Life Its Ownself (28 page)

10.
 
Memphis to St. Joe.

Wake me up when the Super Bowl's over, but don't bother to tell me who won. I already know.

CBS.

The Script Committee of the Players Association had been composed of six players, one of whom was Dreamer Tatum. The others were Tom Buckner, a center for the 49ers; Randy Hall, a quarterback for the Eagles; J.D. Sealy, a linebacker for the Raiders; Harold Coleclaw, a defensive end for the Dolphins; and Tommy Crouch, a wide receiver for the Patriots.

The scripts for all of the games had been placed in the hands of trustworthy union members. The scripts couldn't always be followed precisely because of the zebra factor, but Dreamer said the Players Association had been more than satisfied with the results.

Personally, I thought the Script Committee paid too much attention to plot.

In a San Diego-Seattle game, the Chargers blew a 39- point lead and lost a close one to the Seahawks. The Chargers couldn't have pulled it off without the artistry of their quarterback, Scott Thirsk. A loyal union man, Thirsk threw seven interceptions in the second half.

A punter for the Cleveland Browns, Parker Knowles, lost a game to the Steelers in the final minute by missing the ball with his foot.

The old Statue of Liberty play was resurrected in a Buffalo-Chicago game. A1 Donahue, the Buffalo quarterback, held the ball long enough for Willie Hughes, a Chicago Bear linebacker, to pluck it out of his hand and gallop 57 yards for a decisive touchdown.

On a field-goal effort from Atlanta's 5-yard line, the 49ers' Tom Buckner snapped the ball 40 yards over the place- kicker's head, which in turn led to a game-winning touchdown for the Falcons.

Harold Coleclaw and Tommy Crouch made a real show of it in a Miami-New England game. Coleclaw intercepted a pass and rumbled 50 yards for what looked like a touchdown, but he absent-mindedly spiked the ball before he crossed the goal. Tommy Crouch picked up the ball and ran it out to mid-field before he fumbled it back to the Dolphins, who then drove to a winning field goal.

This was the Cowboys' first season under John Smith, the longtime assistant who had replaced the retired Tom Landry, but Dallas still sent in the plays from the sideline. Temple Stark, the Cowboys' tight end and a staunch union man, shuttled in the wrong plays all day in a game against the Eagles. Nothing came of it because no one with the Cowboys, including the new head coach, knew the difference. And in any case, the Cowboys couldn't outfumble the Eagles' Randy Hall.

"We have some dedicated people," Dreamer said.

Now it was December and I had gone to Fort Worth.

I checked into the Hyatt Regency again. Later in the week, after Kathy and the CBS gang came in for the Cowboys-Giants game, I would move to the Adolphus Hotel in Dallas. TV crews needed to stay together.

Shake had left word at the Hyatt for me to meet him at Mommie's Trust Fund. Jim Tom and the Junior League would be there.

Before slipping into my combat clothes for the evening—jeans, sport coat, golf shirt, loafers—I called Barbara Jane, as I always did, to let her know the plane hadn't been hijacked to Cameroon.

Someone at the studio gave me a number where she could be reached.

I put through a call to that number and an Oriental answered.

"Who's this?" I said.

"Ying."

"Could I speak to Mrs. Puckett, please?"

"No Miz Pluckett."

"Is Barbara Jane Bookman there?"

"Babla Blookman?"

"Yes. Very pretty lady."

"She here, no can talk."

"Why?"

"Miz Blookman on tennis court."

"Is this Mr. Sullivan's residence?"

"Yes, Mr. Sullivan house. No can talk. Velly busy on tennis court."

I left a message for Barbara Jane: "We'll always have Paris."

"Who message flom?" Ying asked.

"Martina," I said.

Mommie's Trust Fund was packed with the predictable array of debutantes and entrepreneurs.

I pushed my way up to the bar, where Shake and Jim Tom had staked out some turf. Shake greeted me by saying, "Order us another drink, Billy Clyde. I'll go ask those girls what color cars they want."

Jim Tom was already trying to break up an argument between Vivian and Dexter.

I was hardly there long enough to order my first youngster when Jim Tom made a recruiting move on a blonde adorable with a fearsome set of homegrowns inside a T-shirt that said: ORDER A LA CARTE.

"Hold it!" Jim Tom said, as he grabbed the girl's arm. "You from a foreign country?"

"If you count Hurst-Euless," said the girl. "Who wants to know?"

"I'm Jim Tom Dexter. Who're you?"

"Somebody who ain't got time for your bullshit."

The adorable tried to remove his hand from her arm.

Jim said, "What's that say on your shirt, darlin'? I had to drop out of school to fight a war."

"It says you can't afford the full-course dinner."

"Want a drink?"

"I have a drink on the other side of the bar, thank you."

Jim Tom said, "I want you to meet my celebrity friends." He nodded toward Shake and me.

"Hi," the girl said.

Shake and I both stuck out our hands.

"Hello," I said. "My name's Fat Chance."

"I'm Raw Deal," Shake said.

"We got some dope," Jim Tom said to the girl.

"You don't have enough," she sneered.

"Seriously, darlin', what's your name?"

"Flo."

"Cash Flo?"

"You got it!" The girl sprang free and dissolved into the crowd.

"I love these places," I said to Shake.

"It's the most fun I've ever had," he smiled.

Two hours later the three of us were standing outside The Blessed Virgin, admiring the marquee, which now said:

Appearing Nightly:

KIMCOOZE

44-22-38

and

SIX ALL NUDE CAMPFIRE GIRLS!

Our wrists were stamped at the door by a 6-5, 250-pound psycho. We moved into the darkness of The Blessed Virgin.

From the jukebox came the sound of an old Dixieland rendition of "Baby, Won't You Please Come Home?" Kim Cooze was performing on the stage.

As we edged toward the bar, we watched Kim slip out of her nun's habit and get down to her G-string and pasties. She then began to co-exist erotically with a religious cross that was covered in rhinestones.

"The Medicis never got enough credit," Shake said. "Where would art be today?"

We ordered enough Scotch to see us through a gloomy winter. Kim continued to save souls in the audience. When our eyes adjusted to the light, Shake was the first to spot Charlie Teasdale. The zebra was sitting at a table with three other men.

"I'll be damned," I said, as Shake pointed him out.

Seeing the zebra in The Blessed Virgin relieved my mind about the elegy to pro football that Shake had coming out in
Playboy
.

Until that moment, I hadn't been a hundred percent convinced that Kim Cooze had told him the truth about Charlie Teasdale.

There was enough youngster in my veins to make me want to wander over and say hello to the zebra.

"Go ahead," Shake said. "I'm curious to know what he says."

I carried a fresh Scotch with me and pulled up a chair at Charlie's table.

"What do you say, Charlie?" I smiled. "I didn't know you were a fan of the ballet."

Charlie looked surprised to see me, but he didn't seem overly embarrassed to be caught in The Blessed Virgin.

"Why, Billy Clyde Puckett," he said, "how in the world are you? How's your knee?"

He introduced me to his companions, Roy, Wayne, and Hank. There was a homebuilders' convention going on in Dallas, Charlie let me know quickly. He had thought his friends, Roy, Wayne, and Hank, should get a taste of Fort Worth nightlife, too. Fort Worth was more fun than Dallas in some ways, he said. They were going to leave in a minute. Maybe they'd go out to the stockyards area and hear some Western music at the White Elephant or Billy Bob's.

"You're doing real good on TV, Billy Clyde," Charlie said. "I don't get to see you, of course. I'm always working, but people tell me you're not a bad announcer. Don't talk too much."

Roy wanted me to autograph a napkin for him. I did. Then Wayne decided he better have an autograph for his eight-year-old boy.

"What's his name?" I asked.

"Wayne."

"Wayne junior?"

"Naw, just Wayne."

Roy directed our attention to the stage, where Kim Cooze writhed on the floor and tantalized her tummy with rosary beads. The jukebox had progressed to a Dixieland version of "Who's Sorry Now?"

At an opportune moment, I said to Charlie, "I know you guys don't like to talk to journalists, but can I ask you a question?"

He said, "Hell, Billy Clyde, I don't mind talking to anybody, but the league has these rules."

"I kind of thought since I was Establishment, it wouldn't hurt."

"Go ahead," Charlie said, taking a drink of his draft beer.

"Why do you throw so fucking many flags in a game, Charlie?"

"I knew you were going to ask me that," he cackled.

Roy, Wayne, and Hank weren't listening to us, preoccupied as they were with the entertainer on the stage.

Charlie said, "I want to tell you something, Billy Clyde. You don't have any idea what a hard job we have. Nobody does. You can't have a thin skin and wear a whistle around your neck in the National Football League. I'm a purist, I suppose. I don't like to see a player get away with anything. Our job is to see that a team doesn't get an unfair advantage over another team. There's too much at stake. Shoot, I'm just like everybody else. I like to see the best team win because of the skills of their players and coaches, not because of a judgment call. But I'm not going to let a team win because they're getting away with something, not if I can help it."

Charlie had gone into officiating like most zebras—as a hobby, a sideline. And like most zebras, he had come out of the ranks of collegiate officials. He had refereed in the Southwest Conference before he had joined the NFL.

The way it worked was, a college zebra would apply for a job in the NFL on the sly. He wouldn't want his conference to know he was thinking about going into the pros. The NFL would watch him for a couple of seasons. If the league liked his work, he would be accepted, pending a physical, an eye test, and a rules test.

The zebras in the NFL were required to take these tests regularly. I often wondered how Charlie passed the eye test every year.

The referee was the boss zebra in a football game. He could overrule the field judge, the back judge, the umpire, or the head linesman. They all made the same amount of money, but the referee had power. No zebra had ever used his power like Charlie Teasdale, according to Shake Tiller.

Zebras worked as teams in the NFL. In other words, Charlie always officiated a game with the same field judge, back judge, umpire, and head linesman. The league wanted it this way. If the zebras knew each other's mannerisms, tendencies to be in or out of position on certain plays, thought processes, prejudices, strengths, drawbacks, physical stamina, they could function better. It was supposed to make for a better game.

Shake had uncovered no evidence that anyone on Charlie's crew was guilty of "doing business." Charlie had been working all year with Bob Stewart, an experienced field judge from Chicago; Ben Kincaid, a good back judge from Terre Haute, Indiana; Sam Pugh, a veteran umpire out of Birmingham; and Raymond (Rat] Farmer, an ex-pass receiver for the Lions who had become a head linesman.

The fact that Shake had no proof of wrongdoing on the part of Charlie's crew members didn't get them off the hook with him. NFL crews got their game assignments ten days ahead of time and Shake said this left them with plenty of opportunity to tell their friends or business associates which game to put a circle around.

The league instructed—and trusted—the zebras to keep their assignments a deep, dark secret, even from their families, right up until the opening kickoff. The NFL saw it as a way of safeguarding the officials from the influence of gamblers, death threats, mobsters, and so forth.

But as Shake said, if the zebras were so good at keeping secrets, how come everybody from Uncle Kenneth to the valet parking guys in Vegas always knew what game Charlie Teasdale and his crew would be working?

Now in The Blessed Virgin, after Charlie had made his noble speech, I said, "Charlie, you do know you've made more controversial calls than any zebra who ever lived, don't you?"

"Camera angles," he said.

"Camera angles? That's where the losers go to file their complaints?"

He said, "Billy Clyde, television is the worst thing that ever happened to officiating. Oh, I've blown some. I've been out of position. But at the time, I thought I was right—and most of the time, I was. Our league cameras have different angles from the networks. On most of those calls you're thinking about—the Miami fumble, the Cleveland out-of- bounds, the 49er end zone—our league cameras proved I was right."