replied. "That sort of shoddy, redneck bravado and unreasoning arrogance offends me. Foul language used around women offends me. Public spectacles offend me. Deliberate stupidity offends me. I was pissed off…no, really just grossly annoyed. But for me to just let fly with no control is like a drunk picking up a loaded gun. Nothing good is gonna happen. Believe me, Jack. That sort of scene, for better or for worse, is part of the job for guys like Simmons and me. Our treating it like a round of golf is like the jokes ambulance drivers tell. It's what makes it possible to face that ugliness and not be eaten alive."
Jack sat quietly for a while, staring out the window. His intelligence and adaptability, as evidenced by his success and diversity, could hardly be questioned. I wasn't worried about him getting past this, but I did worry about how long it might take.
"While we're on the subject," I said casually, "you unnerved me a little bit, too."
"Huh?" Jack said, jolted from his thoughts. "What do you mean?"
"Jack," I sputtered, "how long have you been—to use your phrase—'filthy rich'?"
"About 12 years," he replied. "What does that…"
"I think you may have lost track of the fact that most of us would equate the impulse purchase of a motel with bungee jumping or Russian roulette. Nearly $1,000 for a couple pairs of boots, $70 thousand per annum in salary commitment, $100 million down the road…it's not as ugly as an ass-kickin' but it's just as shocking."
"Okay," he smiled. "Point taken. Behind all of my shock, I guess, is the knowledge that I could never do that."
"You're not trained to," I chuckled. "And, believe me, you're better off doing what you do."
"Oh, I have no complaints," he laughed, "but…I was always a physical guy and I'm not taking it well that I'm not the specimen I was when I played ball."
"You played basketball? At Maryland?" I asked, surprised.
"Football," Jack smiled, "until I blew my knee out."
It was like tumblers falling into place in a lock
"Holy shit," I sputtered. "You're Black Bart!"
"Was," Jack sighed.
"I was watching that game," I muttered. "I thought you dislocated your knee."
"I did," he nodded. "They popped that back in on the field. It was all the ligaments to the knee. They could have knit me back together and I could have limped into the N.F.L. combines but…well, I had other plans, anyway."
"Black Bart" was one of the most celebrated players in A.C.C. history. A fearless, flame-throwing lefty, he could sling the ball 60 yards, flat and straight as a rope. I once saw him throw it 74 yards on the fly, laying it into the receiver's hands like an egg. He had great speed and slipped blitzes like a greased pig.
He would have gone number one in the N.F.L. draft, except for that kamikaze Clemson safety who punched himself over a blocker to slam into the side of Jack's knee with the approximate force of a sledgehammer.
I followed Maryland's football fortunes sporadically, at best, but I loved watching Jack play. When he went down, I drank a few more beers than usual and spent the next three days in a wretched, vicarious funk.
"Jesus," I grinned. "I'm ridin' around with a fucking celebrity."
"Well," Jack laughed, "I'm ridin' around with a war hero. Makes us even."
We drove into Colville and had dinner at a log cabin converted into a pricey steakhouse. The food was excellent and we found a bottle of '97 Sassacaia on their tiny cellar list. Steak, great wine, and football talk—my perfect evening, despite the absence of female companionship.
Colville seemed like such a low-key, almost sleepy little place. As I looked all around, on the drive back, I remembered how lovely and pastoral those fog-shrouded hills in Laos had seemed, and how the view changed as the shadows came alive and muzzle flashes burst like angry fireflies in the last gasp of sunset.
Eleven
"Joe, you're
Jack sat quietly for a while, staring out the window. His intelligence and adaptability, as evidenced by his success and diversity, could hardly be questioned. I wasn't worried about him getting past this, but I did worry about how long it might take.
"While we're on the subject," I said casually, "you unnerved me a little bit, too."
"Huh?" Jack said, jolted from his thoughts. "What do you mean?"
"Jack," I sputtered, "how long have you been—to use your phrase—'filthy rich'?"
"About 12 years," he replied. "What does that…"
"I think you may have lost track of the fact that most of us would equate the impulse purchase of a motel with bungee jumping or Russian roulette. Nearly $1,000 for a couple pairs of boots, $70 thousand per annum in salary commitment, $100 million down the road…it's not as ugly as an ass-kickin' but it's just as shocking."
"Okay," he smiled. "Point taken. Behind all of my shock, I guess, is the knowledge that I could never do that."
"You're not trained to," I chuckled. "And, believe me, you're better off doing what you do."
"Oh, I have no complaints," he laughed, "but…I was always a physical guy and I'm not taking it well that I'm not the specimen I was when I played ball."
"You played basketball? At Maryland?" I asked, surprised.
"Football," Jack smiled, "until I blew my knee out."
It was like tumblers falling into place in a lock
"Holy shit," I sputtered. "You're Black Bart!"
"Was," Jack sighed.
"I was watching that game," I muttered. "I thought you dislocated your knee."
"I did," he nodded. "They popped that back in on the field. It was all the ligaments to the knee. They could have knit me back together and I could have limped into the N.F.L. combines but…well, I had other plans, anyway."
"Black Bart" was one of the most celebrated players in A.C.C. history. A fearless, flame-throwing lefty, he could sling the ball 60 yards, flat and straight as a rope. I once saw him throw it 74 yards on the fly, laying it into the receiver's hands like an egg. He had great speed and slipped blitzes like a greased pig.
He would have gone number one in the N.F.L. draft, except for that kamikaze Clemson safety who punched himself over a blocker to slam into the side of Jack's knee with the approximate force of a sledgehammer.
I followed Maryland's football fortunes sporadically, at best, but I loved watching Jack play. When he went down, I drank a few more beers than usual and spent the next three days in a wretched, vicarious funk.
"Jesus," I grinned. "I'm ridin' around with a fucking celebrity."
"Well," Jack laughed, "I'm ridin' around with a war hero. Makes us even."
We drove into Colville and had dinner at a log cabin converted into a pricey steakhouse. The food was excellent and we found a bottle of '97 Sassacaia on their tiny cellar list. Steak, great wine, and football talk—my perfect evening, despite the absence of female companionship.
Colville seemed like such a low-key, almost sleepy little place. As I looked all around, on the drive back, I remembered how lovely and pastoral those fog-shrouded hills in Laos had seemed, and how the view changed as the shadows came alive and muzzle flashes burst like angry fireflies in the last gasp of sunset.
Eleven
"Joe, you're
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