Fair Game

I

Sunday 3:30 AM

The phone rings with intensity as it slices the night silence with its not so dulcet tones. Alan Dervis is none too pleased. He takes his hands from his wife’s side. She shifts to regain his caress. He sits up and her hands fall to the bed sheets. She grabs them in mild frustration and turns over to fall back asleep. His loss.

“Do you know what hour this is?” He says in his usual gruff tone.

“Yes sir. Am I speaking to Alan Dervis?” The man’s thick southern drawl almost it him impossible to understand. Alan shakes his head at the sound of the man; he already doesn’t not enjoy this man.

“Who am I speaking to?” His voice audibly annoyed.

“Sir this is Special Agent Phillip Rivers, Federal Bureau of Investigation. May I speak to Alan Dervis?”

Alan’s face takes on a very pale white. He swallows so hard the shudder sends chills up his spine. He pauses only for a split second.

“Speaking sir.” His tone still gruff. He doesn’t kiss ass well.

“Thought so. Sir you sound like a man that doesn’t appreciate horsing around and I don’t either. Your program was under investigation by the NCAA, now it is FBI. We have evidence of a gambling ring, coming from your squad of players. We also know that you know. We know you have given money to Chad Ringer on several occasions; we have video evidence of it. We know that money was used for illegal purposes. We know you know this. What we have presents a problem for us and our current investigations and what I’m saying is that I would appreciate you not saying a word as so to not compromise my hard work.” The static hangs, a tonal tomb slowly closing on Alan’s mind. The words have yet to process fully, his mouth hangs a tad agape, eyes frozen, breathing slowed. He registers a response, a small barely audible gasp.

Alan’s face tingles, then his arm. Soon his whole body is hyper sensitive. .Static hangs in the air. The air conditioner hums and the blinds rustle from the fan. Their normally faint noise sending searing pain, like molten nails boring into his head. His blood pressure spikes along with his heart rate, sweat suddenly and profusely drips down his aging cracked forehead.

“And if you don’t. It’ll be more than your dignity that you lose.” The voice is tame, calm.

Alan hangs up the phone and lays back down. His wife turns over again and places her arm around his neck. She comes in close, her lips resting on his ear. She nuzzles her forehead against the back of his neck and breathes lightly on his bare back. Her eyes flutter, with fantasies of the swim coach floating in her head. She claws at Alan’s back, he rolls onto her hands to stop her, she rouses from sleep.

“Who was that honey?” She asks half moaning. She runs her hand down his body, he remains motionless.

“No one sweetheart, go back to bed.” He turns harshly and her grip becomes loose and broken. She huffs in frustration and pulls away, her frown quickly fading as the swim coach returns for some adult lessons on doggie paddling. Alan lays awake, his reality now turning to fantasy as his bewildered mind struggles to cope.  His eyes sting, but he can’t blink. Or think. Or do much of anything good to society. His brain is pierced, by a terrible quandary.

II

Monday 6:30 am

Coach Alan Dervis sat in the locker room, his left index finger running up and down the tiger stripes on the helmet. Its backside is riddled with tiger paws, little purple paws, offset nicely by the yellow background. Stemming from its middle a long purple stripe stretches, from that a tiger pattern, purple naturally. His leathered and weathered hands examine the helmet. It belongs to his best player, Chad Ringer. Over the years Chad has become everything Alan wanted in a player, he treats him as he would his own son. That is if he ever had one. His vicarious living has propelled to numerous championships, and three failed marriages. He pulls out his pack of Pall Malls and finds only his lucky remaining.

“The highlight of my day.” His tongue laced with stinging self deprecation as he inhales the smoke deeply and slowly.

As he smokes he holds the helmet up to face him and pressing his nose up against the faceguard, he snarls and grits his teeth; their yellow stains a more menacing glare than the helmet. He stands up, growling louder and louder, working himself into frenzy his legs stomping as he jerks about the locker room. His maniacal gestures suddenly stop, and he drops the helmet to his side. He looks down at with disdain for only a moment before he hurls it at the nearest locker. As it rolls back, facemask caved, he smiles and takes a long slow drag from his white nail. He walks over to it, his ire cooking again, working itself to boil. He grimaces at the numerous purple paws the litter the back of helmet. He examines his finger nails, he looks at the helmet. He fervently shoves it under the sticker, trying to work it off. Sweat beads at his brow as he chips away as Chip’s years of achievements. His yells echo violently through the empty hallways, the raucous noise building upon itself a cacophony of angst. His nails splits, but it doesn’t slow him. He continues jamming finger into a sticker determined for just one more, blood spurting staining the tiger skin like a battle wound. Abruptly he stops. Only his heavy, loud exasperated breaths reverberate through the halls. The helmet falls to the floor and rolls awkwardly into the middle of the floor near the drainage, a small stream of blood lies underneath it. Alan walks silently to his office and sits down at his desk. The room is a deep and inviting brown and green. It feels like a study, or a loving family room. The space is wide and the furniture was a gift from the Athletic Director for last year’s bowl win, among other very fabulous things.  He kicks the chair over, leaving deep gashes in the fine leather from his cleats. He falls to his knees before his trophy case, staring at the reputation he has created. The history he was making. That would all be over soon. The NCAA had been on his back for months but had turned no credible leads, he was in prime position for the hearing Tuesday, that was until he called. Maybe it was a long standing history of bad choices Alan thought to himself. Was it not just himself, it had to be others. It was a culture of deception. The money came from sponsors, probably a tax write off anyway. It wasn’t affecting the game; he made sure the boys never played to lose even if the odds were better. What harm was it for a college kid to get some perks. A smile came to his face, as if struck with the idea to invent the wheel. He earned it, through years of bloodshed and turmoil in his own life he thought to himself. His fists slam into the desk, defiantly denting the wood. He shoots out of desk with purpose his eyes perusing the trophy case.  Is this the legacy of a cheat? Does dishonesty breed this?  He scratches his head with the broken nail and he winces with pain. He looks up to the ceiling.

“I have a feeling this will only be the beginning.”

III

Tuesday 8:42 AM

Alan sits in a twelve by twelve room, a television set in front of him. Alan laughs what he sees on screen and for a brief second a smile comes to his lips. The first one in days. It fades when commercial comes and he returns to his somber state. He stands and moves listlessly about the room, often bumping into the furniture and nearly stumbling over. An assistant comes in to inform him, stops for moment to judge and then leaves. Alan feels more dejected. He slowly exits the room and proceeds to the conference room, Chad Ringer’s helmet upside down in his hand, a gold object protruding from it. Upon his entrance the room stirs with bright flashes and the sounds of near a thousand clicks. His moment being captured, recorded, forever etched. For years people will live his moment, some with trepidation as they vicariously live the fear and shame. Announcers will jest and pundits will poke and prod until the image is worn and the jokes are old saltines. Alan sits at the table. A stoic expression blanketed across his face. He runs his fingers through his hair to force the part just a little bit more. A carefully crafted appearance should never be underestimated he thinks. Another smile comes to his lips and he leans forward into the microphone.

“I’m Sorry to have to say this…..”

He pauses, his throat dry, his lips feel heavy. Suddenly his mind is lazy and he cannot form the words. He clears his throat a couple of times, no luck. He straightens his tie and grabs the water; he slams the cup in under a second. He stops to look the crowd in the eyes, he pans across the rows. He opens his mouth but pauses before continuing. His mouth hanging open he looks around, slowly he closes it. A small murmur rushes through the crowd. Is he Sane? What does that mean? He did it!

He stands and quietly plants the helmet and trophy on the table. He takes two rings from his fingers and places them on the table. He smiles meekly and buttons his suit, runs his hands down it to press it flat and then bows slightly before turning off stage. His walk carries purpose, a great bravado as exits stage left. The stunned crowd clambers for answers, the room is awash with unintelligible noise as Alan smiles without saying a word. 

They follow him intensely, pressing for truth.

what about the prospects? The vibrant youth?

chaos follows but he pays it no mind

he only sees sunshine, warm and kind.

wordless and stoic he enters his car,

starting it quickly his door still ajar.

he floors the accelerator, tearing through the lot,

 until he is off in the distance, visibly only as a dot.

END