Cowboy is sugar-coated. But look at what happens when you retire. Who do you
see on the commercials on national TV—the Walt Garrisons, the Bob Lillys, the
Roger Staubachs, the Don Merediths. You ever see a black Cowboy? You ever see
Calvin Hill or Bob Hayes or Cornell Green or Don Perkins or Rayfield Wright?
They had great careers but somehow they didn't leave in good graces. It
His friends say
Harvey has become harder to get close to. He has given his Mercedes-Benz to his
family because he doesn't want to risk leaving a second car in front of his
house, where someone might plant drugs in it. He has changed his phone number
and his door locks, and he swears he has begun the struggle to change his
source of self-esteem.
His beauty is his
resilience. "I'll be back," he says. "I'll be a leader on this team
again." He leaves Biffs with the hostess' number and gets into his
12-cylinder Jaguar, which gets eight miles a gallon if he drives it right. The
sun slices through for the first time all day, and he begs the lady driving in
front of him to turn right on red—"Please turn, honey, please turn"—and
she does and he hoots, "All riiiigh!. Ha-ha-ha!" and a blonde in a
Corvette pulls alongside and he shouts, "Daayam!" and a song he loves
comes on the radio and he cranks the volume and snaps his meaty fingers and
croaks it out.
"Maybe we can
try again! Tryyy! Tryyyyyy! Maybe we can try again!"
He pulls into the
garage, complaining because he says he has seen 10 other Jags on the road that
day and walks back outside to feel the putting-green perfection of his newly
mowed lawn. "Damn, that's nice," he says. "Gotta be that way, you
know. This is Harvey Martin's."
he says, grinning. "Beautiful Harvey Martin's."