The Last Death of Jack Harbin by Terry Shames Page A

he lost the game last week, I figured he’d have two heads, horns, and scales.”
    Everybody laughs. “Might have done a better job if he had two heads,” Jack says.
    When the game starts, LoPresto takes on the job of announcing the game for Jack’s sake, and I have to admit he’d make a good sports announcer. His chatter is lively and accurate. He’s seconded by Alvin Carter, a huge black man whose son plays JV quarterback. The boy is rumored to be a shoo-in for varsity next year, even though he’ll only be a sophomore.
    During halftime, LoPresto and some others sneak off to do some serious drinking to help them through the second half, but I stay with Jack and Walter Dunn. Dunn reaches into the side pouch of Jack’s wheelchair and the two of them avail themselves of a flask they’ve brought.
    â€œDunn, it looked to me like you recognized the coach when you saw him earlier,” I say.
    â€œI may have. Did he drive a Harley?”
    â€œStill does as far as I know. People aren’t too happy about it. They complain it isn’t a good role model for the boys on the team to see the coach roaring around on it.”
    â€œWell I’d argue with them on that,” Dunn says. “A motorcycle’s a good means of transportation if it’s handled right.”
    â€œI don’t have any dog in that fight,” I say. “I’m just telling you what people said.”
    â€œDoesn’t make any difference anyway,” Dunn says. “If it’s the same guy, he sold the Harley. He and a college kid from College Station came into the shop a couple of weeks back. Coach was selling the Harley to the kid and the kid wanted us to check it out.”
    â€œFirst I’ve heard of that,” I say.
    LoPresto has come in on the tail end of the conversation. “You know how coach is. He buys a car and then sells it before it’s been off the lot six months. Then he had to have that motorcycle. Can’t seem to make up his mind.”
    LoPresto is happy to get into an argument with Dunn about the relative merits of motorcycles and automobiles, with Jack chiming in as if he knew anything about it.
    I look back up in the stands to see how Taylor’s getting on. She’s the center of a group having a fine time. As I swing back around, I notice a couple of fellows in the stands that I don’t recognize. Not that I always know everyone at the games. But these two are dressed a little different, in crisp khaki slacks and leather jackets. It’s too warm to wear something that heavy. In their thirties, they both have dark hair, and they both have a sort of sneering look as if they aren’t impressed by what they see.
    When Gabe LoPresto comes back, I point out the two strangers to him. LoPresto is in the insurance and real estate business and he knows everybody. “You ever seen those fellows?”
    He shakes his head. “Never laid eyes on them.”
    â€œYou suppose they could be scouting the team?”
    â€œIt’s a little early in the season for that.” He reaches down a row and taps Dilly Bolton’s dad on the shoulder and says something. Bolton doesn’t hide the ambition he has for his son’s chances at a college scholarship.
    Bolton cranes his neck to look at the guys. His eyes are alight. He turns back to LoPresto. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re scouts, but I didn’t call them.” He wouldn’t admit it if he did—that’s illegal.
    â€œHere they come.” The crowd starts to holler as the team, which is beating poor Burton High School 36-3, rolls back out onto the field.
    I glance back once more in time to see the strangers zero in on the team, nudging each other and seeming to take a particular interest.
    By the fourth quarter, we’re so far ahead that people are straggling out of the stadium. I rejoin Taylor. She makes room for me and puts her arm around my