
Jerry Ball wanted somebody dead. He knew what had happened. He'd seen it a thousand times. Only this time it had happened to him, this nasty football trick: One guy holds you up, the other chops you low. And now it was his knee that was throbbing and his turn to sit on the motorized cart that would drive him off the field and into his street clothes, and, damn it, he wanted no part of this. Better a crane should lift him through the roof than to ride off like some wounded soldier in front of the enemy with their cheap trick garbage.


