By no means was he stupid. He could have become a serious and successful student. But his desire to follow in his father’s tracks forestalled that.
His parents would have been pleased enough had he wanted to be a priest. But his father would have been convinced that his son had missed a vocational vehicle. So father and son played endless catch, shot numberless baskets, hit countless baseballs. At the proper time, Kit began to invest regular hours in pumping weights and working out on exercise machines.
It worked. In senior high school, he was all-state in football, baseball, and basketball. Most major colleges tried to recruit him. The best package was offered by, in effect, his hometown university, Southern Methodist.
He had it all. All but luck.
College baseball and basketball have their value. But neither attracts the publicity nor garners the income for the school that football does. Considering Kit’s build and natural talent, Harold and his son put all their chips on intercollegiate football. Kit became fullback for SMU. The best fullback in the conference. Perhaps the best in the nation.
But almost every time SMU would play one of its traditional rivals-a Notre Dame or a Texas A amp; M-on national television, for one reason or another Kit Hoffer would be sidelined. An injury, the flu, once, unbelievably, housemaid’s knee. Thus, he gradually earned a reputation for unreliability. The word went round that Kit Hoffer could not be counted on for the big ones.
It was unfair. Kit Hoffer played, and played well, against Notre Dame, Texas A amp; M, Texas, Oklahoma, but generally not when national TV covered the event. Unlucky.
He should have been chosen in the first round of pro football’s draft. He went in the eighteenth, to Chicago. Just as training camp opened, his mother died. He was late for camp. Unlucky. By the time he got there, he had fallen hopelessly behind in learning Chicago’s system. Two veteran fullbacks were well ahead of him. The coach decided to go with the two veterans. Unlucky.
His father got Kit a job in sales with American Airlines. His was a very big name among sports fans in the Metroplex area. Many travel agents and business people wanted to be seen in the company of the big, if former, college football star at the Fairmont, or the Pyramid or the Carriage House. Kit did well for American Airlines. But his heart wasn’t in it. His heart was in football.
The next season, as a free agent, he was invited to Tampa Bay’s training camp. On the first day of contact drills he injured a knee. Because he was unable to participate in any further drills or practice, he never did catch up-and failed to survive the final cut. Unlucky.
He returned to Dallas, where he continued to please influential people who reserved a lot of space in air travel. American Airlines was pleased with his work. But he and his father shared a common disappointment. They knew it was all a matter of bad luck. However, there seemed to be nothing either could do about it. Kit stayed in shape, working out regularly at the Y.
The following season he contacted no one. And no team contacted him. But he continued to maintain his excellent physical condition. He played softball, basketball, and touch football with amateur groups, while keeping in mind that he could not afford to forget to hold back. Otherwise, he would be likely to injure someone.
He married. He and his childhood sweetheart had agreed to wait till his career in pro football was well established before marrying. That they went ahead with the marriage was a tacit admission that he had given up hope.
Then the phone call came from Coach Bradford. The coach wanted to reinforce the position of tight end. He was certain Kit could master the new position. Yes, even if he made the team he would be playing behind Hank Hunsinger. But nobody lasts forever. And he would finally attain his dream of playing professionally.
Kit, his wife, Grace, and his father agonized over the decision. They even went to their parish priest and had a Sunday Mass offered for guidance. They decided to take the chance. Actually, Harold and Kit had known from the start what the decision would be. The agonizing had been for Grace’s benefit.
For once, he sailed through training camp uninjured and unencumbered. He more than mastered the position of tight end. But there was that brick walclass="underline" Hank Hunsinger. A no-cut contract, and orders that he play every moment he was capable of playing. Unlucky.
Kit had practically no opportunity to even work out with the first string. In practice, he was on the squad of reserves that ran the plays of the coming week’s opponent for the benefit of the Cougars’ first-string defensive team. Kit had little more than a nodding acquaintance with Bobby Cobb, the perennial starting quarterback.
And so it would go, he was convinced. The recipient of one bit of rotten luck after another.
Unless. . unless he could make his own luck.
Bobby Cobb and Kit Hoffer had reverted to the simplest pass patterns. Little more than playing catch. But as they grew increasingly successful, Hoffer grew increasingly confident. The shouted encouragement of the assistant coaches became more sincere. Coach Bradford watched the progress intently but impassively.
Hoffer jogged back to what passed for the line of scrimmage.
“Okay, Hoff, let’s just try that curl again. Right! On two! Hut! Hut!”
Hoffer left the scrimmage line driving and at full speed. As he reached a point just behind where the middle linebacker would play, he planted his right foot and curled back toward scrimmage. At the moment he turned, the ball was there, in a tight spiral, thrown hard and aimed at his chest.
By now, Hoffer was becoming accustomed to the quarterback. Kit anticipated the ball, the spot, the velocity, the tightness of the spiral. He opened his large hands and “looked the ball in,” letting the spiral drive itself into his hands. No sooner had he made the catch than he spun away and was driving downfield, the ball securely tucked in the crook of his left arm.
Perfect.
Koesler looked over at Coach Bradford. He didn’t smile. But he did something with his lips. Perhaps it was the suppression of a smile. The assistant coaches were going wild. They sensed the new combination was beginning to jell.
Hoffer trotted back, his fine blond hair bouncing as he jogged. He wore a wide, self-satisfied grin.
“Okay, Hoff! Let’s go for the big enchilada. Let’s try for the flag with a one-step fake inside. And, Hoff, when you make your break, turn on the afterburners. I’m gonna lay this sucker dead over your right shoulder. Right! On one! Hut!”
Hoffer drove from the line, running low, moving toward some invisible target. After some fifteen or twenty yards straight down-field, he planted his right foot, took one feinting step to his left, immediately planted the left foot, and broke for that corner of the end zone where the small red flag was planted. As he broke, Cobb lofted a high, deep pass downfield.
Hoffer glanced back as Cobb released the ball. Instinctively, the tight end knew where the pass would come down. He extended himself, lengthening and quickening his stride. As he neared the goal line, he knew the pass was too long. He would never be able to get both hands on it. He would be lucky to get one hand on it. He stretched every fiber of his being as far as possible. The tips of the fingers of his right hand made contact with the descending ball. He wiggled it toward his palm. Stumbling, he crossed the goal, the ball firmly, triumphantly held in his right hand. None of those watching had ever witnessed a better effort or a better catch.
The assistants went wild. Bradford kicked the turf and shook his head.
Harris, Ewing, and Koesler approached Bradford.
“Nice catch,” Harris understated.
“I don’t believe I’ve seen better.” Bradford shook a full head of unruly salt-and-pepper hair. His accent was an Oklahoma-Texas mix. His permanently tanned face was creased by too much sun and wind.