Category: Fiction Factor

The field goal would have to travel 64 yards, and kicking it between the goalposts – into a fickle wind – would make the feat all the more difficult. With only one tick remaining on the clock and his final timeout burned, however, Ocean State University coach Miller Faber had little choice.

The chances of a successful Hail Mary were slim – Evergreen Tech had stymied the Sharks’ passing attack all night – and Merrill Quatro regularly booted 60-plus yarders at practice.

No, with his squad down 23-21, the quirky sidewinder was his best option.

“Kicking team!” Faber shouted.

Quatro slipped on his helmet and before taking the field, stopped and looked at his coach.

“Which one am I gonna get, coach?” Quatro asked.

“What are you talking about?” Faber replied, watching as the rest of his team prepared to line up on the Evergreen 47-yard line. “Which what?”

“You know, one of your clichés. I think the first one came at the team meeting my freshman year, about how football is like the game of life. That’s a good one … makes me chuckle.”

Faber was irritated. A berth in the Begonia Bowl was on the line, and winning this game – on the road against more than 50,000 mostly hostile fans – was all Faber was thinking about.

“Son,” Faber snapped. “Right now isn’t the time or the place … I used up all the rah-rah stuff in the locker room and I’m not in a joking mood. Why don’t you just go out there and do what you’ve done a thousand times, OK?”

Quatro took a few steps forward and then turned around.

“It’s just that I’ve had four years to think about it, and it seems too simplistic,” Quatro said. “I understand in football, as in life, we face adversity and have to overcome challenges, so I get where you’re coming from. But every game we know there are going to be four, 15-minute quarters, a 20-minute halftime, and the game will end with a winner and a loser, even if it takes overtime. Life isn’t that cut and dried.”

Faber shook his head.

“Just get out there, dammit!” Faber screamed.

Quatro scampered onto the field behind the holder, took two quick digs into the turf with his right foot, and waited for the snap to the holder.

Before the ball came spiraling out of the hands of the center, though, Tech called a timeout in an effort to ice the kicker.

Quatro headed back to the sideline.

“See,” he said. “That’s a perfect example. “They still had a timeout they could use, but in life sometimes you don’t have a timeout. Sometimes you have no time … and sometimes you have a lot of time. Really, I don’t think life is a game at all. And football? It’s just football. If it’s like anything, it’s like rugby. You know, rugby started at the Rugby School in England back in 1845 …”

Faber vigorously rubbed his forehead with his left hand, and pulled his cap off with his right.

“Merrill,” he said. “For the love of all that’s holy, will you just please kick the ball? As a favor … to me. Hit it, miss it, I don’t even care at this point. Let’s just end this conversation, and then you can end the game.”

Quatro winked and double-timed back to his spot.

There were no more timeouts to be called, so the ball was snapped, placed down by the holder, and quickly met with the thunderous thud of his instep.

Quatro watched the ball break slightly to the right before curving back to the left, easily splitting the posts and clearing the crossbar with plenty of room to spare.

The few hundred Ocean State fans on hand erupted in cheers, while the rest of the fans sat in stunned silence as their team had lost on one of the longest field goals ever kicked in college football.

The holder – a backup quarterback – lifted Quatro into the air, and many of his teammates joined in the celebration. Quatro glanced at Faber, who was smiling and shaking his head.

As a philosophy major, the kicker was often engaging his mentor in conversations that had little to do with sports, and the coach ribbed him about his high mindedness – sometimes with a touch of exasperation. Faber usually countered by pulling an old chestnut from his bag of coachspeak.

This time, Quatro used the off-the-wall banter during the timeout to keep from overthinking his career-defining field goal.

“Helluva boot, Merrill!” said Faber, who nudged his way into the pile of humanity to give the kicker a hug and pat on the helmet. “So, tell me, smartass … which of my words of wisdom did you think about when you made that kick? Was it the one about tough times don’t last but tough people do, or maybe how sports doesn’t build character, it reveals it?”

“Actually coach, this was one time I wasn’t thinking about any of your clichés.”

Quatro held up both hands and rubbed his fingers together.

“I just remember you telling me an NFL kicker makes more than $2 million a year.”

The big blue charter bus hissed and sighed as it eased to a stop in the huge parking lot at Myra’s Country Kitchen and Olde Town Store. The comfort food restaurant chain was a popular stop for travelers, and the one just off the interstate outside Memphis was where members of the Flowing Water Retirement Community were disembarking.

The group of 24 older adults had left Atlanta before dawn on their way to Branson, Missouri, for a quick getaway. Once there, they’d enjoy an evening of entertainment courtesy of Yakov Smirnoff, and partake of all the chicken and waffles they cared to eat (plus limitless refills of iced tea) during his live performance. The next day would be a “play day” where they were free to take advantage of everything the Ozark town had to offer.

Each year Flowing Water sponsored similar trips, all designed to give residents a chance to get a change of scenery. Not all took advantage of such junkets, though.

Carter Shelton had lived at the complex for the past three years. He was friendly – Carter greeted everyone with a smile – but in many ways he didn’t fit in.

Flowing Water provided daily lunches, exercise classes, movie nights – the activity director, Midge Masters, did a terrific job ensuring that the residents had access to more than just the comforts of home. It was, indeed, a good place to live.

Carter, however, kept mostly to himself and steered clear of group activities.

He had moved into a second floor apartment three years earlier, and spent most mornings walking the grounds, putting in earbuds and listening to hard rock music or podcasts about comic books.

While the rest of the residents – many in their late 70s and older – looked and dressed the part of “senior citizens,” Carter was partial to graphic T-shirts and bright-colored sneakers.

It wasn’t often you’d see a 75-year-old-man wearing a black, AC/DC tank top, silky basketball shorts and neon running shoes, but if you did, chances are it was Carter Shelton.

So, for Carter to agree to take a 650-mile road trip to see a 1980s-era comedian … well, it seemed out of character.

“Guys, we have about an hour for lunch and shopping, so don’t rush, but don’t dawdle,” Midge said as the group stepped off the bus and started making their way toward the entrance. “We ordered ahead and they’re expecting us, so we should all get our food pretty quick. We have tables set up in the meeting room. Be sure to check your number on the itinerary and the one on the table – that’s where you’ll sit.”

Carter hung back and carefully eyed the cars that were coming into the lot.

“Carter, you should probably go on in,” Madge said.

“Nah,” he said. “I’m just gonna wait on Betty.”

Although Midge had never engaged Carter in “deep” conversation, he often spoke of Betty, who he claimed to be an old flame from high school. He said his stay at Flowing Waters would be temporary and that she would “come pick me up one day.”

“You’re a long way from home, Carter,” Midge said. “And it’s been three years … don’t you think Betty would’ve come and gotten you by now?”

Carter smiled.

“Well,” he said, “she’s been busy, and we had to make sure the timing was right. During high school, while most of the kids went to the Gulf of Mexico for their senior trip, me and her drove up here to Memphis. Went to Beale Street, went to New Daisy Theatre and saw B.B. King – had the best time. B.B. ain’t with us anymore, but I suspect Beale Street is still Beale Street and there’s no place like the home of the Blues. Plus, there’s a rumor that Keith Richards is gonna play there tonight. She wouldn’t miss that.”

Midge had always enjoyed hearing Carter tell stories of his “wild” youth and adventures with Betty, but it was heartbreaking to think he had come all this way to meet someone who wasn’t going to show up.

Betty, his wife, had passed away, which was the reason he moved into Flowing Waters in the first place. Midge never brought up the subject, though; she didn’t feel it was her place.

“Carter,” she said. “Let’s just go inside. Here’s what I’ll do … I’ll leave your name with the hostess and if Betty shows up …”

“When …” Carter interjected.

“When Betty shows up, she’ll come inside and ask for you, won’t she? When she does, they’ll call your name and you can meet her up front. Deal?”

Carter nodded.

“OK,” he said. “But I’m sure she’ll be here soon. I texted her about an hour ago and she said she was on her way.”

Midge gave Carter a gentle pat on the back and just as she opened the door to the restaurant, a convertible pulled up – with the silver-haired driver waving with one hand and honking the horn with the other.

“There’s my ride!” shouted Carter, who jogged toward the silver Ford Mustang.

Midge fast-stepped behind Carter, who had already leaned over, kissed the driver, and moved to the passenger side of the vehicle.

“Midge, meet Betty,” Carter said as Midge looked on with surprise.

“Well,” Betty said, “I’m actually the ‘other’ Betty. I hooked up with a guy I met in college here in Memphis and this old reprobate ran off and got married to another woman named Betty. I guess he has a type. Anyway, now that he’s a widower and I’m a widow, it’s probably time we finished what we started back in high school.”

Carter strapped on his seatbelt and winked at Midge.

“She bought the gas, so I reckon I’ll have to buy the grass, just like the old days,” Carter said with a laugh. “Ya’ll have a fun time in Branson. Tell the gang we’ll see ‘em back in Atlanta – unless we don’t. The last time we were in Memphis we lost track of time.”

What was it Patton once said … “Fatigue makes cowards of us all?” Buddy could relate. After hours of battle, he had reached the point where victory no longer seemed to matter – nor did survival, really.

His own lack of sleep and the animal’s seemingly constant motion had finally worn him down. In this battle of man versus beast, the beast was winning – and had almost won. And that was fine because one way or another, this all had to end.

Before entering the arena, he had been warned. He was too old, too weak, too unprepared to take on something that was simply too, too much to handle. But in his mind, he knew he still had one more fight in him. Well, he thought he did, anyway.

After all, he had done this before – many times, in fact. And there had been myriad occasions when he was so exhausted he could barely hold his head up. Yet somehow, he endured. Day after day, night after night, he tried to break what appeared to be an unbreakable foe.

Had he thought of giving up?

Sure. Honorable or otherwise, sometimes defeat is inevitable.

But he never tapped out, and because he didn’t, his enemies of the past ultimately became his friends for life. And that’s why these battles were irresistible.

So, here he was again, sprawled on the ground and devoid of energy. Coming towards him was the creature – razor-sharp teeth glistening … its eyes bright with mischief. If the man just gave up, perhaps it would all be over.

Yet, he didn’t.

Instead, Buddy reached out with the rope, waved it wildly, and coerced the predator into clamping down on it.

The critter shook it vigorously, growled, and then collapsed.

Why?

The man had no clue.

It seemed to have boundless energy, only to stop briefly and abruptly start back again. Thus, Buddy knew the reprieve would be ever so brief.

The opportunity to take flight was there; he could run, he could hide – he could even race outside, get into his car, and drive away.

Instead, he crawled over to the puppy, kissed it on the head, and managed a smile.

Some things are always worth fighting for, no matter how tiring.