“Galloway and Whitman know, of course, who they’ve got back of Hunsinger. And they know how good he is. Who is it?” Ewing asked.
“Kit Hoffer,” said Koesler, “and I think he’s quite good. But he hasn’t had much of a chance to play. . what with the Hun’s being the superstar.”
“I think we’d better get back to the stadium and check out the new kid in town,” said Harris. “Then we’ll know a little bit more about just how motivated management was in keeping Hunsinger alive and well.”
Monday mornings in the Cougars’ locker room and training facility were devoted mostly to the walking wounded. The wounded who could not walk were usually in the hospital.
By the time Harris, Ewing, and Koesler entered the locker room in search of Kit Hoffer, much of Monday’s customary routine had taken place.
The players had begun to straggle in about nine. Some were dressed in the identical clothing they had worn when they left the stadium the evening before. They hadn’t been home. They had partied long and late. Most of these were in the arms of a bleary-eyed but good-humored hangover. Others, the more mature or serious athletes, were rested and ready to go.
A high percentage of those who had seen considerable game time yesterday now needed at least patching. Trainer Jack Brown had been steadily taping extremities, chests, and groins. At eleven-thirty, the team doctor arrived, checked the halt and the lame, and examined the more seriously maimed.
In general, the Cougars were far more subdued than usual. Most of the conversation, naturally, revolved around Hank Hunsinger. It was truly shocking for one athlete to contemplate the death of a fellow athlete, much less his murder.
After the examinations were completed, the trainer and the doctor delivered their reports to the coach, so he could begin to consider the personnel around whom he would build this week’s game plan.
It was at this point that the detectives and the priest entered the locker room. A few questions to players, some in varying stages of dishabille, others wrapped like mummies, disclosed that Hoffer, Cobb, the coach, and several assistants were on the field in the stadium. And yes, that was out of the ordinary for a Monday. But the coach wanted Cobb and Hoffer to have the maximum time in working together.
The three walked up the gentle incline toward the field with its artificial surface. Koesler considered the view from the field awesome, a sports cathedral. Not far from them, a group of men were clustered. Four wore team jackets. Koesler recognized only Coach Bradford. The three others, it would turn out, were assistant coaches on the offensive team. In nondescript sweat clothes were Bobby Cobb and Kit Hoffer. Koesler vaguely hoped the officers wouldn’t immediately halt the workout. He wanted to watch for a short while at least.
So did the officers.
At about the 10-yard line, Cobb and Hoffer stood approximately six or seven yards apart, roughly where they would be had the rest of the team been in playing position.
Cobb, holding a football in his right hand, turned toward Hoffer. “Okay, let’s try a dragout. Right. On two.”
Cobb hunched as if crouching behind an imaginary center. Hoffer assumed a three-point stance.
Cobb called out, “Hut! Hut!” and slapped the ball against his left hand as if it had been thrust there by the center. He retreated rapidly, four, five steps.
Hoffer began a pattern, swinging slightly to his right, and continuing downfield. Abruptly, he broke for the sideline, looking over his right shoulder.
The ball was thrown behind Hoffer. He tried to twist his body in the opposite direction; his legs became tangled and he fell, rolling over and over.
Cobb cursed. One of the assistant coaches returned the ball. The others shouted either correctional advice or encouragement. Coach Bradford stood silent and motionless, arms locked across his chest, face expressionless.
Hoffer, obviously feeling as graceful as a puppy whose legs are its worst enemy, returned to the imaginary line of scrimmage.
The two players conferred with one of the assistant coaches, then set up for another play. This time, Hoffer lined up to Cobb’s left.
“Okay, Hoff! Gimme a dragout and go! Left! On one!”
Cobb crouched. Hoffer balanced on his toes and the knuckles of his right hand.
“Hut!” Cobb slammed the ball and backpedaled.
Hoffer slanted slightly to his left, heading downfield. He abruptly broke toward the left sideline, then, just as abruptly, headed down-field at full speed.
Koesler thrilled to the exuberance of it: Hoffer, like an animal, seemed to run for the joy of running.
Cobb sent the ball in a high, deep arch. Hoffer slid to a halt, keeping his balance with one hand on the turf. He returned several yards and caught the pass just before it touched the turf. Clutching the ball to his chest, he fell and rolled over several times. Then he lay on his back, holding the ball up as high as he could, like a trophy.
“Bobby!” an assistant coach yelled. “Tell me what the hell good it is to outrun the safety and have to come back for the ball!”
Coach Bradford might have been carved from stone.
“Okay, Hoff. Let’s try a little curl! Right! On one! Hut!” Cobb retreated.
Hoffer ran straight downfield ten to thirteen yards, then stopped and curled back toward scrimmage. The ball was delivered just as he turned. He barely saw it. He dropped it.
The assistant coaches shouted.
What seemed to be a frown appeared on Bradford’s face.
At twenty-five, Kit Hoffer was young by anyone’s standards. Yet he was a little old to be a rookie. The cause of his retarded career might have been buried somewhere in his background.
Hoffer had just missed the 1950s, the decade many say was America’s last age of innocence. Born in 1960, he would live through the age of power explosions: student power, radical power, black power, drug power, fem-lib power, consumer power, rock power, rocket power.
Much of that had taken place beyond his awareness. He was only a teenager during Watergate. And Vietnam was over before he would have been forced to go.
Actually, despite growing up during a time of turmoil, Kit Hoffer had had a comparatively tranquil youth.
An only child, he had worshiped his father, Harold. And the affection was returned. Kit wanted to grow up just like his dad. Fortunately for that wish, he took after his father in that they were both mesomorphs with an abundance of bone, muscle, and connective tissue. Harold was, and Kit would grow to be, a muscular athlete with a large skeletal frame. And, as was so often the case, the son would far surpass his father in both size and athletic ability.
Harold Hoffer had grown up in New York City. He had attended Catholic schools, and had been an outstanding athlete from grade school through college. But while his scholastic career had been exceptional, he was not quite up to the standard of a professional in any sport. He went into sales for American Airlines. He was highly successful, using many of the contacts he had made during his life as a sports hero. He was transferred to Dallas-Fort Worth, the once and future headquarters of American.
Harold had married while living in New York. Kit was born there. When they moved to Texas, Kit was too young to know that everything about him would have been perfect if he had been Baptist. That anomaly diminished significantly as Kit grew and grew and grew.
He attended public school. But his parents made certain that he also attended catechism instructions faithfully. By so doing, he learned the Commandments, the Sacraments, and the Creed, over and over. His parish was not in the catechetical avant-garde.
For a while, young Hoffer toyed with the notion of becoming a priest. But he discovered two effective barriers to that vocation. He liked girls far too much to go through life without a wife. And his grades never reached a level that would encourage an academic career demanding scholastic achievement.