Ticket to the big game
"Tell me, how'd you get the nickname 'Bus'?" the reporter asked as he twirled his ballpoint through his fingers, the smoky aroma of barbecue swirling around the two men at their table.
Ronnie "The Bus" Drake scratched at his droopy mustache, more salt than pepper. "You didn't find that in your research?"
"I did, but I want to hear it from you."
"Oh God." Drake came forward, his half-eaten plate of ribs and onions parked between his elbows. "That was what, thirty-seven years ago—my first game with the Bengals. We were lined up against the Jets, down by three points as I remember. I'm the fullback and Johnny shovels the ball to me, and I run over everybody for the touchdown, and the stadium announcer's screaming, while I'm running, 'Look at 'im go, like a city bus crushing Volkswagens!' Well, it stuck."
"Beats 'Ronnie the Giant.'"
"You found that one, too, huh?"
The reporter sipped from his coffee. "I found out a lot of things about you."
"So what kinda story you wanna do? I don't see where an old duffer like me is worth a cover for Sports Illustrated. Hell, I've not put on pads in a quarter-century."
"Still, you've got the NFL record for the most touchdowns scored by a fullback."
Drake laughed. "Just lucky."
"I don't think so."
"Okay. I wasn't the biggest fullback, but I was the fastest."
"You could keep up with the tight ends."
"Buddy, you're blowin' smoke now. What I had was blockers, three of 'em—Tony Jackson, Everett Donner, and Ellis Smith." Drake ticked the names off on his fingers, some barbecue sauce showing. "They were like me, lived to bust a hole in the line and run."
"Y'all went to UT, didn't you?"
"We did, but not all at the same time." Drake took note of his fingers. He licked them clean. "Good stuff. That's why I like to eat here. Everett an' I were together, Tony a couple years ahead of us, and Ellis behind. He was just a kid."
The reporter took a pack of Pall Malls from his pocket. He helped himself to one, then shook a stick out to Drake.
He waved it off. "That's one thing I never did was smoke."
"I heard you liked cigars."
The one-time player brought out a silver case and opened it, the case's cover stamped with the Bengals' logo. "Chocolate cigars," Drake said as he took one out. "Candy. From across the room, they do look like a pretty good stogy." He put the cigar back in the case. "If you don't mind I'll save it for dessert."
The reporter got a good fire going on his cigarette. "You four still pretty tight?"
"Three. Tony died two years ago."
"I'm sorry, I forgot that. What happened?"
"Enlarged heart. One day it just blew up on him." Drake poked his fork at the onions on his plate, rearranging their patterns.
The reporter squinted through the cigarette smoke as he made a note on his pad. "But you and Everett and Ellis—"
"We do our best to get together, at least once a month somewhere around the country."
"Golf, I understand."
"Used to be. We played celebrity tournaments, raising money for charities. But Everett, his shoulders took such a pounding in football, he can't lift a club anymore, and me, twelve surgeries to my knees. Was a time I could walk eighteen. Now it hurts just to walk to the cart. The kid now, Ellis, he's still doing pretty well."
"Kid at what, fifty-six?"
"About that."
"I understand the Bengals are going to call you three back for the opening game, retire your numbers."
Drake glanced up, lumpy in his open-throat shirt and sports jacket. "Isn't that something? But when they said it was just our three numbers, we told 'em to go to hell."
"Really?"
"We told 'em you retire Tony's number with ours or it's nothing."
"Guess they agreed."
"Damn right. It was only proper. Tony was a damn fine halfback. Never got the recognition he deserved, so Everett, Ellis, and me, we fixed it for him."
"You love this game, don't you?"
"Like a barrel of ice cream."
"Even though what it did to your bodies may have shortened Tony's life, given Everett a world of pain, and may put you—"
"I didn't say I loved that part. Nights, I look at my wife and the pictures of my kids, and I wonder if what we accomplished and the fun we had doing it was worth the price."
"So you wouldn't tell a college player he ought to go for the NFL?"
"Want an honest answer?"
"Of course."
"No, I wouldn't. I'd tell him to get his degree in sports management, make a pile of money there as an agent, then buy himself a Rolls-Royce dealership and really get rich. He'll never get hurt, and he'll live a lifetime of happy."
A man, about forty-five, and a much younger man, taller, thicker and with the build of a weightlifter—both casually dressed, one in Dockers, the other in Tommy Hilfiger—came over to the table, the man with an uncomfortable grin on his face. "I don't mean to interrupt," he said, "but you're Mister Drake, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Can I introduce you to my son? He's a starting tackle for the Vols this year."
Drake shoved his chair back.
"No no, that's all right. Don't get up."
Drake's hand came out. "Don't call me Mister Drake. Call me The Bus." He shook hands first with the father, then the son, flashing a smile that showed gold wiring around several teeth. "You're Danny Rogers," he said to the son. "I saw you play a couple times last year. You're pretty good."
"You really think so?" the son asked.
"If I had your moves when I was your age, I'd have more than just one line in the record book."
The man interrupted. "Coach is telling Danny he could make the NFL after he graduates. You think he should go for it?"
"Damn right. The NFL's the best ever."
"I don't mean to ask, but could we get your autograph—for Danny, so he can show it around to the team?"
"Sure." Drake opened a portfolio at the side of the table, 'The Bus' stamped in gold on the portfolio's cover. He took out an eight-by-ten glossy, a team-taken photo from Nineteen Eighty-One, and, with a Sharpie, he flourished on "To Danny. Football, your ticket to the Big Game." And he signed it like John Hancock, his signature large enough that the king of England could read it, or the mayor of Los Angeles.
He held out the photo.
The man took it. "You don't know what this means to us. You were a hero to me in high school. I watched you play on television, my brother and I, and we'd go out and try to do like you did."
Drake flashed another PR smile as he turned to the son. "Danny, your dad's been doing all the talking, but let's you an' me stay in touch." He pulled a business card from his breast pocket and passed it to the young man. "You call me, you hear?"
"I'll do that, Mister Drake."
"Bus. Call me The Bus."
"All right—Bus," he said backing away, his father with him. They waved, and Drake returned their wave.
The reporter doodled on his pad in the ensuing silence. After some time, he glanced up. "Go into sports management, you said. Avoid the NFL."
Drake hunched forward. "If I'd told him that, do you think either he or his dad would have believed me? They'd be looking around for the shovel and the wheelbarrow. Look, the boy's gonna do what he's gonna do, just like I did, particularly with his dad pushing him."
He threw his napkin aside and waved to the waiter who wheeled over a walker. Drake horsed himself up. He got his hands on the bars and pushed away from the table, the reporter at his side.
"And he'll end up like this?" the reporter asked.
"Yup. That's the price of the ticket to the big game."
© Jerry Peterson.
