Read Online The Governor's Wife by Mark Gimenez - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Gimenez
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Two trainers ran over, wiped away the blood, and helped the player to his feet. His eyes were dazed and confused; he didn't have a clue. He had a concussion.
"A few more hits to the head," the Professor said, "and that boy will be drooling the rest of his life."
The trainers escorted the player off the field, and a fresh body replaced him in the line-up. There was always a replacement body. The Professor shook his head.
"Why do they do it?"
"Same reason I did it," Bode said. "Same reason I'm in politics."
"The girls?"
"The testosterone."
"You're in politics for the testosterone?"
"I'm in politics because I have testosterone." Bode pointed to the field. "Takes testosterone to play out there, and when you're too old to play football, there's politics. It's the last American blood sport, Jim Bob. Hell, a political debate's the next best thing to knocking a wide receiver unconscious … mano a mano . Man to man."
"I think it means 'hand to hand.' "
"Winning in football or politics requires testosterone. A lot of it."
The Professor pondered that a moment. Then he turned back to Bode.
"What about Bachmann? She doesn't have any testosterone."
"And she won't win."
Bode turned back to the game. The State of Texas could not afford to educate its children, but the University of Texas had money to burn on football. It was just before noon, and Bode and Jim Bob stood on the sideline at the one-hundred-thousand-seat Darrel K. Royal-University of Texas Memorial Football Stadium on the UT campus just north of the State Capitol. He watched the replay on the "Godzillatron," the massive HDTV screen above the south end zone. UT's athletic department grossed more money than any other college in the country—almost $150 million annually from tickets, merchandising, even its own cable sports network—and spent more money on football than any other college in the country. Consequently, UT was perennially ranked in the Top 10 in football, if not academics. Which meant that the most powerful man in the state was not the governor of Texas—the state paid him $150,000 a year—but the head coach of the Texas Longhorns—the university paid him $5 million. The team was playing an orange-white spring practice game before fifty thousand fans; ESPN was broadcasting the game live on national TV.
"They want to interview me at halftime?"
"Uh, no," Jim Bob said. "They've already got the head cheerleader lined up."
"Figures."
Football in Texas wasn't a sport; it was a religion. Twenty-five years before, Bode Bonner had preached the gridiron gospel on that very field, and his congregation had joined in the chorus: "Bo-de! Bo-de! Bo-de!" He would give anything to hear that chant again, to be out there on that field again, to be young and strong with his entire life ahead of him. But it was all behind him.
Youth.
Football.
The good part of life.
The sideline camera swung his way, so he flashed a politician's smile and the UT Longhorn hand sign: a fist with the index and pinkie fingers extended to fashion horns. Bode's smiling face was now displayed on the Godzillatron, but the crowd did not cheer, as if they didn't know that the governor of Texas had once been a star player on that very field—or even that he was the governor. The camera then swung over to Mandy; her bouncing breasts now filled the huge video screen.
The crowd cheered.
Bode shook his head. Once a cheerleader, always a cheerleader. All she needed were pompoms.
"You think it's gonna last forever," he said. "But you blink an eye, it's twenty-five years later and you realize those times out there on that field, those were the best times of your life."
Bode flexed his right knee, the one that had suffered four surgeries in four years of college ball, surgeries that precluded a professional career for number 44 on the Texas Longhorns. His knee always hurt, but he'd do it again in a heartbeat.
"I was a college football hero. Now I'm the governor of a broke state. That's a
"A few more hits to the head," the Professor said, "and that boy will be drooling the rest of his life."
The trainers escorted the player off the field, and a fresh body replaced him in the line-up. There was always a replacement body. The Professor shook his head.
"Why do they do it?"
"Same reason I did it," Bode said. "Same reason I'm in politics."
"The girls?"
"The testosterone."
"You're in politics for the testosterone?"
"I'm in politics because I have testosterone." Bode pointed to the field. "Takes testosterone to play out there, and when you're too old to play football, there's politics. It's the last American blood sport, Jim Bob. Hell, a political debate's the next best thing to knocking a wide receiver unconscious … mano a mano . Man to man."
"I think it means 'hand to hand.' "
"Winning in football or politics requires testosterone. A lot of it."
The Professor pondered that a moment. Then he turned back to Bode.
"What about Bachmann? She doesn't have any testosterone."
"And she won't win."
Bode turned back to the game. The State of Texas could not afford to educate its children, but the University of Texas had money to burn on football. It was just before noon, and Bode and Jim Bob stood on the sideline at the one-hundred-thousand-seat Darrel K. Royal-University of Texas Memorial Football Stadium on the UT campus just north of the State Capitol. He watched the replay on the "Godzillatron," the massive HDTV screen above the south end zone. UT's athletic department grossed more money than any other college in the country—almost $150 million annually from tickets, merchandising, even its own cable sports network—and spent more money on football than any other college in the country. Consequently, UT was perennially ranked in the Top 10 in football, if not academics. Which meant that the most powerful man in the state was not the governor of Texas—the state paid him $150,000 a year—but the head coach of the Texas Longhorns—the university paid him $5 million. The team was playing an orange-white spring practice game before fifty thousand fans; ESPN was broadcasting the game live on national TV.
"They want to interview me at halftime?"
"Uh, no," Jim Bob said. "They've already got the head cheerleader lined up."
"Figures."
Football in Texas wasn't a sport; it was a religion. Twenty-five years before, Bode Bonner had preached the gridiron gospel on that very field, and his congregation had joined in the chorus: "Bo-de! Bo-de! Bo-de!" He would give anything to hear that chant again, to be out there on that field again, to be young and strong with his entire life ahead of him. But it was all behind him.
Youth.
Football.
The good part of life.
The sideline camera swung his way, so he flashed a politician's smile and the UT Longhorn hand sign: a fist with the index and pinkie fingers extended to fashion horns. Bode's smiling face was now displayed on the Godzillatron, but the crowd did not cheer, as if they didn't know that the governor of Texas had once been a star player on that very field—or even that he was the governor. The camera then swung over to Mandy; her bouncing breasts now filled the huge video screen.
The crowd cheered.
Bode shook his head. Once a cheerleader, always a cheerleader. All she needed were pompoms.
"You think it's gonna last forever," he said. "But you blink an eye, it's twenty-five years later and you realize those times out there on that field, those were the best times of your life."
Bode flexed his right knee, the one that had suffered four surgeries in four years of college ball, surgeries that precluded a professional career for number 44 on the Texas Longhorns. His knee always hurt, but he'd do it again in a heartbeat.
"I was a college football hero. Now I'm the governor of a broke state. That's a
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