Signal Caller

By Dan Briggs

Lane Patterson is struggling. His migraines can be debilitating. A tenuous relationship with the head coach and his binge drinking wife compound his problems.

His most unfortunate and life-altering moment unfolds when he experiences sudden deafness. Yes, sudden deafness is a real medical condition and could happen to anyone, including a professional quarterback.

At the urging of a friend, Lane reluctantly agrees to learn American Sign Language. An eccentric teacher enters Lane's life and thus begins his journey to learning sign language and a new way to live.

In this intriguing story, the skills of sign language and signal-calling come together under unique circumstances.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan Briggs
• Release date: Oct 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310101656

Dan Briggs

Dan Briggs lives in Orange Park, FL. He is the author of the book, "Career Year - A Major League Fable".

Book preview

Preface

American Sign Language dialogue is printed in all capital letters for the reader to realize that sign language is being used. Other dialogue and content which is displayed on computer screens, smartphones, whiteboards, etc. are printed in italics.

CHAPTER 1

Muscles tensed and fists clenched, Lane Patterson breathed heavily, each breath deeper and more pronounced. His heart pounded faster than the action he viewed before him.

Get out of my huddle! Lane shouted to the man without a helmet.

The huddle buzzed with chatter from the players. No one’s listening. Why are these guys talking? Lane thought. The game is not going as planned.

The domed stadium rocked with crowd noise, yet Lane viewed empty seats. He looked up toward the luxury suites—stadium lights blinding him. The stadium noise ascending, he returned his focus to the players in the huddle.

"I’m open! I’m always open! Put 7-Eleven on the back of my jersey, man, ’cause I’m always open! They can’t cover me! Just throw it to me!" exclaimed his teammate, a cocky wide receiver.

Run the play as you’re supposed to, Lane said.

The players broke the huddle with no sense of urgency. Positioned in shotgun formation, Lane glanced at the play clock. Disgust flashed across his sweaty face. Get into the slot! he yelled to the wide receiver, motioning with his arms.

Patterson, check the clock, check the clock! screamed the head coach from the sideline. You’re not going to get the play off!

Lane surveyed the defense. The players and uniforms were indistinguishable. Fog covered the line of scrimmage. He turned to the portly man without a helmet, who stood behind the left offensive tackle. Holding a portable audio recorder, the fat man stared at Lane and grinned.

Get out of here! I’m not going to get the play off with you on the field! Lane shouted.

I guess that’s your problem, said the man without an ounce of emotion.

His breathing accelerated. Lane watched the referee toss a yellow penalty flag high into the foggy sky. The flag fell to the ground in slow motion. An unrecognizable coach ran down the sideline, ranting, raving, and firing expletives.

Lane felt a tapping on his shoulder. Who wants me now? he asked. The tapping continued and escalated to shaking. He jolted his upper body from the king-sized bed.

Whoa, what is it? Lane asked.

You were having a bad dream, said his wife Kendall, lying next to him. She sighed. Let me guess, same dream as before?

He nodded his head. Yeah, same dream.

Without looking at him, she patted Lane on the shoulder. Think nice thoughts, honey. Nice thoughts.

Yeah, Lane mumbled and rolled over.

His sleep resumed without incident or nightmares. Lane was tired and he longed for quality sleep. The conference championship was in three days. The Philadelphia Cannons were one win away from going to the World Bowl—the biggest prize in the Global Football League. The city of Philadelphia was enthralled with the Cannons and their quest for a World Bowl championship. The national and local media pegged the passing game as the team’s primary concern; the only weak link for the team with the best record in the conference.

The next morning, Lane and Kendall sat across from each other at a large oak table in their gourmet kitchen. Sipping black coffee, Kendall scanned sports articles on her iPad. Lane gulped a sports energy drink accompanied with vitamin supplements and pain medication prescribed by the team physician. Their multi-million-dollar Colonial-style home in an upscale Philly suburb was quiet.

In between sips of coffee, Kendall twirled her long auburn hair. She twisted her hair often. Wearing a silk bathrobe and ankle-high slippers, she perused an online newspaper with her iPad. A self-described contemporary Southern belle, she was strikingly beautiful with dark brown eyes and perfect white teeth. Cosmetic surgery for her nose and breast implants enhanced her eye-catching appearance. She turned off the iPad and placed it onto an empty chair.

What’s it say today? Lane asked playfully.

You know our deal, you’re not to read that stuff, Kendall replied. But guess what? There’s not much in there about you today.

Well all right. It’s going to be a good day. I can tell. Cold, but a good day, Lane said with his slight Southern drawl. After two years in Philadelphia, the twenty-six-year-old Gainesville, Florida, native still detested the frigid winter temperatures.

Save your good day for Sunday, Kendall said with a wink.

Lane grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl on the table. He held it to his mouth like a microphone. And remember, Cannon fans, as long as Patterson plays a steady, error-free game, Philadelphia, with their vaunted defense, should beat Dallas.

Nice. Your broadcasting career comes later. Go to practice.

Lane stood up and glided his athletic body around the table. A smooth complexion, crew cut, and trimmed sideburns matched his svelte physique. Standing behind Kendall, Lane rubbed her shoulders with his large hands. So what are you making tonight? he asked.

Hmmm, I was thinking about Chicken Kiev.

Ah yes, Chicken Kiev. Shoot, I don’t even know what that is, but if you’re making it, I’ll be here.

Call me on your way home. Have a good practice. And stay away from you know who.

***

The office walls were covered with functional items. Two thirty-two-inch liquid crystal displays, two electronic whiteboards, one standard whiteboard, a world map, and a marked-up, twelve-month calendar filled the wall space. Two LCD projectors hung from the ceiling. No football mementos adorned the windowless office. Whenever asked about the absence of trophies and mementos, Head Coach Don Dyer coolly responded: My office is a working office, not a trophy room.

The only artwork in the ultra-working office was a custom-made poster of Sun Tzu, which included a quote from The Art of War: If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.

Access to the office and adjacent conference room was tightly controlled—the doors equipped with electronic locks and high-security keypads. On Dyer’s modest executive desk, his laptop was snapped into a docking station, and busy-looking Excel spreadsheets, league memos, and media guides were strewn about.

Dyer and his offensive coordinator stood before one of the two electronic whiteboards, which displayed a page from the team’s playbook via the LCD projector. When talking with players and his staff, Dyer was uneasy sitting. The wiry coach preferred to stand and roam, often conducting standing meetings to keep them brief and focused. Dyer was fair skinned, and his thick-rimmed glasses overshadowed his most colorful facial feature: steely blue eyes.

Dyer was fifty-two years old. He never played pro football, or college ball, or even high school football. His only experience playing the sport was intramural flag football while in college. But he loved the game. He personified the new breed of GFL head coaches—more executive than coach. A mega-millionaire, he was nearly as passionate about revenues, profits, and salary cap administration as victories and playoff appearances. His assistants called him CFO or Chief, short for Chief Football Officer. Dyer demanded a culture of discipline. No smartphones, iPods, headphones, or any type of personal electronics was allowed in meetings. His mannerisms and emotions at practices and during games were reserved; staying in control was his norm. A strict dress code was in place for the team, including him. Only team-issued clothes could be worn in meetings. On game day Dyer patrolled the sidelines in conservative, dark-colored suits. He was rarely seen by players, the media, or public without his signature white, long-sleeve dress shirt and silver-and-black tie. Dyer always portrayed a business look, and he knew what he was doing. A man of small physical stature, the business executive style gave him an authoritative edge.

I’m uncomfortable with our scripted plays to start the game, Dyer said to Grant Trotter, the offensive coordinator and quarterbacks coach. Dyer and Trotter stood alone in the office, an early morning ritual, discussing the offensive Victory Plan. Dyer demanded the team use and say Victory Plan rather than game plan.

Assuming we get the ball at the twenty or beyond, these plays will be fine, Trotter said.

Three passes to start the game? That does not fit in with our agreed-upon Victory Plan. Do we really want to do that?

We have to get these guys out of the box. Let them know we can throw it. We’re talking about two dump passes in the flat and completing a five-yard out route.

I understand. But we’ve been down this road before. We’ve got a patchwork o-line and a running back who’s been secure with the ball, so I just think—

Is this about Lane? Trotter asked.

Trotter was direct. His steady, baritone voice complemented his demeanor. A huge man at six-foot-five inches and three hundred pounds, Trotter moved slowly with a commanding presence. An African American, the former pro quarterback had a round figure, chubby face, and short black hair peppered with gray. Middle age, poor eating habits, and inactivity from worn-out knees ballooned his weight.

Dyer raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms. Well, if we want to have this philosophical discussion right now, yes, it’s all about Lane.

Trotter snickered. Okay, Chief, you have the ball. Tell me why it’s about Lane.

It’s simple. He’s not an A player. Our job is to put this football team in position to win based upon superb performances by our A players. The B and C players will play better if the A players perform. Let’s not set up a system that requires B and C players to carry the A players. We’ve talked about this before. You do follow, correct?

Of course I do, we’ve heard it all season long. But you said this was all about Lane?

C’mon, Grant, connect the dots, Dyer said. "You’re the ex-quarterback. It’s the most important position on the field. On this team, we’re not asking Lane to win. We’re asking him not to lose. I guess I’ve never communicated it like that and don’t really like to, but it is what it is."

Pretty motivating stuff for a quarterback, Trotter replied with a wry smile.

You know what I’m saying. It’s our defense and special teams that will get us to the World Bowl. Not the arm of Lane Patterson.

CHAPTER 2

The drab meeting room was small. Six chairs bordered a conference table. Four men stood around the table with the door closed. The Quarterbacks sign outside the door was in the Occupied position. Trotter and his three quarterbacks were familiar with the routine. Coach Dyer created Seven-for-Seven, a game day check-in conducted by Trotter to address any last-minute issues. The detailed schedule allotted seven minutes for the meeting. Sporting black dress trousers with a black Cannons polo shirt, Trotter flipped through notes on his clipboard. The quarterbacks, wearing black Nike Dri-Fit T-shirts and their black uniform pants, stood next to the table, waiting for Trotter to start the meeting.

How’s your head? Trotter asked Lane.

Lane eyed his two teammates and then stared at Trotter. That’s a rather vague question. Are you talking about my psyche? How my head feels? Shoot, it could be another body part you’re asking about, Lane said with a wide grin.

The two back-up quarterbacks laughed. They expected and enjoyed witty responses from their teammate.

As bad as this sounds, I am actually concerned with all three, with the last one being the least of my immediate concerns, Trotter said.

My head’s fine. I guess the drugs work.

How’s business? Have you taken care of business?

The back-up quarterbacks chuckled.

We go through this every week. Do you really need to ask? Lane replied.

The whole team counts on it.

Yeah, that’s right, forget about how I play; it’s whether I puke.

Trotter shrugged his shoulders and nodded yes. Well if that’s what it takes to win...

Lane threw both hands into the air. I haven’t puked yet, but I’ve got plenty of time. He paused and glanced at each man with wide eyes. Now that you’ve brought it up, I’m feeling kind of nauseous...

Lane darted to a trashcan in the room, bent over, and pretended to barf. Da Da Da Dallas! he groaned into the trashcan.

Trotter and the quarterbacks laughed.

Good thing Coach Dyer doesn’t attend these meetings, said the third-string, rookie quarterback.

Trotter sneered at the rookie quarterback. Okay, back to—

Coach, Lane said. He raised his upper body, smiled, and aimed his hazel eyes at Trotter. We’ve been ready, let’s go.

***

Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Sweet Home Alabama blared from the stereo system.

Lord I’m comin’ home to you! Kendall screeched. Kendall was blessed with good looks, but not a good singing voice. She was carefree and perky this afternoon, belting the lyrics in the empty house.

In bare feet she danced in the center of the entertainment room, facing a wall-mounted, high-definition, fifty-five-inch television, with a touchscreen remote control in her left hand and a screwdriver cocktail in her right. Kendall bounced back and forth on the balls of her feet, careful not to spill the drink on the clean Berber carpet. Kendall never listened to the pre-game shows. With the television muted, she glanced at the screen and focused on rocking to the music while enjoying her first cocktail.

Her game day festivity was thoughtfully prepared. A liter bottle of Ivanabitch vodka, the bottleneck top stained with red lipstick, sat on the kitchen counter. Ice cubes filled a leather-grained ice bucket. The CD player loaded with her favorite rock artists. She had applied her good-luck make-up and nail polish that morning. A baggy Florida Gators T-shirt with matching sweatpants completed the standard outfit and ritual.

It had been over a year since Kendall attended a game. She could easily recall the last time she was at the Franklin Dome. Her outfits and routines were completely different when she went to the games. She pranced around the luxury club section in designer clothes with fashionable high-heeled shoes. Her appearance drew attention—even in the private bar that was reserved for the players’ families and friends. Kendall scanned the VIP lounge, standing next to a player’s wife. One hand on her hip, the other holding a near-empty cocktail glass, she checked out the looks of the other women attendees.

You want another drink? Kendall asked the wife of the team’s left offensive tackle.

Sure, she replied.

Two more Crown and Sevens, please, Kendall said to the young male bartender.

The bartender smiled at Kendall. Coming right up, Mrs. Patterson.

Kendall noticed the wry smile from the bartender. Yes, it’s my fourth, she said softly with a flirtatious grin and a wink. Kendall slid a fifty-dollar bill across the counter. See you next week, and be a good boy, she said.

Midway through the third quarter, the Cannons trailed division rival New York ten to six. Both teams had records of five wins and three losses. First place for the division was at stake. Lane and the offense struggled most of the game. Several of his passes sailed high and wide, missing his receivers. At their opponents’ forty-yard line, they faced a third down and six yards to go for a first down. Lane dropped back and tossed a tight spiral to a wide-open tight end. The pass hit the beefy tight end in his hands and promptly fell to the ground for an incomplete pass that would have gone for a first down. The crowd let out a collective groan. Boos and jeers howled throughout the stands before the stadium went quiet.

Kendall jumped from her club seat and screamed at the tight end. C’mon, Jefferson! You couldn’t catch the ball if my husband shoved it up your big black ass! Her verbal outburst seemed to reverberate throughout the domed stadium.

Unknown to Kendall, Jefferson’s wife was only two rows behind her.

Shut the hell up, Patterson! You prima-donna! yelled the tight end’s wife.

Kendall turned around and looked up at her. Kendall’s face reddened. Get him to catch the ball! His hands are like concrete! she yelled. Jefferson’s wife climbed over the seats in front of her, pushing others out of the way. She stood a row behind Kendall and glared at her, towering over her. Kendall turned and stared into her eyes, a hand on her jutting hip and the other holding her drink—the two women locked in a stare down. With a flick of her hand, Jefferson’s wife slapped the drink out Kendall’s hand, splashing it onto neighboring fans and Kendall’s blouse.

Now you’ve really pissed me off! Kendall shouted. She reared her arm back and swung up at the woman, her fist grazing across the woman’s mouth.

Just like your husband—you missed! the woman shouted, and she lunged toward Kendall and grabbed onto her hair.

Ouch! Kendall screamed. No, no, not my hair! The two women, wearing tight miniskirts, tumbled over the cushy seats with neither able to extend their arms or legs to deliver any punches or kicks. Their bare legs tangled and they flopped about on the peanut shell and popcorn-littered floor, stuck between the rows of seats.

A couple of fans broke up the scuffle. Jefferson’s wife returned to her seat. Kendall headed for the bar. The incident was over, but not quite.

The whole fracas was recorded by stadium surveillance cameras, and the video was leaked to several Philly television stations. Local television sportscasts plus ESPN, FOX, and CNN broadcasted the clip with sarcasm and humor. Video of the catfight had several million views on YouTube.

The incident infuriated Coach Dyer. He reprimanded Lane, calling him into his office for a one-on-one counseling session about couth and professionalism for anyone associated with the organization. Dyer barred Kendall from attending any more games. When Lane told Kendall about the ban, she shrugged her shoulders. Dyer can kiss my cute little gluteus maximus, she said.

Kendall stopped swaying to the music and stood still. She closed her eyes, took a large sip of the cocktail, and smacked her lips. While the two broadcasters mouthed their opening remarks, she skipped into the kitchen for a refill.

I know those things are in here somewhere, she said, scanning the pantry with her cocktail glass filled to the brim. She grabbed a bag of Cheetos and strutted into the entertainment room, loaded with her favorite junk food and a drink. She turned off the music and activated the sound on the state-of-the art television.

Philadelphia, with their all-black uniforms, I believe reflects the attitude, style, and strengths of this team. Hard-nosed, defensive-minded, not much color to their offense, and a get-the-job-done approach, said the commentator.

And my baby looks good in black! Kendall shouted with her drink raised toward the display.

***

The game played out as the media and football analysts had predicted: a low-scoring affair with plenty of hard hitting. With one minute and twenty seconds left in the game, Philadelphia trailed Dallas thirteen to ten. Philadelphia’s Franklin Dome was loud all game long—regardless of who had the ball.

Kendall sat on the edge of the sofa. She had finished off the orange juice, graduating to vodka on the rocks. With orange-stained fingers from the Cheetos, Kendall twirled her hair. C’mon, Lane, get ’em into field go’ range, at least, she stammered.

And a nice touch pass by Patterson for a gain of eight, said the play-by-play broadcaster. Third and two with the clock ticking. Philadelphia is out of timeouts. Patterson hurries the offense to the line of scrimmage. The ball is at the Dallas forty-five...Looks like Patterson is signaling for a different play.

The color commentator added, There’s actually plenty of time to get into field goal position. Philadelphia can chip away if Dallas will give them positive gains.

Kendall rose from the sofa, clutching her drink. Don’t blow it, honey. Pretend you’re playing Vanderbilt. Please, make it...

Patterson goes under center. He signals the crowd to quiet down. Patterson hands off to...there’s a mix-up! The ball’s on the ground! Recovered by Dallas!

Oh my, what a bad time for confusion with the play-calling! Inexcusable at this point in the game, and for what’s at stake. It’s the quarterback’s responsibility to make sure everyone is on the same page, said the color commentator.

Her eyes widened. She gasped while watching the replay. Without a thought for her actions, Kendall reared her arm and hurled the cocktail glass. The glass smashed against the wall, just missing the television. Ice cubes and vodka lined the carpet. Glass shards landed on the floor, stereo system, and adjacent bookcase. Kendall sighed and plopped backward onto the sofa, crushing several Cheetos. What a freakin’ mess! she yelled.

Before the final seconds ticked away on the game, Kendall drifted into an alcohol-induced sleep. In the dimly lit room, light from the television projected onto her curled-up body, her mind and senses limp. Drool rolled from the corner of her mouth onto the sofa pillow. She slept through the post-game show, the news, and even the whimsical sounds and music of The Simpsons.

She did not hear the eggs that pelted the house.

***

Just get it over with, Lane mumbled to himself before entering the post-game interview room. He walked across the cramped room onto a small stage. The room, decorated with large pictures of former Cannons’ players and coaches smiling at post-game interviews from years ago, could hold about one hundred persons. This evening the room was packed beyond capacity. Cameramen and photographers jostled for positions. Lane stood behind the podium and gazed at the throng of reporters, a GFL logo-adorned backdrop behind him. Camera lights beamed at his face. His head throbbed.

The questions erupted. Lane pointed to a reporter in the first row.

What happened on the botched hand-off? asked the reporter.

I had called an audible for a running play. They were setup to defend outside pass routes, and I saw an opportunity to run the ball. It was a basic off-tackle run where I thought we could get at least five yards and pick up a first down. It was a mix-up between Miller and me.

But who made the mistake? shouted another reporter.

Lane paused. He wiped away sweat from his temple—the camera lights getting brighter and hotter. I did. It’s my responsibility to get him the ball.

You looked like you tried to force it in there. Why didn’t you just hold on to it and run it yourself rather than risk a turnover?

In hindsight, I would have done just that. But at the time, I thought I could get it to him.

What did Coach Dyer say to you about your mix-up with the hand-off?

Lane surveyed the room and sighed—his head pounding, the room stifling. I have not spoken one-on-one with Coach Dyer, yet, Lane said.

Do you feel you just can’t get over the hump and get a big win under your belt?

Lane grimaced. "Despite the loss today, overall we had a good season—including what I would consider are some big wins. We had the best record in the conference. With that being said, we did not achieve our ultimate goal. This is a good team with quality players. Today’s loss sucks and it’s not how I wanted the season to end. But we’ll be back."

How was your head today?

Fine, Lane responded matter-of-factly.

What do the Cannons need to do to be more effective passing the ball? asked a reporter whom Lane could not see.

Lane’s eyes widened. The passing game is only one facet of the offense. As a whole, the entire offense can improve.

The team seemed committed to running the ball today. Do you think you should have opened it up more with more passing plays?

He shrugged his shoulders. We had a good Victory Plan. Our defense played well, but so did Dallas. You have to give their defense a ton of credit.

He recognized his headache had peaked and started to subside. The crowded room’s temperature seemed to lessen. Lane scanned the room while several questions blurted out simultaneously. The room’s noise level diminished for a second, only to be interrupted with another question.

Do you blame yourself for the loss today? a reporter from the middle of the room asked.

Lane did not see the reporter; he only recognized the raspy voice. He raised his eyebrows and paused, adjusting his focus to the pointed question. Except for the steady hum from electronic recorders and cameras, the busy room went still.

Well, it’s a team game. We win as a team, and we lose as a team. Yes, I could have played better. For what it’s worth, I completed the majority of my passes, and I didn’t throw an interception. If you want to pin the blame on somebody, like if you have to do that—then place the blame on me, Lane said. Without a further word, he walked away from the podium and exited the room.

***

After a two-hour nap, Kendall awoke, her body accustomed to the schedule. She rubbed her face, wiping away saliva and smearing her lipstick. She belched—a huge burp erupting from her small physique. Good one, she said.

I have an hour, she said, glaring at a wall clock. She pointed the