Billy Mudd

At 17 Billy Mudd had already built a reputation. He was the fortunate recipient of a genetic gift. He was capable of throwing objects with great accuracy, calculating their trajectory and velocity against forces of gravity and impedance. As quarterback of his high school football team, he was celebrated in Aleno, Texas his town of 4,823 proud Cougars.

Under Friday night lights Aleno turned out to fill the bleachers, cheering Billy's on-field heroics. Indeed Billy saw himself a hero. Adulation surrounded him. To younger kids he was a role model. Girls smiled at him. Friends fell under his spell. Parents held him up as an example to their children. Teachers gave him special consideration, generously augmenting his academic shortcomings. Town folk greeted him in passing.

His father named the boy after himself, Billy Ray Mudd Jr. He put a small football in his infant son’s crib. At six months he had Billy rolling the ball back and forth on the floor. At ten months, throwing and catching. At two, throwing his crib football with accuracy. At four, he tossed perfect spirals at his father, across the yard. At six, he threw balls through a tire, swinging from a tree. When he was old enough to play pee-wee football, and other kids could barely catch, his passes bounced off their helmets.

A former star quarterback himself, Billy’s father was driven to overcome the haunting memory of his failure. In the championship game of his senior year, he threw an interception and victory into the hands of a hated rival. On that last play of his football career, a crushing tackle destroyed his knee. Any hope of college vanished, leaving him with a permanent limp. The town was denied its victory. “His name is Mudd.” was hung on him. He got lost in a job he hated in a component factory. Frustration turned to moods of melancholy and flares of temper. His wife was his most frequent victim. She cowered before him, staying with him because she had a son and no other choice. That’s what women did.

He vowed to make his son a success, driving the boy physically, encouraging, pushing, testing him to his limit. Billy thrived, transforming to an athletic machine, finely tuned, conditioned, programmed to do one thing with extreme facility. To throw a football at a moving target.

These expectations took Billy to the day of the championship game in his senior year. Four straight years of championships was a record never achieved. The town anticipated a special celebration, promising a parade. Billy and his team even made the news in Dallas/Ft. Worth. College and pro scouts would be in the bleachers. The entire town would be cheering their hero to a certain future.

Billy had a number of girlfriends, growing up. But entering high school, he won the girl of his dreams. Darcy was captain of the cheerleaders. Homecoming Queen to his Kingdom. Class secretary. She taught little kids Sunday school. She and Billy were generally regarded as the model couple, high school sweethearts meant for each other.

Darcy’s parents were strict Baptists, conservative church goers, as were most Aleno families. They espoused old-fashioned values. Girls were to be celibate until marriage. They were pleased their daughter was involved with a boy of such standing. His bright future as a quarterback hinted at prospects of good fortune for their daughter. Billy was assured a top college scholarship and associated financial perks. And it was generally accepted that the NFL already had eyes on Billy.

Billy’s locker room teammates bragged of their sexual exploits. As other boys exaggerated their experiences in graphic detail, he’d been stopped at kissing. His passes were blocked without completion. He tried to convince Darcy that sex was natural and that no one would know. He begged, cajoled, badgered, whined, insisted. She coyly played defense, insisting that he had to wait until they were married, an assumption generally regarded as inevitable.

Billy’s focused persistence was not confined to the football field. When he wanted something, he got it. His father’s son, he could overcome, overwhelm, override rejection. His pass was completed one hot night under the stars in the bed of his father’s pick-up. From there forward, sex commenced with regularity, when and wherever.

Championship Friday, after classes Billy and Darcy went to a drug store. As Darcy occupied the clerk, Billy stole a pregnancy test. They sat in the parking lot in Darcy’s mother’s car. She tore the lid off the box, opened the instructions, and read.

Billy squinted at her. “What’s it say?”

Her watched her eyes track. “Hold the absorbent tip in your urine stream for 5–10 seconds, or dip in a container, then wait 5 minutes for the results.” She looked at him. A tear formed, rolling down her cheek. “I’m scared.”

“It ain’t gonna be…you ain’t…it ain’t possible.”

Her eyes flashed at him. “Then why am I late? I’m never late.” She burst out crying. “What do I tell momma and daddy?”

His eyes cast down. He didn’t know what to say. He looked at her. “I pulled it out before, ever time. Like I said.”

She started the car and drove out of the parking lot, heading out of town. Pulling into a dirt road, she drove the edge of a field that led into a wooded area. She opened the door and the heat slapped her, paying penitence. She gathered the test material and left the door open as she walked into a grove trees.

Bugs wheezed in the fields. Heat pressed into the car as Billy watched her disappear. The sun burned low in the sky. He squinted into the horizon thinking how the course of his life could change in the next few minutes. He’d never thought about it before. The future was always given. Now his future was…what?

Darcy came out from the trees. In her hand she held her destiny, a small strip. Like the fortune from a Chinese cookie, it would foretell her future.

She sat in the car, her eyes fixed ahead, staring into her fate. She held the strip delicately between finger and thumb, her lottery ticket to motherhood. Or not.

Billy blurted, “What’s it say?”

She didn’t look at him. “We have to wait five minutes.”

He gritted his teeth, sweating in the smothering heat. He opened his door in hope of a breeze. The heat pressed in, swelling around him. He got out, stomped back and forth on the dirt road, kicking up dust. Dread rose from his stomach. He imagined his lifelong dream, anchored to a wife and kid. He wretched, vomiting behind the car.

Five minutes stretched into infinity. What if? What to do? Who to tell? What to say?

The hot day cooled into night. The town gathered, crowding into the stadium. Floodlights swarmed with bugs, lighting the gridiron below. Birds gathered on wires awaiting popcorn spills and food scraps. Voices buzzed, charging the air with electricity. The Aleno High School Marching Band paraded in formation, drums beating cadence, horns blaring discordant enthusiasm. The Dalton Rangers Band waited in bleachers across the field with their students, faculty, families, and fans. Loudspeakers echoed a welcome to the Texas 6A State Championship game and the crowd cheered.

Darcy led cheerleaders and loyal fans in choreographed routines, ritual war dances to rally the spirits. But spirits had left her. Her mind was inward. Her world had changed. Nothing looked the same, sounded the same, felt the same. She went through the motions, but their meanings were lost.

Billy dressed in his uniform. The locker room throbbed with energy and expectation. Teammates’ stomped their cleats, shouted encouragements, rallied each other. He sat quietly alone on the bench, his head down, in an altered state. They left him alone, their star. Their savior. He was holy, above them all. The coach centered the room. Quiet fell as he addressed his team.

“Boys, tonight you become men. You’re the pride of Aleno and they’re out there to cheer you on. This night can change your lives. You win or you lose. The championship is in your reach. Now, go get it.”

Cheers burst from the boys. One last hurrah for the dreams of their youth. One last chance to accomplish something they’d cherish the rest of their lives. Or suffer its failure.

Billy put on his helmet. His teammates surrounded him, pressing him forward to lead them to glory. The band played “The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You,” as the team poured onto the field. Cheers rang hollow echoes in Billy’s ears.