Slinging bullets, p.1
Slinging Bullets, page 1
Slinging Bullets
Nancy Abram
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously in this story.
Copyright © 2025 by Nancy Abram
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
ISBN 979-8-9992307-0-6 (eBook)
Published by Nancy Abram
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Prologue
Luke
To my left, a trickle of tears drip slowly down Richie’s face. I didn’t see that coming. To my right, Davis nervously sways while mouthing words silently. Sweat beads on my forehead and my heart races as adrenaline courses through my body. This is our time. Years of preparation, work and pain brought us to this extraordinary moment.
The bright lights, raucous crowd and boisterous song heighten every sense of my being. America’s sweetheart belts out an all familiar tune. Her voice is angelic and inspirational despite an excessive display of vocal gymnastic abilities. Nobody needs to add that many runs to a song. The crowd listens with anticipation of what is to come. Many join in, of course. The lyrics are known to everyone here. The feel of patriotism for some reason exceeds that of any previous rendition on any other given Sunday. This is the biggest game, the one with so much on the line.
The final anthem notes come to a close as the Air Force displays its might with a thunderous flyover above Motown Stadium. The effect was more for the television audience; the domed roof limits us to sharing the sight on the big screens. Still, the rumble reverberates through us. The crowd cheers like this is their moment, and for Detroit it really is. A lifetime of disappointment is now displaced by hopes that never seemed possible. A Super Bowl in their town, with their team. The Detroit Wheels reinvigorated this city. We can’t let them down. We won’t.
Fireworks explode mightily, or at least as much as they can within an indoor stadium. Panic surges through me. I brace for the gunshot which doesn’t come. The cover of the fireworks would have provided a shooter with the security of knowing his position would be harder to locate. I relax just a bit and remind myself to breathe.
The final threat letter I received said that getting a weapon into the stadium was a solvable problem, a minor inconvenience really. The letter said that this game will always be remembered. The unfinished score will be just a side note. This Super Bowl game would have no end, but Lucas Bradford will.
Chapter 1
Luke
Seven Months Earlier
Locking up my faithful ’78 Ford Bronco, I heft my gear and make my way into the practice facility for the first time of the season. Preseason training camp always brings that familiar combination of excitement and nervousness. My position as backup quarterback on the Detroit Wheels is fairly secure but many of the guys walking in will never see the locker room on opening day. The underlying tension is evident even as laughter and greetings fill the room.
“Hey, Richie,” I say warmly as we exchange a manly bro-hug. “It looks like you’ve been eating too many of Lucy’s baked goods over the offseason. Those extra pounds might help you blow through more tackles this year though. Anything would be an improvement.”
He rolls his eyes and responds, “Luke, if you could actually get the ball into the receivers’ hands this year instead of displaying how forcefully the ball can collide with the turf then you wouldn’t need me to carry the game on my shoulders. Shoulders which are in impeccable form, by the way, over a body worthy of Greek statues.”
I laugh knowing that even though his wife owns the best bakery in southeast Michigan, Richie does not partake in her creations often. I have been known to sneak an occasional apple fritter because, well, there is no equal to that delightful piece of heaven. If it is not chicken breast, fish, veggies or tofu it is generally not on Richie’s plate.
Richie and I have played together since our days at Northwestern, back when beer and pizza were our staples. Richie tore up the field as the team’s featured running back. The NFL scouts may have actually drooled a little watching moves that looked like Barry Saunders reincarnated. I can’t say that my three years as the starting quarterback filled up any record books but I held my own. The Wildcats had some decent seasons, especially in our senior year when Richie carried the team to the college football playoffs. Our defense made the lives of offensive coordinators a nightmare too. We were knocked out in the semis but our victory over heavily favored Notre Dame in the game before that shocked pretty much everyone, even ourselves. Their coach, Mitchell Kowalski, was relieved from his duties the next day and his comments to the press about our team, and Richie and I in particular, were not the sort that should be repeated. Usually coaches hold those back when in front of the media. We played an honest game; the guys in stripes made sure of that. Somehow, Kowalski didn’t see it that way.
Richie nods across the room to Davis Moore as he enters to a smattering of applause and high fives. Davis is our number one receiver and he and Richie are my best friends. He is a truly likable guy who has no concept of an ego unlike many others with similar levels of talent. Davis has been in the league for four more years than I have and has seen continuous playing time since starting as a rookie. He spends a lot of time practicing with me in the offseason so my skills keep improving due to his experience and advice. For that I am truly thankful. Davis earned his way into the NFL by shining on the field in nearby Ann Arbor. He led the Big Ten in receptions and yards per catch in both his junior and senior years. Opting out early for the draft was tempting but he stuck with the team and earned a national championship. Those who stay will be champions, you know.
Davis makes the rounds with the veteran players, sharing hugs and fist bumps. The newbies in the locker room just stare in awe at some of our stars. They whisper a little to each other but mostly keep quiet. Davis finally approaches Richie and I and we share hellos. We saw each other yesterday as Lucy served up her traditional welcome back barbecue feast. Families all came together for the event. Most of the returning offensive unit attends each year, prompting the installation of a second BBQ pit. It takes a whole lot of ribs to feed the offensive line and other players, plus one chicken breast for you know who.
As we change into our workout clothes, Davis says, “Luke, what do you think of these new Wheels draft picks? They look a little scared.”
“I agree,” chimes in Richie loud enough for the rookies to hear. “Don’t they seem a little small and perhaps in danger of losing bladder control?”
No matter how well the rookies played in college, they are going to be targets so they might as well accept that now. Checking their egos at the door is a smart move. “You know that Coach Phillips will whip them into shape,” I add and then direct my comments toward the contingent of drafted rookies and other unsigned players hoping to make the team. “You are all here because you have good skills. That is a given. To make it you need to combine that with a work ethic like no other. You need to think of team success, not individual accolades. Listen to your coaches no matter how much you may disagree. Show respect and good things will come.”
“Well, rah, rah, rah,” comes a grumbly voice from the other side of the room. “Has someone spent the summer watching every motivational sports movie? How many snaps did you play last year, Lucas Bradford?”
That voice belongs to Nate Donovan, our #1 QB. I can’t say that playing a backseat to Nate has made me happy but I will admit I have learned many things from him. The guy is actually a pretty good teacher when the mood hits him, a somewhat infrequent occurrence. He is a twelve year league veteran playing for his third team. He has had a lot of success in getting to the playoffs regularly and reaching the Super Bowl twice but coming up empty both times. This is my fifth year in the NFL after being drafted in the fourth round by the Wheels. I hoped to be starting by year two or three but then the Wheels brought in Donovan so I continue to bide my time as the main backup. Donovan’s contract is up after this year so time will tell what happens. Then again, mine is too. I remain hopeful. My current focus is to continue to work as hard as I can and get as much playing time as the game situations allow but that is not much.
Just as I debate about how to reply to Nate’s comments, my thoughts are interrupted by the shout of our offensive line coach telling us to get our asses into the meeting room now. When James Freeman speaks, everyone listens. You would think the guy was a drill sergeant for the Marines in a previous life. Scurrying is an apt way to describe the behavior of everyone in the room, even for the 350 pound linemen who aren’t exactly fleet on their feet. I grab a water bottle and a notebook and head to the team meeting without a further word.
Head Coach Jim Phillips stands in the front of the meeting room with a half-smile and half-glare. He looks ready to fight. Every returning player will put it all on the line for Coach. He was brought to Detroit three years ago by team owner Matteo Cannas. Jim was well respected in the league as a defensive coordinator. Successful stops in Miami and Kansas City resulted in a strong resume and much respect from fellow coaches and players. Approaching seventy, he had been passed over for head coaching positions numerous times. Some felt that as a Black man perhaps he missed some opportunities that should have been his. The sporting world now knows what they were missing and Mr. Cannas has made it clear that we are not letting him go anywhere else.
Mr. Cannas knew that De
Coach Phillips wore his emotions on his sleeve at times. Some in the media were critical of that. When he spoke of the team, its accomplishments and its disappointments, the emotion welled up. You couldn’t watch his post game speeches and press conferences without getting a little misty-eyed yourself sometimes because you know how driven he is to bring wins to the players and the city. You can’t replace that heart with youthful enthusiasm and modern computer-driven play calling. Coach Phillips is a players’ coach. That doesn’t mean that he coddles us or invites us to his office for lattes. He works us hard and practices can be miserable. He certainly will tell us exactly what we did wrong on the field and with no lack of emotion or emphasis, but he also delivers praise when it is earned and uses constructive criticism effectively.
Coach stands in front of the group giving us his version of a Rocky speech. Every coach has to. Our team is in the midst of the turnaround that Mr. Cannas and our general manager envisioned. Detroit has flipped the record books after so many losing seasons that our fans just expected nothing else. It started small in Coach’s first year. The Wheels went 5-10, still a disappointing season but better than the year before. I won’t mention that record. The next season was 7-7-1. Yes, I know it is hard to end with a tie in the NFL but somehow we managed to get one in the season finale, depriving us of a winning record yet again. Typical Detroit Wheels.
Last season though, that was the one that lit the fire in our city. We actually entered the playoffs with some expectations to win. Our record was 13-4 and we had momentum on our side. Tayson Jones, our top running back, and Richie were burning up the field again. Nate and Davis were practically unstoppable in the passing game. It was the defense though that really came alive. Our defensive line turned into a machine plowing through the offense for sacks, tackles for loss and some very ill-advised throws by the scrambling quarterbacks.
We won our first playoff game and you would have thought that every citizen in Detroit had just become millionaires. Most of Michigan, aside from that odd pocket in the U.P. who root for a team from another state, wore our navy blue and silver colors with pride. The enthusiasm in our home state and the coverage by the media was insane. It was, frankly, something not many in our organization had experienced except for a few who reached the pinnacle in college or transferred in from a different team. Davis lived that success a bit at Michigan but even he was shocked. Sadly, we lost the second playoff game but put up a good fight against the Salt Lake City Cougars, the team that eventually won the Super Bowl. Yes, we are moving in the right direction and Coach Phillips does not need to sell it. We are hungry for another winning season.
Coach wraps up the motivational part of his speech and follows that up with a brief but effective game highlight film from last year to pump us up. The season is long and it is a grind but we are all in. The assistant coaches spend some time going over our practice schedules and their plans for improvement. They also describe the timeline for cuts and other business items. Matteo Cannas, who had been watching silently from the back of the room, steps up front for a brief talk with the team focusing on the mental and financial support from management.
Assistant Coach Freeman takes front and center and concludes the meeting by introducing the rest of the staff. Fortunately, we do not have much turnover this year. The league can be like a carousel with constantly moving coaches and other staff. If you are good at your job, then other teams want to poach you by offering a higher position or more pay. Most of our staff wanted to stay and Mr. Cannas paid out to ensure that we retained those who brought us success. One new hire definitely catches my attention. Seeing his face as he stands in the group being introduced brings me back to the worst moment I have ever experienced.
Chapter 2
Luke
I remember it as if it were yesterday. In actuality, it was seven years ago on a snowy, December day. Northwestern was on the field at home against the Wolverines. They were kicking our butts as they did every year. Davis likes to remind me of that often even though he was off to the pros when I was grinding it out against his maize and blue.
My coach was calling rather conservative plays much to my disliking. How many times can you run it up the middle for a one or two yard gain? Sorry Richie, that wasn’t one of your best days. Sadly, our punter was the one benefiting from a lot of playing time.
As a quarterback I appreciate a nice passing play. Give me a little protection in the pocket and I can make something happen. Maybe a little play action. I am a mobile kind of guy. It is not too much to ask. Perhaps the defense would even be a little surprised for a change.
Apparently, the score and our lack of offensive prowess on the ground finally convinced our offensive coordinator to open up the playbook a bit. I took the field and got off a short pass for a quick eight yard gain. Another play later, my tight end took my pass downfield for an eighteen yard gain. That was what I liked to see. Things were clicking.
The next play call came in. It was a long bomb pass play to my wide receiver, Mario. He has been running around like crazy all day without a ball thrown in his direction. I shared the play in the huddle and told Mario that this was his moment. Make it count because the coaches might not give us another shot.
We broke the huddle and lined up. We ignored the choice remarks made by a few members of the defensive line. I really don’t think they have ever met my mother but am pretty sure she wouldn’t partake in the activities they mentioned. Now, Richie’s mother might but let’s not go there.
The center hiked the ball and I slid a few steps back in the pocket. My offensive line held back the onslaught. Richie picked up a blitzing end with a nice block, buying me some time. I glanced at Mario but focused my line of sight on other receiver options. It would take Mario a little more time to get downfield. When the time was right I launched the ball forty yards. Mario’s route was perfect and the timing looked right. At least I thought so until I was knocked on my ass after releasing the pass and lost sight of the play.
I managed to get a clean look downfield just in time to see Michigan’s safety come out of seemingly nowhere and get just enough of his fingertips on the ball to deflect it upward and away from Mario. The safety juggled the deflection and brought it down for an interception. He stayed on his feet and took off.
This guy was fast. Amazingly fast. I knew that because I had watched a ton of game film on #9, Jace Williams. He was a star player and almost certain top ten draft pick. Yep, he was that good and he was making my team look like a junior high flag football team. Did everyone forget how to tackle? The safety weaved through our offense turned defense while picking up blocks from his team. He had intercepted the ball on the five yard line and looked like he was going to take it all the way downfield for a 95 yard pick six.
I was the last line of defense. Quarterbacks in general are not particularly fond of making tackles. Yes, we are like divas to some extent but part of that is because the coaches drill it into our heads not to risk our bodies. We like to hand the ball off or pass and get out of the way. Occasionally we will take off and run the ball, but the current rules are so crazy about protecting quarterbacks that the defense rarely dares to tackle as we slide gracefully to the turf to end our plays safely.
So, #9 charged my way with the ball that I threw. Maybe I had a little extra angst to unleash and I knew he must be stopped. Williams had a full head of steam so I understood that this tackle was going to hurt but you have to do what is needed in the moment. He tried to fake me out by moving to his left but I guessed correctly and hit him hard, very hard, when he cut back in the other direction. We went to the turf in a tangle of limbs. I had saved the touchdown. It was a small victory so I picked myself off the turf for a very subdued and humble celebration with the few teammates who had made it to that part of the field.
