Chapter 54

Word about the celebration spread quickly, even to Hodgen, where the Bulldogs were in no mood for a celebrating since they lost the night before.

Since they could not celebrate, some Hodgen residents decided their neighbors should not be celebrating, either. Many football players, their friends, former players and other students decided to see what was going on in Petros and how they could mess it up.

It was a long line of vehicles that would cause concern if the police noticed the convoy. There wasn’t really any reason for anybody to worry, however, as the two towns had lived in peaceful existence for almost a hundred years, except for the occasional problem during the week of the football game.

Many of the residents knew each other and worked with each other.

The residents had supported their neighbors in times of trouble and when the other school participated in playoff games. There had been times of trouble, there always were in a rivalry this intense, and Cole usually did not want his players going to Hodgen during the week leading up to their games.

But as far as real trouble, that had never really occurred. But that was about to change.

The crowd was gathered downtown, practically filling up a city block, all cheering and celebrating.

The first in a long line of cars and trucks that made the short trip from Hodgen turned on Main Street, horns honking and insults flying. Several trucks followed closely behind the car, their beds filled with boys and men who had enough liquid courage they would fight the world.

The first beer bottle that was thrown landed just short of where the band was playing, sending glass flying in all directions. Another beer bottle was thrown into the crowd, hitting a high school girl just above the eye, opening a gash that looked like somebody slashed her with a knife.

More bottles flew in as more cars and trucks edged closer to the crowd, revving their engines, cranking their stereos to the maximum.

The boys and men from Petros were not enjoying this behavior and started advancing, dodging the beer bottles flying through the air. A call was sent out to the Petros police, advising them trouble was brewing.

Petros’ police staff was manned by one officer at that time, the other officer scheduled to be on duty having taken the day off to go watch the football game, then go to his father’s cabin.

The one officer on duty was Benjamin Paul, who had been a police officer all of three months. Standing only five-foot-seven and weighing 152 pounds, he was not the most imposing person in Petros. He had gone to the Sonic and was halfway through a footlong coney, minus the cheese and onions, when the call came over his radio.

He took one last big bite, washed it down with a drink, put the food back in the bag for later and left his parking spot, squealing the tires just a bit as he rounded the back, wanting everybody to know he had a call.

Nobody ever advised him what to do when a riot was developing in his downtown, although he figured the dispatcher was overreacting. Still, he turned the lights on, weaved in and out of traffic at a speed which was a little too high, crossed the railroad tracks and started back downtown, wondering why so many cars and trucks were advancing on downtown.

After turning on Main Street, Benjamin quickly decided he was out of his league and needed help. His downtown was fixing to explode, two large groups of people advancing on each other and more arriving quickly. He had sworn to uphold the peace and planned to do just that.

He just wasn’t sure how.

Benjamin put a call back to the dispatcher, urging her to get every police officer, highway patrolman and county cop to Petros pronto. The call went out, catching many officers either off-duty or eating their own dinner.

The two groups edged closer and Benjamin knew enough about human nature that they could not stand there long shouting at each other before one side advanced, then all the cops in this part of the state would have trouble breaking it up.

Benjamin pulled up as close as he could, got out of his car and ran to the center of trouble, seeing beer bottles tossed at his friends and neighbors. Bumper stickers caught his eye, letting him know the people were from Hodgen.

Figures, he thought. Benjamin pulled out his club and ran between the two groups, waving his arms and trying to get everybody’s attention.

On the Petros side, there were still a few players present and wanting to defend their town and friends from the invaders.

Walter Lee, one of Cole’s former players from two years earlier, gathered all of the current players together.

“You guys gotta go,” Walter directed.

“No way,” argued Denny Wall, whose cousin was the girl who got hit in the head with the beer bottle.

“Listen!” Walter hollered. “We can take care of this. There’s gonna be trouble and people arrested. You guys have got to get out of here before you get in trouble. Coach will make you miss the game if you get in trouble, even if somebody else started it."

Denny and the other players looked at each other, realizing what Walter said was true. Still, it was hard to walk away when people were attacking your town.

A beer bottle was thrown through the glass at the hardware store, breaking the huge window. For a brief second, there was silence, nobody believing this was happening.

Travis Toll was Jeremy’s brother. Their father owned the hardware store and he did not like seeing the front window broke. His father had worked his tail off to make that store work and Travis knew how much it would cost to fix the broken glass and how disappointed his father would be.

He could not let this happen.

Travis had no idea who threw the bottle, but as far as he was concerned, it was guilt by association. Whoever he got his hands on would pay. Unlike his younger brother, Travis was not small. He stood six-foot-two, weighed well over two hundred pounds, most of it solid muscle. He graduated two years before, but still worked out daily and could pass for a bodybuilder.

Benjamin was trying to keep the peace, praying for help to arrive. He saw his neighbor Travis sprinting toward the other side and tried holding him back, but couldn’t.

Travis had his eyes on the first guy standing in front of him. The guy from Hodgen never saw it coming and received a blow to the jaw that sent him sprawling to the ground, a couple of teeth flying into the crowd.

The Hodgen guys did not like to see one of their own get knocked out, and they advanced against Travis, who was standing in front of them, ready to take on every one of them.

He did not have to, of course, since there were some fifty other Petros guys coming to his aid. Benjamin was blasting his whistle, running around like Barney Fife, but not having any luck. The beer bottle, this one manufactured by the so-called “King of Beer” was thrown from the back of the group, not aimed at anybody in particular.

It couldn’t have hit the target if he was the intended victim, but out of blind luck, which Benjamin would consider to be bad luck, the bottle hit him right in the face, breaking his nose and knocking out most of his front teeth.

Benjamin went down like he was shot, the blood already making a puddle at his feet before his knees touched the ground. Two men went to help Benjamin.

That was the last straw. The men and boys from Petros went after the guests. The fight was about even with around fifty men on both sides.

Of course, that was not to stay that way for long. Calls had already gone out, telling others what was happening downtown. Other men and boys felt the call of duty to rescue their town and arrived to find a huge fight covering their downtown.

The odds were soon against the visitors from Hodgen, as they quickly saw there wasn’t just one or two Petros guys in front of them, but were getting surround by four or five, all wanting a piece of them.

Some men arrived to try and break up the fight, but found it useless. The men had their blood up now and wanted to extract some pain from the other side.

It soon turned into a bloodbath, the men and boys from Hodgen, realizing they had made a terrible mistake as they got pummeled to the ground. They sobered up quickly, wondering why they made this trip. There were bodies all over the ground when extra security arrived and the fighting was over for the most part as Petros had defended its soil from the invaders and delivered a beating like nobody had seen before.

Most of the Hodgen men were down, some truly hurt, others playing possum to avoid a further beating. A few Petros men were hurt also, but not nearly as many as there were Hodgen guys.

It was an ugly sight, one that would never be forgotten.

For the people of Petros, it was a sobering way to end what had been a glorious day.

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Cole was stunned when he heard about the riot downtown. Sarah called him on the cell phone and told him what happened.

He nearly dropped the phone into his food. The coaches had stopped to eat dinner at a restaurant in Henryetta. It was a small diner famous for the pies, but few people were eating at the moment. There were two waitresses, both bored, talking to each other behind the counter and flirting with the cook, a large Mexican with a mustache that extended past his chin.

The other coaches waited for Cole to finish before asking what happened.

“There was a big fight downtown,” he informed them, not wanting to finish his meal.

“What happened?” Lloyd asked, now wishing he had gone home with the team.

Cole relayed the information about the group from Hodgen coming to Petros to stir up trouble and getting more than they bargained for.

“Were any of our guys hurt?” Ichabod asked, the thought of having to take on the juggernaut from Anson with half a team causing indigestion.

“I don’t think so,” Cole answered. “We had a few guys there but they were told to go home and did.”

“That’s good,” Stub stated, a big mouthful of food making it hard to understand. “Did anybody get hurt?”

“I don’t know. From what I understand there are a bunch of guys from Hodgen who will be spending the holidays in jail or the hospital.”

The extent of the event would not set in until they saw the pictures the next day and heard the stories from the witnesses. Cole was just relieved none of his current players were involved, although he expected some of his former players took part in it and made those idiots from Hodgen wish they had stayed home.

They all wanted to get home quicker, to find out what really happened.

Cole was truly bothered, both by the events in Petros and from what he had seen at the other semifinal game.

He had seen some really good football teams over the years in his class, several of those from Anson. But Cole had just witnessed a team like he had never seen before.

“You okay?” Ichabod asked.

“You look like somebody put rat droppings on your food,” Stub mentioned.

“I was just thinking about Anson,” Cole responded. “Those boys are good.”

“You’d think they would have to recruit to get so many studs,” Lloyd said.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they could go up two classes and win state,” Stub added.

“Yeah, but we’re gonna have to figure out how to keep them from winning our class,” Cole informed them. “That’s probably the best team Anson’s ever had.”

“It’s just not fair,” Stub protested. “A team should either be big or they should be fast. When they’re big and fast it makes it almost impossible to win.”

“Yeah, and it would be a lot better if they were good on offense or defense,” Ichabod continued. “When they’re good on both sides, that makes it even tougher.”

“We’re gonna have all kinds of trouble stopping them,” Lloyd commented, which earned him a dirty look from Ichabod. “We’ve never played anybody with that kind of size and speed and that running back’s something else. I don’t know that he got tackled all night.”

“Our defense is a lot better than Windsor’s,” Ichabod reminded Lloyd. He was having some of the same doubts Lloyd and the other coaches did, but still did not like anybody insulting the black shirts.

“Windsor wouldn’t have gotten past the quarterfinals in our bracket,” Stub remarked. “Those guys were weak.”

“I think part of that was who they were playing,” Cole replied.

“Naw, those guys stink,” added Lloyd. “We would’ve rolled half a hundred on ‘em if we wanted.”

“Maybe, but Anson rolled eighty-four on them,” Stub stated. “We have trouble scoring that many points in basketball, let alone football.”

“And it could have been worse,” Lloyd added. “Anson’s coach was kind. He called off the dogs fast.”

“That sounds strange,” Stub mentioned. “Hearing somebody say a coach was kind right after his boys scored eighty-four points on another team. But it’s true. If that’d been that Summerfield’s coach they’d still be scoring touchdowns.”

“Maybe their bus will break down next week,” Lloyd suggested. “Then they’d have to forfeit.”

“That would be a really good thing to tell the boys in practice this week,” said Cole, a little irritated at his older son. “I don’t think we can beat Anson but we better show up just in case their bus breaks down and they have to forfeit.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Stub said.

“I wouldn’t want to win like that,” Cole pointed out.

“Neither would I,” Ichabod added.

“I’d take it,” Stub countered.

“A win’s a win,” Lloyd said, then laughed.

Cole blanked out the conversation among the three others, not wanting to be rude but wishing to focus on plans for the coming week. He knew it would be difficult to win this game, especially if Lucky did not play.

He wondered how Lucky’s ribs felt and whether he would play. Cole knew that the only way Lucky would not play was if the doctor held him out.

The boy would not play if there were any chance of permanent danger, Cole didn’t care if it did cost Petros a state championship. This wasn’t something he would only implement on his son, but it would be that way for any of the Panthers.

A win was not that important to Cole. Sure, sleep would be difficult for a while if it was a difficult loss, but Cole doubted he could ever get a good night’s sleep if he played a player who shouldn’t be playing and that boy got hurt.

He knew Lucky was hurting bad and that ribs were usually not quick to respond. It took time for the pain to go away. They could provide him with a rib pad like they did earlier in the year, but while that provided an extra layer of protection in case of a hit, it would not ease pain already existing.

Cole would never admit it to anybody, but he thought Lucky had improved more this season than any other player on the team. Lucky was now a definite asset at quarterback, a player other teams had to worry about. Not just some sophomore trying not to mess up, like he was early in the season.

Lucky was now one of the best quarterbacks Cole had coached, having the rare ability to hurt the other team with his legs, his arms and brain. Other quarterbacks had been gifted in one of those areas and some in two, but it was rare to have somebody talented in all three areas.

Cole knew Lloyd was that way, although sometimes his oldest son acted like he was having a brain cramp, and Tatum Sloan had been that way.

When Tatum was playing, there wasn’t a team in the state Cole was afraid to play and he expected to feel the same way about Lucky in the future. As to comparing Lucky with Tatum as sophomores, there was no comparison.

Tatum was good as a sophomore, but only truly blossomed as a junior, his improvement a surprise to everybody on that team. Cole had no idea if it would happen with his son, but if Lucky made that kind of improvement, he would be a stud.

Cole wished he gave Gary a bigger hug. He certainly deserved it, along with the game ball Cole presented him after the game.

Gary stepped up big for his team, not showing any effects of not playing much at quarterback over the second half of the season. He wasn’t all that talented as a quarterback, but nobody had a bigger heart or tried harder.

Cole knew the Panthers would put up the equipment on Monday if it weren’t for Gary, and for that he was extremely grateful.

They finished their food and started back on the long drive to southeastern Oklahoma. The drive down the interstate was boring for Cole, each mile looking almost the same as the preceding one. He wondered how anybody drove trucks for a living. It would be too boring to him, although Cole always wanted to go around the country and see the sights. Seeing them from the interstate just wasn’t his cup of tea.

Stub and Lloyd were having a good time in the back, cutting up and telling stories. They acted like best buddies, despite the age difference. Cole wondered how his oldest son could be so different, always looking to have a good time and not worry about anything.

Cole sometimes wished he did not worry so much, but doubted it was possible to be as carefree as Lloyd. Life was a party for him. He stayed out of trouble, but pushed the envelope at times.

He knew Lloyd could be an excellent coach if his son ever got serious, and would have a relationship with the players Cole never had. Lloyd would be a player’s coach, there was no doubt about that.

Even now, the players loved to hang out with him, listening to his stories and the never-ending supply of jokes. Cole also knew Lloyd had football smarts Stub and Ichabod did not have.

Cole knew Ichabod and Stub could be a good head coach, but they could not take a team to a higher level like the best coaches. Few coaches were able to do that, but Cole was convinced Lloyd had the talent to do so, if he ever got the desire.

Ichabod and Stub had opportunities over the years to leave Petros and be head coaches, but they always turned them down. None of the jobs were good programs and his two assistants were about as far up a ladder as they could climb without falling off.

Now, as far as assistant coaches went, Cole could not ask for anybody better. Ichabod was a great defensive coordinator, but would not be as good of a head coach because he would have trouble getting the kids motivated.

Ichabod was a great teacher and an X’s and O’s coach, but would have trouble pulling a team together.

Stub would have the kids fired up to play, probably too fired up, but was not the most organized individual around. Now, if there were some way to combine the two, that would make an excellent head coach. But apart, they were good assistants and Cole always felt fortunate to have them.

Cole was just glad they accepted this and never went through the disappointment of being a head coach and getting canned for losing too many games.

With his eyes getting heavy, Cole decided it was time to let somebody else take over the driving. All the other coaches would be happy to drive, but Ichabod would take forever to get home, Stub drove all over the road, not letting the two lines interfere with his driving, while Lloyd would get them home quickly, hopefully without a ticket.

Cole pulled over at a gas station at the nearest exit, appalled at the gas prices posted on a sign. They were a good five cents a gallon more than any other place they passed.

He swapped places with his son, hoping not to be awakened by the flashing lights of a highway patrolman.

“Don’t speed,” Cole pleaded, handing Lloyd the keys.

“No problem,” Lloyd responded, then hopped in the car, turned on the radio and revved the engine. “Hold on, boys, we’re moving out.”

Chapter 55