Free North Dallas Forty by Peter Gent

has to learn to adjust. I’ve had lots of players in here in the same position. Why, look at Larry Costello.” He pointed off to his left at nothing. “He didn’t want to sit on the bench when I first put him there. Just like you. But when I explained to him what was best for the team, he adjusted. Why, I’d even say he likes to sit on the bench now, if that’s possible.”
    “Well,” I said, slowly, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to sitting on the bench, but I’ll accept it now and wait my chance. I think I can help the team by starting.”
    “Remember,” B.A. held one finger up, “we can’t all be stars. I know you like to consider yourself special, but if I was it your place, I’d try and humble myself a bit.”
    There was a long pause as B.A. attempted a deep stare into my eyes. He failed and the gaze ricocheted off my cheekbone.
    “Do you ever pray?” he asked.
    “Not very often.” I was confused. I frowned and shook my head.
    “None of us are so big that we can’t humble ourselves before the Lord.” He tried another warm glance and I ducked my eyes, letting it hit my forehead. “I often find the answers to a lot of my problems in the Scriptures. Aren’t you a Catholic?”
    “No, my wife was. I was kicked out of Sunday School in the sixth grade.” Why did I say that?
    B.A. was angered by my flippancy. His face flushed slightly.
    “Okay, let’s put all the cards on the table, shall we?”
    “By all means,” I said, reminded of Seth Maxwell’s constant comparisons of life with a giant card game.
    “Now Phil.” B.A.’s tone told me that, like it or not, I was in a card game right now. “You’ve had your share of trouble. Your wife, the divorce. Now, I don’t hold it against you. It’s the setbacks of life that make us strong. But last week I had you in here for playing Halloween.” He paused and stared hard at me. “In training camp you kept writing ‘Clinton Foote is a transvestite’ on the bulletin board.”
    I started to protest that they had never proved I had written that line.
    “Let me finish,” B.A. insisted. “There’s a theme that runs through all of this—and it’s immaturity. You just don’t take life seriously enough. I would have thought that your divorce would have settled you down.”
    I considered questioning the logic of the last sentence, but instead sat silent.
    “Your teammates,” he continued, “come to me complaining that you laugh in the locker room before games and tell jokes in the huddle. This has got to stop. You can’t continue to clown through life.”
    “You’ve got the Grading Sheets in front of you,” I said. “Check and see how I compare with Gill, or anybody.”
    “I know how you compare. I told you three weeks ago you grade higher statistically than anyone. But ...”
    I exhaled loudly, causing B.A. to stop in midsentence.
    “I won’t stand for that,” he yelled. “Now, it’s like I was saying, you grade higher, but, and I mean but , Gill has that ungradable something that makes a seasoned professional. And part of that something, Mr. Elliott, is maturity. Looking at the shambles you’ve made of your life so far, I think it is something you need. I know you’re gonna need it to continue to play for me.”
    There was a long pause as I stared down at my hands and nervously picked at my fingernails. I exhaled slowly, trying to relieve some of the tension.
    “B.A.,” I said finally, sitting thoughtfully still, “if my immaturity has offended you, I’m sorry. I’ll honestly try to do better. I don’t like to sit on the bench, but I’ll gladly wait my chance and when it comes you’ll be glad I was around.” I stopped and looked at him. “Is there anything else?”
    He seemed confused by my apologetic manner and picked up my Grading Sheet to disguise his loss for words.
    “Well,” he said, scanning the sheet, “I think you’re losing a little speed. You need to lose about five pounds.”
    I nodded.
    “I