The Jersey Jupiters

By Don Maker

Rufus Ruggio, sports editor of The New York Chronicle, can’t stand the way Georg Rockburner, millionaire owner of the local professional football team, runs his operation. In the mid-1950s, during the days before the NFL became a mega-corporation, franchise fees and player salaries were very low. Rufus and the other members of the Poker Pack, his regular Saturday night buddies who drink, swap sports stories and play poker badly, decide to start their own team.

After twenty-four years in the sports news business, Rufus knows that professional sports is all about entertainment, and embraces all shady deals, crazy promotions and low-budget tactics to field a franchise. Can the motley group of former players and future wannabes overcome their own ineptitude, not to mention the playing conditions, racial discrimination and lack of public interest during that era to survive, let alone win a few games? THE JERSEY JUPITERS give it their best shot.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don Maker
• Release date: Jun 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311842176

Don Maker

I spent 20-odd years (well, some of them were certainly odd) as a marketing and communications executive. After an early retirement, I obtained teaching credentials to teach English and Public Speaking at the secondary level, as well as a Small Business Management class at an adult education center. During all of those year, I tried my hand at writing on and -- mostly -- off. I'm now a retired teacher and a freelance writer. I'm an active member of the California Writers Club, Mt. Diablo Branch of (meaning I actually make some money from my writings), where I serve as Chair of the Luncheon & Workshop Committee. Most of what I do for pay is non-fiction. Early in my writing career I wrote poetry and short stories. Now I write screenplays and novels; most of these are historical or comedy. The latter is difficult when you have no sense of humor, so I have to fake it. I just pretend I'm Robin Williams, only taller and without all the money. The historical is easy: all history is fiction anyhow, so I just do what the "real" historians do, only try to make it more interesting. I also do editing for others and on my own work. As a former English teacher, I'm a bit like the lawyer who defends himself in court, but it's a lot cheaper that way..

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Suffering saints, they lost again!

Rufus groused to no one in particular as he squeezed down the narrow press box stairs. Obviously, the architect of the stadium had assumed all members of the media must be svelte, with big brains in place of brawn. Rufus decided that guy was an idiot. At six-foot-three and two-forty, Rufus was as large as most of the players down on the football field, but had none of their athleticism.

You were expecting maybe they should blow the Browns out by thirty points? The unexpected answer came from a usual source. They went two and eight last year and they’re gonna beat the world champs ‘cause they’re at home, right?

Rufus Ruggio, sports editor of The New York Chronicle, third largest newspaper in the Big Apple, gave the reporter a sour glance. He felt like clocking the smaller man over the head. Besides his underwhelming physique, Billie Shizekopf had a face that could win an ugly dog contest, so Rufus figured the obnoxious runt had already been punished enough in this lifetime. He magnanimously ignored the sarcastic remark and kept his voice reasonable.

No, but just once I’d like to see them put up a decent fight. The team’s not that bad. Fact is, they got some pretty damn good players. But the only thing that exceeds the ineptness of Coach Walder is the stupidity of the owner.

Billie sneered. Oh, yeah, like you could do better. After all, you’re the ‘expert’, aren’t you?

Rufus strongly reconsidered whacking the fellow soundly on the ear. What stopped him wasn’t the thought of getting fired—he was certain Ben Murphy, managing editor of the paper would never let him go—but the knowledge that Ben would be forced to bust him back down to beat reporter, or at least suspend him for a few weeks. Rufus had enough money to survive any consequences, but his pride would never allow him to accept the shame of it. He sighed loudly and unclenched his meaty, trembling fist.

Just write up your story. I’m going down to the field to see what kind of pics Tony’s got.

As Rufus trudged from the press box to the field, he couldn’t decide who irritated him more, Billie or the bonehead owner of the New York football team. Billie was obnoxious as hell, but Rufus had to admit he was a pretty good reporter. Garrik Rockburner, the owner of the football team, was equally arrogant and abrasive, but he wasn’t even competent. In that sense, Rufus had to give the nod to Billie.

In fact, Rufus felt certain he could do better than King Garrik, as everyone called him. Most of these owners were rich guys who used their teams like toys. After twenty-four years in the sports news business, Rufus knew that professional sports was all about enter-tainment. Unless the owner came from a football background, which most of them did not, Rufus figured they should hire good football people to run the team and get out of the way. It was their job to make the team entertaining off the field, not on it.

As he heaved his body down the last flight of stairs, Rufus swore once again to get rid of that extra fifty-five pounds. Okay, maybe sixty. Better yet, he should have a nice, comfy owner’s box with an elevator so he wouldn’t have to walk up and down these damn steps. Rufus panted heavily as he reached the sidelines and searched for Tony Rosario, the best damn sports photographer in New York.

Tony was good enough to get a better paying job with The Times, but he stuck with The Chronicle out of loyalty to Rufus. They had joined the staff as kids within a year of each other. Having worked together for over twenty-five years, they were almost like brothers. At the least they were bosom drinking buddies. In spite of giving away eight inches and one hundred pounds, Tony had no trouble holding his own with Rufus when it came to doing four-ounce curls.

Rufus headed for the end zone where Tony stored his extra equipment. Seeing the smaller man’s bald dome reflecting the glowing rays of the late afternoon sun, Rufus smiled with affection.

Hey, Tony, when are you gonna buy a hairpiece to hide that mirror?

Tony did not look up as he carefully packed his camera lenses. You know I’d rather spend my hard-earned cash on good booze than a bad rug.

Get anything good for a change?

One’a these days you’re gonna get some new lines. Maybe some-day one that’s actually funny.

Tony looked up. They both smiled at the insults that were almost as old as their friendship. But Tony could see there wasn’t much humor on his friend’s face for a change.

Have another lover’s quarrel with The Razor?

Everyone who knew Billie well called him that because of his sharp tongue.

Ah, just a little tiff this time. Rufus shrugged. Nothing serious. I refused to argue with him . . . for a change.

Smart move. Tony nodded approval as he snapped shut the clasps to his steel camera case. Not worth wasting your stomach lining over the asshole. Well, he said, completing their usual post-sporting event dialogue, wanna go get a drink?



So what was it about this time?

Oh, the usual nothing. I mean, I made a comment about Walder and King Garrik, and he came back with the predictable crap about ‘Oh, yeah, you could do it so much better, you’re the know-it-all expert ‘cause you’ve spent a quarter century looking at games and writing about sports.’ Nothing new or exciting.

Rufus took a big gulp of his Scotch. Why did he let the little weasel get under his skin so much?

And you paid attention to that crap? Tony snorted. Why do you let the little weasel get to you like that? You’ve known him for ten years and you don’t know enough to just ignore him?

Oh, it wasn’t so much him. Rufus rubbed his chin with his free hand. I mean, sure, it was him, but that whole concept really rankles me, you know? I mean, honest to God? Yeah, I really do think I could do a better job running a football team than King Garrik. Shoot, even a woman could. But it’s that old thing about ‘He who has the gold makes the rules,’ know what I mean? Guys like him don’t have to know shit from shinola about running a franchise, but they’ve got the dough to throw on the table so they get to play the game. It just doesn’t seem fair.

Rufus downed his drink in one gulp and waved to the bartender for another. Not to be out done, Tony did the same.

After making sure his new drink met with his approval, Tony cast him a skeptical look. Even a woman could?

Yeah. Rufus cocked his head to one side. 1947, Charles Bidwell died in April. His wife, I think Violet, with a little help from her sons, took over the Chicago Cardinals. The team went nine and three, then beat the Philadelphia Eagles for the NFL Championship.

Tony nodded. I remember that. I also recall Bidwell signed that University of Georgia all-America running back Charley Trippi for the ungodly amount of $100,000. Seems to me that had more to do with the championship than Mrs. Bidwell. Tony smugly took another drink, as though to celebrate a victory of his own.

Rufus nearly choked on his drink in his eagerness to respond. But the Cards went eleven and one the next year, barely losing to the Eagles in the championship. I’d call that pretty good management.

Okay, Tony conceded. But you said yourself her sons helped her, and Jimmy Conzelman was a pretty darn good head coach.

That’s what I’m talkin’ about! Rufus banged his empty glass on the counter. The bartender shot him a nasty look, but he ignored it. Good leaders pick good lieutenants and allow them to do their jobs. Could you imagine King Garrik giving any control away? No! Bad leaders think they need to micromanage and do it all themselves, but very few have the complete technical knowledge, especially in sports, to be able to do it all. You understand what I’m talkin’ about?

I dunno, Rufus. Sometimes following your train of thought is worse than understanding the speeches of our local politicians.

Tony took a slow pull on his drink. Somewhat deflated, Rufus slumped down and did the same.

Either way, though, I agree it ain’t fair. Tony took a big swallow. But, then, I guess you got to be a millionaire to buy one’a them teams.

No, not really. Rufus stared down at the glass in his hand, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth pursed. You just have to be very smart. And very careful.

Oh, yeah? Tony raised his eyebrows. How much you figure you’d need to own a team?

I don’t know. Rufus scrutinized the mirror behind the bar as if it were a blackboard where he was doing a math problem. Maybe a hundred grand. Say a hundred and fifty to be safe.

A hundred and fifty grand! Tony snorted again. Sounds like a million to me, buddy. He took another stiff gulp.

Well, it’s hard to say. Just a couple of years ago Abe Watner sold the Baltimore franchise back to the NFL, including all the player contracts, for something like fifty grand. So a franchise couldn’t be more’n fifty grand, even today. But that’s kinda lost money. Then there’s rent on a stadium, but I figure you should at least break even on that from the gate and concessions.

Yeah, sure you would.

The biggest variable’s got to be player salaries. Rufus toyed with his empty glass, then waved for another. I mean, some of these players are making big dough, and some ain’t close to what I get. So it’s a real mixed bag. Say another fifty grand for the team. Then there’s the overhead, which can also vary tremendously. I don’t know, staff salaries, uniforms, travel, stuff like that. Couldn’t be more than another fifty grand. That can all be managed, spread out, cut some corners here and there. But it’s nothing compared with that initial bite. That’s the killer.

You mean you think you could make it if you had that franchise fee?

What? Rufus looked puzzled as he came out of his mathematical musings.

I said, Tony carefully enunciated every word, you think you could make it if you had that first fifty grand or whatever to cover the franchise fee?

I dunno. Rufus reared his head back and twisted his mouth. Are we supposedly getting serious here or something?

I dunno. Do you honestly think you could make money at that sort of thing, or at least break even?

Rufus blinked as he stared at his friend. What had happened to their usual harmless pastime of dreaming out loud over a few drinks?

Well, just maybe I could. I mean, I got a lot of ideas, you know.

Yeah, I know. In fact, me and the boys’ve been talking about that a little.

The boys? You mean the Pack?

Yeah, the Poker Pack.

Really?

Rufus was amazed. For more than twenty years, a few of the other sports media types they knew had met once or twice a week to play penny-ante poker. They would get slightly drunk and discuss how they would cure all the ills of the professional sports world, and most of the amateur world as well. The conversation often drifted around to what if they all chipped in some money and bought some kind of professional sports team they could run the way they wanted. Rufus had no idea anyone had ever taken any of that talk seriously.

Really, Tony confirmed.

So, what’d they say?

They said if we could come up with a decent enough plan, we’d all chip in some dough and have a fling. What the hell, even if we lost the money it’d probably be worth the fun.

Well, I’ll be damned.

Probably. You want another drink?

Rufus looked at the as-yet untouched drink in his hand. He thought about what Tony had said. Then he drained the Scotch in one large gulp.

Yeah. I sure as hell do.

CHAPTER TWO

It was a special meeting of the Poker Pack. For one thing, it was rare they were all together on the same night. What made it unique was that there was a lot more conversation about the business matter at hand than poker playing. However, there was the usual amount of drinking going on just to keep it from being totally bizarre.

Rufus made his voice gruff. So, how long you all been talking about this? You can’t be serious, he added, not sure whether he should root for a yes or a no. If yes, he would not know how to say ‘thank you’ without getting all maudlin. Not to mention he would have to put up or shut up.

"A couple of years. And of course we’re serious. You think we’d make a shmendrik out of you, my boy?"

Rufus knew Abe Kaplan was always serious, even when he was making a joke. At the age of seventy-three, Abe knew he was running out of time. He treasured every bit of his daily activities as though this day might be his last. At the moment, he was certain Abe was only worried that this might be his last poker night for quite a while if Rufus indeed went through with his threat to start his own professional football team.

The Poker Pack always met at Rufus’s house because it was large enough to hold them and Rufus lived alone. Being the only other bachelor in the group, Tony was the only regular. Abe’s wife, Mazie, only allowed him to join them on Sunday nights. Shabbat was technically from sundown Friday night to sundown Saturday night, and she liked him to take her to late synagogue on Saturdays after a quiet day together.

Abe spread his hands. I realize these games are played on Sunday, and you would no doubt discontinue those nights. On the other hand, I would never allow my personal pleasure to keep from helping if that’s what you choose to do.

Rufus nodded his thanks. You haven’t said a word yet, Johnny. How do you feel about this?

Johnny Brown was chewing on his usual huge stogie, which was dwarfed by his own huge hand. He wasn’t allowed to smoke the thing by unanimous vote of the Pack. Even Johnny had voted ‘no’ out of deference to Abe’s breathing problems from his own years of heavy smoking. But he still took comfort from the pacifier effect of the cigar. Usually, it was unsmokeable by the end of the evening. In confidence, he had admitted to Rufus that was all right because he was secretly trying to cut down.

Rufus was especially worried about what Johnny would think because the pair had once been friendly rivals. As young sports writers on the same staff, they knew only one of them could be selected for the sports editor position when Abe either moved up or retired. Johnny was man enough to admit that Rufus had earned the position on merit. It was not because of race, and not even because, at the age of forty-one, he was three years younger than Rufus.

Johnny smiled. "Well, as a potential investor, I’d want to know exactly how serious you were. You’ve been bitching and grousing for ten years how you’d love to run your own team. Like Abe said, the rest of us have been seriously considering backing your play for two or three years now. The only reason we never mentioned it was we weren’t sure if it was all talk or if you were willing to do the things you gotta do to make it real."

Johnny was now happy in his current position of assistant editor on the City desk. He had been forced to give up sports for the promotion, but he had also given up the frequent travel and insane hours sports reporting entailed. His wife and two sons had been happy at his decision. Especially the boys, both of whom were now in high school, since he could spend more time helping them with their sports. Johnny still loved to reminisce about the ‘old days’ when he used to play, and to show off his knowledge of sports trivia, but he was now content to do it over a little poker on Sunday evenings. It was also very enjoyable to rehash the college and professional games of the weekend without worrying about making a deadline for the next day’s paper.

The things I gotta do?

Yah, for sure, interjected Sven Johannson. His normally twinkling blue eyes darkened with a slight frown. The newest member of the Pack, Sven was forty-two. He had arrived in the country some twelve years before after a career as a ‘football’ star in Sweden. He could have lived a comfortable life as a soccer coach in Europe, but Sven decided he could give his family a lot more opportunities in America. At first he found very little opportunity to make any professional use out of his soccer skills in the U.S. For the first two years, Sven performed janitorial work and odd jobs while his wife cleaned houses for wealthy women who disliked such menial chores.

Sven worked hard on his English skills, especially his writing, taking endless night courses. He crafted short articles on such sports as soccer, tennis, rugby, and other games still much more popular in Europe than in America, pitching them to every newspaper and magazine that might be interested.

Abe had hired Sven when no one else would give him a chance, and Rufus inherited him when Abe retired. After five years of writing for The Chronicle, Sven became a stringer for all three metros. Technically an odd assignment writer, his combined part-time was a lot more full-time than many permanent staff writers. As a specialist, he was occasionally commissioned to write articles for some of the magazines that liked to run off-beat stories about unusual sports and athletes. He worked relentlessly to make enough money so that Ingrid could stay home and take care of their four children. Having sacrificed so much himself to get where he was, Sven was unwilling to go out on a limb even for a good friend unless that friend was willing to make the same kind of sacrifices.

You know what it means, Rufus. Sven blinked several times. Money’s important, for sure, but to be a good owner means a fool-time yob.

You mean, you think I’d have to give up my job at the paper? Rufus was more surprised by the notion than he should have been.

Rufus, my boy, what you think? Abe asked gently. "You think you can shlep around the paper, do a half-assed job, then make like a politician with grand appearances at the games doing bobkes for the team? You know better!"

Rufus sighed. He looked fondly at Abe, the man who had brought Rufus, Johnny, Tony and Sven into the paper. Abe had been a mentor and surrogate father figure to them all. That’s why, with the exception of Bernie, the members of the Poker Pack were so close—and why he had to take this particular conversation very seriously, as Sven had said.

No, you guys are right. In the past, it’s been kind of half-assed dreaming. But, if it’s to become real, I know it has to be one or the other.

Rufus stared down at the drink in his hand as if it were a crystal ball that could tell him what decision to make. It was all crazy. He was a sports editor with no background in business. He had been around professional sports teams for nearly a quarter of a century, and amateur sports for much longer, but that didn’t make him an expert on how to run a team. He wasn’t rich, so he couldn’t afford to lose everything he had saved over the years. He could think of dozens of more reasons to just thank the Pack for their kind support and tell them he would never bring up the subject again. On the other hand, hadn’t thousands of people in the past, with no more experience than him, risked their all to follow such a dream?

It was Tony who interrupted his musings. So?

Rufus looked around the table at his friends. Then he drained his drink. So, I’ve got three grand in the bank. If I mortgage my house, I think I could get another ten grand.

You mean you’re really going to do it? Bernie Stanley, at thirty-three the kid of the group and by far the best looking, was practically bouncing with excitement.

Sure. Rufus tried to look a lot more confident than he felt. Why not?

Bernie was the only college graduate in the group. He had played several sports in high school and made both the baseball and football teams at Syracuse University—although strictly as a substitute—where he took a degree in Broadcast Journalism. Bernie did play-by-play for the local TV affiliate of a big network and moonlighted some radio broadcasts. He desperately wanted to do big time games, and the network wanted to groom him for major events. However, Bernie was dedicated to his wife and six kids and had agreed not to travel more than a day trip. Where the others had at least one regular night a week with the Poker Pack, Bernie had to fit his nights around obligations to both work and his young family.

All right!

"Mazel Tov! Abe smiled. So, we can all make our own little contributions? I can offer maybe three thousand two hundred, if that will help."

Abe! Rufus exulted. Then he quickly sobered up. Are you sure you can afford that?

Sure, I have a little put away for a rainy day. Abe put his pointer finger in front of his lips. "But, just between us boys. Don’t tell Mazie, or I got nothing but tsures!"

Thank you, Abe. That’s very generous of you.

Eh! Abe shrugged it off.

Johnny rolled his massive shoulders. Well, I’m not a rich, old retired guy, but I’ve got around fifteen hundred I can afford to lose.

Johnny, that’s too much, Rufus protested. You got those boys just about to go off to college.

I appreciate your concern. Johnny grinned at the group. But you wouldn’t believe the interest they’re both getting from colleges who want to offer them full rides! John is getting a lot of interest for both football and basketball, especially from Stanford. Seems they want to increase their East Coast representation, which I suspect may mean a teensy bit of their minority representation. And even Timothy is already getting nibbles from schools, including Stanford since they’re recruiting John so hard. Imagine my boys going to Stanford!

That would sure be fantastic, Johnny. Liz must be thrilled!

The others all offered their congratulations, as premature as those might be. As Rufus had said, it was still exciting news.

Besides which, Johnny added, even if I lose the money, it will be worth it to stop hearing you bitching about the owners and how much better you could do. Now we get to see, right? But I want to be able to go to any practice I can make . . . as well as the games, of course.

Of course! Rufus slapped him on the back, then winced. Johnny’s flesh was still more solid than his hand. You’ll be an owner. Not to mention you’ll get some input on how the team is run, so you won’t be able to put all the blame on me if you do lose your money.

Is being an owner higher than Assistant City Editor or lower? Johnny asked, only half joking.

Rufus ignored Johnny’s last comment. Well, while we’re in the spirit of contributing to the cause, anyone else want to get a part-ownership in a football team?

Sven raised a finger. Yah, sure. I have some five hundred dollars I can spare, not so much as these wealthy gentlemen. Still, maybe I can help with publicity for the team, yah?

Sven, you sure about the money? Rufus was very sensitive to his friend’s struggles with making ends meet. You’re welcome to be part of the group with or without an investment.

No, no, not to worry, Sven assured him. I talk with Ingrid, and she say to follow my heart, you know. If I can’t be a player or coach, maybe I just have to be owner, yah? He gave a booming laugh.

Okay, you got it.

Uh, Rufus? Bernie had a sickly smile on his face. I’m afraid I can’t contribute any money. You know how it is.

Bernie! Don’t worry about it. We all know how it is with you. Like I told Sven, you’re welcome to join the party anyhow, if you want to.

Bernie’s six children were only five years apart. The oldest was eight, the youngest just turned three, with a pair of twin five-year old boys separating two sets of girls. Although Ginger did some sewing from home to help make ends meet, they still struggled mightily to pay the mortgage on their modest three-bedroom home and the bills for all the kids.

Thanks, Rufus. Bernie smiled once again. I’d hate the thought of being left out of such a grand adventure. I’d be happy to do the announcing, and I’ll try to pitch radio and TV coverage to all the stations I’ve worked for. How’s that?

That sounds like a great idea, Bernie. That would be a real help.

Oh, and any station that carries the games I’ll offer to help them sell ads with no commission. They should like that.

I’m sure they would! But I don’t know if Ginger would like you taking any more time away from home than you already do.

Bernie shrugged. Well, I’d like to do my part to contribute to the Pack.

Everyone’s eyes went to Tony, who had not yet weighed in on the subject. They waited expectantly for what he would offer. Well . . . Tony raised his eyes up to the heavens. I’ve got seven and a half grand in the bank. I suppose I could contribute that.

What! Rufus felt his jaw sag. The others were too stunned to say anything.

Yeah. Why not?

"But, Tony, that’s a lot of dough. In fact, where the hell did you even get seven and a half grand?"

Well, you know, being a bachelor for so long is lousy for a regular sex life, but you can sure save a lot of money. Look at you, Rufus. I mean, you bought a house.

Rufus coughed uncomfortably. Well, yeah, but that was when I was engaged to Doris. I just never got around to selling it and finding something a lot more convenient again.

Yeah, well. I got something more convenient. I mean, I’ve had the same apartment for years, and the rent’s been pretty low.

No matter how unintentionally, Tony felt guilty for having reminded his good friend of the major heartache in his life. About a dozen years before, Rufus had been scheduled to marry a mildly attractive young reporter. Nobody ever found out exactly, but rumor had it she had found a much better prospect on a newspaper in Chicago while on a holiday. Whatever the case, she had virtually left Rufus at the altar, only letting him know the day before the wedding that she would not be attending. Rufus had waited until everyone had assembled at the church, explained what had happened, and invited anyone who wanted to attend the wake to come along and get drunk, as the reception had already been paid for. Only his closest male friends, as well as the wives of the Poker Pack, had gone to console him. Rufus rarely dated after that, leaving all of his acquaintances to understand the depths of his shame and sorrow over such shabby treatment. As much as possible, they tended to ignore the issue because Rufus made it obvious from the day he cancelled the wedding that he did not ever want to talk about Doris or marriage ever again.

On the other hand, Tony had lived in the same one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of town since he had gone to work for The Chronicle. A born bachelor, Tony had never even been engaged, although he didn’t make a big deal out of it. That’s just the way he was, and everybody knew it. He lived on a frugal budget and worked as much overtime as the paper would permit, which was a lot. Still, the others were