The Chosen Path

By Kevin Hedges

After fifty years of fighting his demons, Joe finds peace and true love with his wife, Elizabeth. A tragic event completely destroys Joe's moral compass, and he decides that his decisions are now his own and will no longer be controlled by God. Football becomes his place of retribution and triumph, which came with a high price, a price he was more than willing to pay at that time. Joe was blinded by his chosen path, forgetting he is not ultimately in charge of life eternal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644244449

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The Chosen Path

Kevin Hedges

Copyright © 2019 Kevin Hedges and Kelley Hedges

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2019

ISBN 978-1-64424-443-2 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64424-444-9 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Preface

All eyes were focused on Joe at that moment—well, not every eye of the over 120,000 people filling Los Angeles’ brand-new colossal football stadium, but every eye of every player on the Dallas Wranglers football team was. Joe was no stranger to high-pressure situations like these, but even he was feeling his blood pulsing throughout the veins in his body like never before. The enormity of this particular Championship Bowl was overwhelming. This was the first time in the history of the United Football League that two teams from the same state were playing against each other in a Championship Bowl. The Dallas Wranglers and the Houston Derricks had both finished the season with fourteen wins and two losses.

Joe was standing next to his best friend, who just so happened to be the larger-than-life owner of the Wranglers. Both men stood in the extremely lavish owner’s box, staring out through the wall of partitioned glass at the twenty-two players from both Texas teams that were currently on the field.

Thoughts? Big Mike asked through the ball of Red Man chewing tobacco he had occupying the right side of his cheek and gum.

Mike Bailey Bullock Jr. stood every bit of six feet nine. His pear-shaped frame was leaning against a faux wood topped table. Big Mike didn’t look at Joe when he asked the one-word question; he just kept staring at the field. He slowly lowered his left hand holding the makeshift Miller Lite longneck bottle he was using as a spit cup, setting it on the table.

Joe was on the clock, and he knew it. He knew he had only a second or two to answer Big Mike’s question. The official had displayed the one-armed circular motion that signaled the play clock operator to start the twenty-five-second play clock.

Go for it, Joe said, which was one of only two responses Big Mike was anticipating, the other being Boot it.

When the exchange took place between the two men, it meant they were alone in one of the ten, side-by-side privately owned executive suites, located on the second level of the stadium nestled directly in front of the fifty yard line. The suite had a floor to ceiling retractable window, two fifty-five-inch mounted flat-screen TVs on either side of the window, and a desk height panel with labeled communication buttons.

Go for it, Joe said again, with more emphasis, and run the ball directly at Jacobs.

In that instant, before Joe was even through speaking, Big Mike held the speak button down on the radio that was directly linked to the Bose headset of Wranglers head coach, Charles Cats Bernacky.

Go for it, and run the ball directly at Jacobs, Big Mike repeated as quickly as possible, knowing there is a limited amount of time to call the play. Some would perceive this to be meddling by the owner and his pal, but the directive was most welcome to Coach Bernacky, who had become accustomed to receiving radio calls by Big Mike, especially at times like this during a game. Joe and Big Mike were talking just a few words apart that appeared like they were singing Row, Row, Row Your Boat in a round.

The final few minutes of a half or any time at all left at the end of the fourth quarter can very well win or lose the game, make or break the season, and/or possibly cost a head coach his job. Joe’s wife, Elizabeth, liked to use the term football minutes to describe the two minutes on the game clock versus the actual minutes, which would inevitably equal to a half an hour. Having a quarterback negotiate the field during these times was critical to success, but a coach knew he had to give his quarterback the time to do so. He also had to take into consideration those minutes or seconds left on the game clock, what down it is, and the distance of the team to the end zone.

Bernacky barked at his offensive line to stay on the field, grateful that there’s a decisive plan at play. All three men knew this was the play—the play that the All Sports Network (ASN) airs in a loop when counting down the top ten game-clinching moments, the play that ASN airs in a loop when defining the top ten best coaching decisions, and the play that ASN airs in a loop when counting down the top ten worst plays of all time.

This particular play didn’t just sneak up on Joe either. The scenarios of several different plays began flashing in his mind when the drive started on the Wranglers’s own thirty-eight yard line. Joe’s mind began flipping through the pros and cons of each of the possible plays in rapid succession. In the beginning, the list of pros always equaled the list of cons; but inevitably, the cons would always outnumber the pros because of the what-ifs.

What-if number 1: Offensive tackle, Billy The Mount Turner, jumps offsides.

What-if number 2: Running back, Purvis Rosco Hillman, fumbles the ball.

What-if number 3: Center, Jim Gasser Rosser, who can fart on cue, which does not bode well for the quarterback since it’s his hands against Gasser’s ass sixty times a game, gets his feelings hurt because the opposing noseguard makes fun of his flat, ape-shaped nose.

Joe could make up pros and cons about any situation, but he knew his time was better spent focusing on the actual plays and not to focus on what-ifs because no one can beat Murphy’s law. Joe also decided long ago he would rather rely on his experience to extend a play by using time-outs, spiking the ball, or throwing to a receiver near the sidelines so he can step out of bounds in order to stop the clock. All these tactics were just some of the thoughts racing through Joe’s mind at this particular moment.

Now, here it was, fourth quarter, fourth down, and less than one yard to go. The ball was resting on the Houston Derricks’s twenty-two yard line with one minute forty on the clock. The Wranglers were ahead by two points. All the Wranglers need was their Scandinavian kicker, Tyrell Anderson, to score on his field goal attempt, which would take the Wranglers to a five-point lead.

Joe knew in his head that this would be the safe play. Also, Joe was aware that they were not in safe territory. Standing in their way was the Houston Derricks, more than proficient, gray-bearded quarterback, Lance Singleton. Lance currently held the United Football League’s record for a single season of come-from-behind wins.

If the Wranglers did not score a touchdown with this final play, Lance would have a 71 percent chance of leading a scoring crusade back down the field to retake the lead. Joe knew that the Norse warrior, which was what Anderson claimed Tyrell stood for, had 86 percent success rate of making a field goal from the range of thirty to thirty-nine yards.

All the percentages had worked their way into the official Joe Dansby football rubric continuously computing in Joe’s mind. He knew the Wranglers had had favorable success running the ball at Joaquin Jacobs, which was the best route due to his current state.

If Big Mike listened to Joe and took his go for it/run at Jacobs advice, and if the Wranglers were to score a touchdown, then there would be a slim chance that the Derricks would be able to win. Even if the Wranglers didn’t score, the Derricks had no time-outs remaining, so all the Wranglers would have to do was kneel down and run out the clock.

Joaquin Jacobs was someone Joe knew very well because he was born and raised on the bayou swamps of Lake Boudreaux in Dulac, Louisiana. Dulac was about two hours southwest of Joe’s home in Baton Rouge. It’s claimed that Jacobs was born in a long pirogue that his grandfather, Augustin or Gussie, as he was called, carved out of a long cypress tree trunk. The canoe had stood the test of time and the many hurricanes that had slammed the Gulf Coast over the years. Joe was familiar with Jacobs’s love for hunting and fishing in the swamps. He also knew that was where he spent the other thirty-two weeks a year, doing what he could do to stay away from the concrete jungle of Dallas and his wife’s and mother’s fondness for money. The long season had taken its toll on him mentally and physically, and the slight limp Joe noticed could only mean Jacobs was only going through the motions at this point. The love of the game and his desire and effort were all gone, knowing his greedy gals had probably already spent half of his lucrative contract he was sure to get next year.

Joe realized his call was solid, and he knew it had to be the right play. So much had led up to this moment. Joe had so much vested in this day, this game, and this play as he watched the Wranglers quarterback break the huddle. He was responsible for recruiting the Wranglers quarterback; responsible for the play when he told Big Mike to go for it, for everything at this very here and now moment; and possibly responsible for extinguishing his chance forever in the hereafter.

There it was again, the thought of that faithful day that changed the course of his life and altered the path of the biggest sports franchise in the United Football League.

Chapter One

I Right Formation: 132 Newfie Dive

In the dark quiet of Joe’s master bedroom came a clickity, click, click of nails on the oak plank wood floor and then a yawn that trailed off, ever so slightly, in a higher pitch than when it started. Then there was a pause in the room waiting for any movement and another yawn, a little louder this time, but still nothing. The third yawn sounded like a starter’s pistol, which was then followed quickly by thuds up the stairs next to the bed.

Joe woke up suddenly and moaned every man’s growl when his manhood had been pounced on. The sudden jolt to his package, as his wife’s grandmother, Gabi, called it, by his 132-pound black-and-white Newfoundland was the dog’s backup alarm clock when the yawning didn’t work. Joe bolted up, stunned, and once again was cursing the stairs at the foot of the bed he built for his wife so the dogs could sleep with her when he’s away. His only happy thought in this moment was, At least, it wasn’t the 226-pound brown Newfie that is still asleep on the floor next to his wife’s side of the bed.

Joe maneuvered cautiously in the dark, trying not to step on the tiger-sized paw attached to the brown speed bump of a dog named Harvey. Sullivan, the smaller of the two Newfies, jumped down off the bed and started circling both Joe and Harvey, believing his version of sheepherding will get Harvey up and Joe to the bedroom door, which led to the backyard quicker.

Sully, let’s go, said Joe quietly. Sul, let’s go, whispered Joe, trying not to wake his sleeping wife. Joe commonly used this nickname when his temper scale ranged from mild to moderate. The louder and harshly exclaimed name of Sullivan came out when his ire was truly peeked. For example, once when Joe opened the garage door and found six white storage file boxes full of tax papers, which had been completely decimated by the Landseer Newfie, his