Authors: Deborah Bedford
W
hen Jennie started drawing again, she made funny sketches for Cody and jotted down stories. Tonight she started drawing caricatures of Cody's new friends on the swim team. Cody watched, entranced, while she shaded them in.
“The swimming has really helped you, Bear.” She scrubbed the paper with a dull pencil. “Look. Here's you. Here's your fabulous new bathing suit with pirate flags.”
“That's great, Mom!”
“Sometimes I wish I could do something more to help. All these other people are helping
youâ¦
”
“I bet you could help. I bet you could help Mark get more kickboards so we could invite more kids.”
“You don't have enough kickboards?”
“No. We have to wait
forever
to get a turn on them.”
“If Mark had more children, could he purchase more supplies?”
“Nope,” Cody said. “We always gripe about taking turns. Mark says he doesn't have money for everything he needs.”
Jennie had heard about the tax cuts and the programs that had been affected; it hadn't seemed like anything more than a news story to her when she had worked at the paper. And suddenly, as she sat sketching, what had once seemed like an impersonal news item now hit in the vicinity of her heart.
I could make a difference. I know I could.
After Cody went to bed, she telephoned Andy, her heart thumping with excitement. “Would Mark let me organize some sort of fund-raiser? The
Times-Sentinel
is always looking for public service projects to be involved in.”
Andy's voice brightened. “Oh, Jennie. If he had the resources, there are so many more things he could do. He could reach more kids. He could buy more equipment. Would you really do something like that?”
“I'll phone Art first thing Monday morning and then I'll talk to Mark when I take Cody to swimming,” Jennie told her. “Consider it done.”
Harv Siskell retired from the Dallas Burn in the middle of the season with a huge party and a five-tiered cake. Buddy Draper, this came as no surprise to anyone, was named his replacement. Buddy's career as head coach of the Burn had begun.
On the morning he was scheduled to coach his first game by himself, Buddy stood on the field midway between the two goals, having pulled his zippered satin jacket more snugly around him, his hands jammed into the pockets. The sun was just riding up over the Dallas skyline and, outside, the day was frigid, one of those wet winter days in Dallas that makes you feel the cold deep down to your bones.
Buddy crossed the huge field alone, the soles of his shoes whispering against the grass as he made his way to the half line. In seven hours, the stands would be full again and he'd embark on yet another new phase in his life. He had already come so far now, he could scarcely remember what it felt like to be a star player.
He looked to the left and the right, running the game plan through his mind, hoping he had considered everything, and that he could make Harv proud.
Buddy loved game days more than anything. Each game day was like taking a big testâone you passed every time you won.
He went into his office and tried to convince himself that this was just another game, that no one would remember it, that it didn't matter that this was his first outing as a professional head coach. But, try as he might, he couldn't manage to relax.
By the time the fans began to arrive and find their seats, a little bit after noon, Buddy felt like a fish out of water, gasping for breath.
Today they were scheduled to play the San Jose Earthquakes. The Earthquakes were already in their locker room, laughing with camaraderie, when Buddy headed down the hallway to find his team. When he walked in, they were all waiting for him.
“Here's Coach!” someone hollered.
“We've got to make this happen for Draper!” someone else shouted.
Marshall Townsend pitched him one of the practice balls. “So do you want the game ball today, Coach?” he asked with a wide grin on his face.
“Only if we win.”
He gathered them into a group and outlined his game plan for the day. He talked about effort, passing, control. It was everything Harv Siskell had always talked to him about, everything that had once made a difference in his life. That and the positive thoughts Andy had shared with him.
Andy. How many times had he thought of her lately? How many times he had wondered if she'd come to watch him again at one of the games. Every week, thousands of people cheered for him and his team. Every week he pretended to himself that one of the fans might be her, that she might be ready to forgive him, that she might be willing to accept the decisions he'd made.
Just before game time, he and the Burn gathered in a big circle, put their right hands together and bellowed, “Go, Burn!” as they lifted fists to the sky. The crowd roared as they raced out onto the field. And, after a few minutes of raucous warm-ups, the clock just below the huge MSL banner read 2:00 p.m.
The Earthquakes took possession of the ball for the kick-off at center line. For the next forty-five minutes, the players crisscrossed the field in wild patterns, the striker made two shots, the keepers switched places and the press drove Buddy nuts. He felt as if they never took the cameras off him during the first half. He needed to concentrate on the game and on what to tell his players. Then Marshall Townsend passed the ball with a one-touch shot when he should have controlled it.
“Get over here,” Buddy said to his player after authorizing a substitution. “It looks like school-yard soccer out there.”
“Sure, Coach.” Marshall shot him a grin. “You sound like Harv.”
“I'm
supposed
to sound like Harv.”
Marshall reentered the game three minutes later. As the last period began, the scoreboard read San Jose 4, Dallas 3.
An Earthquakes player belted the ball toward the Burn's goal, but once again the keeper blocked it. He punted it to the right side of the field, where the San Jose forward trapped it. Two steps forward, and he crossed it to a player on the left side.
When Marshall got the ball he, too, trapped it, jealously controlling it himself for several steps before he passed it backward to the defender. The defender in turn passed the ball back to the right forward. And Dallas's right forward, Eric Spooner, took the shot.
San Jose's keeper blocked the ball with his fist. The ball barely missed the outside post and rebounded. Chuck Kirkland was right beneath it, already anticipating its return pattern. The ball shot through the air several feet above the ground. As Buddy watched with clenched fists, he knew the only thing Kirkland could do was volley it.
The left forward sprang from the ground like a giant cat, whipping his foot out in a fierce kick that sent the high ball straight back into the goal like a guided missile.
Score. Dallas.
Fans jumped up and down in the stands, hugging each other and cheering. The television cameras from WFAA and KTVT moved in ever closer. But with three minutes left in the game, while one of the Burn's best defenders sat waiting in the penalty box, San Jose turned the tide by scoring again.
The Burn and Buddy couldn't recover from that. When the last whistle blew at 4:25 that Saturday afternoon, the score stood San Jose 5, Dallas 4.
“Buddy Draper?” The sports reporter from Channel 11 called to him as he started toward the locker room. “You got time for a short interview?”
“Certainly,” he agreed. He spent five minutes with the reporter, telling the people watching he thought his team had expended too much energy early, and that perhaps the players had placed too much weight on the game because it was his first. He was pleased with his players' performances and told everyone so. And, just as the cameraman changed to a different angle and the reporter asked one last question, Marshall Townsend loped up beside him. “Guess you don't want the game ball since we lost, huh?”
Buddy wasn't sure how to answer that. The cameras glinted at him. He turned away to collect his thoughts. And that's when he saw her. Andy stood ten rows above him wearing a red dress that looked vaguely familiar, her dark hair lying in soft curls around her shoulders, her eyes meeting his just as he'd always imagined they would after he'd caught that one glimpse of her so long ago, every game, from any place in the stands.
He forgot Marshall's question. He forgot the sports reporter from KTVT. He even forgot the cameras and the mike shoved practically against his chin. “Andy?” he called out.
“Andy?”
She pattered down the steps toward him, looking mildly surprised and even a little unnerved by his reaction.
The camera cut away. “Hey, stranger,” she said, grinning, as she leaned over the railing and took his hand. “It's nice to see you.”
“You, too.”
“You still give interviews, I see,” she said quietly.
“Don't know about that.” He smiled. “What are you doing here?”
She shrugged. “I justâneeded to know how you were doing.”
“I'm doing fine.”
“I know that. IâmeanâI would have known that from all the stories I've read. Marshall Townsend is doing a good job taking your place. He's one of the best strikers I've seen.”
“He's gotten better.”
Thanks to you,
Buddy thought. But he didn't dare say it. He asked what he thought was a safer question. “This your first game this season?”
She shook her head. “No. I've come to several.”
Chuck Kirkland came out to find him. “Coach. We're waiting in the locker room.”
He searched Andy's eyes wordlessly.
“Go ahead,” she said, taking one step back. “I shouldn't keep you.”
“Thanks for coming,” he said. “It means a lot.”
“Buddy.” She said it so softly he almost couldn't hear her. “It's good to see you.”
The players surrounded him, moving him toward the lockers. He couldn't say any more to her. But just as he entered the locker room, he caught one last glance of her as she stood high in the stands, gathering her jacket, watching him.
“So? What did you think?” Marshall asked, teasing him the moment he arrived back with the team. “Are we gonna have to throw this game ball into the trash? Or are you gonna take it home?”
Andy didn't think I trusted myself enough. But I've trusted God to show me a new path.
He held out his hand for the game ball.
“Good effort, guys,” he told them all. “It's an afternoon I'll remember my whole life. Thanks.”
He spun the ball high into the air, and caught it.
Jennie called Art Sanderson first thing Monday morning. It didn't take her long to convince him that the
Times-Sentinel
should be a corporate sponsor for the swim team fund-raiser. Art discussed it with the marketing staff and called her back almost immediately.
“We like it,” he said. “How much will you be willing to do for this? Are you going to organize it? What do you have in mind?”
“I'm thinking of doing a variety show that spotlights the kids on the team,” Jennie explained. “We'll have musical numbers and skits interspersed with appearances by several Dallas celebrities.”
“What celebrities are you thinking of?”
Jennie thought about it. “I'll have to talk to several and see who's willing. I was thinking Tony Romo from the Cowboys. Some local DJs. Maybe a few Ranger players and someone from the Burn and the weatherman from Channel 8.”
“Let us know what you come up with. When it comes time for publicity, the
Times-Sentinel
will handle it.”
“I'd like to do some drawings for the ads,” Jennie said. “We can print up posters, too. I'll donate any artwork you need. I've got some great drawings of the swim team.”
“What about music?” Art asked her. “I assume we'll need that, too.”
“Let me talk to somebody at the symphony,” Jennie suggested. “I'll bet we can get some of the instrumentalists to donate their time.”
“When you're finished with this major project,” Art said conspiratorially. “Maybe you'll consider coming back to work.”
“Ha.” She gave a little laugh. She'd been wondering when he was going to bring that up again. “I don't know, Art. Don't count on it. I've got accustomed to staying around the house with this little boy.”
Art shook his head in frustration. “You know I had to try.”
Michael sat at the huge table in Marge Josephs's kitchen. “What a great breakfast, Marge,” he said, leaning back and patting his belly. “It's been a long time since I've eaten like that.” Everything had been delicious. Fresh grapefruit from the Texas Rio Grande Valley. Venison sausage from the deer Bill had brought in last fall. An omelet filled with tomatoes and green peppers and onions from the Josephses' garden out back.