My Life: An Ex-Quarterback's Adventures in the Galactic Empire Read Free Page B

Cleveland, the Mistake on the Lake, possibly the only city in the US where you can watch the fire department trying to put out the river. This may give you the impression that I’m not in love with the town. If it does, you’re correct. I’ve hated it since my playing days. It’s cold enough during the winter in Cleveland to begin with, but when the wind whips off that lake and through the stadium it can freeze the balls off a polar bear. Under those conditions, any kind of contact when you’re playing hurts. Icicles form in your moustache, sweat freezes instead of evaporating. If you’re standing on the sideline, there’s a distinct risk of freezing solid. If the city had been stocked with beautiful, available women, it could have compensated for the playing conditions, however, the good ones in that part of the country married early.
    So, why did I come to a stop in Cleveland? Good question. I doubt I could have given a good reason at the time and, with all that has happened since, I certainly can’t now. Most likely, there was no good reason. Either I had driven far enough for one day or, maybe, I just had to piss and felt sort of drained afterwards. It’s amazing how events can turn on seemingly trivial decisions.
    I
do
know that having decided to stop, my main objective became finding a bar. In Cleveland, this is not hard to do. Given the summertime choice between the Cleveland women, see above, and the Cleveland Indians, you might as well drink. The place I settled on was on Euclid Avenue, just east of the University area. Most of Cleveland looks like an unfortunate section of the Bronx, but this place didn’t seem too bad from the outside. The light must have been bad because, somehow, I failed to notice the rows of motorcycles in the lot. The inside was vintage sleaze, packed with noisy, smelly, milling men. I spotted Hells Angels colors in the crowd, and the few women I saw looked attached to the bikers. Neither observation made much impression. I had sworn off women and had no intention of bothering any Angels. The bar, when I finally reached it, was way past needing to be cleaned. An electric sander might have done it, but not the nearly black rag the barkeep wielded. When I leaned forward to shout my order, my sleeve stuck to the top of the bar, and the glass, when it arrived, was veiled with a whitish residue. I didn’t consider any of these to be major problems and, after a few beers, ceased to notice them at all. In fact, I was feeling quite mellow and content until my bladder began to stretch.
    The john was in the rear of the establishment and, as with the bar, it required some effort to approach. I was just starting to reach for the handle when the door burst open, propelled by a body thrown against it from the other side. I had a quick glimpse of a tanned face, framed by a thin black beard and marked by a angry cut across the right cheek, before the body fell past me. Another man charged into the doorway and this one held a knife. I was squarely in his path.
    My belly was going to be ripped open by the upward thrust of the man’s knife; he didn’t care who was in front of him, but the higher centers of my brain were partially anesthetized so I didn’t think about what was happening. Instead of thinking, and dying, my body reacted and it was driven by all those years of karate and Krav Maga, now with NFL strength training added. It was like a movie. I stepped back with my right foot and turned my body sideways to the attacker. That pulled my gut out of line with his blade, which cut nothing but air. As the knife came up, I chopped down with my left arm. Forearm met forearm with a loud crack. The alcohol was not insulation against the pain of that meeting; it felt like my arm had snapped. The pain, however, was mutual. His hand opened and the knife flew free. It was almost easy to bring my other hand up, break his wrist with a quick snap, and then put him away with a kick. Just like they taught it