On the 50-yard line, Coach Anderson blew a whistle and shouted again at his players. At this stage, he really wasn’t sure why they even bothered practicing. I guess it allowed them to at least look relatively organized in their victories. The boys responded well to authority, and in spite of feeling the tumor's power work in them, none of them ever complained about practice. Anderson considered that a great strength in their spirits, but the truth was, no one in Bethlehem ever complained—about anything. Maybe that wasn’t such an admirable quality. But he had a great job, and the town loved him. Too many other coaches in way too many other places never experienced that kind of luxury.
From the distance, he watched the old man get rolled out to a hillside view of the festivities on the practice field. Then he remembered Baker’s phone call, muttered a bit of profanity, and made his way up. With a reporter snooping around, they couldn’t afford to be careless.
Coach Anderson waited until he was safely out of earshot from the rest of his team; then he announced, “Doc, Reverend Baker called and said, ‘Not today.’ Apparently, we’ve got company in Bethlehem of the un-welcomed variety.”
The doctor stiffened. As long as he had been caring for the tumor, he still angered at the idea that he was last to find out anything. He supposed that’s what happens when you’re an outsider in a small town. Still, after a couple of decades of dedication in this armpit of a town, he thought the unspoken policy of “who’s local” and “who’s not” was severely misplaced when it was applied to him.
“What did Paul say about it?” The doctor asked in no real hurry to comply with Anderson’s request.
“Paul told the Reverend to call. They’re coming by to watch practice today,” Coach Anderson rattled off something subtle about religion and politics without even realizing what he said.
It wasn’t the first time this happened. Small town press was always around... other coaches too. They’d even gone as far as to disguise themselves to take a peek at BHS football practices. At one point in thelate 70’s the spying got so bad that the town decided to close all practices to the public. Since then, visitations were few and far between, and always rigidly controlled. The BLT was a highly protected town secret.
“Something tells me Coach, that this time, I got the information too late.” Doc pointed down toward a lanky fellow he’d never seen before getting out of Mayor Barton’s passenger car door.
A novel, presented in chapters.
A small town high school football team has gone largely unrecognized after forty years of consecutive wins and a young, ambitious reporter uncovers a stunning secret—behind the small town values and string of impressive athletic victories hides a bizarre pre-game ritual: each player must rub the bulging tumor of their school janitor for good luck. As the janitor's health begins to fade, the town unites around the local body politic to push for the world's first ever tumor transplant in a crazed attempt to save their winning streak. The transplant fails, creating even more fevered desperation to win at least one more game. The town’s proposed solution is both as sickening as it is outrageous: players will consume the tumor during a special called Eucharist served up by the town minister, thereby demonstrating just how far a group will go to stay on top in the ‘dog eat dog’ world of high school athletics.
This book is in no way meant to make light of the terrible disease of cancer, which took my grandfather and many others I have loved. It's a metaphor for a different kind of illness.
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