The Fix

The stadium was pulsating with excitement—packed way beyond capacity. Instruments swayed back and forth, to and fro, dancing in unison to their own rhythm as the marching band played its heart out in the stands. Rowdy fans tested the limits of their vocal chords. The combination of sounds was deafening. So much so that Colt Walker couldn’t even hear himself think—but as usual, instinct was driving him. He spun hard to his left just in time to avoid being sacked. Then he felt shoulder pads brush against his thigh as another rushing lineman flew by in an attempted diving tackle. A fleeting moment of relief calmed Colt as he scanned the field for an open receiver. C’mon, dammit, somebody get open, give me a target, he thought. Then, through the corner of his eye, he saw two things that made him cringe and grin simultaneously, if that’s even possible. The grin was caused by the sight of Dave Plummer beating his man downfield. Colt stepped back, cocked his arm and felt the laces rip from his fingertips as he launched a perfect spiral missile toward the end zone. Thud. The reason he had cringed was now upon him. Colt took a direct hit to his sternum by the shoulder pad of a massive defensive end.

Anyone else would have been lying on the artificial turf writhing in agony, trying to catch his breath. Not Colt though; he bounced up off the padded field still sucking wind, even before his assailant could get to his knees. As always, Colt wanted to see the fruits of his efforts. He looked for the ball he’d so perfectly thrown, and finally saw it flipping fast at an odd upwards angle through the air in the end zone. Colt’s body tightened as yet another surge of adrenaline coursed through him like a bolt of lightning. The heightened decibel level of the crowd reinsured that Plummer had just spiked the ball after scoring the game-winning touchdown. Although Colt couldn’t see him through the rush of the fans on the field, he knew Plummer was doing his touchdown dance. To Colt, it always looked as if Plummer was breakdancing while having a seizure. Yet, the crowds seemed to love it. Colt shook his head and laughed to himself, thinking, Only Plummer.

Mid-thought, Colt was hit again from the right and from the rear. What the hell? he yelled. The roar of the cheering crowd drowned out the screams from his teammates as they pounded into him and lifted him above the onslaught of fans. The field was a melee of players, coaches, referees, cheerleaders and fans. A quick look downfield revealed a tuba being knocked to the ground. Hopefully, the musician was faring better than his trampled instrument.

**

High up in the stands, in the radio commentators’ booth, the announcers were reacting to the exhilarating victory they had just witnessed. The first announcer commented, "Wow, you gotta love the guy. Only Colt could have dodged that tackle while remaining composed enough to find Dave Plummer in the end zone for the win. Sure puts the icing on the cake for his year, doesn’t it?"

The next announcer agreed. Yeah, he’s amazing all right. You have to believe that with Colt as QB, the Marshalls are going to be a contender for the National Championship next year.

Back to the first announcer. I’d say he’s a legitimate frontrunner for the Heisman.

I absolutely agree. He’s got it all: the poise, the focus, the confidence, the whole package.

As good as Colt is for the team, Coach Belmont better have a serious talk with Kevin Martin. His last penalty could have cost them the game. He’s a gifted player, but he’s also dangerous. We’ve all seen the harm a selfish player can bring to a team. I don’t think Martin understands the statement that there is no ‘I’ in the word ‘team.’

You’re right, Joe. I think they need to give Martin a serious warning. As good as he is, lately he’s been more of a detriment to Newhouse. Belmont has his hands full with him.

Well folks, Colt Walker wins another big one for Newhouse University. It’s been an exhilarating game. I hope you’ve all had as much fun as John and I have. As much as we’d like to stick around, it’s time for us to sign off now. Y’all have a very happy and safe New Year’s Eve. John and I will be back on the air next week, as the Marshalls take on the Pit Bulls in basketball.

**

The locker room was washed in a soft red glow from the emergency exit sign. The fluorescent lights had been switched off as the last of his teammates had left the room. Quietly sitting on the bench, in front of his locker, with freshly combed wet hair still dripping on his shirt, Colt turned as someone approached from behind. There was no question of who it was; Colt knew the sound of the footsteps and, especially, the constant clicking of the man’s bad knee.

How you feeling, son? asked the burly man in his southern drawl. Even in the dark, Coach Belmont had a powerful presence. His large head with its flattop crew cut was outlined, along with his strong, jutting jaw, by the light from his slightly open office door in the background. His enormous, gnarled hand covered most of Colt’s shoulder as Belmont gave him an endearing squeeze.

That was some game, huh, Coach?

"Son, I’ve been coaching for twenty-four years and I’ve never seen anyone lead a team with the confidence you had out there today. You’re the leader of this team and nothing’s going to stop us next year. Nothing is going to stop you!"

We’ll have a great team next year. Most of the starters are coming back. It will be a little different without Ozzi and Germaine, but we’ll fill their spots. I’ve been watching the freshmen. Some of them have serious potential.

"We’ll be good, that’s for sure. But you gotta keep this team straight, son. You’re their leader, Colt. There’s a lot of responsibility that comes with being the leader. A lot of responsibility, son."

I can do it with your help, Coach. We have a good team.

There’s not much difference between a good team and a great team, son. You have a lot of boys in the huddle. I worry about some of them.

You’re worried about Martin, aren’t you, Coach?

You want to win that championship next year? We both better worry about Martin. We’ve got to get him to settle down and play the way we want him to. If he continues with his flamboyant renegade crap, it’ll eventually pull the team apart.

We’ll have to work with him in the off-season. Between the two of us, we can do it. We can smarten him up together, right?

How’d you get so smart, son?

Colt grinned. I’ve got a good mentor, don’t I?

Colt could see the outline of Coach Belmont’s head nodding slightly in the dim light. What he couldn’t see were the tears forming in Belmont’s eyes. As long as you keep listening and learning, I’ll keep teaching you, son.

Thanks, Coach.

Uh-huh. All right, it’s time to get outta here and go celebrate. What do you say, young man?

Sounds good to me. Let’s go.

**

Together, Colt and his coach walked through the dark concrete tunnel toward the parking lot. The bright sunlight shining into the tunnel from the parking lot entrance was blinding. Squinting, they both reached for their sunglasses at the same time and glanced at each other with grins. Belmont looked at Colt as they neared the opening. Ready?

Ready, said Colt.

The waiting crowd was massive, and thunderous cheers quickly became a chant as Colt emerged from the tunnel. Colt! Colt! Colt! they all bellowed. Colt’s teammates were surrounded by their families and friends. Police barricades held back the masses. The police had to restrain some of the rowdier students and fans from pushing through. No one meant any harm, but allowing a crowd that size to approach the players wouldn’t be safe.

Colt smiled and waved at the cheering fans, then clenched his fist and raised his index finger. The crowd’s chant quickly changed to, We’re number one! We’re number one!

Colt’s family rushed toward him.

Congratulations, son, said his father. That was some game you played.

Thanks, Dad.

Colt’s mother pushed her way over and reached for his arm. She gave him an adoring squeeze and Colt turned and bent down to give her a hug. He felt her tears on his cheek and smiled. He whispered to her, Hey, crybaby, how ya doin’?

Couldn’t be better, she said in his ear. I love you, honey, and I am so proud of you. I’m just always so happy when the game is over and you come off the field in one piece.

He slowly pulled away from her embrace with a smile. I love you, too.

The hottest girl in the crowd was waiting impatiently to give her boyfriend a hug. After Doug and Sally Walker finally let Colt go, Cathy moved toward him.

Colt bent his head and kissed her forehead. As she looked up at him, her Newhouse U. hat fell from her head and her long, shiny, honey blond hair cascaded down her back. Just the sight of her gorgeous blue eyes contrasting the fair complexion of her perfect skin made Colt smile. He reached around her five-foot, three-inch, petite body with both arms and picked her up, leaving her rubber soled boots dangling about a foot off the ground.

As they embraced, she said in his ear, I’m so proud of you.

Thanks, babe. Today was pretty special. I’m glad you were here.

What? Like I’d miss one of your games? Not me. You’re stuck with me, kid.

Very happily stuck, Colt said with a smile.

Hey, what about me? yelled a voice from behind Colt.

Colt put Cathy down and spun around just in time to brace himself as his nine year old brother, Dustin, slammed into him and threw his arms around Colt in a big bear hug. Can we have a catch, Colt?

Not now, dude. But, I’ll tell you what. Having a catch with you is my favorite thing to do in the whole world. And you know what? Now that the season is over, we’ll have lots of catches. Okay? How ‘bout we start a little later, at the house? Deal?

Deal! agreed Dustin, squeezing his big brother around the gut as tightly as he could.

Colt groaned. Wow, you’re getting strong!

Dustin smiled and held up his right arm, flexing his muscle. He was wearing one of Colt’s old jerseys with the sleeves rolled up. The jersey was cut short, right about at Dustin’s thighs and was way too big on him, but he wore it with pride to every one of Colt’s games.

I hope you’ve been practicing. I want to see that arm when I get home, Colt said.

I have been. Just wait, you’ll see, Dustin said with a big smile.

A few local reporters had been waiting at a respectful distance to try to speak with Colt. He looked at his family and held a finger up as he said, Give me a minute.

He approached the reporters and stepped up to their outstretched microphones. Three reporters barked out questions simultaneously.

One at a time folks, how about you start, Stephanie? Colt turned to Stephanie Ross, a cute young curly haired reporter that had interviewed him recently.

Thanks Colt, she said. As usual, you played an amazing game today. I noticed some NFL scouts on the sidelines. Do they make you nervous or does it help you step up your game?

Scouts? What Scouts?

Oh come on, you can’t tell me that you didn’t know they were there.

Of course I knew. But you know what? I try not to let them make a difference in my game. In fact, I try to ignore them. If I think about them, I may lose focus. If I lose focus, Newhouse won’t win. My job out there is to win games and that’s all I care about when I’m on the field.

Thanks Colt, Stephanie said.

He nodded and smiled at her. Next question, he said as he scanned the group. How about you, Adam?

Adam Stone owned a local newspaper that had published some really nice pieces about Colt in the past few months.

Colt answered Stone’s question, then one from another reporter. Then he said, Okay folks, sorry but I’ve gotta go. Have a great day.

He smiled and walked away as reporters continued shouting out questions. When he got back to his family and Cathy, he said, Let’s go home and see what Mom’s put together to eat. I’m starving. He put his arm around Cathy, turned toward the others and said, We’ll meet you all at home.

Colt and Cathy smiled at each other as they made their way through the crowd, hand-in-hand. They saw Coach Belmont and his wife speaking with a group of reporters. Belmont looked over and tipped his cap as Colt saluted him.

As Colt and Cathy walked, lots of kids reached out with autograph markers asking for Colt’s signature. He signed as many as requested, and then continued walking with Cathy.

I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that, Colt said.

Yes, you will.

Yeah, I guess you’re right, he answered with a grin.

Just as they got near Colt’s black pickup truck, Frank Gastner, one of the referees from the game, walked by, still wearing his stripes.

Hey Colt, I’ve reffed a lot of games. That was some ending. Congratulations. I’ll look forward to reffing your games next year.

Thank you, sir.

My pleasure, said Gastner, as his cell phone began to ring.

He opened the phone and put it to his ear as he walked away. Still within earshot, Colt and Cathy heard him say, Okay, I like it. Put a thousand on the Bulldogs minus four… Minus four-and-a-half? Fine. He got into his old beat-up truck without looking back at them and drove away.

Cathy and Colt looked at each other and raised their brows in unison. They got into Colt’s pickup, and as he started the truck, Cathy said, That was interesting.

Yeah, it was, Colt said. I don’t think I liked it much. To tell you the truth, I’ve never really liked that guy. I mean, he’s always trying to be nice to me, but there’s just something about him that bugs me, besides the fact that he’s ugly as sin.

Don’t be mean.

"No, seriously, he’s always making questionable calls on the field. Every ref makes mistakes, but he seems to do it a lot. Maybe that phone call explains it. It really left a bad taste in my mouth."

Me too, she agreed, as they drove away, heading to Colt’s parents’ house in the neighboring town.

2

Bang! Colt flinched as a football hit his fender while he drove his truck up his fraternity house driveway. Shit, another dent, he thought, shaking his head. Fraternity brothers were swarming all over the place in typical Newhouse University game-day style. An aggressive game of MBB football was leaving its mark in the muddy field next to the house. MBB was the fraternity acronym for mud, blood and beer. The merciless game was not for the faint of heart. Nor should a spectator with a weak stomach be anywhere close to the vicious frenzy of bodies, sans pads, fighting for points. Games were played up and down fraternity row all afternoon. As the day progressed, points accumulated almost as fast as players’ damaged limbs. At the end of the day, the victorious fraternity would win a keg of beer. Ludicrously, it was the same damn beer that everybody drank all afternoon, but, as in battle, the spoils of the win tasted better when they were earned.

Colt waited until a green Jeep Wrangler pulled out of a spot in the rear parking lot. He tapped his horn and opened his window as Kevin Kalvitas, a back-up receiver on the team, pulled his Jeep up next to Colt’s truck and reached out with his fist. Fuckin’ amazing, bro, Kalvitas said. Best I’ve ever seen you play, man.

Colt reached and gave Kalvitas a knuckle tap. Thanks, dude. I was in the zone today. It felt good.

I’ll say you were. Hey, I’m going to pick up Stacy. What are you doing later? How about you and Cathy bring in the New Year with us?

Maybe, bro, but first we have to meet some of the other guys on the team for a dinner celebration. You wanna join us?

I don’t think so, said Kalvitas. Something tells me if I offer that to Stacy on New Year’s Eve, it could be a cold night for me. I’ll be back in a little while. See ya.

Colt parked, grabbed his backpack from the bed of the pickup and made his way toward the house. As he neared the kitchen door, something small hit and bounced off the bill of his cap. He looked up, squinting in the bright sunlight, to see a trio of brothers up on the deck smoking and laughing hysterically. Colt shook his head as he caught a downwind whiff of the smoke from their joint. Hey, superstar, great game, said one of the guys, holding up a bottle of beer in salute.

Colt gave a quick wave and said, Thanks, guys.

Flies were swarming in the kitchen around a tower of old pizza boxes behind the Sigma Upsilon kitchen door. As Colt entered, his backpack shoved the door into the boxes, knocking them over. Shit! he yelled. Who left the damn pizza boxes behind the door? Can’t anybody in this freakin’ house put the trash out once in a while? He dropped his backpack on the floor and leaned over to clean up the mess. He swatted flies as he leaned over and stacked the boxes. He picked up the entire stack and turned toward the door to go throw the boxes in the dumpster outside. Of course, the door had closed. Why should anything be easy? he thought, as he shook his head in frustration. Dammit, he said, as he approached the door thinking about how he could open it while holding the pile. After a quick try to grab the door handle with the boxes in his hands, he gave up and placed the pile on the counter, or as much as would fit on the cluttered counter, anyway. It was more off than on.

Holding the boxes with one arm, Colt turned and tried to reach the doorknob with the other. No good. He looked at the leaning tower, then back to the door. He pushed the boxes as far onto the counter as possible, and then slowly removed his hand, hoping the boxes wouldn’t fall. As he let go, he stared at the pile and put his palms up toward it as if trying to convince it to stay. He quickly stepped toward the door, grabbed the handle and yanked it open. He turned back to the boxes just in time to see the tower begin to fall. He dove in an attempt to prevent the disaster, but to no avail; the boxes fell as the door crashed loudly into the cabinets on the other side.

A second later, five fraternity brothers were at the doorway, laughing like hyenas at the sight. Colt was lying on the kitchen floor, covered with open pizza boxes and old crusts, his face redder than the tomato sauce. Then came the inevitable flash of a camera shot. A picture like this was worth a lot in the fraternity world. Not in dollars, but in laugh value.

Colt was seething as he stood up. He pointed at Kevin Sayegh, the brother with the camera in his hands. I want that camera now, Kevin! You’re going to delete that picture, or else!

The audience had doubled in size, and now the brothers were all doing their best to hold back their laughter. Colt had reached his boiling point. He approached the group, staring at Sayegh. I said give it to me, you little shit!

Breaking out in laughter, Sayegh snapped another picture as Colt charged toward him. Sayegh spun and darted through the growing throng of brothers. The guys in front held Colt back from chasing Sayegh through the house. One brother reached over and picked a slimy piece of melted pizza cheese that had oozed off Colt’s hair and was resting on his shoulder.

Colt let the moment pass and finally joined his brothers as they laughed and cleaned the mess.

I’m going to take a shower, Colt said. I highly recommend that one of you speaks to Sayegh. I don’t want either of those pictures showing up in the Bulletin or on Facebook.

The guys laughed again.

I’m serious, guys. If it ends up in the paper, I’ll kill him.

Take it easy, Colt, said Larry Cantor. I’ll talk to him. It won’t be in the paper. Cantor was one of Colt’s closest friends and he knew Colt was serious. Not that Colt would kill Sayegh, but that there would be dire consequences if the pictures ended up in the paper.

**

Here he is. The pizza man. Got any pepperoni for us, big guy? asked Greg Largo. Largo, the president of the fraternity, also happened to be one of the house clowns and instigators. He was a good guy with a quick wit. Although his reputation was pretty wild, he also sat on the university’s student government. He was destined to go far in life.

Very funny, Greg. Colt grabbed a can of soda from the fridge in the bar area and plopped down on the couch next to Cantor. He reached over, grabbed the bag of chips Cantor was holding and dug in. Did you talk to Kevin?

Yup, Cantor said.

Did he take it seriously?

Cantor glanced at Colt and shook his head slightly. Then, he quickly turned back toward the TV without uttering a word. He scrunched his face a little, obviously waiting for Colt’s tirade.

That little bastard. Somebody better talk some sense into him, or I’m really gonna hurt him.

Greg spoke up from his recliner on the other side of the room. I’ll take care of it, Colt. Don’t worry.

Don’t worry? Right! You remember the last time this happened? When the Bulletin got hold of that damn picture of me passed out in the Gamma House with a bra and panties placed on my body! It was not a big hit with my coach, or the team, or the school chancellor for that matter.

Colt, I said I’d take care of it, now chill out.

You better, Greg.

Enough, Colt, I’ll handle it. By the way, congratulations on the game today. That last pass was amazing. I’ll bet you’re a ringer for the Heisman.

No way, said Colt. It’s gonna be Mike Dishmon or Mark LePino. It’ll depend on how they play against each other in the National Championship next week. I’m betting on LePino. It’s been over 10 years since a receiver has won the Heisman. I think they need a change from the regulars. Quarterbacks and running backs win it almost every year. They’ve gotta want some diversity.

Who chooses the winner? asked Joe Gamba, an SU frat brother and a starter on the Newhouse basketball team.

A group of journalists and all the past Heisman winners, Colt said.

Well, the journalists certainly love you, said Largo. They haven’t written a bad thing about you all year. I don’t know about the past winners, but I bet you get a lot of votes from the journalists.

Whatever. It’s out of my hands anyway. But I’ll tell you what, Greg. If that picture does end up in the Bulletin, it won’t help my odds.

Colt, don’t make me repeat myself, Largo said.

All right, just making sure you understand the importance.

Greg nodded. Understood.

Hey Colt, did I hear you say earlier that your bet was on LePino? asked Corey Jackson. Do you actually have money on him? Jackson, a frat brother nicknamed Byte Head, was a computer geek with a known sports