Bill Belichick Sells His Soul, A Fausto-ian Tale
The endless lake stretched to the edge of the horizon where it met the empty black sky. A middle-aged man, shielded from the harsh winter gust by a hoodie, stared into the darkness. In his peripheral view stood a pyramid of light. The house of rhythm and blues. A gleaming structure haunted by legendary tales of men who dealt their souls for fortune and fame. This was the agreed upon meeting place, where fate and luck intertwined forming the hooded man's crossroads.
Just off the main entrance road a limousine cruised around the circle drive. The exhaust coughed, breaking the silence of the night. The headlights shone onto the hooded man, the brakes squeaked as the vehicle ground to a halt. The thud of a firmly closed door echoed off the glass pyramid.
The hooded man squinted into the blinding glare of high beams catching a glimpse of the approaching figure. The sound of heavy heels stomping on concrete then smothered by remnants of snow grew louder. A ominous figure stood in front of the lights. His face obscured by the back-lighting. "Mr. Belichick?"
Nervously the hooded man replied, "yes."
The figure drew closer, the glow of his outline growing larger with his face still hidden. "This is a place where men lose their souls."
"Cleveland?"
A course laugh expelled from the throat of the obscured man, "you could say that." The engine of the limousine cut off, leaving only the silence of the night filled with faint reverberations of his words. "Many a tortured soul has faced a crowd in this town. Your line of work is not dissimilar to the restless memories inhabiting that building. You are all performers. Tortured by the icy breeze of the lake, the thick residue of industrialism in the air, the slow death of manufacturing crushing the middle of this land."
The hooded man listened intently to the ides of his counterpart. A moment after the sound waves trickled to the edges of oblivion he responded, "are you implying that I cannot be a winning coach in this town?"
"I'm saying that nobody can. What town embraces the hardened souls of rock n' roll and doesn't come to embody the reckless self degeneration of the music's legends?"
"I don't see why my fate should be the same as some musicians," the hooded man questioned himself during his objection.
"If I were to offer you fame and fortune. If I were to give you the ability to be a legend in your field, the dream you crave. Would it be any different than when one of our lineage handed Robert Johnson his guitar?"
The echo of that statement seemed to linger in the hooded man's ears. It bounced off the pyramid face and the concrete walk, rolling slowly towards the faded opaque horizon. "What do you mean our?"
"I know what you want Mr. Belichick," the obscured man breathed with confidence. "You will become one like many before me once you accept. I will warn you though, every gift of this nature comes with a steep price. Not that it matters. You've already made up your mind."
"Your right. I know the price." The hooded man almost cowered after speaking those words. However, he restrained himself.
"We will both be marked men I'm afraid."
"What do you mean?"
"I want the same as you, that was my wish. You are the soul I'm tasked with delivering, the deal to continue the unbreakable chain. Our price will be similar." The obscured man turned his back on Belichick. "You cannot win in this town. So I will be moving, and my team will be coming with me."
"But Mr. Modell?"
"You're fired Mr. Belichick. You cannot be a part of my fate." The obscured man paced back towards the limousine. "Your destiny is in another place, you will get your wish after mine is fulfilled."
The hooded man stood is disbelief. "But I thought our deal would be together."
The obscured man stood gripping the handle of the limousine door. "There are only individual deals in this chain of souls Mr. Belichick. We all must take responsibility for our own fate. I've decided mine. You've decided yours. There is just one final piece."
"What is it Mr. Modell?"
"This chain does not end here. Not tonight." The obscured man opened the door, stepping a leg inside. "You will be granted an opportunity which will fulfill your dreams. It will be by a respected man. A man who's good deeds will contrast your wretchedness and emphasize your human flaws. You will get your crowns. But the price will be the loathing of the masses. I will share in your pain. But it is necessary for us. We cannot receive our rewards in this town. Greater men have made worse deals." The obscured man slid into the vehicle. The engine started. Stalling only briefly from the cold.
Racing towards the limo the hooded man shouted, "wait!"
The rear passenger-side window slid down revealing the face of Mr. Modell. "In a few years, your time will come. They will offer you the job and you will accept. When you do, you must return to this spot."
Confused by the instructions the hooded man asked, "will I meet you here?"
"No, son. You will be in this chariot," Mr. Modell explained. The exhaust from the running limousine began to hang in the heavy air. "You will bring the deal to a man such as yourself. The chain of souls must not be broken."
"But how will I know who I'm meeting?"
"It will be a young man, he wishes to pitch in the major leagues but the years are escaping him rapidly."
The hooded man felt ill-prepared for such responsibility. "I don't know how to make these deals."
Mr. Modell chuckled as he turned off the light inside the vehicle. "We are merely couriers Mr. Belichick. We are not the deal maker. We don't have his sense of humor."
"What do you mean?"
"Just be here on that night. You'll know the boy, he'll give you his alias. That name will be located on the documents you'll carry with you. It's an old name, from the beginning of our lineage."
The window crept upward as the limo maneuvered slowly away from the hooded man. "I'll be seeing you in another place Mr. Belichick, shouted Mr. Modell from the closing window. "Give my regards to Fausto."
Just off the main entrance road a limousine cruised around the circle drive. The exhaust coughed, breaking the silence of the night. The headlights shone onto the hooded man, the brakes squeaked as the vehicle ground to a halt. The thud of a firmly closed door echoed off the glass pyramid.
The hooded man squinted into the blinding glare of high beams catching a glimpse of the approaching figure. The sound of heavy heels stomping on concrete then smothered by remnants of snow grew louder. A ominous figure stood in front of the lights. His face obscured by the back-lighting. "Mr. Belichick?"
Nervously the hooded man replied, "yes."
The figure drew closer, the glow of his outline growing larger with his face still hidden. "This is a place where men lose their souls."
"Cleveland?"
A course laugh expelled from the throat of the obscured man, "you could say that." The engine of the limousine cut off, leaving only the silence of the night filled with faint reverberations of his words. "Many a tortured soul has faced a crowd in this town. Your line of work is not dissimilar to the restless memories inhabiting that building. You are all performers. Tortured by the icy breeze of the lake, the thick residue of industrialism in the air, the slow death of manufacturing crushing the middle of this land."
The hooded man listened intently to the ides of his counterpart. A moment after the sound waves trickled to the edges of oblivion he responded, "are you implying that I cannot be a winning coach in this town?"
"I'm saying that nobody can. What town embraces the hardened souls of rock n' roll and doesn't come to embody the reckless self degeneration of the music's legends?"
"I don't see why my fate should be the same as some musicians," the hooded man questioned himself during his objection.
"If I were to offer you fame and fortune. If I were to give you the ability to be a legend in your field, the dream you crave. Would it be any different than when one of our lineage handed Robert Johnson his guitar?"
The echo of that statement seemed to linger in the hooded man's ears. It bounced off the pyramid face and the concrete walk, rolling slowly towards the faded opaque horizon. "What do you mean our?"
"I know what you want Mr. Belichick," the obscured man breathed with confidence. "You will become one like many before me once you accept. I will warn you though, every gift of this nature comes with a steep price. Not that it matters. You've already made up your mind."
"Your right. I know the price." The hooded man almost cowered after speaking those words. However, he restrained himself.
"We will both be marked men I'm afraid."
"What do you mean?"
"I want the same as you, that was my wish. You are the soul I'm tasked with delivering, the deal to continue the unbreakable chain. Our price will be similar." The obscured man turned his back on Belichick. "You cannot win in this town. So I will be moving, and my team will be coming with me."
"But Mr. Modell?"
"You're fired Mr. Belichick. You cannot be a part of my fate." The obscured man paced back towards the limousine. "Your destiny is in another place, you will get your wish after mine is fulfilled."
The hooded man stood is disbelief. "But I thought our deal would be together."
The obscured man stood gripping the handle of the limousine door. "There are only individual deals in this chain of souls Mr. Belichick. We all must take responsibility for our own fate. I've decided mine. You've decided yours. There is just one final piece."
"What is it Mr. Modell?"
"This chain does not end here. Not tonight." The obscured man opened the door, stepping a leg inside. "You will be granted an opportunity which will fulfill your dreams. It will be by a respected man. A man who's good deeds will contrast your wretchedness and emphasize your human flaws. You will get your crowns. But the price will be the loathing of the masses. I will share in your pain. But it is necessary for us. We cannot receive our rewards in this town. Greater men have made worse deals." The obscured man slid into the vehicle. The engine started. Stalling only briefly from the cold.
Racing towards the limo the hooded man shouted, "wait!"
The rear passenger-side window slid down revealing the face of Mr. Modell. "In a few years, your time will come. They will offer you the job and you will accept. When you do, you must return to this spot."
Confused by the instructions the hooded man asked, "will I meet you here?"
"No, son. You will be in this chariot," Mr. Modell explained. The exhaust from the running limousine began to hang in the heavy air. "You will bring the deal to a man such as yourself. The chain of souls must not be broken."
"But how will I know who I'm meeting?"
"It will be a young man, he wishes to pitch in the major leagues but the years are escaping him rapidly."
The hooded man felt ill-prepared for such responsibility. "I don't know how to make these deals."
Mr. Modell chuckled as he turned off the light inside the vehicle. "We are merely couriers Mr. Belichick. We are not the deal maker. We don't have his sense of humor."
"What do you mean?"
"Just be here on that night. You'll know the boy, he'll give you his alias. That name will be located on the documents you'll carry with you. It's an old name, from the beginning of our lineage."
The window crept upward as the limo maneuvered slowly away from the hooded man. "I'll be seeing you in another place Mr. Belichick, shouted Mr. Modell from the closing window. "Give my regards to Fausto."
Posted by W.H. Patton at Monday, January 23. 2012 
Categories: Tales from Sporty's World, Helmet to Helmet
Categories: Tales from Sporty's World, Helmet to Helmet
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