The Education of Clint Buchanan

By William T. Prince

The highly anticipated sequel to The Legend of Sasquatch finds its protagonist, Clint Buchanan, moving north of the Red River to escape his troubles. With renewed faith, Clint enrolls in college and tries to start a new life for himself, but bad decisions and bad luck continue to plague him. Unable to sever his Texas ties completely, Clint rushes headlong into a romance with a young girl from his hometown who introduces him to a whole new level of heartache while he simultaneously struggles with the worst tragedy of his young life. Will Clint again be strong enough to survive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: William T. Prince
• Release date: Feb 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465847324

William T. Prince

Born and raised between the Red and the Rio Grande, Will Prince moved to Oklahoma, Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia, and Pennsylvania before returning home to the Lone Star. He holds a bachelor's degree in criminal justice and sociology from Cameron University, a master's in criminal justice and psychology from Radford University, and a paralegal certificate from the University of Houston. Will's career includes stints in law enforcement, corporate security, immigration law, and college teaching. He has been a Certified Protection Professional (board-certified in security management by ASIS International) since 1996 and was granted lifetime status in 2012. Currently a freelance writer and paralegal, Will lives in Corinth, Texas. His novels to date include The Legend of Sasquatch and The Education of Clint Buchanan.

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The Education of Clint Buchanan

By William T. Prince

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The Education of Clint Buchanan

Copyright © 2011 by William T. Prince

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, magnetic, photographic (including photocopying), recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system—without prior written permission of the author. No patent liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the author assumes no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

To the memory of

my mom and dad,

Evelyn and W.D. Prince,

from whom I learned

life’s most important lessons.

Chapter One

Clint attacked the weights with a vengeance. The doctors had just cleared him to resume working out, and after three weeks, he already felt himself getting soft. He also had the dream weighing on his mind, and he thought that the harder he pushed himself, the more likely it was that he could actually forget it. It helped to think of it as a dream; he certainly wasn’t ready to accept the alternative. He knew that anyone would tell him that he should ease back into his workouts, but he didn’t care. He was willing to pay the price the next day. He figured that a guy who had been clubbed with a baseball bat, stabbed with a knife, and shot with a pistol—and whose heart had stopped and restarted—could probably handle a little muscle soreness. He just wanted to get back into shape, get on with his life, and try to forget the dream.

On the night when Clint was shot, he almost died; some say that he did. The doctors weren’t entirely sure what had happened. Things aren’t always obvious, and medicine isn’t an exact science. The consensus was that Clint’s heart had simply lost its rhythm, which he found somewhat amusing given that he didn’t have much rhythm to start with. The prevailing theory was that the bullet’s striking so close to his heart had caused an arrhythmia, and since the ER doctor hadn’t bothered to give Clint an EKG, he was unaware of the life-threatening problem that was lurking. The heart was only slightly out of sync at first, but the problem got worse and was eventually bad enough that Clint lost consciousness. For a few moments, his heart had actually stopped, and that’s when he had the dream. Luckily, the doctors and nurses were able to restore Clint’s heartbeat in time not only to save his life, but also to avoid any damage that might have a long-term effect.

Since that night, Clint had been examined by at least a half dozen doctors who had given him a full battery of tests. Clint had been tested, retested, and then tested some more. As far as the experts could tell, Clint was perfectly okay; it was a true miracle. His heart had not been damaged by the episode; his rhythm was fine now, and he was free to resume his fitness regimen and even to pursue his goal of playing college football. That’s another reason why Clint was attacking the weights tonight. Despite his size, Clint had somehow gotten the notion that he was too thin and needed to add some bulk if he was to have any hope of making it as a college lineman. He had begun taking desiccated liver tablets with every meal, and his goal was to let the protein add mass and to let the weights ensure that it was muscle. He wanted to be bigger—not fat. His goal was to bulk up to a solid 270 or 280. He figured that his frame could easily carry that much weight and that the extra muscle would increase his chances of playing ball and of being good at it. He wanted—and would need—any edge that he could get. Though he never mentioned it to anyone, he was even having thoughts of one day playing in the NFL. He knew it was silly, that the odds were against it, but he couldn’t help himself.

Christmas, Clint’s birthday, and New Year’s Day had all come and gone in the weeks that had passed since the shooting. Clint had spent some private, special moments with all his family and friends, which he enjoyed immensely, though at the same time made him feel somewhat uncomfortable. Clint’s birthday fell on a Sunday in 1980, and his mom decided that the family should get together for his birthday rather than for Christmas. With Clint’s birthday falling only three days after Christmas, they had often neglected to celebrate it properly, and Lucy felt guilty about that. She knew that she couldn’t make up for it all in one year, but she still wanted to make an effort.

Lucy made sure that everyone came home for Clint’s special weekend. It wouldn’t be a big party—just family. Of course, Clint’s family now included Milton, Tom, and Hulk, so they were invited as well. Tom begged off due to his ongoing marital strife, though he didn’t say that explicitly. Hulk had intended to go, but some kind of police emergency came up at the last minute, so he never showed, though he did call later to apologize and to wish Clint a happy birthday. Milton was there and quite enthusiastic about it. His family had finished all their holiday celebrations, and there was no way that he was going to pass up a chance to eat Lucy’s unbeatable home cooking.

Jack, Sissy, and Sissy’s husband Ed had all come home. Though it was somewhat problematic for them, Lucy had laid down the law, and no one wanted to risk her wrath, so they came. It was unusual for anyone to butt heads with Lucy because she never lost a contest of wills. Whenever push came to shove, Lucy always got her way. They had a big holiday meal of roasted turkey and ham, cornbread dressing, praline sweet potatoes, green beans with bacon, whole-berry cranberry sauce, and Sissy’s famous broccoli and rice casserole. There was really nothing famous about it, nor particularly special, but it was always her contribution to big family meals. She wasn’t much of a cook, and it was about the best dish she could manage reasonably well. It was Clint who had first coined the term Sissy’s famous broccoli and rice casserole, and though Sissy feigned annoyance, it always seemed to elicit chuckles from everyone. Even Sissy couldn’t help herself most of the time. If it did bother her, she was good-natured about it.

As good as Lucy was at everything she cooked, everyone’s favorite course was always dessert, and for a meal such as this—for an occasion such as this—she really went above and beyond. She made Clint’s favorite: devil’s food chocolate cake with hard candy icing, which they always ate soaked in milk. Jack’s favorite was mincemeat pie, and though no one else was crazy about it, she made it for him anyway. Sissy and Ed preferred the traditional pumpkin pie, and they weren’t disappointed. Lucy and Doug’s favorite was bourbon pecan pie made from big Texas pecans from their own tree in the backyard. Everyone always ribbed Lucy about the bourbon because she was a teetotaler and would never have been caught dead in a liquor store. Someone else always had to buy the whiskey. Mom, I caught you sneaking a swig when you thought no one was looking was something that all three kids—and even Doug—had joked more than once. Ed never did because he was afraid of Lucy, almost as much as he was afraid of the Buchanan men.

On that Sunday of Clint’s birthday, the whole family had gone to church. During the invitation at the end of the service, what some folks call an altar call, they had all gone forward and prayed with Brother Collins. Everyone was very emotional, but even though it made Clint uncomfortable, he tolerated it. After all he’d put his family through, he figured he owed it to them to cooperate. Plus, there was the dream. No matter how hard Clint tried to put it out of his mind, it was always there, and even though he probably wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, praying with Brother Collins had made him feel better. He just wished that it had allowed him forget the dream.

Clint had quit his job at England Security. They all hated losing him, especially Tom, of course, but they understood. He clearly needed some time off to get his head and life straight. Besides, although no one had mentioned it to Clint, Old Man England, the big boss, had given orders to fire Clint if he didn’t agree to quit. Though he liked Clint as much as everyone else, he was a superstitious old cop. He thought that Clint’s bad luck meant bad luck for everyone around him, and he didn’t want Clint’s luck to run out at work. There was no telling who might have been hurt. It worked out okay, though, because Clint had already decided on his own to quit.

Clint was bound and determined to follow through on Milton’s suggestion of playing college football, and between now and when two-a-days typically start in mid-August, he didn’t want to think about anything else but preparing to play ball. He planned to spend the next few months working out and learning as much as he could about a few colleges, both their football programs and academics. In a month or two, he would begin making some calls and trying to get some coaches to consider letting him walk on and try to earn a scholarship. Clint had decided that he should focus on junior colleges mostly and maybe a couple of small four-year schools. Not having played football in several years, he knew that none of the major colleges would be interested in him, although he did have a dream of being a Texas Longhorn after a couple years of proving himself in the minor leagues, so to speak. Then again, perhaps Austin wasn’t the best place for him to go—too many Bandidos.

On this particular night, Clint was so focused on the weights that he almost didn’t notice them—the two men who were watching his every move. This club didn’t have much in the way of free weights, so Clint was making his circuit around the Nautilus machines, and on each one, he used every plate on the machine. About halfway around, Clint had a clear view of the two men, but he didn’t realize at the time that they were watching him. When he came back around the second time, he realized that they still hadn’t moved, so he started paying attention to them.

It was obvious that the men were focused on Clint to the complete exclusion of everyone and everything else around them, but they definitely didn’t look like the type of guys he needed to worry about, at least not in terms of violence. It did, however, occur to Clint that the two men might have been interested in him sexually, and that thought gave him a bit of a shiver. Clint had nothing against homosexuals; in fact, he had a libertarian streak and often defended them to less tolerant individuals. Still, he had no interest in that sort of thing, but the more the two men watched Clint, the more he thought, Yeah, they’re queer.

After Clint had finished three complete circuits with the weights, he spent thirty minutes on one of the exercise bicycles. He had planned to go for an hour, but he just couldn’t make it. Though it disgusted him, he had to admit that the time off had affected him, and he didn’t have enough gas in the tank. He was so tired, in fact, that he walked right past the two men on his way into the locker room, and he didn’t notice that they followed him. Clint sat on the bench in front of his locker, bent over with a towel wrapped completely around his head and his face in his hands, completely oblivious of his surroundings. After a couple of minutes, he finally looked up and was startled to see the two men standing not more than five feet away. He thought to himself, Have they been there the whole time? They had.

Is there something I can do for you? he asked the men.

The older, smaller man asked, Have you ever played any ball?

Uh, why do you ask? What kind of ball?

Football, the man replied. Have you ever played any football?

Not in a while. I played up through my freshman year in high school and then part of my sophomore year. I had to quit because of a problem with my back, but I’m over that now. It hasn’t bothered me in several years. Why do you ask?

Again ignoring that particular question, the man asked, So you’ve never played any college football?

No, Clint said, starting to get a little exasperated. I said that I haven’t played since halfway through my sophomore year in high school. I was fifteen then. I’m twenty-one now, barely. I haven’t played any football in over five years.

Have you ever thought of playing college football? the man asked, his face starting to show some excitement, and Clint wondered why.

Well, yes, as a matter of fact, that’s why I’m busting my butt here tonight.

Yeah, we saw you. You were really humping it, the first fellow said.

The second man finally spoke, adding, I’ve never seen anyone go around three complete circuits with maximum weight on every single machine. You ever lift any free weights?

No, Clint said. They don’t have much here, and I always work out alone anyway. It’s dangerous to lift free weights without a spotter.

The first man spoke again, So, you said you’re here tonight because you’ve thought about playing college football. What’s your plan?

Clint had forgotten his irritation at the man’s cryptic refusal to answer his question about his intent. He responded, I plan to spend the next few months doing nothing but eating, lifting weights, and running, and then I hope to walk on to some college somewhere during two-a-days and try to earn a scholarship, or at least a spot on the team and a chance to earn a scholarship down the road. I want to go to college. I want to play football, and it makes sense that I should try to pay for college by playing ball.

That sounds like a good plan, the first man said, and then he turned toward the second man and smiled.

The second man smiled back, shrugged his shoulders, and said, Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.

Okay, is someone finally going to tell me why you’re so interested in me and why you’re asking all these questions? Clint asked.

The first man turned back toward Clint, extended his hand, and with the biggest smile on his face that Clint had ever seen, shook Clint’s hand vigorously and said, "Allow me to introduce myself. My name’s Jim Kinchen—not kitchen, like a place to cook . . . Kinch-en. I’m the head football coach at Southern Oklahoma College in Gillman, and you can forget about walking on. I’m offering you a scholarship right now—full ride. I’d love to have you play ball for me."

Clint almost fell over backward; he actually felt faint. He asked, Are you kidding me? Is this some kind of a joke?

Clint literally could not believe that this was happening. After everything he had been through, after all the bad luck he’d had for the last few years, could it be? Could it really be that he had been so lucky as to pick just the right day and just the right time to be in just the right place to run into just the right man who could make just the right offer to get his life back on track? What were the odds? Then again, one might say that anyone who could survive everything that Clint had endured was actually pretty lucky, though Clint never would have seen it that way. Aside from the issue of luck, did he really deserve this? After everything he’d done wrong, the countless bad decisions, did God still consider him worthy of this kind of reward?

Coach Kinchen replied, No, son, this is no joke. By the way, what’s your name?

Oh, I’m sorry, sir, Clint said as he stood. "I’m Clint Buchanan—not Bew Cannon, like the guy on that soap opera . . . Buck Hannon."

Coach Kinchen explained that the other man, whom he neglected to introduce, was one of his former players who was now an assistant coach at Pearce High School in Richardson. Coach Kinchen had come down for a visit and to do a little recruiting, and they decided to work out together. The coach’s former player was a member of Clint’s club, and that’s how they wound up there. They had finished their workout and cleaned up, and they were just leaving the locker room, about to head out of the club, when Clint caught their eye, so they decided to stay and watch his workout.

You know, Coach, Clint said, sheepishly looking downward, I’m sorry to say this, but y’all were watching me so close, I actually thought you might be queer.

Oh, I’ll be queer for you—if that’s what it takes. If you say that you’ll come play ball for me at SOC, the coach said, saying sock instead of the initials, I’ll get down on my knees right now and give you the best goddam blow job you ever had in your life!

All three men burst into raucous laughter, and as soon as he could speak, Clint said, No, thank you, sir. That won’t be necessary. No offense, but you’re not exactly my type.

Seriously, Clint, the coach continued, you’re an athlete. Anyone can see that. It’s obvious to everyone, even if they’re not a college coach. You’re an athlete, and I can tell by watching you lift weights that you’re a good one. Anyone as big and strong as you are with some athletic ability, I can turn him into a football player. I can tell by the way you move that you’re agile. How’s your speed?

Coach, to tell you the truth, I’ve never been all that fast. I have a good initial burst and great stamina, but my top end is a little lacking.

Top end ain’t important, son. That initial burst is all that really matters for a lineman, at least on offense. I’m guessing you’re fast enough, but we’ll worry about that later. Now, we got us a good little college up there in Gillman, and you can get yourself a good education. Plus, I’m building a really strong NAIA football team. That’s the National Association of Intercollegiate Athletics.

I’ve heard of it, Coach, Clint said. It’s like the NCAA for small colleges.

Yes, that’s exactly right, Coach Kinchen replied. Anyway, we ranked in the Top Ten in the NAIA last year, but we missed the playoffs by the skin of our teeth. Next year, I think we got a chance to challenge for the national championship. I’d love for you to be a part of it, and I’m willing to offer you a full scholarship right now, right here, on the spot. You interested?

Heck, yeah! I’m interested! Clint exclaimed, not able to contain his excitement. "I mean, I need to talk to my folks. This is kind of sudden, but yeah, I’m interested—very interested. I think my parents will like the idea, too, but I need to run it by them."

What do you play?

You mean position?

Yeah, what position do you think you can play? What did you play in high school?

I was a tackle, both ways. I love defense like everyone else, but I think I might be better suited to offense.

Yeah, I expect you’re right, the coach said. We’ll give you a shot at offense and defense, see how you do at both before we decide. I’m wondering something else, though. How are your hands? Can you catch a football?

Uh, yeah, I have good hands. I played some tight end in pee-wee league and junior high, and a little freshman year, too. But we had a new coach my sophomore year, and he wouldn’t let me do it anymore, said I was a tackle—period. He didn’t want me fooling around trying to play anything else. It was another reason why Clint had disliked Coach Morris.

Well, son, he was probably right about your future being at tackle, but I pride myself on being innovative. You’re a big, strong kid, and I expect pretty tough, too. If you have good hands and can move, I’d love to put you out at tight end in our Veer offense. The Veer is all about running, controlling the line of scrimmage and moving the ball down the field consistently, even if it’s only three or four yards at a time. We may only throw to our tight end a couple times a game. But still, it’d be like having an extra tackle up there to block, and if you can catch, that’s gravy. The element of surprise could work in our favor, too, at least once. I don’t think there are a lot of 180-pound safeties in our league who would want to look up and see you bearing down on them.

The coach paused for a moment, shook his head, and waved a hand before continuing, Ah, we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s just say I’m going to keep an open mind. I want what’s best for you and what’s best for my football team, and if what’s best for you is what’s best for my team, all the better.

That sounds good, Coach. I appreciate that. You know, I’m a good student, too. I won’t have any problems keeping my grades up.

Ah, I’m not worried about that. You seem like a smart kid. Spring semester starts soon, and I’d like to have that extra time to work with you, get you up to speed. No sense in waiting for two-a-days. Can you be in my office on Monday morning?

This coming Monday—day after tomorrow?

That’s right. I know it’s not much time, but this thing just fell in our lap here. We need to take advantage of the opportunity.

Sure, I can be there. Is it okay if my dad comes with me? I think he’s going to want to.

Oh, sure, of course! By all means, bring your dad. If we’re going to be together for the next four years, I want to meet him. Wouldn’t have it any other way. I expect he’ll want to come to some of our games. Gillman’s not that far from here, only about three or four hours, depending on how fast you drive, and most of our games aren’t too far away. Some are even closer to here.

Oh, yes, sir! Dad’ll definitely want to come to as many of my games as he can. He loves football. If he can be there, he will be—Mom, too. They’ve always been very supportive of all their kids.

Okay, then, I’ll see you Monday morning. Don’t worry about the time too much. Maybe try to get there close to lunchtime—no, on second thought, make it around ten if you can. That’ll give me time to show y’all around a little before I take you to lunch. You need directions?

No, I don’t think so, sir. We have some kinfolk up in Oklahoma, so we’re no strangers. We can find it.

Well, son, if you can find Gillman, you won’t have any trouble finding SOC. The town’s pretty small, and there are signs everywhere. Plus, the stadium kind of stands out. If you have any trouble, just stop and ask. Someone will point you the right way. Just find the stadium and go to the field house. Our offices are in there, and I’ll be looking for you. Anyone who gets a look at you will know you’re coming to see me.

Okay, Coach, Clint said, shaking the coach’s hand, I’ll see you Monday. Thank you, sir. This means a lot to me—to my whole family. I won’t let you down.

See you Monday, Clint. I’m looking forward to getting you on board. We’re going to do some great things together these next few years. Great things.

The other man shook Clint’s hand and gave him a friendly nod, and the two of them left. Clint took a seat on the bench again and stared at his locker for the longest time, trying to let it all sink in but still not quite fully believing it either. He realized that his eyes were filling with tears, so he buried his face in his towel again. Could this be real?

Dear Lord, Clint prayed silently, thank You. I don’t deserve this, but thank You. I know this is Your doing, and I’ll try to prove myself worthy of it. I know I haven’t talked to You lately like I should—not even after You sent Keith.

Clint stopped. It was the first time he had really let himself think of the dream as something else. It was certainly dream-like, but in his heart, Clint knew that it was more. In those few moments when his heart stopped beating, Keith Willis appeared to him. It was just as they say—all those people who have those near-death experiences. It was as if Clint had been in a dark hallway or tunnel, and just as he was about to walk out of the darkness and into the light, the whitest and brightest that Clint had ever seen, Keith Willis appeared directly in front of him, blocking his pathway into the light. No, not yet, Keith had said. You have God’s work to do. That’s it. That’s all Keith said, and as soon as he had uttered the last word, Clint had awakened to what he could only describe as orderly chaos around his bed. When his eyes opened, things settled back down to normal, and the doctors and nurses, though they said nothing congratulatory to one another, were clearly quite pleased with themselves, as if they had saved Clint, though Clint knew better. The hand of Almighty God had saved him.

Clint resumed praying silently, Lord, I know it wasn’t a dream. I was dead, but You chose to let me live again. I’m here, I’m breathing right now because it’s Your will. Meeting Coach Kinchen here today, how could that be anything but Your will? I’m not lucky. At least I don’t have good luck, so if it weren’t Your hand at work in all this, there’s no telling how I would end up. This is Your way, Lord, of showing me Your will. I know it. I feel it, and I believe it. I love You, Lord. Thank You, thank You, thank You! I praise Your holy name, and as of right now, I rededicate my life to You. I’m Yours, Lord. I’m Yours. Do with me as You wish. Please give me the wisdom to see exactly what it is that You want me to do for You, and then give me the faith and the strength to see it through. I’ve been a lousy, stinking sinner for far too long, Lord, the lowest of the low, so low that even up looked wrong, but you’ve seen fit to let me live, and not only to let me live but to go to college, to play a sport to help pay for college, to get an education that will help me do Your will, whatever that proves to be. Thank You, Lord. Your will be done. In the name of Your Son, my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

When Clint raised his head, removed the towel from his face, and opened his eyes, he was smiling. He felt the most incredible peace that he had ever experienced in his life, and he had a sense of purpose that heretofore had been absent. He had an idea of what God wanted him to do, but he wasn’t quite ready to articulate it. He was certain only of the fact that God had saved him in every sense of the word, that God had given him this opportunity to go to college and to play football, and that from this point forward, his life was God’s. He had been saved by Jesus Christ about ten years before, and at one point he had felt God calling him to some kind of special service. Still, he rebelled. He sinned. He had been the worst kind of Christian, the very kind whom he despised: a hypocrite. He would be a hypocrite no more. He was going to live the rest of his life for God.

Without regard to the several other men in the locker room now, Clint emphatically spoke aloud, My . . . life . . . starts . . . now!

Chapter Two

On Sunday morning, Lucy and Doug awoke almost simultaneously and smelled fresh coffee and bacon. They looked at each other and shrugged. They got out of bed, put on their robes, and walked to the kitchen, and waiting for them on the kitchen table was a complete breakfast.

I was just getting ready to wake y’all up, Clint said with the biggest smile on his face that either Doug or Lucy had seen in a very long time. I hope you don’t mind me letting myself in.

Doug replied, No, of course not, Son. That’s why you have the key. As far as we’re concerned, it’s still your house, too.

That’s right, Son, but you didn’t have to go to all this trouble. I’m the one who’s supposed to do the cooking around here, Lucy said.

Then why did you teach me how? Clint asked with a wink.

Good point, Lucy replied.

Clint pulled out a chair for his mom and said, Sit, please, Mom, and then did the same for Doug. Looking both happy and proud, Clint served them each crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, fresh hash browns, and homemade—yes, homemade—biscuits, and gravy, and he poured them each a mug of coffee. He knew that his breakfast could never compare to his mom’s, but she was proud that her boys had learned to cook so well.

I can’t believe you didn’t wake us, Lucy said, We’re normally pretty light sleepers.

Doug chuckled and said, Yeah, but we were a little extra tired last night.

Douglas Buchanan! Lucy said with a swat to his upper arm. She was smiling and teasing, but it did hurt a little. Doug winced and rubbed the arm a bit, and all three blushed. They had always been honest about sex but not particularly open about the particulars.

Well, that was a little more than I needed to know, Clint said, taking his seat and helping himself to a little of everything. He chuckled and felt himself blush a little more deeply. Shall we? Clint asked has he reached to hold their hands, and they all bowed their heads.

Our dear Father in heaven, Clint started, "thank You for giving