Part 12 (2/2)

”He may be out of commission for a while,” Rick completed the thought, feeling a sense of dread and anxiety come over him.

Ray Ray looked down at his food. Then he chuckled, and the grin was back. ”He'll be back sooner than you think.”

”You played for Coach Bryant with the Professor, didn't you?” Rick asked.

Ray Ray nodded. ”Graduated in 1960, the year before the first national champion,” he said, his eyes narrowing. ”You know, us boys on that team-Tommy, Lee Roy, Billy, Benny, Darwin, Pat . . .” He shook his head. ”h.e.l.l, all of us. We're different. We've had our struggles in life like everyone does, but we don't quit.” He paused, shaking his head again. ”You go through what we went through, you . . . can't. It's just not possible. Those boys that went with the Man to Junction when he was at A&M get all the publicity. And they was tough as nails, don't get me wrong. Beebs was one of our a.s.sistants. I know. But . . . us boys in Tuscaloosa in '58, '59, '60, and '61 . . . we didn't have no choice but to win. Coach demanded it. He willed it to happen. You'd look in that man's eyes and hear his voice coming at you from up on that tower, and by G.o.d you had to whip the man in front of you. I was a receiver, and I didn't just catch the ball when it came my way, I swallowed the d.a.m.n thing. I was so focused I could see the laces on the ball.” He dug his fork into the plate of eggs and pointed it at Rick. ”I can't tell you how many times I've wanted to quit in my life, and before I could do it, before I could walk away or stop what I was trying to do or . . .” He paused, blinking his eyes, and the hand holding the fork began to shake. ”Or pull the trigger, I'd always hear that G.o.dd.a.m.n gravelly voice in my head. 'Get up, Pickalew. Get up, G.o.dd.a.m.nit.'” Ray Ray wiped his eyes and slammed his right hand down on the table, causing the ice in the water gla.s.ses to rattle and Rick to jump back from the table. ”Sorry,” Ray Ray said.

Rick didn't know what to say. He was taken back by the intensity resonating from across the table. And for the first time he was glad that Ray Ray Pickalew was on the team.

”Anyway,” Ray Ray continued, sc.r.a.ping his teeth on his fork as he wolfed down a bite of eggs. ”Tommy may be down right now, but he'll be back. Us boys . . .” He gave a quick jerk of his head. ”We just don't know any different.”

29.

Hazel Green, Alabama is a small town just a few miles south of the Alabama-Tennessee border. In 1967, led by a rugged all-state center named Rickey Clark and a skinny soph.o.m.ore shooting guard named Stanley Stafford, the Hazel Green Trojans won the 2A Alabama state basketball champions.h.i.+p. Most folks in Hazel Green of a certain age will tell you they remember two things about high school sports during the '50s and '60s. They remember Stanley Stafford hitting a jump shot at the buzzer to win the state champions.h.i.+p in '67.

And they remember when Coach Paul ”Bear” Bryant came to Trojan Field in 1959 to see Tom McMurtrie play football.

It had been homecoming in late October. The Trojans were playing Sparkman in an important game in the race for the county champions.h.i.+p. The air was crisp and cool, and many of the crowd had paper cups filled with hot chocolate. There had been rumors all week that Coach Bryant might come to the game, so the stands were packed an hour before kickoff, everyone turning their heads this way and that to see if the great man would actually visit.

He arrived midway through the first quarter. The referees literally stopped play as they got word that the Bear was on the premises. Coach Bryant rode in a black Cadillac marked by two state trooper sedans in front and one behind. The motorcade pulled to the front of the stadium, and according to Princ.i.p.al Ebb Hanson, the Bear was out of the back seat before the wheels had stopped rolling. Princ.i.p.al Hanson shook Coach Bryant's hand and escorted him into the stadium as fans from both sides of the field rose and clapped. The Hazel Green band even broke into a rendition of ”Yeah, Alabama.” The black-and-white pictures taken of the event show Coach Bryant in a dark suit, white s.h.i.+rt, and tie, with a black overcoat to keep off the cold. His head was covered with his trademark houndstooth fedora.

Princ.i.p.al Hanson led Coach Bryant into the stadium, flanked on the sides and in the back by four uniformed state troopers. Eventually, the Bear and his entourage were seated in the home stands on the fifty-yard line.

Coach Bryant, pursuant to his request, sat right between Sut and Rene McMurtrie, the parents of the boy he had come to see. Tom, watching from the field, heard one referee whisper to the other, ”Sweet Jesus, look how big the son of a b.i.t.c.h is,” as the Bear shook Tom's father's hand and kissed his momma on the cheek.

The Trojans actually lost the game 1714, but no one ever talks about that. They only talk about Coach Bryant's entrance to the stadium, and the eight minutes of the first half that he watched.

Eight minutes in which Tom McMurtrie sacked the quarterback three times, had two tackles behind the line of scrimmage, caused a fumble, intercepted a pa.s.s, and blocked a field goal. Though his daddy couldn't understand much of what Coach Bryant had said, given the noise in the stadium and the Bear's gravel-like voice, Sut had told Tom later that he did hear the word ”stud” several times. ”Besides,” Sut had said, rolling his eyes, ”he spent most of his time listening to your momma.”

Sure enough, a Huntsville Times cub reporter had gotten a great snapshot of the three together and put it on the front page of the sports section, which Sut said summed up the experience better than words could ever do. In the picture Sut is sitting bolt upright, arms folded, eyes focused intently on the game. Coach Bryant, smiling pleasantly, is leaning toward Tom's mother, Rene, who is pointing at the field and telling the Bear something.

The next afternoon, seated at the kitchen table of the McMurtrie home, Coach Bryant offered Tom a scholars.h.i.+p to play football for the University of Alabama.

Sitting now in the same chair that his father had sat in those many years ago, Tom leaned his elbows on the table and held the framed newspaper photograph in his hand. Tracing his finger over the three faces-his daddy, Coach Bryant, and his momma-he knew that these three people had probably had the most influence on who and what he had become in life. Sometimes, like last year in the courtroom in Henshaw, he could still hear their voices. Encouraging him. Still teaching him lessons long past the grave.

And as he rubbed the wounds on his face, still raw from the beating outside of Kathy's Tavern, and felt the bandages on his ribs, he thought he could hear one of their voices now. Crystal clear and spoken firm and direct. ”Don't ever tolerate a bully . . .”

Tom had been in the fifth grade and had come home from school with a black eye. A seventh-grader had been picking on him, taking his lunch, and when Tom attempted to fight back, the boy had punched Tom in the face. Tom had tried to defend himself, but it was no use. The boy was bigger and stronger, and Tom got his a.s.s whipped. He had hung his head in shame when he got home, not wanting to face his daddy. His momma had found him crying in his bedroom. She had hugged him and kissed his eye. Then she had made an egg custard pie, Tom's favorite.

After they had eaten their pie and washed it down with some sweet tea, his momma had taken him by the shoulders and looked him directly in the eye. She did not mince her words. ”Tom, if that boy ever picks on you again, I want you get a stick and beat the tar out of him, you hear me?”

”Yes, ma'am,” Tom had said, too scared of the look in her eye to question her.

”And you don't stop beating him until they pull you off.”

Tom had swallowed hard, but he had nodded. The next day at school he had hit Justin Ledbetter in the face with a fallen tree branch, sending him to Huntsville Hospital with a broken jaw and nose. The boy had tried to take his lunch again so Tom ”did exactly what his momma told him to do,” Rene McMurtrie told Princ.i.p.al Hanson when she and Sut had come up to the school that afternoon.

When Hanson said he had no choice but to suspend Tom, Tom's momma had placed her hands on her hips and said, ”Oh no you're not. You will do no such thing.”

Fl.u.s.tered, Hanson had looked to Sut for help. ”Sut, I'm the princ.i.p.al. She can't tell me what to do.”

But Tom's father just crossed his arms and smirked. ”Ebb, I fought for George Patton in the Third Army. I'd rather disobey a direct order from him than have to deal with the war you are about to start. If I were you, I'd fix the bullying problem you've got at this school. I would not pick a fight with my wife.”

Tom had been sent home for a two-day cooling-off period, but he was never officially suspended. And Tom noticed that Ebb Hanson always walked in the other direction when he saw Tom's momma headed his way.

After the Justin Ledbetter incident, no one at Hazel Green High School ever messed with Tom again. In fact, no one had picked a fight with him in over fifty years. Tom had grown to be six foot three and well over two hundred pounds. He had played football at Alabama for the toughest coach that ever lived on a defense that believed it was a sin to give up a point.

But someone was messing with him now.

Tom had no doubt that whoever was responsible for the attack on him had framed Bocephus Haynes for the murder of Andy Walton. It was the only explanation for what had happened. Downtown Pulaski was not known for violence.

But his theory had fallen on deaf ears. Helen Lewis had visited him in the hospital, but she had scoffed at the idea that anyone could possibly have killed Andy Walton but Bo Haynes. ”You're not thinking clearly, Tom. Give it some time.”

Tom had given it some-a whole week at the farm-and his gut feeling had only intensified. Bocephus Haynes was framed for murder, and the person or people responsible would stop at nothing to keep the truth buried. If it meant nearly killing Tom, then so be it. These people didn't give a d.a.m.n about playing fair. They were bullies, no different than Justin Ledbetter.

And it was high time they were taught a lesson.

Tom limped into the living room and carefully placed the framed newspaper photograph back on the mantle. Then he edged his way to the rear of the house, using a cane for balance.

The gun case hung on the wall in his bedroom. He opened the latch and pulled out a Remington deer rifle and a .38-caliber pistol, complete with a holster, and placed them side by side on the bed. Tom grabbed the rifle and pointed it at the mirror in the corner, looking through the scope and thinking about his momma again.

During the first day of his cooling-off period, he had asked his momma why she had told him to get a stick. He had never forgotten her response: ”Don't ever tolerate a bully, son. Bullies are people whose goal in life is to keep you or other folks down. They're so stupid and insecure in who they are, their whole ident.i.ty comes from the suppression of others.” She had paused then, creasing her eyebrows and looking over Tom's shoulder with an expression that reeked of disgust. ”And there's only one way to deal with them.”

”You fight them,” Tom had volunteered, trying to be helpful, but his mother's eyebrows had creased even further, and she brought both fists down on the table.

”No. You fought the other day when you came home with a s.h.i.+ner.”

”So . . . the stick.”

She nodded. ”Bullies always slant the field in their direction. They don't play by the rules, so the rules of fairness don't apply. It doesn't matter how big and strong a bully is if you bring a stick to the fight.” Then she'd said something he'd never forgotten. ”Bullies are only scared of two things. People who aren't scared of them . . . and people who won't tolerate them.”

Tom attached the holster to his hip and put the .38 inside. Then he threw the rifle's strap over his shoulder and slowly limped to the front of the house.

When he finally returned to the kitchen, he saw the two men through the bay window. They were standing outside, leaning against a black Dodge Charger and drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups.

Tom set the guns on the kitchen table and, using the cane again, walked outside into the humidity. The hot sun felt good as it warmed his face and arms, but it was so bright he had to squint at his visitors.

”Professor,” Powell Conrad said, extending his hand. Powell wore a blue b.u.t.ton-down, jeans, and Ray-Ban sungla.s.ses. ”You growing a beard?”

Tom nodded, shaking Powell's hand. ”Doctor's orders. He doesn't want me to irritate the skin.”

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