's. In that situation he could just go to another school. In the NFL, it was becoming obvious that you had no choice. You get drafted by a team and you go.

  Clay said nothing, and then White said, "Well, of course Mr. Lyles is right. This is business, and I should get back to football business. Clay, let's get you here soon so we can go to work."

  White held out his hand--it was gnarled like an old tree root. When Clay stood to shake it, the coach gave his hand a squeeze that was beyond any normal handshake. White's face gave away no extra effort, but he had Clay's hand in a vise. Caught in the unexpected grip, Clay could think of nothing to do but stare impassively into White's gaze. Clay had to admit to himself that he was surprised at the man's strength. Abruptly White let go, turned, and left the room.

  "Coach White is very fond of you, Clay," Lyles said with a chuckle after the door had closed.

  "I could see that, sir."

  "Clay," Lyles said, motioning him to sit down again, "men like Vance White don't have much in the way of social graces. But he can do what I hired him to do, that's why he's here. And that's why you're here, Clay, because you can do a job that I need done. I know about one thing, and that's winning. I know I must be sounding like a broken record on the subject, but this team has a lot to prove."

  Clay doubted that the owner knew a shoulder pad from a jockstrap. "Well, winning is certainly what it's all about," he said.

  "And to win," said Lyles, his eyes gleaming as if he had a secret to tell, "you need a winning edge. That's why we want you here soon, Clay.

  I aim to win this year. Our plan is to get all our boys here and get everyone into a special program that I have had devised by experts, the very best people that money could buy."

  The owner took a bill out of his wallet, gave it a snap, then turned it over and over with his fingers. It was a hundred-dollar bill. aOh, I know what the press says about expansion teams never winning for years after their formation. But I also know myself, and I know that I won't go through another year like last season. I won't have it. I won't have people saying Humphry Lyles isn't a winner. You see, I believe in money and the things it can do."

  They sat silently except for an occasional snap of the bill. It was hypnotic, almost intimate.

  "Well!" said Lyles abruptly, "I have to get back to the draft room.

  "Clay," he added as he stood and stretched out his little hand, "I'm looking forward to it. I'm going to make the Ruffians into a team that few have seen the likes of. You can be damned proud that you're going to be a big part of it. Remember, let's get you here soon."

  When Lyles had gone, Gavin Collins led Clay on a little tour through the building. It was an impressive sports facility. Everything, right down to the upholstery on the weight room equipment, was done in the team colors, black and gray. Everything was new. In the locker room were spacious areas for each player, and a central lounge with leather sofas, overstuffed chairs, and a television. Off to the side was a free snack bar with racks of munchies and soft drink machines. On the other end of the locker room was an enormous hot tub, large enough for a dozen big men, and a dry sauna the size of Clay's bedroom at home. Out the back door were the practice fields. Clay and Collins walked out onto them. Even in the hot sun the grass was like a soft, cool mat.

  "Water 'em three times a day and cut 'em once every day," Collins said. "Looks like a golf course, doesn't it?"

  "This whole place is like a damn country club on the right side of town," Clay said.

  "Oh, yeah," replied Collins, "you have arrived. The only thing missing around here is a winning record, and once we have that, this will be a player's paradise . . . and a coach's."

  "Well, I really hope I can help make it happen, though you'd have to wonder what I was doing here if you talked to Coach White."

  Collins laughed. "Bite you a little when you were in there, did he?

  Vance is just like that. Don t worry about him, it's not you. I wish you could have heard him talking about you before the draft. He really thinks you're just what this team needs, and so do I."

  "Thanks, Coach." Clay was now sorry he'd brought it up. He didn't want to sound like he was begging for compliments.

  "Clay, I'll take you back up to the car now and let you get back home to your friends. I have to get back with the rest of the coaches. The offensive guys are getting most of the other picks in the draft--the defensive staff had to concede that much after taking you with our first pick--but I should be up there anyway."

  Before Clay pulled away in the limousine, he put down the window and shook Collins's hand once more. Clay knew he could play for this man. He was just one of those people in life who Clay knew was on his side.

  Chapter SIX

  A DROP OF AMBER LIQUID beaded on the cold blue point of the needle. All the air had been cleared from the syringe, and Max liked that. He knew that a little air was no problem just as long as it wasn't injected directly into a vein, but he could never get over the childish fear of air in his needle. When he was a boy, he had see
n a TV show called "Barretta" in which an undercover cop was killed by a drug dealer who injected air into his arm. It was for that reason too that Max always shot himself in the ass. But because he was in a bathroom stall, it was hard for him to twist around and jab the needle into the soft flesh above his right buttock. He managed, though, steadying himself with his free hand on the toilet-paper dispenser. He slowly forced the drug out of the needle and into his flesh. It burned.

  He knew the skin would become red and puffy in the violated area, but he also knew that for the next six hours the sore spot would be the last thing on his mind. He knew what he was going to feel like, and although he didn't particularly enjoy the feeling, he knew it would distract him from any minor bodily discomforts. Max wrapped the needle in a wad of toilet paper, tucked away the bottle of Thyall-D, and picked his gym bag up off the bathroom floor. When he left the stall, he tossed the wrapped needle into the garbage can, not even noticing that he missed. He then made his way back to his locker and sat there on his stool, waiting for the drug to kick in.

  It wouldn't happen all at once, and Max liked to have a good surge going before he hit the weight room, so he would wait. He looked around the locker room.

  Down a few lockers from him were two burly offensive linemen, Dan Pike and Pete Makozych--everyone called them Pike and Sick. They were always together, and Max decided to have some fun while he was waiting.

  "Hey!" he bellowed.

  Pike and Sick both looked up from their towels.

  "What's up with you guys? You guys do everything together, don't you?" Max said.

  "What's it to ya?" Sick said.