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“Want to play first string?”
Jason looked at his friend, then back at Griff. “Sure.”
“Give me the ball.”
Again Jason first consulted his friend with a look, then passed the football to Griff, keeping himself at arm’s length. “I’m throwing ducks.”
Griff grinned at his use of the term for a slow and wobbly pass. “That happens to everybody once in a while, but you can avoid it.” He took the ball in his right hand, pressed his fingertips against the laces. “See this?” He held the ball for Jason and his friend to observe.
“You’ve gotta keep the pads of your fingers tight, like you’re trying to squeeze the air out of it. So when you let it go…” He motioned for Jason’s friend to run out for a pass. The kid went willingly. Griff drew back his arm. “You’ve got control, better aim, and speed.”
He threw the ball. It sailed straight and sure. The kid caught it and beamed. Griff gave him a thumbs-up, then turned to Jason. “A bullet instead of a duck.”
Jason raised his hand to shade his eyes against the sun. “You’re Griff Burkett.”
“That’s right.”
“I had a poster of you in my room, but my dad made me take it down.”
Griff snuffled a laugh. “I’m not surprised.”
“Griff?”
He turned. A slight man, wearing cargo shorts, a holey T-shirt, and old sneakers, had opened the
front door and was standing on the threshold between the flowerpots. He was balder, but his eyeglasses were the same ones Griff remembered from the last time Bolly had interviewed him.
“Hello, Bolly.” He looked down at the boy. “Keep practicing, Jason.” The youngster nodded respectfully. Then Griff joined Bolly at the door and extended his hand. To the man’s credit he shook hands with him—after only a second or two of hesitation. But the eyes behind the wire frames weren’t exactly glowing with happiness to see the most hated man in Dallas at his front door.
“I think Jason has the potential of being good one of these days.”
Bolly nodded absently, still trying to recover from his shock. “What are you doing here, Griff?”
“Can I have a minute or two of your time?”
“What for?”
He glanced over his shoulder at the two boys, who were watching this exchange with undivided attention. Coming back around, Griff said, “I promise not to abscond with the family silver.”
The sportswriter hesitated for several seconds more, then went into the house and motioned for Griff to follow him. Off the entryway, Bolly led him down a short hallway and into a compact, paneled room. Shelving was jam-packed—even overflowing—with sports memorabilia. Framed photographs of Bolly with star athletes took up most of the wall space. There was an untidy desk in the corner dominated by a telephone and a computer. The monitor was on. The screen saver showed fireworks blossoming in multicolored silence.
“Sit down if you can find a spot,” Bolly said as he squeezed himself behind the desk.
Griff removed a stack of newspapers from the only other chair in the room and sat down. “I called the sports desk at the News. The guy who answered said you were working from home today.”
“I do most days now. Go into the office only a couple days a week, if that much. If you’ve got e-mail, you can conduct just about any business from home.”
“I used a computer in the library this morning. Felt like a caveman looking at the control panel of a 747.”
“They build in obsolescence. Keep you buying upgrades.”
“Yeah.”
An uncomfortable silence followed. Bolly picked up a stray tennis ball on his desk and rolled it between his palms. “Listen, Griff, I want you to know I didn’t contribute anything to that piece about you that came out during your trial.”
“I didn’t think you did.”
“Well, good. But I wanted you to know. That writer—You know he’s in Chicago now.”
