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Eddie’s Elbow Room—the nearest workingman’s drinking establishment to “downtown” Taneysville—were in a jovial, almost celebratory, mood. The Patriots had just upped their record to 6 and 2 by beating the Buffalo Bills 15-14. They’d accomplished this by kicking their fifth field goal of the day with three seconds left on the game clock—a forty-seven-yarder that literally bounced on top of the crossbar before dropping to the turf on the plus side. Eddie’s ten or so patrons had responded to this last-minute triumph with the expected whoops and hollers and more than a few elongated sighs of relief. A round of beers had been purchased by Big Otto Gunston, a fifty-something electrician renowned for the size of his walrus mustache, his arm-wrestler’s forearms, and his equally obvious paunch—and conversation had become a boisterous analysis of the game just won.
    â€œWhat we need is a quarterback who can run the damn football,” Gary Leach groaned at Eddie Apollo as the taproom’s owner punched the TV remote, darkening the set and silencing the professional analyzers. “The old ticker can’t take too many games like this. What are they trying to do? Murder me before Christmas?” For effect Leach pressed his cold beer to his chest, but everyone knew the gesture was purely for show. Unlike Big Otto, Gary was proud of his physique; he kept a set of dumbbells in his basement, and was always ready to try out a new high-protein or high-carb diet—as long as it didn’t mean eliminating the day’s closing ration of brewskis. “I mean, come on! Is this pro ball or what?”
    In answer, the other patrons merely hoisted their drinks, and the taproom drifted into momentary silence.
    The establishment was standard fare for rural Massachusetts: a collection of neon Budweiser, Coors, and Miller signs decorating the walls and windows; a parking lot within easy view; and queued up on the gravel, a small line of pickup trucks. The bar at Eddie’s Elbow Room seated fifteen, but was never filled to capacity—except for the World Series, Super Bowl, and Stanley Cup. Beyond the bar sat eight tables with checkered plastic tablecloths and beyond that, the kitchen. Laminated menus were wedged between shakers containing salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes. The menus offered up hamburgers, French fries, grilled cheese sandwiches, et cetera—all prepared and served by Eddie’s wife, Tina, a woman with coal black hair and the kind of figure not normally found in Taneysville.
    Nearly every man, no matter his age, upon his first visit to Eddie’s would misinterpret the relationship, and make a pass at Tina. This was a great source of entertainment for the regulars, since Eddie stood well over six feet tall and was no slouch when it came to muscle. Occasionally the regulars would draw straws to determine who would get to enlighten the neophyte as to his imminent demise. And Eddie would play into the game by standing with his massive arms folded across his chest and a brutal expression on his face. In reality, he was a bit of a “gentle giant” and would enjoy the show as much as anyone.
    â€œThe Pats need a QB like that guy Philly’s got,” Gary continued. “What’s his name?” It was a rhetorical question; no one bothered to answer.
    Like most of the customers at the bar, Gary Leach was a local craftsman—a mason—who’d been unable to secure work on the renovation of the old Quigley place. The same held true for nearly all the men at Eddie’s on this particular evening, and the subject of the renovations and additions was a sore topic with every one of them—but a subject that was bound to come up sooner or later—and more often on a football night, because the Patriots’ current placekicker just happened to be named Quigley as well.
    â€œRun the ball?” Stu Farmer laughed. “I’d