Tan 'n Bull

"Wowser. At two o'clock and headed in our direction."

"Oh, gawd, yes. I see him." Casey muttered back to Phil. "What a hunk in his skimpy little black shorts. And look at those muscles. Delicious. Let's pull up by the bench right up there. If he stops to pet the dog, maybe we can get him to sit down long enough for us to reel him in." And then, in an even more excited voice, "Hey, isn't that the guy you were talking about wanting, the bouncer at Barcode who's also a tackle on the Hornets?"

"The dog has a name, Casey," Phil growled. "His name is Bull."

"The runner, Phil. Isn't that the guy who—?"

"Yes, I think you're right. OK, we'll stop at the bench. Maybe Bull will want to pee on the bench leg or something. A guy like him would think that's cute enough to stop and comment on."

Tank almost passed the two and their dog by. He was still seething in his mind about the altercation he'd had with Craig at the apartment before driving Craig's car over here to Reynolds Park. Craig had been running him down and belittling him—and now he was rubbing some dude named Pete in his face, saying he wasn't in the mood for Tank but he'd be letting Pete do him. Well, they didn't have a commitment of any sort, of course, but Tank wasn't going to be doing it with someone who was catting around. He might be slow, but he wasn't stupid.

The scout from the Tennessee Titans

had

been interested in him. Tank knew that for a fact. It was something for him to hang on to. He wasn't so ignorant that he didn't know that he had seven, maybe nine, good playing years left in him. And he wanted to do it for the best team he could get on. It wasn't just the money. There wasn't anything else Tank wanted to do in life. And it was in his life. No one else cared for him that much. It was up to him to care for himself, to get what he could. To focus. Coach was always telling him he had to focus and slapping him up the side of the head and telling him again to focus. Well he was focused. He was focused on getting onto a pro team. He had the talent. He didn't know what everyone's problem was. He was a great tackle. And the scout from the Titans

had

been interested in him. He'd said all Tank needed to do was get to Nashville for the tryout week. A slam dunk. He'd be in.

"And so I said you are

not

putting that dog down. He is a purebred; a real man's dog, and a little bit of lameness isn't . . . oh, I'm sorry."

"Ooof," was Tank's first reply as he almost tripped over the young, rather flighty-looking blond guy, who had almost tripped him as Tank was jogging past the park bench.

"Oh, sorry. I shoulda looked where I was goin'," was what Tank said next, as he stopped to disentangle himself from the obstruction. Instinctively, he ran in place while he was stopped, though, knowing he shouldn't make any abrupt stops, that this is how athletes could easily lame up. "I was runnin' and thinkin' at the same time. In another world."

It was perhaps ironic that Tank thought that moving and thinking needed to be done separately. But Tank's thoughts didn't lean much toward the ironic, so his thoughts returned instead to the phrase he'd heard, "lame up," and what the blond pretty boy had been saying in a loud voice as he jogged up and into him reached his frontal lobe.

"Nice dog," he said as he looked down at Bull, the pit bull, who was standing, but favoring one leg, between where the two guys—blondie and then the typical gym guy, looking more comfortable, stood by the bench. The gym guy had the dog on a leash. Tank probably wouldn't have commented on the dog, except that he saw it had a lame leg and it registered with him that blondie was talking about maybe the dog having to be put down because of that.

Tank was no different from any other guy. He didn't like the idea of something being put down when it was down on its luck. Saying "Nice dog" was pretty much the extent of how he could take sides on the issue here and now. But he was already racking his brains to try to remember if the blond guy was saying

he

was going to put the dog down or that he saved it from someone else wanting to do that. The guy certainly didn't look all that comfortable with the dog; seemed to be scared of it.

"His name is Bull. I wanted a pit bull because they're a real man's . . . hey, stop that! Phil, get this damn mutt off me."

Tank and Phil looked down in time to see that Bull still had his lame leg lifted against Casey's carefully pressed khaki trousers. Casey moved fast enough to avoid the strong, steamy stream, but not fast enough for both Tank and Phil to let loose a chuckle.

"Nice meetin' ya; gotta go; got a pace to keep," Tank muttered, thinking escape was the better choice of being apologetic to the nervous, a-bit-too-obvious blond, and he was off again on his jog in the direction to the large pond at one end of the park.

He heard the yammering start up as he jogged off and he briefly felt sorry for the two of them—the gym guy and the dog—before his mind drifted back to his immediate issue. "The Titans' guy said all I needed to do was get to Nashville for the tryout week. Piece of cake, he said. A shoo-in to get to training camp at least."

"It wasn't funny, Phil. You shouldn't have given the dog that idea. That damn hound's got it in for me. Getting the dog to pee on the bench leg, so the hunk would stop and talk to us—and the dog goes after my leg instead."

"But it worked just like I said it would, didn't it? The guy stopped and talked to us."

"Yeah, he stopped, but he started up again and ran off," Casey said, his voice laced with irritation.

Phil couldn't help from laughing again, which Casey responded to with a forceful, "Shit!"

"It's your attitude, Casey. You don't like him. You're scared of Bull. He knows it. He's just frightened and not yet used to—"

"Ever since we got the damned dog, it's been all him . . . nothing for me."

"Dogs need attention, Casey. And he's in a new environment. Especially as at first he needs—"

"Gawd, we only got the mutt so that we . . . and now you've let him get away . . . and you went 'wowie' for the hunk. Phil. What about me? What about what I . . .?"

Tank was far enough away from them now that he couldn't hear them anymore. And he hadn't been half listening to them anyway—he certainly didn't catch on that this had been any part of a setup and that he was supposed to be the centerpiece of the setup. He was focused on himself—as always—and on his dreams and on pushing his assumptions to meet his dreams.

So, he didn't really notice that the two guys had sunk down on the park bench and were going at it in an escalating tiff that was peeling off layer after layer of long-submerged fears and irritations and doubts and that was rising in decibel rate and intensity of attention between the two. And neither did Casey and Phil notice that Phil had let go of Bull's leash and that the dog, no stranger to such altercations and loud, nasty tones, had slunk away from the bench.

Just a few minutes later, having reached the pond at the far end of the park, Tank realized that he was winded and that he needed to think more on his dilemma—beyond just the recurring phrase that all he needed to do was get to Nashville. And, besides, in the back of his mind he knew he had to think about his living arrangements and about Craig—and maybe this Pete guy. But the Titans' scout had said he was good—that he'd have a good shot at the pro squad. That's what he needed to think about first. But he couldn't think clearly and run at the same time. And he was tired of running. He'd lost track, but he thought he'd run more than his routine called for.

So, when he reached the pond, he jogged over to the grassy area between the path and the water, just collapsed on his back, and flung his arm over his eyes. OK, he's stopped jogging. Now he had to clear his mind to think past just that he'd have a shot if he could get to Nashville. He had to think about getting to Nashville. And he had to think about Craig. What was it that Craig had said he needed to do? And why was Craig always at him about what he needed to do. Just like Coach. Always at him, telling him he hadn't done this or that or gotten this or that right. The Titans' scout had said he just needed to get to Nashville for tryout week. A piece of cake, he'd said.

Tank was half asleep when he felt the wetness on the back of his hand. He instinctively moved his arm away and his eyes popped open at the same moment. It was that dog. The pit bull. What had they said his name was? Something natural, but funny. Pit? No, it was Bull.

"Hello there, Bull," Tank said in a low, friendly voice. He presented the back of his hand a nonthreatening distance from Bull's nose and lolling tongue, and Bull snuffled him, gave a little satisfied woof, and settled down close to Tank's side. Tank felt the warmth and the in and out of Bull's breathing at his side, and for the first time that day, he felt calm and contented.

"Good dog, Bull," he murmured, and Bull responded by licking the salt off Tank's forearm.

Then Bull was up and limp-trotting over to the edge of a stand of trees and he was back with a good, thick twig in his mouth.

"You wanna play catch?" Tank said as he sat up from his reclining position—slowly, though, not wanting a sudden movement to spook the dog. "OK, give me the stick. We'll play catch."

And they did briefly, with Tank throwing the stick here and there—sometimes for real, sometimes just for pretend—and Bull obviously enjoying the play, not wanting to stop.

Then Tank threw the stick and it went into the water. He didn't mean for it to go into the pond, but it did. And without hesitation, Bull was limp-scampering into the water, after the stick.

Tank laughed at the sight, and then his heart took a leap, and he jumped up on his feet. It looked like the dog was floundering in the water. The dog had a bum leg and Tank had thrown the stick where he'd be in danger.

Tank was mortified, thinking only that he had to do something for the dog—that he'd put the dog in danger.

He was in the water and reaching for Bull before he realized that Bull had the stick in his mouth and was now playing keep away with it, wanting Tank to try to take it from him.

Tank laughed then, when he realized that the pond was less than a foot deep and that Bull wasn't in any danger.

They played for a few minutes, but then they obviously both tired, and Bull marked the end of the play by not giving the stick back. Instead, he splashed out of the pond and dragged the stick back to where they had first met in this little playtime of theirs and hunched down on the ground and chewed briefly on the stick.

Tank slowly came out of the water and walked up the bank to the dog and sat down beside him. Bull gave Tank a contented look . . . and plopped over on his side and immediately went to sleep.

Tank sat there, watching the dog sleep, snuffling and snorting and his sides rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

After a bit, Tank sighed and reached out and put his hand on the dog's side. The dog gave a whiny snuffle that sounded like satisfaction to Tank, and then, for the first time since he'd come to the pond Tank thought more than a couple of minutes in advance.

"Your owners are going to worry about you, sport," he muttered. He hunted around for the leash Bull had been wearing, deciding he'd walk the dog back to the bench where he'd left the two guys fussing at each other. But the leash wasn't anywhere to be found.

Tank went up on his feet and looked around in increasing circles but didn't see it. He was almost closer to the bench now than he was to the dog, and when he looked there, only one guy was there, the gym guy. And he was getting up and it looked like he was going to be walking in this direction.

So, he'd find his dog.

Tank looked from the dog to the man and then toward the parking lot. He'd taken Craig's car. It was getting late. He remembered now that Craig had told him he couldn't take his car. He already was fighting with Craig and didn't want to add something to that, so he'd better get back to the apartment. And then he'd have to think. The Titans' scout had said he had a shot, a good shot—no, he'd said it was a piece of cake—to get on the team. He'd need to be in Nashville for the tryout week. Tank turned and walked toward the car.

Somewhere in the back of his mind there was a regret. When he got to the car, he suddenly knew what the regret was. The regret was that Bull wasn't his dog. His playtime with Bull had been the best thing that had happened to him for a long time. He didn't know why. If he'd thought about it a little deeper—stood still maybe so he could think about it deeper—he would have realized that it was the first time in some time that he had thought about something—some being—other than himself—to the point of concern and wanting to make the other happy.

But Tank wasn't thinking that deeply that day. He just knew that he was strangely happy and filled with contentment when he got to the car and found Bull sitting there, by the driver's door, waiting for him.

Still, it wasn't his dog. Tank looked back toward the pathway and saw that the guy who'd had the dog at the bench was walking off. There was no indication he was looking for the dog or had any worry at all about where the dog was. And hadn't he said something about putting the dog down? Just because it was a little lame?

Tank and Bull stopped at the apartment only long enough for Tank to jumble the necessary clothes and his ATM card into a duffle bag, and then they were out the door and into Craig's car—and headed out onto Interstate 64, headed west.