xii · football
The Missing Cigar Stubs And Other Rackets In The West Virginia Back Alleys
A quiet Saturday on the beat leaves us staring at empty clipboards and a stale cup of coffee while the syndicate counts its chips.
The neon sign above the stadium press box flickered with a tired hum, casting long, crooked shadows across an empty bench. It was Saturday afternoon in Morgantown, and the usual racket of two-deep rosters and whistle-blowing brass had gone entirely dead. Down on the asphalt, nobody was moving crates or cutting deals. The campus looked like a staging ground after a cleanup crew rolled through with sponges and bleach.
We spent the morning canvassing the auxiliary gym and shaking down low-level snitches who usually trade depth-chart gossip for a fresh pack of matches. Every single one of them developed a sudden case of lockjaw. A guy in a charcoal suit and a fedora pulled low over his eyes wouldn't even confirm whether the laundry room was running a full load of jerseys. Something stinks in the basement, and it isn't just the synthetic turf cleaner.
Down at the league office, the phones are ringing off the hook into an empty receiver. Rumors of a backroom realignment poker game have been floating through the smoke-filled parlors since Thursday night, but nobody wants to name the capos holding the high cards. The analytics tablets on the desk are dark glass panes, reflecting only a reporter wondering which bookmaker is skimming off the top of the scholarship pool.
When the referees finally show up for whatever shadow scrimmage is left on the docket, they better bring their receipts. I'll be waiting right here by the radiator, feeding nickels into a payphone that hasn't given a dial tone in three years.