The Legend of Jesse Smoke by Robert Bausch Read Free Book Online Page A

it on film,” she said. “My dad worked with me on it all the time. Said it was my worst flaw.”
    “He noticed other flaws?”
    “Sure.”
    “Like what?”
    “I used to tap the ball before I threw it.”
    “A lot of quarterbacks do that.”
    “My father said I did it every time, right before I let the ball go. As soon as I made up my mind where I was going to throw it, I’d tap it, with my left hand, then throw it. He said I was telegraphing my throw, and eventually folks would notice it and then they’d know when to jump to try and knock it down.”
    “How’d he break the habit?”
    “It was hard. First he tried to make me quit by forcing me to throw with one hand, leaving the other one taped to my side. But that was just too awkward. I needed to feel the ball in both hands when I was dropping back. Oddly enough, it helped my form when I run and throw.”
    “But if that didn’t work, then what’d he do?”
    “He made me hold a second football under my left arm. My hand was still free to tap the ball I was going to throw, but every time I did, I’d drop the other ball. That worked for a while, but eventually I figured out how to hold the ball under my arm just right so that I had flexibility in my wrist and I could tap the ball again, without dropping the one under my arm, so he gave up on that. He didn’t want to, but he did. He sometimes used that football under the arm thing with the wide receivers; he’d make them hold a ball under both arms, run down the field, and catch a third ball without dropping any of them. You try that sometime. But … it worked. Made them sure-handed as hell.”
    “That’s what I did with Michelle and Brenda and all the others,” Andy said. He had the playbook under his arm now. “Jesse told me about it. I used smaller balls, but it worked.”
    “I’ve noticed,” I said.
    He smiled with pride.
    I turned back to Jesse. “So then, how’d your dad beat your habit of tapping the ball? I haven’t seen you do that once.”
    “He rigged up a black rubber glove with a bladder in the palm that made a loud squeak whenever it was pressed. It didn’t take longwearing that thing. I’d hear the blare of it every time I tapped the ball, so I’d throw passes until I didn’t hear anything anymore. Then I didn’t have the habit.”
    “Your father knew what he was doing.”
    “He did. Taught me a lot.” It was quiet for a beat. Then Jesse said, “Anyway, I’ve seen myself on film. I know when I’m forced to throw before I’m ready for it I sometimes let it go from my back foot. I don’t do it often, though.”
    “If you were a man, you could do it a lot if you got the ball off under pressure and hit what you were aiming at. Nobody’d care. I’m afraid when we get to camp, though, and let the others see you throw, you can’t afford to do that even once.”
    “You’re really serious about this?” she said.
    “He must be,” Andy said, holding up the playbook.
    “I am dead serious.” I realized the truth of this even as I spoke the words. I did not want to mislead Jesse, and the joke was not going to be on her. I had a really nervous, kind of scary feeling all over. The way you feel when you’re standing on a balcony, fifty floors up, and you look over the edge—the thrilling kind of rush that, for a moment, makes you breathe differently. I was really going to do it; sign her and try to get her a tryout with the team.
    I opened the bag of balls and let them out on the ground. It was an absolutely beautiful spring day. The last game of the Divas’ season was coming up in a week, but Jesse had no practice until later in the afternoon. Anyway, her coach was right there and we were on their field, so it wasn’t as if she could be late.
    “What’s your dad doing now?” I asked Jesse, flipping her one of the balls.
    She held the ball tightly in her hands, looked at Nate, then to the ground. “He passed away my senior year of high school.”
    I told her I was