Copyright 1997(c)

                         A FOOTBALL HERO
                          by B. J. Higgs

     He was tired, as tired as he'd ever been. He had absolutely
no reason to lift his eyes to the next play. It didn't matter.
     In this era of the come-back-kid-President, his had been the
come-back team. Highly favored going into the Super Bowl, they could
feel the magic rings on their fingers; could smell the celebration
of champagne bubbles in the air. Going in, they were proud and
certain.
     A series of errors and bad calls, combined with bad breaks,
like the one to the right femur of the key quarterback, had put
them down by seven points in the first half. Now, in the last
minutes of the second half, they were in enemy territory and the
other side had only to fall on the ball. The score was still seven
zip. They were inches and seconds away from a tie, at least, and
they didn't have the ball.
     He watched the opposition quarterback fall on the football as
teammates ringed him in protection. Knowing the closing minutes
would be at least one, maybe two repetitions of that, he
disassociated. Oh, he was there and he made the motions, but it was
a matter of seconds running and he wouldn't need to do any more
than watch in agony. 
     He relaxed his muscles and rolled his neck, then moved into
position. He was thinking of the drive home when the quarterback
somehow managed to let the ball slip from his hands.
     It scooched up into an arc as if aimed for his arms while he
debated which route to take on the drive to his urban home and
anticipated the depression of second-best status, once again. 
     Thus, he assured second-best for his team, because he gave up
before the fat lady sang. So the coach said, often. Coach loved
nothing better than showing the footage some asshole camera-man had
taken from over his shoulder. Ahead of him the day he lost the
Super Bowl, was wide open space. It was crystal clear that if he'd
reacted timely, he'd have easily had the touchdown to tie the game.
It was the kind of moment that is painful to re-live and coach made
him do so daily, weekly and yearly.
     Jim Brown's career would have been one touchdown run shorter,
if he'd lost his focus. It wasn't enough to get him in Ripley's.
     Jim got in.
     The coach said it was his personal greatest example of a
quitter. That had been six years ago, and no training video footage
ever failed to include it. It was mortifying.
     Like the agony of defeat, it was sometimes choreographed with
music such as "I'm dreaming [I'm dreaming]" in that stupid gal's
voice with an echo. That looked silly enough, but they slowed it
down and played 'you got to stop and smell the roses,' by Mac
what's his name you never hear about anymore. It was public
property, so they made whatever fun they wanted to and he could
only writhe. In Super Bowl XXXI, they had a video of him dancing with
Gilda while the football lands almost on his head as he makes a
swift turn out of the way in one of those commercials they cut
together with modern people or things and old movie images of
people who have passed on. The problem was, he was real and alive,
but he was public property.
     They had done that to him. The coach had dogged him for years,
and now they thought they could trade him at the first of the
year... just like that? Guess again, sporting life.
     He walked into the training camp with an Uzi.
     Afterward, great-talking-head-shrinks came on television and
analyzed his behavior. Some of them said it could have been
predicted with a personality like his. Smart people already knew
that you can't pick on one guy all the time and expect him to
remain normal. A thing like that--hell, it would make you crazy.
     But it got him into Ripley's.
     Right along with Wrong-Way Carrigan.

                               END