“I was in the math club,” he said.
“I played football the whole time I was growing up. Pop Warner, junior high, high school, college. I loved every game. Then I got drafted. My first year in the NFL was a real wake-up call. The amateurs were about winning and losing. Not the pros. It was all about TV ratings.”
“You’re saying the pros are fixed?”
“The games are scripted. Not all of them, but enough to drive ratings.”
“Do the owners know this?”
“Hah. It was their idea.”
“You’ve lost me. Why would the owners do that?”
“Because they have a revenue share with the TV networks that broadcast the games. CBS, NBC, ESPN, the NFL Network, they split the money they make with the owners. The amount is supposed to be a secret, except the Green Bay Packers released it in a financial report. Each team’s owner gets a quarter billion dollars a year just from the networks.”
He was starting to see the picture and nodded.
“Like I said, it’s supposed to be a secret,” Night Train said. “TV ratings drive revenue for the owners, so it’s in their best interest to broadcast games that generate big ratings.”
“How many games are you talking about?”
“It’s different every year. The season starts, and the teams play for a few weeks, and the NFL looks at the ratings. Maybe Buffalo has an explosive running back who’s breaking all sorts of records. Or the Dolphins’ quarterback is on fire. The NFL looks for good story lines, and those are the teams that get the help. Happens every year.”
“What kind of help?”
“A ref calls back a crucial play during a tight game. Or a placekicker is told to miss an extra point. I played a game where the other team’s defense had microphones hidden in their helmets that picked up our offense’s plays. The referees could hear static coming out of the helmets but ignored it.”
“Did you ever do that?”
Night Train gave him a look. “I’ve shaved points a few times. But I’ve never gone into the tank.”
“You’ve never deliberately lost a game.”
“Never.”
“But why would the NFL do this? The Super Bowl is the most watched sporting event in the world. People are going to tune in regardless. They don’t need to fix it.”
“That’s not how the NFL sees it. Neil Godfrey is a rising star. Time to pass the torch and make him a superstar. It will be good for ratings next season.”
“Is that what the commissioner told you?”
“In so many words. When we said no, the NFL manufactured broadcasting jobs for us. When we said no to that, the front office leaked a story to ESPN saying we were retiring.”
“Weren’t you?”
“It was up in the air. Our contracts were up, but there were plenty of teams that would sign us. Once the NFL leaked the story, the decision was out of our hands. No team will sign a player who’s thinking about spending Sundays mowing the lawn. Our careers were done.”
“But you still said no.”
“Yes, we did. That’s when the NFL told us they had files with every bad thing we’d ever done. If we didn’t play along, they’d release stuff to the media and screw us over. It made me feel so shitty that I put a brace on my knee so I could sit out the game and not be a part of it.”
It was as ugly as it got, and they stopped talking for a while.
“What’s Godfrey’s deal?” Billy asked. “Is he a phony?”
“Hell no. Neil Godfrey’s legit. He’s the next big superstar. That’s why the owners want him to shine this Sunday.”
“Can the Rebels’ defense stop Godfrey if you’re not playing?”
“Probably not.”
“So you’re still throwing the game even if you sit out.”
The words were slow to sink in. When they did, Night Train shifted uncomfortably on the couch. He had allowed a group of filthy-rich owners to compromise his principles so they could line their pockets with gold, and it was tearing him up.
“Makes you feel like a slave, doesn’t it?” he said.
“Watch it,” Night Train warned.
“You were a slave the day you signed your first contract; you just didn’t know it.”
“Shut up, or I’ll rip your fucking head off.”
“What would your old man say if he knew?”
“Leave my daddy out of this, or I’ll hurt you. I mean that.”
“What are you getting in return for selling out? A crummy broadcasting job? Does that come with another script with your lines spelled out for you? You’re at the end of your career. Be your own man, and walk away on your own terms. Make your old man proud.”
“Didn’t you hear me?”
“Do it for him. You won’t regret it.”
Night Train backhanded him in the mouth. It was like having a door slammed in his face, and Billy tumbled out of his chair. His head banged against the floor and he momentarily blacked out. When he came to, the couch beside him was empty.
He left the cigar bar rubbing his chin. The people he cared about were ending conversations by smacking him in the face. He was only being honest with them, which maybe was the problem. The truth hurt, so they took their pain out on him.
But had he broken through? Would Night Train see reason and not sit the game out? He didn’t know Night Train well enough to hazard a guess.
He walked through the lobby of Caesars. The promenade of shops was lined with windows overlooking the hotel swimming pool, and he spotted the figure of a man sprinting across the grass, his legs pumping furiously. It was Night Train, and he was running like a man possessed.
Sixty-One
Thursday, three days before the Super Bowl
He went into seclusion in his condo at Turnberry. Each morning before hitting the exercise room, he tuned in to ESPN to hear the latest scuttle about the Super Bowl. The Rebels defense’s wild times at Caesars continued to be a hot topic. Every day, a new tantalizing piece of information emerged, with stories about all-night parties, illegal drugs, and high-priced call girls. The Rebels were now a twelve-point underdog, and the announcers were spending more time discussing this year’s star-studded halftime show than the game itself.
He was lacing up his sneakers when there was a news flash from the Rebels’ practice facility. A breathless female sportscaster filled the screen. Next to her stood his old pal Night Train. Night Train had his uniform on, and his brow was beaded in sweat.
“I’m here with Night Train McClain, captain of the Rebels’ defense,” the sportscaster said. “Night Train, I’m told you have some news to share with our viewers.”
“We took the brace off last night and tested my knee. It’s still a little tender, but I should be good to go,” Night Train said.
“That’s fantastic. Will you be starting on Sunday?”
“I told Coach I was ready, so yeah, I’m starting.”
“Any truth behind the rumors that this will be your last game?”
“I’m not thinking that far ahead.”
“Your team is a heavy underdog with the odds makers. How do you feel about that?”
“We’re going to give it our best shot and see what happens.”
“Good luck on Sunday.”
Every interview Night Train gave to the media ended with him flashing his famous smile. But not this time. Today, he was all business, and he gave the camera a cold shoulder before walking away. He acted like a man with something to prove.
Billy killed the picture with the remote. It was all he could do not to start dancing. He used the landline to call downstairs to the exercise room and speak to Bridgette, his personal trainer. “Hey, Bridgette, it’s Billy. I’m afraid I have to cancel this morning’s session,” he said.
“Would you like to reschedule for tomorrow?” Bridgette asked.