"What!" Rick said as forcefully as possible. Arnie snatched the paper down and bolted to his feet. "Are you okay, kid?"
"Wonderful, Arnie. What day is it?"
"Tuesday, early Tuesday morning. How do you feel, kid?"
"Give me that newspaper."
"What do you want to know?"
"What's going on, Arnie?"
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything."
"Have you watched television?"
"No. You pulled the plug. Talk to me, Arnie." Arnie cracked his knuckles, then walked slowly to the window, where he barely opened the blinds. He peered through them, as if trouble were out there. "Yesterday some hooligans came here and made a scene. Cops handled it well, arrested a dozen or so. Just a bunch of thugs. Browns fans."
"How many?"
"Paper said about twenty. Just drunks."
"And why did they come here, Arnie? It's just you and me-- agent and player. The door's closed. Please fill in the blanks."
"They found out you were here. A lot of folks would like to take a shot at you these days. You've had a hundred death threats. Folks are upset. They're even threatening me." Arnie leaned against the wall, a flash of smugness because his life was now worth being threatened. "You still don't remember?" he asked. "No."
"Browns are up seventeen to zip over the Broncos with eleven minutes to go. Zip doesn't come close to describing the ass kicking. After three quarters, the Broncos have eighty-one yards in total offense, and three, count 'em, three first downs. Anything?"
"No."
"Ben Marroon is at quarterback because Nagle pulled a hamstring in the first quarter."
"I remember that now." "With eleven minutes to go, Marroon gets drilled on a late hit. They carry him off. No one's worried because the Browns' defense could stop General Patton and his tanks. You take the field, third and twelve, you throw a beautiful pass in the flat to Sweeney, who, of course, plays for the
Broncos, and forty yards later he's in the end zone. Remember any of this?" Rick slowly closed his eyes and said, "No." "Don't try too hard. "Both teams punt, then the Broncos fumble. With six minutes to go, on a third and eight, you check off at the line and throw to Bryce on a hook, but the ball is high and is picked off by somebody in a white jersey, can't recall his name but he sure can run, all the way. Seventeen to fourteen. The place is getting tense, eighty thousand plus. A few minutes earlier they were celebrating. First Super Bowl ever, all that jazz. Broncos kick off, Browns run the ball three times because Cooley ain't about to send in a pass play, and so the Browns punt. Or try to. Snap gets fumbled, Broncos get the ball on the Browns' thirty-four-yard line, which is no problem whatsoever because in three plays the Browns' defense, which is really, really pissed at this point, stuffs them for fifteen yards, out of field goal range. Broncos punt, you take over at your own 6, and for the next four minutes manage to cram the ball into the middle of the defensive line. The drive stalls at midfield, third and ten, forty seconds to go. Browns are afraid to pass and even more afraid to punt. I don't know what Cooley sends in, but you check off again, fire a missile to the right sideline for Bryce, who's wide open. Right on target."
Rick tried to sit up, and for a moment forgot about his injuries. "I still don't remember."
"Right on target, but much too hard. It hits Bryce in the chest, bounces up, and Goodson grabs it, gallops to the promised land. Browns lose twenty-one to seventeen. You're on the ground, almost sawed in half. They put you on a stretcher, and as they roll you off the field, half the crowd is booing and the other half is cheering wildly. Quite a noise, never heard anything like it. A couple of drunks jump from the stands and rush the stretcher--they would've killed you--but security steps in. A nice brawl ensues, and it, too, is all over the talk shows." Rick was slumped over, low in the bed, lower than ever, with his eyes closed and his breathing quite labored. The headaches were back, along with the sharp pains in the neck and along the spine. Where were the drugs? "Sorry, kid," Arnie said. The room was nicer in the darkness, so Arnie closed the blinds and reassumed his position in the chair, with his newspaper. His client appeared to be dead. The doctors were ready to release him, but Arnie had argued strongly that he needed a few more days of rest
and protection. The Browns were paying for the security guards, and they were not happy about it. The team was also covering the medicals, and it wouldn't be long before they complained.
And Arnie was fed up, too. Rick's career, if you could call it that, was over. Arnie got 5 percent, and 5 percent of Rick's salary wasn't enough to cover expenses. "Are you awake, Rick?"
"Yes," he said, with his eyes still closed. "Listen to me, okay."
"I'm listening."
"The hardest part of my job is telling a player that it's time to quit. You've played all your life, it's all you know, all you dream about. No one is ever ready to quit. But, Rick, ole buddy, it's time to call it quits. There are no options."
"I'm twenty-eight years old, Arnie," Rick said, with his eyes open. Very sad eyes. "What do you suggest I do?"
"A lot of guys go into coaching. And real estate. You were smart--you got your degree."
"My degree is in phys ed, Arnie. That means I can get a job teaching volleyball to sixth graders for forty thousand a year. I'm not ready for that." Arnie stood and walked around the end of the bed, as if deep in thought. "Why don't you go home, get some rest, and think about it?"
"Home? Where is home? I've lived in so many different places."
"Home is Iowa, Rick. They still love you there." And they really love you in Denver, Arnie thought, but wisely kept it to himself. The idea of being seen on the streets of Davenport, Iowa, terrified Rick, and he let out a soft groan. The town was probably humiliated by the play of its native son. Ouch. He thought of his poor parents, and closed his eyes. Arnie glanced at his watch, then for some reason finally noticed that there were no get-well cards or flowers in the room. The nurses told him that no friends had stopped by, no family, no teammates, no one even remotely connected to the Cleveland Browns.
"I gotta run, kid. I'll drop by tomorrow." Walking out, he nonchalantly tossed the newspaper on Rick's bed. As soon as the door closed behind him, Rick grabbed it, and soon wished he had not. The police
estimated a crowd of fifty had staged a rowdy demonstration outside the hospital. Things got ugly when a TV news crew showed up and began filming. A window was smashed, and a few of the drunker fans stormed the ER check-in, supposedly looking for Rick Dockery. Eight were arrested. A large photo--front page beneath the fold--captured the crowd before the arrests. Two crude signs could be read clearly: "Pull the Plug Now!" and "Legalize Euthanasia." It got worse. The Post had a notorious sportswriter named Charley Cray, a nasty hack whose specialty was attack journalism. Just clever enough to be credible, Cray was widely read because he delighted in the missteps and foibles of professional athletes who earned millions yet were not perfect. He was an expert on everything and never missed a chance for a cheap shot. His Tuesday column--front-page sports--began with the headline: "Could Dockery Top Ail-Time Goat List?" Knowing Cray, there was no doubt Rick Dockery would top the list. The column, well researched and savagely written, was structured around Cray's opinions about the greatest individual chokes, screwups, and collapses in the history of sports. There was Bill Buckner's booted ground ball in the '86 World Series. Jackie Smith's dropped TD pass in Super Bowl XIII, and so on.