Chapter 1
Marvin Jones, coach of the Cincinnati Rams grabbed the whistle that hung from a lanyard around his neck, and blew a sharp blast. He pointed to one of the scarlet-.and white-clad players getting up off the ground, brushing dirt from his uniform “Damn it Smitty, my sister could make a better tackle than that. You’re not at a tea dance. If you’re gonna tackle someone, tackle ‘em!”
Jones shook his head and spoke to the air. “Great bunch of football players they sent me. They don’t need a coach, they need a choreographer. If these dodos win one game this year, I’ll give back my salary.”
Jones gazed up at the clouds, hoping for rain, snow, hail anything to bring an end to this practice session. What he needed was a stiff drink. At six-two, two-hundred-twenty pounds of solid muscle, Marvin Jones was close to the shape he’d been in when he was a Pro Bowl linebacker for the Cleveland Browns ten years ago. Now, after a stint as Offensive Coach for the Cincinnati Rams, he was starting his third year as their head coach. The fans and head office had given him two years to grow into the job; they were getting impatient waiting for him to produce a team that would make it to the Super Bowl. Jones wasn’t a bad coach. Actually, his team had more wins than losses in each of the past two years. Trouble was, the team was never quite good enough to make the play-offs, nor bad enough to make it high enough in the draft to get quality players. As a result, he had to make do with mediocre players.
He felt a tug on his sweatshirt and turned to see who was trying to get his attention.
“Uh, Coach.” The quiet voice belonged to a tall, thin, red-haired kid, about twenty-five who was pulling on Jones’ shirt.
Jones pulled his shirt out of the young man’s grasp. “Who’re you and what are you doin’ here on our practice field. Better beat it before someone runs over you, squashes you like a bug.”
The guy made no move to leave. He opened his mouth to say something, but Jones pushed him aside. “Get lost!”
The boy held his ground. “Coach Jones, I think I can be an asset to your team.”
Jones snorted. “You don’t stop bothering me, I’ll kick your ‘asset’ right out of here.”
“My name is, uh, Xa—Max.”
“I don’t care if your name is Joe Montana.” He gazed around. Where were the stadium guards that were supposed to keep these pests off the field?
“I’ve got strong arms and legs.”
Jones glanced down at Max’s skinny arms and beanpole legs. “Yeah, and I’m Arnold Schwarzenegger. Look, kid. you’ve got guts, I’ll give you that, but these are professional athletes. Pros. They get lotsa dough for playing. They ain’t much good, I’ll grant you that, but they’re probably better than most college—.” Why was he making an explanation to this nut?
Out of a corner of his eye, Jones saw a football heading toward where he and this Max were standing. He followed its course as it sailed a good twelve feet over their heads. Suddenly, Max sprang up and snared the ball with one hand.
Jones stared at the young man, his mouth agape. Impossible. There was no way he could have gotten to the ball—and yet, it rested in his hands. “Wait a minute. How’d you do that?”
Max shrugged. “I told you. I’ve got strong arms and legs.”
Jones yelled to one of the players about twenty yards away who was holding a football. “Hey, Brian, throw me that ball, but make sure it’s way over my head.” He turned to Max. “Okay, kid, let’s see you do your jumping act again.”
Brian reared back and fired the ball; this one was at least fifteen feet over their heads.
Max squatted on his haunches, and timing the throw, leaped up grabbing it with both hands.
Jones shook his head. “Kid, where the hell have you been all my life?”
Max grinned and hung his head. Jones half-expected him to come out with “aw-shucks.” Instead, he said, “Wanna see me kick one?”
Jones nodded.
In an easy motion, Max punted the ball, sending it sailing over the goalposts at the far end of the field. Jones put his hands on his hips staring after the ball. That kick had to go over ninety yards. If he could... Maybe, just maybe, he might make a team out of this mess after all.
Cradling Max’s shoulders, Jones said, “Son, let’s go into my office and have a little talk.”
Jones settled into a chair behind his desk. He pointed. “Have a seat.”
When Max had lowered himself into the chair, Jones said, “Where’d you say you went to college?”
Max debated with himself before he answered. He finally decided to tell Jones the name of his planet, certain that the coach would never have heard of it. “I didn’t say. It was Oh Ess Yew.”
Jones half raised himself out of his seat. “OSU? You played for Woody Hayes?”
“No sir.”
“Jim Tressel?”
“No sir, I didn’t play for anybody.”
“Wait a minute. Let’s get on the same page. We’re talking about college ball—football.”
Max gazed at the floor. He hadn’t anticipated this line of questioning. He wasn’t going to lie, even if it meant getting kicked out of Jones’ office. “I didn’t play football in college.”
Jones rubbed his chin. The kid was pretty scrawny. He could picture him squashed flat under a pile of beefy linemen. On second thought, he’d probably gotten carried away watching the youngster’s leaping catch and stratospheric kick. He leaned back. “Listen kid—what’d you say your name was?”
“Max. Max Aries.”
“Listen Max, pro ball is heavy stuff. Guys get hurt. You weigh what, one-forty?”
Max shook his head vehemently. “No sir. I’m one-fifty-five—and a half.”
“Yeah. Soakin’ wet, maybe.” He rose and stuck out his hand. “You put on about fifty pounds, then come back and see me.”
Max slowly stood. He glanced at Jones’s outstretched hand but made no move to take it. He looked like he was about to cry. “Please, Coach. Won’t you at least let me try out for the team? I told you, I’m not heavy, but I’m strong.” He swept his gaze around the room. In a corner, was a thick steel bar with fifty-pound weights attached to each end. Max dashed over to the weight bar and with one hand easily lifted it. He placed the center of the bar across his knee and with little apparent effort, bent it to a right angle. He held it out for Jones. “See, I told you. I’m strong. Uh—sorry about your weight bar.”
Jones gaped at the bent bar, the heavy weights dangling from each end. Jesus! That thing weighed over a hundred pounds and this kid handled it like it was a broomstick.
Max said, “Maybe it can be fixed.” He shifted his hands to either side of the bend, and with as little effort as it took to deform it, pulled until the bar was straight. He held it up to eye level, squinted and sighted along its length. “There. I think it’s straight again.”
Jones shook his head. He’d watched some kind of Superman act. Did he dare hope…? “Max, I’m impressed. But I’ll tell you honestly, it ain’t me you got to impress. We’ve got a General Manager. He makes these decisions. Give me your phone number. I’ll get back to you. “
Max brightened. “Promise?”
Jones nodded. “Yeah, yeah.”
“When?”
Jones raised a hand. “Hey. Don’t push me, okay?”
“Sorry, Coach.” Max reached across the desk, grabbed a piece of blank paper and a pen, and scribbled. “You can reach me at this number. If I’m not there, leave a message.”
He walked away, then realized he’d given the coach the interplanetary emergency signal Loto had given him. A regular phone with a Cincinnati number was back in the safe house, and Max started to walk back to Coach Jones to retrieve the number he’d given him, then realized he didn’t remember the Cincinnati phone number. Finally, he decided to let it go. He’d explain the mistake to the controller on his home planet and ask to have the expected call from Jones relayed to him.