William rifled the ball to D-Quan on a Train route. Fifty yards downfield, the ball dropped into his favorite receiver's hands; D-Quan never broke stride. Coach Bruce tossed William another football; he dropped back three steps, set his feet, and rifled a pass to Cuz on an out pattern. Perfect. Another ball. Another perfect pass to Outlaw on a crossing route. And another perfect pass to Cowboy on a curl.
William Tucker was as close to perfect as a quarterback could be.
It was ten-thirty on a November Saturday morning in Austin, Texas. The sun was shining on the stadium and on William Tucker. The team was warming up—jogging, stretching, throwing, catching, kicking, punting. The band was tuning up. The cheerleaders were jumping up. The fans were arriving in burnt orange shirts and caps and jerseys. It was college football game day in America. It was glorious. The Longhorns would play a home game against Texas Tech at noon on national television. Cameras occupied various strategic points around the stadium to capture every bit of action on the field and off. They always cut to the stands between plays to catch gorgeous young coeds bouncing up and down; middle-aged men watching from home loved bouncing breasts, and bouncing breasts brought higher ratings. The coeds knew that the best chance of getting on national TV was to wear revealing clothes.
And bounce.
The Texas Tech cheerleaders bounced past William. They glanced his way. He wore the tight uniform pants but only a snug sweat-wicking sleeveless T-shirt that clung to his muscular body. His long blond hair blew in the breeze. He was a star. And the girls loved the stars. They just couldn't help themselves. They grew up wanting to be Cinderella at the ball, plucked out of obscurity by Prince Charming and given the perfect life. And today, a big, tall, handsome, and rich star athlete was as good as it gets when it came to Prince Charmings. Consequently, William Tucker did not have to seek out girls. They sought him out. He called out to the cheerleaders.
"The Dizzy Rooster on Sixth Street. Tonight. Be there."
They giggled. He watched them across the field to the visiting side. He had had sex with most of the UT cheerleaders, so he was now working his way through the opponents' cheer squads. He was twenty years old, a sophomore, and on top of his world.
"Focus, William," Coach Bruce said.
He was the quarterback coach, which is to say, William's personal mentor, confidant, sports psychologist, best friend, and coach. They spent every practice together, working on the game plan and plays, techniques, audibles, and passes. He called and texted William several times each day outside of practice. He would always ask a football question, but he was just checking up on his star quarterback. Trying to keep him out of trouble. Which usually began with girls and ended in a bar on Sixth Street.
William just smiled and threw the ball downfield. The ball seemed to travel through the air with even greater velocity. He was pumped. The adrenaline, the testosterone, the girls, the game. God, it was great to be young. Talented. Handsome. Bigger. Stronger. Faster. When he had first stepped on this field last year, he was already the best college quarterback in the nation. He had been a finalist for the Heisman Trophy last year; he was the frontrunner this year. The team was undefeated after seven games—after seven perfect games from William Tucker. But he couldn't have a single bad game. One bad game, and he could kiss the Heisman goodbye; one loss, and the team would drop out of contention for the national championship. But he didn't have bad games. He had great games and even greater games.
It was good to be William Tucker.
"William."
"Yeah?"
Coach Bruce nodded past him toward the home sideline. William turned and looked that way. At his father. Who was stumbling drunk. He tripped over some equipment and fell to the turf.
"Shit."
William flipped the football to Coach Bruce then ran over to his father. His father held up a hand as if to high-five, but instead William lifted him up as if he were a bag of feathers. He was only fifty-three, but he looked like an old man.
"Hey, William."
His words came out slurred. He embraced William; he smelled the whiskey on his father's breath, like other dads reek of aftershave.
"Dad, please, I'm getting ready for the game."
"Just wanted to say good luck."
More slurred words. He had gone deeper into the bottle after the divorce. After Mom left him. After he lost everything. All because of a dead girl. All because he blamed himself. The jury had sentenced Bradley Todd to death. But Frank Tucker had sentenced himself to a worse fate: life without forgiveness. One of the equipment guys walked by. William grabbed his arm.
"Bennie, take my dad up to a skybox, get him some coffee, something to eat."
Bennie nodded.
"Dad, go with Bennie. He'll take care of you."
"Okay. See you after the game, son."
Bennie took his dad's arm and led him away, like a nurse helping an old person. William watched his father stagger away then turned back to the field. All action had stopped. Every player and coach stared at William Tucker a long awkward moment then abruptly turned away. As if from a train wreck.
His dad was a drunk.
Joe Namath was arguably the greatest quarterback to ever play the game. He was certainly the most celebrated. He was the first superstar celebrity athlete, back in the sixties, when he played for the New York Jets. "Broadway Joe," as the press had dubbed him, was young, talented, and handsome. He threw passes on the field, and women threw themselves at him off the field. He was a man's man and a ladies' man. He had it all. Including numerous knee injuries. He played in pain most of his career. He turned to alcohol to ease the pain. By the time he retired, he was an alcoholic. Joe hit rock bottom in 2003 when he showed up drunk at a Jet's game honoring him and during a sideline interview with a female reporter, he begged her for a kiss. On national TV. All of America cringed for Joe.
Just as all of William's teammates now cringed for him.
He jogged back over to Coach Bruce and the receivers. Coach Bruce tossed a ball to William. He yelled, "Hut!" D-Quan ran downfield and broke to the sideline on a fourteen-yard-out. William took three steps back, set his feet, and fired the ball.
It sailed ten feet over D-Quan's head.
William threw five interceptions that game. He fumbled twice. The Longhorns were losing 28-21 with 2:03 left in the game. William dropped back to pass, but the middle of the field opened up, so he ran. Fast. Ten yards. Twenty. Thirty. A touchdown would tie the game. They could still win in overtime. They could remain undefeated. They could remain in the hunt for the national championship. He could remain the frontrunner for the Heisman. He could see the end zone.
He did not see the strong safety.
The strong safety was running full speed—twenty-two miles per hour—when he launched his two-hundred-twenty-pound body helmet first at William's head. His helmet impacted William's helmet from the side with the force of a freight train. William's brain slammed against the left side of his skull then ricocheted back and hit the right side of his skull, causing William to suffer traumatic brain trauma. Bruising of his brain. A concussion. William didn't remember anything after that. His head was spinning, and his ears were ringing. He was lying flat on his back on the turf. Through the fog he could make out blurry figures standing over him.
"William. William. You okay?"
"Dad?"
"Oh, shit. Let's get him up and to the bench."
They pulled him up. Someone held William's right arm over his shoulders; someone else held William's left arm over his shoulders. They led him to the sideline. The crowd groaned. They put him on the bench. Someone got in his face.
"William, it's Coach Bruce."
"I can play."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
"Where are we?"
"Dallas."
"What team do you play for?"
"Cowboys."
"What team are we playing?"
"Giants."
"What's your name?"
"Troy."
William bent over and threw up. He heard a different voice above him.
"Can he go?"
"No," Coach Bruce said. "Probably has a concussion. He thinks he's playing for the Cowboys against the Giants."
"Does he think he's Roger Staubach?"
"No. He thinks he's Troy Aikman."
"Good. If he thought he was Romo, I'd take him out. Send him back in."
William went back into the game and fumbled on the next play.
Frank Tucker had sobered up by the time he walked into the emergency room at the hospital in downtown Austin. He stood just outside the open door to his son's room. William lay propped up in the bed; a white bandage was wrapped around his left elbow. A coach and a nurse stood next to the bed. No one noticed Frank. Their eyes were locked on a television perched on the wall; it was tuned to a sports channel. Two analysts sat behind a desk in the "college football game day control room" in New York City; they were conducting a post-mortem on the UT-Tech game in Austin, Texas.
"It was a humiliating defeat for Texas today," one analyst said. "An embarrassing game for William Tucker. The Longhorns lost any chance at a national championship, and William Tucker lost any chance at a Heisman Trophy. The Longhorns' season ended today with the worst game William Tucker has played in his entire life. Three fumbles and five interceptions. There's not a lot of love for William Tucker in Austin today. God, he had a terrible game."
"Hard to focus on football when his dad shows up stinking drunk for his game."
A video clip ran showing Frank before the game, stumbling over equipment and falling down … William running over and helping him up … the equipment guy escorting Frank from the field.
"How embarrassing is that? With a dad like that, you don't need opponents."
William's eyes fell from the television and found Frank. The coach and the nurse looked his way, glanced at each other, and walked out past him without making eye contact or uttering a word. Frank stepped into the room. His son seemed utterly defeated. What does a father say in such a moment?
"Next game will be better, son."
Not that. His son glared at him.
"You destroyed yourself, Mom, Becky … and now you're trying to destroy me. You're not going to take me down with you, Dad. Go away. And stay away. I don't ever want to see you again."
His son wiped tears from his face.
"I'm a winner, Dad. You're a fucking loser."