"The poor child will be distraught after your suicide. I don't know how effective an advocate she'll be."
"Suicide?" Bobby asked, ice water rushing through his veins.
"What would a man with a history of instability and self destructive behavior be likely to do? Hell, you looked like you were cracking up last night at the Commissioner's party. Who would be surprised if you did a swan dive off the back of the press box?"
Kingsley's eyes were as dead as pieces of stone, and Bobby had no doubt he was serious.
"Do you think that will get your daughter back?"
"Maybe not today or tomorrow, but eventually. You're the one who drove her away, and when you're gone, when she realizes that she hitched her wagon to a dead mule, she'll come back. I'll raise Scott to be ten times the man you ever were. I'll raise him to be like me, and she'll thank me for it."
"You heartless son-of-a-bitch!" Bobby struggled against the handcuffs. He wanted to leap at Kingsley, to smash him into the electrical panels and fry the man's brains, but he could only get to his knees, his hands still locked behind his back.
"Hey!" Crew Cut yelled. "Where do you think you're going?" He kicked Bobby in the ribs and sent him sprawling.
"Wait till right after the final gun, George, when people are pouring out of here. It'll be dark, so just take him up top and give him the heave ho into the parking lot. Then come down to the locker room and have some champagne."
"I wish to hell I'd never said the damn thing. [Winning isn't everything; it's the only thing.] I meant the effort. I meant having a goal. I sure as hell didn't mean for people to crush human values and morality."
— Vince Lombardi
46
Halftime was a blur to Christine. First, the field was covered with Disney characters, singing syrupy songs. Then the Petaluma show horses high-stepped and pranced across a specially made tarp so that a diving wide receiver wouldn't get a facemask full of poop in the third quarter. Finally, there were the Black Eyed Peas, Usher, Slash, and Madonna.
"Damn halftime show is lasting longer than most guys' playing careers," said one of the guys from personnel.
Her father had disappeared just after the half ended. He'd been whispering into a walkie-talkie, then walked out of the suite with a crooked grin in place, slapping backs and exchanging "howdys" with friends and league officials. He came back just before the second half kickoff, looked down at Christine and said, "Do you know the difference between Robert and me?"
The words swirled through her head. Integrity, honesty, sensitivity. But she didn't answer.
"I'm a man who always does what has to be done," he said, answering his own question. "Nothing's changed about that, and it never will. Someday, you'll appreciate it, and you'll know it was for your own good and for Scott's."
After he'd taken his seat, Scott said, "What did Pop mean?"
"I'm not sure." The father she once knew so well had become a mystery, full of threats and innuendos.
"Is it bad to do what has to be done?"
"Not if it's the right thing."
"But Pop…?"
"He always thinks whatever he wants is the right thing. And it isn't."
On the field, Denver had received the kickoff and ground out three first downs. The ball sat astride the mid-field stripe, sneaking a peek at Dallas territory.
"What are we going to do, Mom? The Mustangs have the spread covered."
"We'll wait until the fourth quarter. Your father will be angry if we go through with it."
"I know, but it needs to be done and doesn't the good outweigh the bad?"
"I think so, Scott, but morality is funny. We'd be breaking the rules, and your Dad believes in sticking with them. When we used to play tennis, he'd give me every shot that was even close to the line. What you and I are going to do isn't black and white. It's like so much of life, a shade of gray. Does that make sense?"
"He's open!" Scott yelled, his eyes on the field.
Christine turned just in time to see the two Denver receivers crossing in the center of the field. One of the Dallas cornerbacks got tangled up and fell, and as a receiver broke open, Mike Skarcynski lofted a high, soft pass that nestled into his receiver's hands at the twenty. He ran untouched into the end zone, lifted the ball high in the air as if offering it as a sacrifice to the gods, then slammed it into the turf.
"Where's the flag!" Kingsley screamed from the front row. "Illegal pick! Where's the goddam flag? Dammit, they never make that call! We're getting screwed, blued and tattooed by the refs."
Others rumbled about the unfairness of it all. Had Nightlife Jackson been in there at cornerback, he never would have fallen down.
"Hell, he would have intercepted the pass," one of the loyalists said.
"Jeez, it's like losing two players, Nightlife being out," another whined. "Our best cornerback and our best wide receiver all rolled into one."
After the extra point, Denver was only three points behind, and Christine felt some relief. "Maybe we won't have to do anything," she told Scott. Even though trailing 10-7, Denver was one point up on the four-point spread. If the game ended this way, Bobby would win his bet.
After the kickoff, Dallas began a methodical march down the field. The offense seemed more determined as often happens after the other team scores. With Nightlife missing, Coach Krause was calling more running plays, and the Mustangs chewed up yardage and the clock, finally petering out at Denver's twenty-nine yard line. After Craig Stringer overthrew an open receiver on third and nine, Boom Boom Guacavera lined up for a forty-six yard field goal attempt.
"Make it, you little wetback," one of the P.R. guys ordered.
"Yeah, keek a touchdown," another said, mocking the foreign kicker who wasn't fully aware of the game's terminology.
Miss it, Christine prayed.
"He's gonna nail it," Scott said. "In warmups, he was hitting from sixty yards out. I've never seen him so strong."
Stringer barked signals from his position as the holder, and Christine could not help but think of Bobby. He was so proud of having played college football, even if all he ever did was hold for the kicks. "I never dropped one," he told her many times. "Never even bobbled a snap in three years." Now, she thought, he held her heart in his hands.
Don't drop it Bobby.
With the serenity that comes from endless repetition, Stringer cleanly handled the snap, swung the laces away from the kicker, and placed the ball on the ground in precisely the right spot. Boom Boom kept his head down, planted his left foot, and swung his right leg as smoothly as a championship golfer wielding a three iron. The ball rocketed through the uprights with a good ten yards to spare.
"Attababy!" Kingsley yelled from down front.
"He tucked his free hand away, just like I told him," Scott said, regretfully. "He gave me grief, but he did it. Mom, we gotta do something."
"Not yet," Christine said.
After the kickoff, Denver bogged down and punted after one first down. With the ball once again in their hands, the Mustangs tried banging away with running plays but with little success. Christine kept glancing at the clock as the teams played conservatively and traded punts, and as the seconds ticked down like a beating heart, Dallas led 13-7 at the end of the third quarter.
This game should be called the Snore Bowl," Crew Cut said. "Jesus, there's no offense, and I bet the over."
"How much time is left?" Bobby asked. His knees were stiff, and his wrists were numb from being locked behind his back.
"Still early in the fourth quarter. Dallas ahead by six.
"How about letting me watch through the window?"
Crew Cut shot a look at him.
"What am I going to do? Spoil your day by diving through the glass and committing suicide early?"