"It's not whether you get knocked down; it's whether you get up."
- Vince Lombardi
"Flex Right, X Right, three-twenty-four Train, Z Colorado on two hard—"
"Wait! What do I do?"
William looked at D'Quandrick Simmons, number eighty-eight, on the far side of the huddle staring back at his quarterback with wide eyes. D-Quan—his street name—stood six feet four inches tall, weighed two hundred fifteen pounds with four percent body fat, ran a 4.4-second forty-yard dash, and could go airborne to catch any ball thrown in his general vicinity. But he wasn't so good with the playbook. They were coming off a timeout, so William had time to explain the play to D-Quan. He pointed at the other receivers.
"Cowboy, he's lining up left and running a deep crossing route to freeze the free safety. Cuz is going in motion right—I'm hoping he takes the strong safety with him—then running a deep out. Outlaw's running a short out. You're slot left. I'm trying to iso you on the corner deep, so you're running a Train, hitch-and-go at fourteen—"
"Say what?"
William sighed. Every player—except him—suffered brain farts, moments in games when the pressure or the excitement or the exhaustion caused his brain to cease functioning for all intents and purposes. He just played on adrenaline and innate street skills. D-Quan was experiencing a brain fart. That, and he was a few fries short of a Happy Meal. William had learned that at times like this with D-Quan, it was best to keep it simple.
"Just run down the fucking field and catch the ball."
D-Quan pounded his chest twice with his fist then fashioned goal posts with his thumbs and forefingers, his signature gesture.
"End zone, baby."
They were huddled up on their own thirty-six-yard line in the center of the field of thick green turf in the bowl of the ninety-thousand-seat stadium. The tight space inside the huddle reeked with the scent of sweat and testosterone oozing from every pore on the eleven large male bodies. The five offensive lineman, white guys weighing in at over three hundreds pounds each, stood bent over with their hands on their knees, panting like wild beasts, spitting saliva balls, and sucking oxygen, their massive bodies pushed to exhaustion from blocking equally massive defensive linemen for three hours in the ninety-degree heat of mid-October in Texas. Ty Walker, aka Cowboy, the tight end from Amarillo, spit tobacco juice through his facemask; he had grown up bull riding in rodeos, so a football game barely provided enough danger to get his blood pressure up. Ernie, the halfback from Houston, was cool and black and headed to the NFL; he just wanted to get out of his final college season with his knees intact. And the three wide receivers—Maurice Washington, aka Cuz, Demetrius Jones, aka Outlaw, and D-Quan—all tall and black and blazing fast with tattoos emblazoned down their long sinewy arms and dreadlocks hanging out the back of their helmets, stood with their hands on their hips and their 'hood expressions on their faces, as if questioning whether their white-boy quarterback could come through one more time.
He could.
William Tucker, number twelve, was the senior quarterback for the Texas Longhorns. He was six-five, two-thirty-five, and fast; he could throw, and he could run. He could have gone pro after his sophomore or junior years, but he wanted a national championship trophy sitting between the Heisman Trophy he had won last year as the top college football player in America and the one he would certainly win this year, the first back-to-back Heisman winner in forty years. They were undefeated, 8-0, and ranked number one in the nation. Oklahoma, their opponent that day, was also undefeated and ranked number two. The winner of this game—known as the Red River Rivalry and played in the Cotton Bowl in Dallas each year during the State Fair of Texas—would be the odds-on favorite to win the national championship. They were down four points with eight seconds left in the game. So far that season, they had won five times on dramatic fourth-quarter comebacks engineered by William Tucker. But his teammates still didn't believe in his destiny.
He did.
He was born to play football. Specifically, quarterback. He had the height to see over the defensive line, the hands to hold a pro-sized football as if it were a peewee league ball, and the arm to hurl the ball far downfield, a requirement in the pass-happy offensive schemes employed by the pros. And the pros were chomping at the bit for William Tucker. He was the prototype NFL quarterback: big enough to withstand the physical punishment pro quarterbacks suffered at the hands of three-hundred-pound defensive linemen, strong enough to stand in the pocket and make the throw, and fast enough to evade the rush when his protection broke down and turn a negative play into a positive play. He was big; he was strong; and he was fast. He was the best there ever was. He was on the cover of the current edition of Sports Illustrated.
In five months, he would go number one in the pro draft and sign a five-year, $100-million guaranteed contract with Dallas. Word was, the Cowboys were trading up to take him. William Tucker would be their franchise quarterback. He would make Big D forget Meredith, Staubach, and Aikman (the fans had already forgotten Romo). He was twenty-two-years-old; the dream that had first taken shape in his mind ten years before—"I'm going to be the Cowboys quarterback," he had said, as all twelve-year-old boys in Texas say—would come true. But he wanted a national championship to close out his college career, and Oklahoma stood in the way. He had to motivate his teammates for one more big play. Playing quarterback was part athlete, part motivational speaker, part religious leader; he had to make them believe. He often felt like Moses—if Moses had played quarterback at the University of Texas at Austin. He stepped to the middle of the huddle and yelled over the crowd noise.
"Look around, guys. This is why we play the game. This is why we play for the Texas Longhorns. Ninety thousand fans in those stands. Millions more watching on national TV. We win today, it's a straight shot to the national championship game. We lose, we're done. I don't know about you boys, but I didn't come up to Dallas to lose to a bunch of fucking Okies. And we're not going to lose. One play. One touchdown. We win. Now suck it up and kick some Okie ass!"
He stuck out a fist. The ten other players crowded close and placed their hands on top of his fist.
"On two hard. Ready—break!"
They broke the huddle and hurried to the line of scrimmage. The offensive linemen took their pass-blocking stances; a pass play was a given. William stayed back in the shotgun formation, flanked by Ernie on his left. He looked at the weak-side linebacker's feet—his left foot was forward; he was blitzing. William motioned Ernie over to his right side. He then focused on the middle of the defense; he stepped close to his center and slapped his wide butt.
"Fifty-five's the Mike!"
His offensive linemen had to account for the middle linebacker—the "Mike" in football jargon—otherwise, the two-hundred-sixty-pound Mike would crash through the line and be all over William before the play had time to develop. Game over.
"Fifty-five's the Mike!"
The center called out the blocking scheme to each side of the line—"Scram! Scram!"—and William bounced back to his position five yards behind the center. Cuz was spread left, D-Quan in the slot outside Cowboy, and Outlaw wide right. He scanned the defensive secondary. Who would cover D-Quan? He yelled the signals.
"Omaha!"
That meant they were going with the play he had called in the huddle.
"Set!"
Cuz took a step back and came in motion across the offensive formation. The strong safety paralleled him across the defensive formation. Which meant the strong-side linebacker would follow Cowboy on the deep crossing route. The corner stepped in closer to D-Quan, leaving the sideline open. He would cover man-to-man with free safety help over the top. The free safety took a step toward the sideline to protect deep, but Cowboy crossing in front of him would distract him. At the speed the game was played today, one split-second of distraction was all William needed.
"Green eighteen, green eighteen! Forty-three! Hut, hut!"
The center snapped the ball back to him. The receivers exploded off the line of scrimmage like sprinters at the Olympics. The offensive linemen dug their cleats into the turf, grunted like feral hogs, and held the defensive line's surge to a standstill. The Mike dropped back into coverage. The weak-side linebacker blitzed, but Ernie cut his legs out; he flipped head over heels. William darted around them and drifted over to the right sideline as if he didn't know what to do—as if he didn't know exactly what he was going to do. He was luring the defensive backs to his side of the field and buying time for D-Quan working on the far side.
His favorite receiver wasn't going to graduate Phi Beta Kappa—in fact, he wasn't going to graduate at all—but he could sure as hell play football.
William didn't so much as glance D-Quan's way because the free safety was playing his eyes to see where he was going with the ball, but he knew that D-Quan had just hit the fourteen-yard marker, the point where all down-the-field pass plays break … he was hitching—chopping his feet and turning his upper body back to his quarterback with his hands raised as if expecting a pass—and praying that the cornerback jumped the route to intercept—and then going—spinning around and exploding down the sideline, hitting his max speed at the twenty-four-yard marker, going vertical up the field like a fucking rocket ship into space … and William knew D-Quan had left the corner in his wake when the free safety turned his body hard, ducked his head, and broke into an all-out sprint to cut D-Quan off at the fifty-four-yard marker—the goal line. But he figured wrong. William wasn't going to throw to the fifty-four-yard marker; he was throwing to the sixty-four-yard marker—to the pylon at the back corner of the end zone.
An American football field is one hundred twenty yards long, including the two end zones, and fifty-three and one-third yards wide. The line of scrimmage was UT's own forty-six yard line. William now arrived at the right sideline of his forty-yard line; D-Quan raced down the left sideline. A pass from William's position all the way across the field to the back pylon in the end zone would require the ball travel eighty-three yards in the air. A football is a pointed prolate spheroid eleven inches long with a twenty-two-inch circumference at its midpoint; it weighs almost one pound. But it's not like throwing a one-pound rock. A football is designed to spiral at approximately six hundred revolutions per minute when thrown, thus creating an aerodynamic reduction in air drag; you can throw a spiral farther, faster, and more accurately. To throw a football eighty-three yards accurately, you must release it at exactly a forty-five-degree angle to the ground and at a velocity of exactly sixty-five miles per hour. Perhaps three quarterbacks in the country—college or pro—could make that throw, and only one with the season on the line. William Tucker planted his right foot, gripped the leather with his right hand, and in one powerful yet fluid movement raised the ball to his right ear, stepped forward with his left foot, rotated his upper body hard, and flung the football with his textbook throwing motion. The ball came off his hand cleanly, and he knew instantly that he had made the perfect throw. The ball flew in a tight spiral on a high arc, rising into the blue sky until it seemed to soar above the stadium … the stadium fell silent as ninety thousand fans held their collective breath … William's eyes dropped to the field … D-Quan's long legs crossed the five-yard-line … the free safety looked back for the ball … and realized his mistake … as D-Quan blew past him into the end zone … and extended his hands … into which the ball dropped.
Touchdown.
All across the state of Texas, Longhorn fans jumped for joy, screaming and shouting and spewing beer before their seventy-inch Vizios with the vicarious thrill of victory; all across the state of Oklahoma, Sooner fans fell to the floor, crying like babies and groaning with the vicarious agony of defeat. They lived and died their teams' wins and losses. Football in America. There was nothing else like it in the world. Teammates and coaches and cheerleaders and UT students stormed onto the field and mobbed William Tucker and the other players, whooping and hollering with their heroes as if they were victorious gladiators. Perhaps they were. Heroes and gladiators. Romans had bet on gladiators and Americans bet on football games. In Vegas, winners tallied their winnings and losers their losses, just as the TV network tallied its Nielsen ratings and commercial revenue and the athletic directors of the two universities their respective takes from the game. There was much money to be made from college football. For everyone except the players. They had to play college ball for free for at least two years; if they proved that they could play at that level, they were invited—via the NFL draft—to play for pay at the next level. The highest level of competitive football in America. The National Football League.
William Tucker had proven himself again that day. He was ready for the next level. His days of playing for free would soon be over. He would be a very rich young man. All his dreams would come true.
But that day was still a few months away. So he did not think about it. He had learned to stay in the present, to execute this play and not worry about the last play or the next play, and to never look ahead to the next game. So he reveled in the present. He threw his arms into the air and screamed. He turned in a circle in the center of the field and soaked up the fans' adoration, as if he had just saved the planet from a zombie invasion like in that movie. But he had achieved something far more admirable in America: he had won a big college football game. He embraced the moment—and two buxom blonde cheerleaders sidling close. One on either side, he leaned down and reached under their firm bottoms and lifted them into the air as if they weighed nothing. They sat in his arms and kissed his cheeks. Photographers snapped their picture, which would make every newspaper, cable sports channel, and sports blog in America tomorrow. To the victor go the spoils—and the girls. Oh, the girls. So many girls and so little time.
The life of a college football hero.
The big bass drums of the Longhorn marching band pounded like artillery explosions and reverberated through his body; the two girls' clung tight, and he inhaled their scent like a narcotic that ignited his manly senses. They were intoxicating. The noise was deafening. The moment was all about William. He started to carry the two cheerleaders off the field when the on-the-field television crew pushed close with a camera. He figured the two girls might distract from his hero shot on national television, so he lowered them to the turf then faced the camera. Two state troopers stood guard in case a disappointed Oklahoma fan decided to take out his frustrations on William on national television. The female reporter stuck a microphone in his face and yelled over the chaos.
"William, unbelievable game. You threw for four touchdowns and ran for two more. You're a lock for the Heisman and on your way to the national championship. How do you feel?"
How do I feel?
Like every star athlete, William Tucker had suffered many such stupid questions; it came with the territory. Sports reporters were the guys—and girls—who couldn't make it as weather reporters. But he had been coached well by his media consultant. He swept his curly blond hair from his sweaty face and flashed his white teeth. He had given TV interviews since he was sixteen. As they say in Texas, this wasn't his first rodeo.
"I feel blessed. But it's not about me. It's about my coaches, my teammates, and our fans. They deserve all the credit. And the Good Lord."
He looked up and pointed his index fingers to the sky, as if to thank God. As if God had made that throw. As if God could give a shit about a football game, particularly a college game.
"He gave us this great victory."
Straight out of Interviews 101. It was corny, it was dumb, and it was a lie, but it's what the fans wanted to hear, it's what the networks wanted the stars to say after the game, and most importantly, it's the image sponsors wanted their athletes to project when endorsing their products, like tearing up during the national anthem before the game when the cameras were on you. Wholesome. Clean-cut. God bless America. On the field, it's all about winning; off the field, it's all about image. So William Tucker sealed the deal with his country-boy (even though he had grown up in Houston) "aw shucks" smile for all of America then turned away and threw his arms around the student body—or at least the bodies of the two cheerleaders; but he heard the reporter's final words to the game announcer up in the booth and her national audience across the U.S. of A.
"You know, Kenny, I've met and interviewed a lot of star college football players over the last five seasons. To be quite honest, all too many are the kind of prima donna, I'm-entitled-to-everything, I've-got-the-world-on-a-leash kind of athletes we hate. Who we secretly hope fail. Who all too often end up in trouble with the law because they think they're above the law. William Tucker is not that kind of athlete. Not only is William Tucker the best college football player in America today, he is also one of the finest young men in collegiate sports today. He's a role model for boys all across America. He's the kind of young man every father hopes his daughter brings home. He's almost too good to be true."
"Get dressed and get out."
"William, I'm sorry, I'm just not comfortable having sex this fast."
"Get out." He grabbed his cell phone and started scrolling through the photos. "I can have a sub here in five minutes."
"We could date a while, get to know each other, then maybe—"
He laughed. "Date? I don't think so. Come on, hit the road, honey."
"Will you call me?"
He laughed again. "What world are you living in? I'm William Tucker."
The team had arrived back in Austin at nine, and he was in bed with one of the buxom cheerleaders by ten. It was that easy. If you were William Tucker.
"Okay. I'll do it."
He tossed the phone onto the recliner.
"Roll over."
"Aren't you going to put on a condom?"
"You got AIDS?"
"No."
"Then I don't need a condom."
"But I'm not on the pill. What if I get pregnant?"
"You never heard of abortions?"
Dumb cheerleaders. He climbed on top of what's-her-name and started to push into her when someone banged hard on his dorm door.
"William Tucker!"
"Go away. I'm busy."
"Police! Open the door!"
"Go—away!"
"If you don't open the door, we're gonna break it down!"
"If you don't go away, I'm gonna—"
The door broke off its hinges and crashed into the room. Four cops in uniforms stood in the doorway. Two pointed guns at William. He stood naked and regarded the cops as if they were water boys.
"You know who the hell I am?"
"William Tucker, you're under arrest."
"For what?"
"Rape—"
He pointed at what's-her-name scrambling to cover her naked body.
"She's eighteen. I checked her school ID."
"—and murder."
Handcuffs held his thick arms tight behind his back. He had been arrested before—three times—and each time he had been quickly released once they had discovered who the hell he was. The handcuffs had come off, he had signed a few autographs and taken a few photos with star-struck cops, and he was out the door and on his merry way.
That's how life worked for William Tucker.
He fully expected this arrest would be no different. But when the cops opened the back door of the police cruiser and pulled him out, it was different. Cameras flashed and loud voices shouted at him. He squinted against the bright lights and saw that a media gauntlet had formed on the sidewalk leading into the Travis County Jail in downtown Austin. Nothing the media liked more than capturing a star athlete being hauled into jail in the middle of the night. His prior arrests had been for public intoxication, DUI, and solicitation; in Austin, such offenses merited only a brief and humorous mention in the sports pages. Just athletes being athletes.
But rape and murder—this arrest would be front-page news and the lead story on every cable and network newscast. William Tucker, another felon in a football helmet. His first instinct was to duck his head from the lights and turn away from the loud voices; but he recalled all the other star athletes he had seen on television walking the media gauntlet after being arrested—the "perp walk," as it had become known. They had hidden their faces and looked like disgraced athletes. Like guilty criminals. His media consultant had even used those video clips as training tools; she had repeated over and over that when—not if—he found himself in that situation—even though guilty, a status she had assumed—he was not to hide his face. He was to hold his head high. He was to look directly into the cameras. His face was to show the shock and his voice to express the righteous indignation—the outrage—of an innocent man being wrongfully accused by the American criminal justice system. Prepping for the perp walk was now basic media training for American athletes. And so, like an athlete who falls back on his natural ability in a pressure-packed game situation, William Tucker fell back on his media training as the two cops grasped his arms and escorted him on the perp walk.
"William, did you rape her?" a reporter shouted. "Did you kill her?"
He pulled the cops to an abrupt stop and stared directly into the bright lights of the cameras. He tried to infuse his strong masculine voice with just the right amount of outrage and righteous indignation.
"No. I didn't rape anyone. I didn't kill anyone. They arrested the wrong man. I'm innocent."
His media consultant would be proud. She had said he was a natural in front of the cameras, said he would make a fortune in endorsements. The cops yanked his arms hard and pulled him inside the jail. The doors shut out the bright lights and loud voices. It was suddenly quiet. Faces peeked up at him and a few cell phones clicked photos as the cops led him down a corridor and into an interview room then pushed him down into a chair in front of a table. The younger cop cuffed William's left ankle to a steel ring embedded in the concrete floor then removed the cuffs from his hands. William rubbed his wrists to restart the blood flow.
"Get me a Gatorade," he said to the younger cop. "Orange."
The cop gave him a look then shook his head and left the room. Like most star athletes, he viewed the police more as personal bodyguards than peace officers sworn to uphold the law. Their job was to serve and protect him, not uphold the law against him.
"What's his problem?" he said to the older cop.
"You beat Oklahoma this afternoon and get arrested for rape and murder the same night," the older cop said. "That's a fast fall, stud. By the way, that was a hell of a throw. Say, would you autograph a football for my son? You're his hero."
"Drop dead. You know how much a football signed by William Tucker is worth?"
"I promise not to put it on eBay."
"Like I haven't heard that before."
The cop wasn't pleased. He slammed a landline phone down on the table in front of William.
"You got one phone call, William Tucker."
William stared at the phone. It had never gone this far before. He had never been cuffed to the floor ring or given one phone call. By now he should be taking photos with grinning cops. He felt the first twinge of nervousness. He decided that the game situation required a different play. So he smiled, as if he were endorsing sneakers.
"All right, I'll sign some autographs and take some photos, okay? Then I need to get back to the dorm and sleep, get some rest, see the trainer tomorrow. Knee's acting up. We got another big game Saturday. I could probably get you some tickets."
The cop did not smile back. His nametag read "Sgt. Murphy." He had gray hair and a big belly. He sat on the edge of the table and crossed his arms. He regarded William. His face turned fatherly, and he sighed as if William had just wrecked the family station wagon.
"Son, this ain't no joke. The star card ain't gonna get you out of jail this time. You're not charged with being drunk and rowdy on Sixth Street. You're charged with rape and murder."
The smile left William's face.
"I didn't rape or murder anyone. This is a big mistake."
"I don't think so, stud. They found your DNA on the victim."
"What DNA? What victim?"
"Texas Tech cheerleader. You raped and murdered her two years ago here in Austin, same day you played a game against Tech. With that DNA evidence, you could spend the rest of your life in prison."
"Prison?"
Something was terribly wrong.
"I can't go to prison—I've got a game Saturday. I've got to win the Heisman Trophy and the national championship. I've got to go number one in the pro draft, play for the Cowboys, win the Super Bowl. I'm William Tucker, star quarterback."
"Not anymore. From now on, you're William Tucker, accused killer."
At that moment, reality hit William with the force of a blitzing linebacker: this arrest was different. The cops weren't grinning. They weren't joking. They weren't bringing him Gatorade and treating him special. They weren't begging for photographs with him. All of which meant one thing: he was in serious trouble. Rape. Murder. DNA. Prison. That twinge of nervousness had escalated into a full-body anxiety attack. His respiration ramped; sweat beads popped on his forehead. He didn't know what to do. What play to call. Who to call. His media consultant? His quarterback coach? His mom? He leaned forward, put his elbows on the table, closed his eyes, and covered his face with his massive hands. For the first time in his life, William felt small.
"Oh, shit."
When he opened his eyes, he was staring at the phone. He looked up at the cop. Even his voice sounded small.
"Who should I call?"
"Your lawyer."
"I don't have a lawyer."
The cop sighed. "Most college kids, they're hauled in here for public intoxication. Girls, they call their mamas. Boys, they call their daddies." He scratched his chin and grunted. "Rape and murder, better call your dad."
"My dad?"
William shook his head then again hid his face in his hands.
"My dad's a fucking loser."