The All-American 

by Anthony Kane



I recognized the solitary figure at the bar.  He had been at the wake a few hours earlier.  I had never seen him before, figuring he was some distant relative of the Tolberts.  Then again, he didn’t really talk to anyone if I remember correctly.  Perhaps he was a friend.  Chuck hadn’t lived in town for almost thirty years.  There were bound to be people from out of town coming in. 
           
Perhaps he was a former teammate.  He was blocky, sturdy, like something out of stone.  On his granite torso sat a square head, the shape clearly influenced by his flat-top haircut.  A light neatly trimmed mustache accentuated his square jaw.  He wore a gray sport coat over his broad shoulders.  Pale brown chinos covered his trunk-like legs.  The appearance was one of straight lines and right angles.  His shoes were shimmering, pristine like they were lacquered.  He was built like a lineman.  Possibly he was one of those guards pulling in front of Chuck, protecting him while he shattered the Naval Academy record books and became an All-American halfback.  He certainly looked the part.
           
I took my glass and occupied the empty seat next to him.  He gave me a quick, cursory glance and slid his elbow over to give me more room.  We sat taking sips of the crisp, refreshing beers in front of us. 
           
“Friend or family?” he asked, extending a hand in my direction.  I extended mine and it became swallowed up in his brawny grasp.
           
“Friend, I guess,” I answered.  “I’m Tom Busby.  We grew up together.  Well, my brothers were in Chuck’s grade.  I was a bit younger.  Kind of followed them around I guess.”
           
“Name’s Donaldson,” he answered, letting go.  There was a joviality to him that didn’t quite match his imposing stature.  He took a sip of his beer and smacked his lips appreciatively. “So, what do you do Busby?”
           
“I’m a journalist.” 
           
“Anything that I would have seen?” he asked.
           
Knowing that this was an Annapolis crowd and that Donaldson looked like an Annapolis man, I didn’t feel all that comfortable saying that I worked for a liberal magazine.  Normally, I don’t mind being called a muckracker by those who don’t agree with me but if I was lucky, that would be the kindest name this crowd would have.
           
“I don’t think so,” I replied, taking a drink to gain time to think of a diversion.  “So, did you play at Navy?”
           
“Nah,” he answered.  “But I always heard that Chuck was a fantastic football player, mostly from Chuck himself.”  He let out a wheezy laugh and continued.  “Always told of how he single handedly beat Notre Dame back in whenever it was.  Always ended by saying they haven’t beaten those damn Catholics since.”         He laughed again and one of his immense hands locked onto my shoulder.  This feeling of solidarity between us had snuck up on me.  “No, we worked together for years.”
           
From what I had been able to piece together from my brother and a couple of Tolbert relatives, Chuck has spent quite a bit of time in Central and South America over the years, working for a series of corporations, a few names but the details unknown to just about everyone I asked.
           
“I know Chuck worked for ITT for while.  Were you there with him?”
           
“It was a bit more complicated than that Busby,” he said turning towards me.  I could now tell that he had more than a few drinks, his face flushed and waxy.
           
“How so?”
           
“I’ll let you know but I probably shouldn’t,” he garbled into my ear.  “ITT was only a front.  Me and Chuck were CIA.  We were down there helping to overthrow that commie in Chile, Allende, back in ’73.  In fact, we were all over.  El Salvador, Nicaragua.  Fightin’ the good fight.  Keeping the Reds out of our backyard.”  He flashed a drunken smile and tapped his index finger to his forehead, as if he had outsmarted us all.
“Is that true?
“Yep. Chuck Tolbert is an All-American hero.  Write a story about that.”
           
Donaldson removed the hand from my shoulder and slapped me hard on the back.  The force of it propelled me into the bar and the remnants of my glass spilled and quickly ran down to the floor.
           
“Write a story about that,” he repeated putting on his coat on his way towards the door.  Upon opening it, the stiff January breeze hit him.  For a moment he was stunned, then righted himself, and staggered off into the light coating of snow until the streetlamps on the square no longer found him.