SCENE: A locker room in retro Foxboro Stadium style. A massive, oversized, but dinged up Lombardi Trophy stands alone in a dusty display case.

ROBERT KRAFT [enters, accompanied by the LOCKER ROOM ATTENDANT, and glances around him]: Hm! So here we are? 

LOCKER ROOM ATTENDANT: Yes, Mr. Kraft. 

KRAFT: And this is what it looks like? 

ATTENDANT: Yes. 

KRAFT: Retro furniture, I observe. . . Well, well, I dare say one gets used to it in time. 

ATTENDANT: Some do. Some don’t. 

KRAFT: Are all the other rooms like this one? 

ATTENDANT: How could they be? We cater for all sorts: Lions fans and Browns fans, for instance. What use would they have for a late-’70s chair? 

KRAFT: And what use do you suppose I have for one? Do you know who I was?. . . Oh, well, it’s no great matter. And, to tell the truth, I had quite a habit of living among furniture that I didn’t relish, and in false positions. I’d even come to like it.

ATTENDANT: You’ll find that living in a vintage locker room has its points. 

KRAFT: Really? . . . Yes, yes, I dare say. . . . [He takes another look around.] Still, I certainly didn’t expect—this! You know what they tell us down there? 

ATTENDANT: What about? 

KRAFT: About [makes a sweeping gesture] this—er—residence. 

ATTENDANT: Really, sir, how could you believe such cock-and-bull stories? Told by people who’d never set foot here. For, of course, if they had— 

KRAFT: Quite so. [Both laugh. Abruptly the laugh dies from KRAFT’S face.] But, I say, where are the instruments of torture? 

ATTENDANT: The what? 

KRAFT: The racks and red-hot pincers and all the other paraphernalia? 

ATTENDANT: Ah, you must have your little joke, sir! 

KRAFT: My little joke? Oh, I see. No, I wasn’t joking. [A short silence. He strolls round the room.] No mirrors, I notice. No windows. Only to be expected. And nothing breakable. [Bursts out angrily.] But, damn it all, they might have left me my toothbrush! 

ATTENDANT: That’s good! So you haven’t yet got over your—what-do-you-call-it?–sense of human dignity? Excuse me smiling. 

KRAFT [thumping ragefully the edge of a trainer’s bench]: I’ll ask you to be more polite. I quite realize the position I’m in, but I won’t tolerate… 

ATTENDANT: Sorry, sir. No offense meant. But all our guests ask me the same questions. Silly questions, if you’ll pardon me saying so. Where’s the torture-chamber? That’s the first thing they ask, all of them. They don’t bother their heads about the bathroom requisites, that I can assure you. But after a bit, when they’ve got their nerve back, they start in about their toothbrushes and what-not. Good heavens, Mr. Kraft, can’t you use your brains? What, I ask you, would be the point of brushing your teeth? 

KRAFT [more calmly]: Yes, of course you’re right. [He looks around again.] And why should one want to see oneself in a looking-glass? But that silver contraption in the display case,, that’s another story. I suppose there will be times when I stare my eyes out at it. Stare my eyes out—see what I mean? . . . All right, let’s put our cards on the table. I assure you I’m quite conscious of my position. Shall I tell you what it feels like? A man’s drowning, choking, sinking by inches, till only his eyes are just above water. And what does he see? A silver atrocity by— what’s the fellow’s name?— Lombardi. A collector’s piece. As in a nightmare. That’s their idea, isn’t it? . . . No, I suppose you’re under orders not to answer questions; and I won’t insist. But don’t forget, my man, I’ve a good notion of what’s coming to me, so don’t you boast you’ve caught me off my guard. I’m facing the situation, facing it. [He starts pacing the room again.] So that’s that; no toothbrush. And no bed, either. One never sleeps, I take it? 

ATTENDANT: That’s so. 

KRAFT: Just as I expected. Why should one sleep? A sort of drowsiness steals on you, tickles you behind the ears, and you feel your eyes closing—but why sleep? You sit down in the stall and—in a flash, sleep flies away. Miles and miles away. So you rub your eyes, get up, and it starts all over again. 

ATTENDANT: Romantic, that’s what you are. 

KRAFT: Will you keep quiet, please! . . . I won’t make a scene, I shan’t be sorry for myself, I’ll face the situation, as I said just now. Face it fairly and squarely. I won’t have it springing at me from behind, before I’ve time to size it up. And you call that being “romantic”! . . . So it comes to this; one doesn’t need rest. Why bother about sleep if one isn’t sleepy? That stands to reason, doesn’t it? Wait a minute, there’s a snag somewhere; something disagreeable. Why, now, should it be disagreeable?. . . Ah, I see; it’s life without a break. 

ATTENDANT: What do you mean by that? 

KRAFT: What do I mean? [Eyes the ATTENDANT suspiciously.] I thought as much. That’s why there’s something so beastly, so damn bad-mannered, in the way you stare at me. They’re paralyzed. 

ATTENDANT: What are you talking about? 

KRAFT: Your eyelids. We move ours up and down. Blinking, we call it. It’s like a small black shutter that clicks down and makes a break. Everything goes black; one’s eyes are moistened. You can’t imagine how restful, refreshing, it is. Four thousand little rests per hour. Four thousand little respites—just think! . . . So that’s the idea. I’m to live without eyelids. Don’t act the fool, you know what I mean. No eyelids, no sleep; it follows, doesn’t it? I shall never sleep again. But then—how shall I endure my own company? Try to understand. You see, I’m fond of teasing, it’s a second nature with me—and I’m used to teasing myself. Plaguing myself, if you prefer; I don’t tease nicely. But I can’t go on doing that without a break. Down there I had my nights. I slept. I always had good nights. By way of compensation, I suppose. And happy little dreams. There was a green field. Just an ordinary field. I used to stroll along side it. . . . Is it daytime now? 

ATTENDANT: Can’t you see? The lights are on. 

KRAFT: Ah yes, I’ve got it. It’s your daytime. And outside? 

ATTENDANT: Outside? 

KRAFT: Damn it, you know what I mean. Beyond that wall. 

ATTENDANT: There’s a passage. 

KRAFT: And at the end of the passage? 

ATTENDANT: There’s more rooms, more passages, and stairs. 

KRAFT: And what lies beyond them? 

ATTENDANT: That’s all. 

KRAFT: But surely you have a day off sometimes. Where do you go? 

ATTENDANT: To my uncle’s place. He’s the head room attendant here. He has a room at New Era Field. Sometimes we watch Josh Allen dominate. 

KRAFT: I should have guessed as much. Where’s the light-switch? 

ATTENDANT: There isn’t any. 

KRAFT: What? Can’t one turn off the light? 

ATTENDANT: Oh, the management can cut off the current if they want to. But I can’t remember their having done so on this floor. We have all the electricity we want. 

KRAFT: So one has to live with one’s eyes open all the time? 

ATTENDANT: To live, did you say? 

KRAFT: Don’t quibble over words. With one’s eyes open. Forever. Always broad daylight in my eyes—and in my head. [Short silence.] And suppose I took that contraption on the display case and dropped it on the lamp—wouldn’t it go out? 

ATTENDANT: You can’t move it. It’s too heavy. 

KRAFT [seizing the silver trophy and trying to lift it]: You’re right! It’s too heavy. [A short silence follows.] 

ATTENDANT: Very well, sir, if you don’t need me any more, I’ll be off. 

KRAFT: What? You’re going? [The ATTENDANT goes up to the door.] Wait. [ATTENDANT looks round.] That’s a buzzer, isn’t it? [ATTENDANT nods.] And if I press it, you’re bound to come? 

ATTENDANT: Well, yes, that’s so—in a way. But you can never be sure about that buzzer. There’s something wrong with the wiring, and it doesn’t always work. 

[KRAFT goes to the buzzer-push and presses the button. A buzzer hums outside.] 

KRAFT: It’s working all right. 

ATTENDANT [looking surprised]: So it is. [He, too, presses the button.] But I shouldn’t count on it too much if I were you. It’s—capricious. Well, I really must go now. [KRAFT makes a gesture to detain him.] Yes, sir? 

KRAFT: No, never mind. [He goes to the display case and picks up a paper-knife.] What’s this? 

ATTENDANT: Can’t you see? An ordinary paper-knife. 

KRAFT: Are there books here? 

ATTENDANT: No. 

KRAFT: Then what’s the use of this? [ATTENDANT shrugs his shoulders.] Very well. You can go. [ATTENDANT goes out.] 

[KRAFT is by himself. He goes to the silver ornament and strokes it reflectively. He sits down; then gets up, goes to the buzzer-push, and presses the button. The buzzer remains silent. He tries two or three times, without success. Then he tries to open the door, also without success. He calls the ATTENDANT several times, but gets no result. He beats the door with his fists, still calling. Suddenly he grows calm and sits down again. At the same moment the door opens and BILL BELICHICK enters, followed by the ATTENDANT.] 

ATTENDANT: Did you call, sir? 

KRAFT [on the point of answering “Yes”—but then his eyes fall on BELICHICK]: No.

ATTENDANT [turning to BELICHICK]: This is your room, sir. [BELICHICK says nothing.] If there’s any information you require—? [BELICHICK still keeps silent, and the ATTENDANT looks slightly huffed.] Most of our guests have quite a lot to ask me. But I won’t insist. Anyhow, as regards to the toothbrush, and the electric buzzer, and that thing in the display case, this gentleman can tell you anything you want to know as well as I could. We’ve had a little chat, him and me. [ATTENDANT goes out.] 

[KRAFT refrains from looking at BELICHICK, who is inspecting the room. Abruptly he turns to KRAFT.] 

BELICHICK: Where’s Patricia? [KRAFT does not reply.] Didn’t you hear? I asked you about Patricia. Where is he? 

KRAFT: I haven’t an idea. 

BELICHICK: Ah, that’s the way it works, is it? Torture by reflection. Well, as far as I’m concerned, you won’t get anywhere. Matt was a tiresome little fool, and I shan’t miss him in the least. 

KRAFT: I beg your pardon. Who do you suppose I am? 

BELICHICK: You? Why, the torturer, of course. 

KRAFT [looks startled, then bursts out laughing]: Well, that’s a good one! Too comic for words. I, the torturer! So you came in, had a look at me, and thought I was—er—one of the staff. Of course, it’s that silly fellow’s fault; he should have introduced us. A torturer indeed! I’m Robert Kraft, NFL franchise owner and man of note by profession. And as we’re both in the same boat, so to speak, might I ask you, Mr. Belichick? 

BELICHICK [testily]: Not “Mr.” Coach. I’m wedded to the game. 

KRAFT: Right. That’s a start, anyway. Well, now that we’ve broken the ice once more, do you really think I look like a torturer? And, by the way, how does one recognize torturers when one sees them? Evidently you’ve ideas on the subject. 

BELICHICK: They look frightened. 

KRAFT: Frightened! But how ridiculous! Of whom should they be frightened? Of their divisional opponents? 

BELICHICK: Laugh away, but I know what I’m talking about. I’ve often watched my team on tape, crumbling when the going gets tough.

KRAFT: On screen? [He looks around him.] How beastly of them! They’ve removed everything in the least resembling a screen. [Short silence.] Anyhow, I can assure you I’m not frightened. Not that I take my position lightly; I realize its gravity only too well. But I’m not afraid. 

BELICHICK [shrugging his shoulders]: That’s your affair. [Silence.] Must you be here all the time, or do you take a stroll outside, now and then? 

KRAFT: The door’s locked. 

BELICHICK: Oh!… That’s too bad. 

KRAFT: I can quite understand that it likely bores you having me here. And I, too—well, quite frankly, I’d rather be alone. I want to think things out, you know; to set my life in order, and one does that better by oneself. But I’m sure we’ll manage to pull along together somehow. I’m no talker, I don’t move much; in fact I’m a peaceful sort of fellow. Only, if I may venture on a suggestion, we should make a point of being extremely courteous to each other. That will ease the situation for us both. 

BELICHICK: [grumbling] I’m not polite. 

KRAFT: Then I must be polite for two. [A longish silence. KRAFT is sitting on a sofa, while BELICHICK paces up and down the room.] 

BELICHICK [fixing his eyes on KRAFT, grumbling]: Your mouth! 

KRAFT [as if waking from a dream]: I beg your pardon. 

BELICHICK: Can’t you keep your mouth still? You keep twisting it about all the time. It’s grotesque. 

KRAFT: So sorry. I wasn’t aware of it. 

BELICHICK: That’s just what I reproach you with. [KRAFT’S mouth twitches.] There you are! You talk about politeness, and you don’t even try to control your face. Remember you’re not alone; you’ve no right to inflict the sight of your fear of the upcoming season on me. 

KRAFT [getting up and going towards him]: How about you? Aren’t you afraid? 

BELICHICK: What would be the use? There was some point in being afraid before; while one still had hope. 

KRAFT [in a low voice]: There’s no more hope—but it’s still “before.” We haven’t yet begun to suffer. 

BELICHICK: That’s so. [A short silence.] Well? What’s going to happen? 

KRAFT: I don’t know. I’m waiting for the season to start. 

[Silence again. KRAFT sits down and BELICHICK resumes her pacing up and down the room. KRAFT’S mouth twitches; after a glance at BELICHICK he buries his face in his hands. Enter TAWMMY FROM QUINZEE with the ATTENDANT. TAWMMY looks at KRAFT, whose face is still hidden by his hands.]. 

TAWMMY [to KRAFT]: Nah. Don’t look up. I know whatcha hidin’ with your-ah hands. I know you got no face left. [KRAFT removes his hands.] What?! [A short pause, then, in a tone of surprise] But – I dunno you! 

KRAFT: I’m not the torturer, sir. 

TAWMMY: I nevah thought you was… I—I thought someone was trynna play a fackin’ trick on me. [To the ATTENDANT] Is anyone else comin’? 

ATTENDANT: No sir. No one else is coming. 

TAWMMY: Oh! Then we’re-ah to stay by owahselves, the three of us, these dudes. [He starts laughing]

KRAFT [angrily]: There’s nothing to laugh about. 

TAWMMY [still laughing]: It’s those chair-ahs. They’ah ugly as fack. An’ look how they’ve been set up. It makes me think of New Yeah’s Day—when I used tah get drunk at Aunt Mary’s place. Her house is full of horrahs like dat. . . . I s’pose each of us has a stall of his own. Izzat one mine? [To the ATTENDANT] Butcha can’t expect me tah sit in dat one. It’d be shit. I’m in my fackin’ JEWKAH jersey and this has fackin’ Grogan’s nameplate on it still.

BELICHICK: Would you prefer mine? 

TAWMMY: Dat Bledsoe one, yah mean? Dat’s real nice of ya, but nah, I don’t think it’d be so much bettah. What’s the good of worryin’, anyhow? We gotta take what comes tah us, and I’ll stick to thah Grogan one. [Pauses.] Thah only one which might do in a pinch, is dat guy’s. [Another pause.]

BELICHICK: Did you hear, Mr. Kraft? 

KRAFT [with a slight start]: Oh—the stall, you mean. So sorry. [He rises.] Please take it, sir. 

TAWMMY: Ey, thanks. [He takes off his beaten-up sneakers and drops them in the stall. A short silence.] Well, as we’re-ah tah live togethah, I s’pose we’d bettah introduce owah-selves. My name’s Tawmmy. [KRAFT bows and is going to announce his name, but BELICHICK steps in front of him.] 

BELICHICK: And I’m Bill Belichick. Very pleased to meet you. 

KRAFT [bowing again]: Robert Kraft. 

ATTENDANT: Do you require me any longer? 

TAWMMY: Nah, you can fack off now. I’ll ring when I need a beer-ah. [Exit ATTENDANT, with polite bows to everyone.] 

BELICHICK: You’re quite the guy. I take it you’re also—?

TAWMMY: Fackin’ right. Yestahday. Actually, thah ceremony ain’t quite ovah yet. [His tone is natural enough, but he seems to be seeing what he describes.] Ah fack. Look at ‘em all. Standin’ in a thundahstorm for me. The wind’s blowin’ my sistah’s veil all ovah the place. She’s trying her best to cry I think. C’mon, you dumb bitch… 

BELICHICK: Did you suffer much? 

TAWMMY: Nah. I was pretty facked up at thah time, actually. 

BELICHICK: What was it? 

TAWMMY: OD. Passed out on the futon at Ma’s place. Think I had a cig in hand, so it was eithah thah pills oah the mattress fiyah. [In the same tone as before] It’s ovah now, they’re-ah leavin’ the cemahtery. Goodbye. Goodbye. Quite a crowd they ahh. [To BELICHICK] How ‘bout you? 

BELICHICK: Repeatedly stabbed in the back by the media, who refused to stop pestering me over personnel and coaching staff decisions.

TAWMMY: And you, Mistah Kraft? 

KRAFT: Heart attack on the rub & tug table. [Tawmmy makes a horrified gesture.] Sorry! I fear I’m not good company among the dead. 

TAWMMY: Don’t use dat word. It’s shitty. An’ anyways I feel we’ve nevah been so alive as now. If we gotta talk ‘bout this—this state of things, we can just say— absent. Have you been—been absent for long? 

KRAFT: About a month. 

TAWMMY: Where-ah d’you come from? 

KRAFT: From Brookline. 

TAWMMY: I’m from Quinzee. You got anyone left down there-ah? 

KRAFT: Not anymore. I expected I’d see my wife again. I suppose not. 

BELICHICK: Tawmmy! 

TAWMMY: Please, Mr. Kraft! 

KRAFT: What is it? 

TAWMMY: You’re-ah sittin’ in my stall. 

KRAFT: I beg your pardon. [He gets up.] 

TAWMMY: You looked so—so fahh away. Sorry I disturbed you. 

KRAFT: I was setting my life in order. [BELICHICK starts laughing.] You may laugh, but you’d do better to follow my example. 

BELICHICK: No need. My life’s in perfect order. It tidied itself up nicely of its own accord. So I needn’t bother about it now. 

KRAFT: Really? You imagine it’s so simple as that. 

BELICHICK [stifling a laugh]: What’s that you said? 

TAWMMY: I’m lookin’ at you two and thinkin’ that we’re-ah going to live togethah… It’s facked. I expected tah be roomin’ with my boys House-O, Juniah an’ Frosty Frank. But why, why should we of all people be put togethah? 

KRAFT: A pure fluke, I should say. They lodge folks as they can, in the order of their coming. [To BELICHICK] Why are you laughing? 

BELICHICK: Because you amuse me, with your “flukes.” As if they left anything to chance! But ‘suppose you’ve got to reassure yourself somehow. 

TAWMMY [hesitantly]: I wondah, now. Don’t you think we may have met each othah at some time in owah lives? 

BELICHICK: Never. I shouldn’t have forgotten you. 

TAWMMY: Oah perhaps we have friends in common. D’you know my cousin Sully? 

BELICHICK: Not likely. 

TAWMMY: But everyone went to his pahhties. 

BELICHICK: What’s his job? 

TAWMMY: Oh, he don’t do nothin’. But he’s got a sick place out in Braintree, and hosts some fackin’ wicked rageahhs.

BELICHICK: I didn’t. I was the head coach of the Patriots. 

TAWMMY [recoiling a little]: Ah, yeah.. . . Right.—[A pause.] And you, Mistah Kraft? 

KRAFT: We’ve never met. I always lived in Boston.

TAWMMY: Then you gotta be right. It’s all random. 

BELICHICK [incredulously]: Random? Then it’s by chance this room is furnished as we see it. It’s an accident that the stall on the right is a Grogan, and that one on the left’s Bledsoe. Mere chance? Well, just try to shift the stall plates and you’ll see the difference quick enough. And that trophy in the case, do you think it’s there by accident? [A short silence.] I tell you they’ve thought it all out. Down to the last detail. Nothing was left to chance. This room was all set for us. 

TAWMMY: But really! Everything here sucks shit. This room’s a fackin’ dump. Old stadium was always shit.

BELICHICK [shrugging his shoulders]: And do you think I lived in a locker room?

TAWMMY: So it was all fixed up befoahhand? 

BELICHICK: Yes. And they’ve put us together deliberately. 

TAWMMY: Then it’s not random that you’re-ah sittin’ by me? But why? 

BELICHICK: Ask me another! I only know they’re waiting. 

TAWMMY: I nevah could bear-ah the idear of anyone’s expectin’ sumpin from me. It always made me wanna do just thah opposite. 

BELICHICK: Well, do it. Do it if you can. You don’t even know what they expect. 

TAWMMY [stamping his foot]: Fack you! So somethin’s comin’ to me from you two? [He eyes each in turn.] Somethin’ nasty, I s’pose. Theyah ahh some faces that tell me everythin’ at once. Your-ahs don’t convey nothin’. 

KRAFT [turning abruptly towards BELICHICK]: Look here! Why are we together? You’ve given us quite enough hints, you may as well come out with it. 

BELICHICK [in a surprised tone]: But I know nothing, absolutely nothing about it. I’m as much in the dark as you are. 

KRAFT: We’ve got to know. [Ponders for a while.] 

BELICHICK: If only each of us had the guts to tell—

KRAFT: Tell what? 

BELICHICK: Tawmmy! 

TAWMMY: Yeah? 

BELICHICK: What have you done? I mean, why have they sent you here? 

TAWMMY: [quickly]: Dat’s just it. I have no fackin’ idea. In fact, I’m wonderin’ if there’s been some kinda mistake. [To BELICHICK] Don’t fackin’ smile. Just think of the numbah of people who—who become absentees every day. There-ah must be thousands an’ thousands, an’ prawbably they’re-ah sohhted out by—by understrappahs, y’know what I mean. Stupid assholes who don’t know their-ah job. So they’re-ah bound to make mistakes sometimes… Stop smilin’. [To KRAFT] Why don’t you speak? If they made a mistake in my case, they may have done the same tah you. [To BELICHICK] And you, too. Anyhow, ain’t it bettah to think we’ve got here by mistake? 

BELICHICK: Is that all you have to tell us? 

TAWMMY: What else should I tell? I got nothin’ to hide. I used to be a hahdcoah Pats fan, but since Brady left, I’ve kinda thought dat football was pretty shit again. Thah whole team just ain’t gettin’ the job done, and it’s really because they didn’t wanna keep Brady. So I sold my season tickets on multiple different sites all at once tah get moah money foah Oxies and let thah buyahs fight it out in thah pahhking lot. [To KRAFT] D’you think that could be called a sin? 

KRAFT: As a multibillionaire, certainly not. [A short silence.] And now, tell me, do you think it’s a crime to stand by one’s principles? 

TAWMMY: Of couahse not. No one denies this! 

KRAFT: Wait a bit! I owned the Patriots. Then the Bills broke out. What was I to do? Everyone was watching me, wondering: “Will he dare to stay the course with the franchise?” Well, I dared. I folded my arms and they lambasted me. Had I done anything wrong? 

TAWMMY [laying his hand on his arm]: Wrong? Yeah, I’d say.. You were— 

BELICHICK [breaks in ironically]: —a hero, obviously! 

TAWMMY [to BELICHICK] You see! You see! 

BELICHICK: Yes, I see. [A pause.] Look here! What’s the point of play-acting, trying to throw dust in each other’s eyes? We’re all tarred with the same brush. 

TAWMMY [indignantly]: How dare you! 

BELICHICK: Yes, we are criminals—iconoclasts—all three of us. We’re in hell, my friends; they never make mistakes, and people aren’t damned for nothing. 

TAWMMY: Stop! Fah God’s sake— 

BELICHICK: In hell! Damned souls—that’s us, all three! 

TAWMMY: Stoppat! I hate dat shit! 

BELICHICK: A damned soul—that’s you, my little plaster saint. And ditto our friend there, the noble tycoon. We’ve had our hour of pleasure, haven’t we? There have been people who burned their lives out on the football field for our sakes—and we chuckled over it. So now we have to pay the reckoning. 

KRAFT [raising his fist]: Will you keep your mouth shut, damn it! 

BELICHICK [confronting him fearlessly, but with a look of vast surprise]: Well, well! [A pause.] Ah, I understand now. I know why they’ve put us three together. 

KRAFT: I advise you to—to think twice before you say any more. 

BELICHICK: Wait! You’ll see how simple it is. Childishly simple. Obviously there aren’t any physical torments—you agree, don’t you? And yet we’re in hell. And no one else will come here. We’ll stay in this room together, the three of us, forever and ever. . . . In short, there’s someone absent here, the official torturer. 

KRAFT [sotto voce]: I’d noticed that. 

BELICHICK: It’s obvious what they’re after—an economy of man-power—or devil-power, if you prefer. The same idea as in the buffet, where everyone serves themselves. 

TAWMMY: Whaddya mean? 

BELICHICK: I mean that each of us will act as torturer of the two others. [There is a short silence while they digest this information.] 

KRAFT [gently]: No, I shall never be your torturer. I wish neither of you any harm, and I’ve no concern with you. None at all. So the solution’s easy enough; each of us stays put in his or her corner and takes no notice of the others. You here, you here, and I there. Like soldiers at our posts. Also, we mustn’t speak. Not one word. That won’t be difficult; each of us has plenty of material for self-communings. I think I could stay ten thousand years with only my thoughts for company. 

TAWMMY: Do I gotta keep silent, too? 

KRAFT: Yes. And that way we—we’ll work out our salvation. Looking into ourselves, never raising our heads. Agreed? 

BELICHICK: Agreed. 

TAWMMY [after some hesitation]: Fack.  

KRAFT: Then—goodbye. [He goes to his stall and buries his head in his hands. There is a long silence; then BELICHICK begins grumbling to himself] 

BELICHICK [grumbling]: What a place to be stuck! Dying before season even opens. God damnit all. I knew my head was on the chopping block this year, but I figured that was more of a figurative sense if the team couldn’t get its shit together. [Meanwhile TAWMMY has been plying his pockets, trying to find his smokes. He looks round for a lighter, gives his balls a scratch, then turns towards KRAFT.] 

TAWMMY: Hey Kraft, d’you gotta light? [KRAFT does not answer]. Any kinda light. Zippo, bahhbecue, even a match… [KRAFT remains silent.] Even if you won’t speak to me, you might lend me a light. [His head still buried in his hands, KRAFT ignores him] 

BELICHICK [grumbling]: Don’t worry. I’ve a light in my briefcase. [He opens his bag. Angrily.] It’s gone! They must have taken it from me at the entrance. 

TAWMMY: FACK! [A short silence. TAWMMY shuts his eyes and sways, as if about to faint. Bill runs forward and holds him up.] 

BELICHICK: What’s the matter? 

TAWMMY [opens his eyes and smiles]: I feel kinda facked up. Like I’m goin’ through withdrarwal. Y’ever get like dat? 

BELICHICK: You’re lucky. I’m always conscious of myself—in my mind. Painfully conscious. 

TAWMMY: Ah yeah, in yah head. But everythin’ that goes on in yah head is so vague, innit? It makes ya wanna sleep. 

BELICHICK: Maybe we can get a spark on a metal edge? Come sit next to my stall.

TAWMMY: But—[Points to KRAFT.] 

BELICHICK: Oh, he doesn’t count. 

TAWMMY: But we’re-ah gonna—hurt each othah. You said it yahself. 

BELICHICK: Do I look as if I wanted to hurt you? 

TAWMMY: One can nevah tell. 

BELICHICK: Much more likely you’ll hurt me. Still, what does it matter? If I’ve got to suffer, it may as well be at your hands. Sit down. Come closer. Closer. Look into my eyes. What do you see? 

TAWMMY: Oh, I’m there-ah! But so small. Can’t see shit all. 

BELICHICK: But I can. Every inch of you. Now ask me questions. I’ll be as candid as any mirror. [TAWMMY seems rather embarrassed and turns to KRAFT, [as if appealing to him for help.] 

TAWMMY: Please, Mistah Kraft. Sure our chatter ain’t boring ya? [KRAFT makes no reply.] 

BELICHICK: Don’t worry about him. As I said, he doesn’t count. We’re by ourselves. . . . Ask away. 

TAWMMY: Ahh you really—that worried about thah season? 

BELICHICK: Very much indeed. [Another short silence.] 

TAWMMY: [indicating KRAFT by a slight movement of his head] Same. But I wish he’d admit it, too. 

BELICHICK: Of course! Because he’s a Man In Charge! [To KRAFT] You’ve won. [KRAFT says nothing.] But look at him, damn it! [Still no reply from KRAFT ] Don’t pretend. You haven’t missed a word of what we’ve said. 

KRAFT: Quite so; not a word. I stuck my fingers in my ears, but your voices thudded in my brain. Silly chatter. Now will you leave me in peace, you two? I’m not interested in you. 

BELICHICK: Not in me, perhaps—but how about this simple fellow? Aren’t you interested in his thoughts about the team? Oh, I saw through your game; you got on your high horse just to impress him. 

KRAFT: I asked you to leave me in peace. There’s someone talking about me on the internet and I want to listen. And, if it’ll make you any happier, let me tell you that I’ve no use for the “simple fellow”, as you call him. 

TAWMMY: Thanks. 

KRAFT: Oh, I didn’t mean it rudely. 

TAWMMY: You fackin’ dick! [They confront each other in silence for some moments.] 

KRAFT: So’s that’s that. [Pause.] You know I begged you not to speak. 

TAWMMY: It’s his fault; he stahted. I didn’t think nothin’ of it an’ he offered to try an’ figure out how tah light my cig.

BELICHICK: So you say. But all the time you were making up to him, trying every trick to catch his attention. 

TAWMMY: Well, why the fack shouldn’t I? 

KRAFT: You’re-ah fackin’ crazy, botha you. Dontcha see where-ahh this is leadin’ us? For God’s sake, keep yah mouths shut. [Pause.] Now let’s all sit down again quietly; we’ll look at the floor-ah an’ try to forget the others are there-ah. [A longish silence. KRAFT sits down. The men return hesitantly to their places. Suddenly BELICHICK swings round on him.] 

BELICHICK: To forget about the others? How utterly absurd! I feel you there, in every pore. Your silence clamors in my ears. You can nail up your mouth, cut your tongue out—but you can’t prevent your being there, watching my every move on the sideline like a hawk. Can you stop your thoughts? I hear them ticking away like a clock, tick-tock, tick-tock, and I’m certain you hear mine. It’s all very well skulking in your stall, but you’re everywhere, and every sound comes to me soiled, because you’ve intercepted it on its way. Why, you’ve even stolen my face; you know it and I don’t! And what about the fans, about Tawmmy? You’ve stolen them from me, too; if he and I were alone do you suppose he’d treat me as he does? No, take your hands from your face, I won’t leave you in peace—that would suit your book too well. You’d go on sitting there, in a sort of trance, like a yogi, and even if I didn’t see her I’d feel it in my bones—that he was making every sound, even the rustle of his dirty track pants, for your benefit, throwing you smiles you didn’t see. . . . Well, I won’t stand for that, I prefer to choose my hell; I prefer to look you in the eyes and fight it out face to face… 

KRAFT: Have it your own way. I suppose we were bound to come to this; they knew what they were about, and we’re easy game. If only they’d put me in a room with men who can keep their mouths shut. But it’s no use wanting the impossible. 

BELICHICK: You know already. I made good choices. I brought back Bill O’Brien. I brought in Juju and Gesicki. I took a gamble on Zekr Elliott. For a team needing offence in a major way, they were decisive and necessary choices. There’s nothing more to learn. I won’t speak of last season any longer.

KRAFT: You’re wrong. So long as each of us hasn’t made a clean breast of it—why they’ve damned him—we know nothing. Nothing that counts. You, sir, you shall begin. Why? Tell us why. If you are frank, if we bring our specters into the open, it may save us from disaster. So—out with it! Why? 

TAWMMY: I tell ya, I don’t fackin’ know. I got no clue. 

KRAFT: That’s so. They wouldn’t tell me, either. But I’ve a pretty good idea. . . . Perhaps you’re shy of speaking first? Right. I’ll lead off. [A short silence.] I’m not a very estimable person. 

BELICHICK: No need to tell us that. We know you were a coward. 

KRAFT: Let that be. It’s only a side-issue. I’m here because I took my team for granted. That’s all. For five years. Naturally, they’re suffering still. 

BELICHICK [almost tenderly]: Why did you hurt them like that? 

KRAFT: It was so easy. A word was enough to make all of them skittish. Like a sensitive plant. But never, never a reproach. I’m fond of teasing. I watched and waited. But no, not a tear, not a protest. I’d picked the franchise up out of the gutter, you understand. . . . Now after all those titles, they’re back there, with no succession plan. What are you after? What do you expect? I tell you I regret nothing. The truth is, I got insanely lucky and didn’t know how to handle it well. Does that mean anything to you? 

BELICHICK: No. Nobody admired me, at least not initially. I earned everything I received. 

KRAFT: So much the better. No one to feel bad for me, save myself. Else why should I be here? [To BELICHICK] Your turn. 

BELICHICK: Well, I was what some people down there called “a damned asshole.” Damned already. So it’s no surprise, being here. 

KRAFT: Is that all you have to say? 

BELICHICK: No. There was that affair with the videotape. A dead man’s tale. With suspensions and fines and lost draft picks, but it was all so long ago. So there’s no one left, I’ve nothing to worry about; it was a clean sweep. Only that room. I see it now and then. Empty, with the doors locked… That’s—too ridiculous. 

KRAFT: Was the punishment fair? 

BELICHICK: Fair? [Glances at TAWMMY.] You know, I don’t regret a thing; still, I’m not so very keen on telling you the story. 

KRAFT: That’s all right. . . . So you got sick of Brady? 

BELICHICK [Quite gradually]: All sorts of little things got on my nerves. For instance, he made a noise when he was drinking his smoothies—a sort of gurgle. Trifles like that. He was rather pathetic really. Vulnerable. Why are you smiling? 

KRAFT: Because I, anyhow, am not vulnerable. 

BELICHICK: Don’t be too sure… I spent years planning for his departure. Tried to draft his replacements. They didn’t quite pan out, mind you, but the intent was always there.

KRAFT: And then? 

BELICHICK: Then the Titans did their unfortunate but necessary job to move everyone forward. [A pause.] I’m rather cruel, really. 

KRAFT: So am I. 

BELICHICK: No, you’re not cruel. It’s something else. 

KRAFT: What? 

BELICHICK: I’ll tell you later. When I say I’m cruel, I mean I can’t get on without making people suffer. Like a live coal. A live coal in others’ hearts. When I’m alone I flicker out. Without that hatred, the sword’s edge is dulled.

KRAFT: Well! 

BELICHICK: Yes? What’s in your mind? 

KRAFT: Nothing. Only that it’s not a pretty story. 

BELICHICK: Obviously. But what matter? 

KRAFT: As you say, what matter? [To TAWMMY] Your turn. What have you done? 

TAWMMY: I told you, I have no fackin’ idea. I’m trynna remembah but I sweah tah God I can’t do it. 

KRAFT: Right. Then we’ll give you a hand. That fellow with the smashed face, who was he? 

TAWMMY: Who—who d’you mean?

BELICHICK: You know quite well. The man you were so scared of seeing when you came in. 

TAWMMY: Oh, him! A friend of mine. Bobby Ballsack.

KRAFT: Why were you afraid of him? 

TAWMMY: Dat’s my business, Mistah Kraft. 

BELICHICK: Did he shoot himself on your account? 

TAWMMY: Fack no! Not a chance!

KRAFT: Then why should you have been so scared? He blew his brains out, didn’t he? That’s how his face got smashed. 

TAWMMY: Don’t! Please don’t go on. 

KRAFT: Because of you. Because of you. 

BELICHICK: He shot himself because of you. 

TAWMMY: Leave me alone! It’s—it’s nawt fayahh bullying me like dat! Get me the fack outta heah! [He runs to the door and shakes it.] 

KRAFT: Go if you can. Personally, I ask for nothing better. Unfortunately, the door’s locked. [TAWMMY presses the buzzer-push, but the buzzer does nothing. BELICHICK and KRAFT laugh. 

TAWMMY swings round on them, his back to the door.] 

TAWMMY [in a muffled voice]: You’re mothahfuckahs, both of ya. 

BELICHICK: Hateful? Yes, that’s the word. Now get on with it. That fellow who killed himself on your account—you were his friend, eh? 

KRAFT: Of course he was. And he wanted to exploit him. That’s so, isn’t it? 

BELICHICK: He was a gambler, yes?

TAWMMY: Yeah, he was a gamblah. 

KRAFT: And your faith in the team made you insist on telling him to bet the over on the offense all season long.

BELICHICK: That’s it. You laughed at him. You forced him to do it. He lost everything. And so he killed himself. 

TAWMMY: You gambled the same way though by using Matt fackin’ Patricia though, yeah? 

BELICHICK: Yes. [A short pause, then TAWMMY bursts out laughing.] 

TAWMMY: You got it all wrong, you two. [He stiffens his shoulders, still leaning against the door, and faces them. His voice grows whiny, truculent.] He thought Mac was gonna figure it out! And now look at ‘im. The worst fackin’ QB in the whole goddamn division. 

KRAFT: And then? 

TAWMMY: We was at one of Sully’s rageahhs. We wah sharin’ a mickey up on thah balcony and then his phone dinged. Score update. Bills twenty-fahh, Pats ten. 

KRAFT: Yes? And then?

TAWMMY: That’s all. I came back tah Quinzee—and he facked off. 

KRAFT: You mean he blew his brains out? 

TAWMMY: It was stupid of him, really. Oh, you fackin’ pricks! [He sobs tearlessly.] 

KRAFT: Nothing doing. Tears don’t flow in this place. 

TAWMMY: I’m a moron. A moron! [Pause.] If you knew how I hate you! 

KRAFT: Just SO. [He drops his coat on the stall bench.] You mustn’t be angry with me, Tawmmy. 

TAWMMY: I’m not angry with you. At least not at dis exact moment.

BELICHICK: And what about me? Are you angry with me? 

TAWMMY: Yeah. [A short silence.]

BELICHICK: Well, Mr. Kraft, now you have us in the nude all right. Do you understand things any better for that? 

KRAFT: I wonder. Yes, perhaps a trifle better. [Timidly] And now suppose we start trying to help each other. 

BELICHICK: I don’t need help. 

KRAFT: Bill, they’ve laid their snare damned cunningly—like a cobweb. If you make any movement, if you raise your hand to fan yourself, Tawmmy and I feel a little tug. Alone, none of us can save himself or herself; we’re linked together inextricably. So you can take your choice. 

BELICHICK: And what do you expect me to do in return? 

KRAFT: To help me. It only needs a little effort, Bill; just a spark of human feeling. 

BELICHICK: Human feeling. That’s beyond my range. I’m rotten to the core. 

KRAFT: And how about me? [A pause.] All the same, suppose we try? 

BELICHICK: It’s no use. I’m all dried up. I can’t give and I can’t receive. How could I help you? A dead twig, ready for the burning. [He falls silent, gazing at TAWMMY, who has buried his head in his hands.] 

KRAFT: Do you realize that this young fellow’s fated to be your torturer? 

BELICHICK: Perhaps I’ve guessed it. 

KRAFT: It’s through him they’ll get you. I, of course, I’m different—aloof. I take no notice of him. Suppose you had a try— 

BELICHICK: Yes? 

KRAFT: It’s a trap. They’re watching you, to see if you’ll fall into it. 

BELICHICK: I know. And you’re another trap. Do you think they haven’t foreseen every word you say? And of course there’s a whole nest of pitfalls that we can’t see. Everything here’s a boobytrap. But what do I care? I’m a pitfall, too. For him, obviously. And perhaps I’ll catch him. 

KRAFT: You won’t catch anything. We’re chasing after each other, round and round in a vicious circle, like the horses on a roundabout. That’s part of their plan, of course. . . . Drop it, Bill. Open your hands and let go of everything. Or else you’ll bring disaster on all three of us. 

BELICHICK: Do I look the sort of person who lets go? I know what’s coming to me. I’m going to burn, and it’s to last forever. Yes, I know everything. But do you think I’ll let go? I’ll catch Don Shula, even if everyone turns on me. What’s the good of trying to enlist my sympathy? I assure you I know everything, and I can’t feel sorry even for myself. A trap! Don’t I know it, and that I’m in a trap myself, up to the neck, and there’s nothing to be done about it? And if it suits their book, so much the better! 

KRAFT [gripping his shoulders]: Well, I, anyhow, can feel sorry for you, too. Look at me, we’re naked, naked right through, and I can see into your heart. That’s one link between us. Do you think I’d want to hurt you? I don’t regret anything, I’m dried up, too. But for you I can still feel pity. 

BELICHICK [who has let KRAFT keep his hands on his shoulders until now, shakes himself loose]: Don’t. I hate being pawed about. And keep your pity for yourself. Don’t forget, Kraft, that there are traps for you, too, in this room. All nicely set for you. You’d do better to watch your own interests. [A pause.] But, if you will leave us in peace, this man and me, I’ll see I don’t do you any harm. 

KRAFT [gazes at him for a moment, then shrugs his shoulders]: Very well. 

TAWMMY [raising his head]: Please, Kraft. 

KRAFT: What do you want of me? 

TAWMMY [rises and goes up to him]: You can help me, anyhow. 

BELICHICK: Help you how? Nothing on earth belongs to you any more. This team will be what it will be this season.

TAWMMY: I tell you Brady was mine. All mine. I miss him.

BELICHICK: Yes, he was yours—once. But now— he’s gone. Nobody can have him. Pining for the glory years won’t change your present reality. 

TAWMMY: Is there-ah really nothin’, nothin’ left of me? 

BELICHICK: Nothing whatever. Nothing of you’s left on earth—not even a shadow. All you own is here. Would you like that paper-knife? Or that trophy in the case? That stall’s yours. And I, my friend, am your head coach forever. 

TAWMMY: Oh, fack off. Damn it, isn’t there anythin’ I can do to get rid of you? Wait. I got an idea. [He spits in BELICHICK’S face.] There! 

BELICHICK: Kraft, you shall pay for this. [A pause. KRAFT shrugs his shoulders and goes to TAWMMY.] 

KRAFT: So it’s a quarterback you need? 

TAWMMY: Not just any quahtahback. A good one. A damn good one. A propah leadah.

KRAFT: No humbug now. Any leader would do your business. As I happen to be here, you want me. Right! [He grips TAWMMY’s shoulders.] Mind, I’m not your sort at all, really; I’m not a young nincompoop and I haven’t thrown a ball in decades. 

TAWMMY: I’ll take you as you ahh. And pahhaps I can convince you..

KRAFT: I doubt it. I shan’t pay much attention; I’ve other things to think about. 

TAWMMY: What things? 

KRAFT: They wouldn’t interest you. 

TAWMMY: I’ll sit in yah stall and wait for you to take some notice of me. I won’t bothah you at all. 

BELICHICK [with a shrill laugh]: That’s right, fawn on him, like the fool you are. Grovel and cringe! And he hasn’t even a single good idea in his head to commend him! 

TAWMMY [to KRAFT]: Don’t listen to him. He has no eyes, no ears. He’s—old news. 

KRAFT: I’ll give you what I can. It doesn’t amount to much. I shan’t love you; I already know you too well. 

TAWMMY: D’you want my suppaht, anyhow? 

KRAFT: Yes. 

TAWMMY: Then just that. I ask no more-ah. 

KRAFT: In that case— 

BELICHICK: Tawmmy! Kraft! You must be going crazy. You’re not alone. I’m here too. 

KRAFT: Of course—but what does it matter? . 

BELICHICK [gripping KRAFT’S arm]: Let him alone. 

KRAFT [thrusting him away roughly]: Take care. I’m no gentleman, and I’d have no compunction about striking you. 

BELICHICK: But you promised me; you promised. I’m only asking you to keep your word. 

KRAFT: Why should I, considering you were the first to break our agreement? [BELICHICK turns his back on him and retreats to the far end of the room.] 

BELICHICK: Very well, have it your own way. I’m the weaker party, one against two. But don’t forget I’m here, and watching. I shan’t take my eyes off you, Kraft; when you’re plotting your next move with him, you’ll feel my eyes boring into you. Yes, have it your own way, make awful plans and get it over with. We’re in hell; my turn will come. [During the following scene he watches them without speaking.] 

TAWMMY: Is it gonna last long? [Short silence.] You might at least tell me what he’s sayin’. 

KRAFT: Nothing. Nothing worth repeating. He’s a swine, that’s all. [He listens attentively.] A god-damned bloody swine. [He turns to TAWMMY.] Let’s come back to—to ourselves. Are you going to share with me how we’ll fix this team? 

TAWMMY [smiling]: I wondah now! 

KRAFT: Will you trust me? 

TAWMMY: What a crazy thing to ask! Considerin’ I’ll be watchin’ all the time, and I don’t think I’ve much to fear-ah from Belichick, so fahh as you’re concerned. 

KRAFT: Obviously. [A pause. He takes his hands off TAWMMY’S shoulders.] I was thinking of another kind of trust. [Listens.] Talk away, talk away, you swine. I’m not there to defend myself. [To TAWMMY] Tawmmy, you must give me your trust. 

TAWMMY: Mistah Kraft, I haven’t any to give, I’m afraid, and you’re-ah makin’ me feel embarrassed. You must have somethin’ pretty ghastly on yah mind tah make such a fuss about my trustin’ you. 

KRAFT: They lambasted me.

TAWMMY: I know. ‘Cause you refused tah fight tah keep Brady and thah team togethah. Well, why shouldn’t yah? 

KRAFT: I—I didn’t exactly refuse. [In a far-away voice] I must say the TV pundits talk well, they make out a good case against me, but they never say what I should have done instead. Should I have gone to the coach and said: “I want you to spend like the Bills or the Dolphins”? A mug’s game; I’d have been laughed out of the office. But I wanted to show my colors, my true colors, do you understand? I wasn’t going to be silenced. [To TAWMMY] So I—I had a short interview. 

TAWMMY: What wah you trynna do? 

KRAFT: I wanted him to actually listen to my advice, and I couldn’t figure out any other way to make him do it. He just flashes those rings and that’s always the end of the conversation.

TAWMMY: What could I say? Y’acted as though yah didn’t wanna fight publicly. [KRAFT makes a fretful gesture.] But, how the hell can I guess what you want me tah ansah? 

BELICHICK: Can’t you guess? Well, I can. He wants you to tell him that he did the right thing.

TAWMMY: But you had to try somethin’ to stick your-ahh neck out. If you’d stayed thah course they’d have lambasted you even more-ahh, wouldn’t they? 

KRAFT: Of course. [A pause.] Well, Tawmmy, am I a coward? 

TAWMMY: How can I say? Don’t be so unreasonable. I can’t put myself in yah shoes. That’s fah you tah decide.

KRAFT [wearily]: I can’t. 

TAWMMY: Anyhow, you gotta remembah. You must’ve had reasons fah actin’ as yah did. KRAFT: I had. 

TAWMMY: Well? 

KRAFT: But were they the real reasons? 

TAWMMY: You’re-ah kinda facked in thah head, that’s your trouble. Stop guilting yahself over such little things! That’s fah Catholics like me tah do. 

KRAFT: I’d thought it all out, and I wanted to make a stand. But was that my real motive? 

BELICHICK: Exactly. That’s the question. Was that your real motive? No doubt you argued it out with yourself, you weighed the pros and cons, you found good reasons for what you did. But fear and hatred and all the dirty little instincts one keeps dark—they’re motives too. So carry on, Mr. Kraft, and try to be honest with yourself—for once. 

KRAFT: Do I need you to tell me that? Day and night I paced my office, from the window to the door, from the door to the window. I pried into my heart, I sleuthed myself like a detective. By the end of it I felt as if I’d given my whole life to introspection. But always I harked back to the one thing certain—that I had acted as I did, I’d have made bolder moves sooner. But why? Why? Finally I thought: My death will settle it. If I face death courageously, I’ll prove I am no coward. 

BELICHICK: And how did you face death? 

KRAFT: Miserably. Rottenly. [BELICHICK laughs.] Oh, it was only a physical lapse—that might happen to anyone; I’m not ashamed of it. Only everything’s been left in suspense forever. [To TAWMMY] Come here, Tawmmy. Look at me. I want to feel someone looking at me while they’re talking about me on earth. . . . I like winning. 

BELICHICK: Winning! Just hark to him! And you, Tawmmy, do you like cowards? 

TAWMMY: If ya knew just how little I care-ah! Coward or hero, it’s all one—provided he wins at the end of thah day. 

KRAFT [staring off into the distance] There they are, slumped in their chairs, sucking at their cigars. Bored they look. Half asleep. They’re thinking: “Kraft’s a coward.” But only vaguely, dreamily. One’s got to think of something. “That chap Kraft was a coward.” That’s what they’ve decided, those dear friends of mine. In six months’ time they’ll be saying: “Cowardly as that skunk Kraft.” You’re lucky, you two; no one on earth is giving you another thought. But I—I’m long in dying. 

BELICHICK: What about the Jets, Kraft? 

KRAFT: Oh, didn’t I tell you? Gonna be good. 

BELICHICK: Good? 

KRAFT: Yes, they look real good. That moonshot Rodgers trade seems to be looking good so far. 

BELICHICK: What of the future?

KRAFT: What else of their future? That’s all they have – they have no past to speak of, unlike what we’ve all experienced these recent decades. So all is for the best, you see; the glory days are over, and I’ve carved out my place in history not as the guy who won six Super Bowls, but as the guy who couldn’t find a middle ground between the most important parts of his franchise and ruined it forever. [He gives a choking sob and passes his hand over his face. TAWMMY catches his arm.]  But they won’t forget me, not they! They’ll die, but others will come after them to carry on the legend. I’ve left my fate in their hands. 

TAWMMY: You think too much, dat’s your trouble. 

KRAFT: What else is there to do now? I was a man of action once. . . . Oh, if only I could be with them again, for just one day—I’d fling their lie in their teeth. But I’m locked out; they’re passing judgment on my life without troubling about me, and they’re right, because I’m dead. Dead and done with. [Laughs.] A back number. [A short pause.] 

TAWMMY [gently]: Kraft. 

KRAFT: Still there? Now listen! I want you to do me a service. No, don’t shrink away. I know it must seem strange to you, having someone asking you for help; you’re not used to that. But if you’ll make the effort, if you’ll only will it hard enough, I dare say we can really understand each other. Look at it this way. A thousand of them are proclaiming I’m a coward; but what do numbers matter? If there’s someone, just one person, to say quite positively I did the right thing, that I’m not the sort who runs away, that I’m brave and decent and the rest of it—well, that one person’s faith would save me. Will you have that faith in me? Then I shall respect you and cherish you forever. Tawmmy—will you? 

TAWMMY: D’you want me tah sweah it? 

KRAFT: Then I snap my fingers at them all, those below and those in here. Tawmmy, we shall climb out of hell. [BELICHICK gives a shrill laugh. He breaks off and stares at him.] What’s that? 

BELICHICK [still laughing]: But he doesn’t mean a word of what he says. How can you be such a simpleton? “Tawmmy, am I a coward?” As if he cared a damn either way. 

TAWMMY: Bill, how fackin’ dare you? [To KRAFT] Don’t listen tah him. If yah want me to have faith in you, you gotta staht by trustin’ my ideas fah thah team. 

BELICHICK: That’s right! That’s right! Trust away! He wants a strong man—that far you can trust him—he wants an unthinking man. He wants someone who only ever takes the easy, flashy action and not the right one. And that’s all he wants. He’d assure you you were God Almighty if he thought it would give you pleasure and make him feel excited about football again.

KRAFT: Tawmmy, is this true? Answer me. Is it true? 

TAWMMY: Whaddya want me tah say? You realize how maddenin’ it is tah go intah dis season not expected tah make the playoffs yet again? How fackin’ pissed am I that you let this guy think he could put a fackin’ dunce like Joe Judge in a position of powah and expect tah win anything? You coulda done somethin’ about it and you didn’t. Dat’s chickenshit tah me. If you can’t man up an’ make thah tough calls, you don’t deserve tah lead a fackin’ Dunkin drive-thru. 

KRAFT [to the two men]: You disgust me, both of you. [He goes towards the door.] 

TAWMMY: Whatcha up to now? 

KRAFT: I’m going. 

BELICHICK [quickly]: You won’t get far. The door is locked. 

KRAFT: I’ll make them open it. [He presses the buzzer-push. Nothing happens.] 

TAWMMY: Please! Please! 

BELICHICK [to TAWMMY]: Don’t worry, my good lad. The buzzer doesn’t work. 

KRAFT: I tell you they shall open. [Drums on the door.] I can’t endure it any longer, I’m through with you both. [TAWMMY runs to him; he pushes him away.] Go away. You’re even fouler than he. I won’t let myself get bogged in your eyes. You’re soft and slimy. Ugh! [Bangs on the door again.] Like an octopus. Like a quagmire. 

TAWMMY: I’m fackin’ sorry. I’m sorry! I’ll promise tah shut up, I won’t trouble you in any way—but don’t go. Don’t leave me alone with Bill, now he’s shown his claws. 

KRAFT: Look after yourself. I never asked you to come here. 

TAWMMY: Oh, what a mis’rable prick you ahh! Yeah, you’re a fackin’ cowahhd. There-ah, I said it.

BELICHICK [going up to TAWMMY]: Well, you intoxicated fool, I hope you’re satisfied now. You spat in my face—playing up to him, of course—and we had a tiff on his account. But he’s going, and a good riddance it will be. We two will have the place to ourselves. 

TAWMMY: You won’t gain nothin’. If that door opens, I’m goin’, too. 

BELICHICK: Where? 

TAWMMY: I don’t care where-ah. As fahh from you as I can. [KRAFT has been drumming on the door while they talk.] 

KRAFT: Open the door! Open, blast you! I’ll endure anything, your red-hot tongs and molten lead, your racks and prongs and garrotes–all your fiendish gadgets, everything that burns and flays and tears—I’ll put up with any torture you impose. Anything, anything would be better than this agony of mind, this creeping pain that gnaws and fumbles and caresses one and never hurts quite enough. [He grips the door-knob and rattles it.] Now will you open? [The door flies open with a jerk, and he just avoids falling.] Ah! [A long silence.] 

BELICHICK: Well, Kraft? You’re free to go. 

KRAFT [meditatively]: Now I wonder why that door opened. 

BELICHICK: What are you waiting for? Hurry up and go. 

KRAFT: I shall not go. 

BELICHICK: And you, Tawmmy? [TAWMMY does not move. BELICHICK bursts out laughing.] So what? Which shall it be? Which of the three of us will leave? The barrier’s down, why are we waiting?. . But what a situation! It’s a scream! We’re—inseparables! [TAWMMY springs at him from behind.] 

TAWMMY: Inseparables? Kraft, come on an’ gimme a hand. Quickly. We’ll push him out and slam the door on him. Dat’ll teach him a lesson. 

BELICHICK [struggling with TAWMMY]: Tawmmy! I beg you, let me stay. I won’t go, I won’t go! Not into the passage. 

KRAFT: Let go of him. 

TAWMMY: You’re-ah crazy. He hates you. 

KRAFT: It’s because of him I’m staying here. I hired him in the first place! [TAWMMY releases BELICHICK and stares dumbfoundedly at KRAFT.] 

BELICHICK: Because of me? [Pause.] All right, shut the door. It’s ten times hotter here since it opened. [KRAFT goes to the door and shuts it.] Because of me, you said?

KRAFT: Yes. You, anyhow, know what it means to be a coward. 

BELICHICK: Yes, I know. 

KRAFT: And you know what wickedness is, and shame, and fear. There were days when you peered into yourself, into the secret places of your heart, and what you saw there made you faint with horror. And then, next day, you didn’t know what to make of it, you couldn’t interpret the horror you had glimpsed the day before. Yes, you know what evil costs. And when you say I’m a coward, you know from experience what that means. Is that so? 

BELICHICK: Yes. 

KRAFT: So it’s you whom I have to convince; you are of my kind. Did you suppose I meant to go? No, I couldn’t leave you here, gloating over my defeat, with all those thoughts about me running in your head. 

BELICHICK: Do you really wish to convince me? 

KRAFT: That’s the one and only thing I wish for now. I can’t hear them any longer, you know. Probably that means they’re through with me. For good and all. The curtain’s down, nothing of me is left on earth—not even the name of coward. So, Bill, we’re alone. Only you two remain to give a thought to me. He—he doesn’t count. It’s you who matter; you who hate me. If you’ll have faith in me I’m saved. 

BELICHICK: It won’t be easy. Have a look at me. I’m a hard-headed man. 

KRAFT: I’ll give you all the time that’s needed. 

BELICHICK: Yes, we’ve lots of time in hand. All time. 

KRAFT [putting his hands on BELICHICK’s shoulders]: Listen! Each man has an aim in life, a leading motive; that’s so, isn’t it? Well, I didn’t give a damn for wealth, or for love. I aimed at being a champion. An all-time great, as they say. I staked everything on the same horse. . . . Can one possibly be a coward when one’s deliberately courted danger at every turn? And can one judge a life by a single action? 

BELICHICK: Why not? For thirty years you dreamt you were a hero, and condoned a thousand petty lapses—because a hero, of course, can do no wrong. An easy method, obviously. Then a day came when you were up against it, the red light of real danger—and you privately refused to back me.

KRAFT: I “dreamt,” you say. It was no dream. When I chose the hardest path, I made my choice deliberately. A man is what he wills himself to be. 

BELICHICK: Prove it. Prove it was no dream. It’s what one does, and nothing else, that shows the stuff one’s made of. 

KRAFT: I died too soon. I wasn’t allowed time to—to do my deeds. 

BELICHICK: One always dies too soon—or too late. And yet one’s whole life is complete at that moment, with a line drawn neatly under it, ready for the summing up. You are—your life, and nothing else. 

KRAFT: What a poisonous ass you are! With an answer for everything. 

BELICHICK: Now then! Don’t lose heart. It shouldn’t be so hard, convincing me. Pull yourself together, man, rake up some arguments. [KRAFT shrugs his shoulders.] Ah, wasn’t I. right when I said you were vulnerable? Now you’re going to pay the price, and what a price! You’re a coward, Kraft, because I wish it. I wish it—do you hear?—I wish it. And yet, just look at me, see how weak I am, a mere breath on the air, a gaze observing you, a formless thought that thinks you. [He walks towards him, opening his hands.] Ah, they’re open now, those big hands, those coarse, champion’s hands! But what do you hope to do? You can’t throttle thoughts with hands. So you’ve no choice, you must convince me, and you’re at my mercy. 

TAWMMY: Kraft! 

KRAFT: What? 

TAWMMY: Revenge yahself. 

KRAFT: How? 

TAWMMY: Fire his ass. Dat’ll make him squeal. 

KRAFT: That’s true, Bill. I’m at your mercy, but you’re at mine as well. [He bends over TAWMMY. BELICHICK gives a little cry.] 

BELICHICK: Oh, you coward, you weakling, running to fans to console you! 

TAWMMY: Dat’s right, Bill. Squeal away.

BELICHICK: What a lovely pair you make! If you could see his drunken maw chomping on that cigarette, not a thought between his ears, but clapping like a seal at your pigheaded decisions all the same…

TAWMMY: Squeal away, Bill, squeal away!… [To KRAFT] Don’t listen to him. Do it. 

BELICHICK: Well, what are you waiting for? Do as you’re told. What a lovely scene: coward Kraft taking franchise-altering advice from a drunk, stoned Tawmmy in his darkest hour! Make your stakes, everyone. Will coward Kraft fire the greatest coach in history, or won’t he dare? What’s the betting? I’m watching you, everybody’s watching, I’m a crowd all by myself. Do you hear the crowd? Do you hear them muttering, Kraft? Mumbling and muttering. “Coward! Coward! Coward! Coward!”—that’s what they’re saying. . . . It’s no use trying to escape, I’ll never let you go. What do you hope to get from such a move? Forgetfulness? Victory? But I shan’t forget you, not I! “It’s I you must convince.” So come to me. I’m waiting. Come along, now… Look how obedient he is, like a well-trained dog who comes when his mistress calls. You can’t do anything right now, and you never will. 

KRAFT: Will night never come? 

BELICHICK: Never. 

KRAFT: You will always see me? 

BELICHICK: Always. [KRAFT moves away from TAWMMY and takes some steps across the room. He goes to the silver trophy.] 

KRAFT: This trophy. [Strokes it thoughtfully.] Yes, now’s the moment; I’m looking at this thing on the case, and I understand that I’m in hell. I tell you, everything’s been thought out beforehand. They knew I’d stand at the display case stroking this thing of tarnished silver, with all those eyes intent on me. Devouring me. [He swings round abruptly.] What? Only two of you? I thought there were more; many more. [Laughs.] So this is hell. I’d never have believed it. You remember all we were told about the torture-chambers, the fire and brimstone, the “burning marl.” Old wives’ tales! There’s no need for red-hot pokers. Hell is—the 2023 AFC East! 

TAWMMY: Mr. Kraft! Please— 

KRAFT [thrusting him away]: No, let me be. He is between us. I cannot listen to you when he’s watching and waiting to take his revenge elsewhere. 

TAWMMY: Right! In dat case, I’ll stop him watchin’. [He picks up the paper-knife from the table, rushes at BELICHICK and stabs him several times.] 

BELICHICK [struggling and laughing]: But, you crazy fool, what do you think you’re doing? You know quite well I’m dead. 

TAWMMY: Dead? [He drops the knife. A pause. BELICHICK picks up the knife and jabs himself with it regretfully.] 

BELICHICK: Dead! Dead! Dead! Knives, poison, ropes—all useless. It has happened already, do you understand? Once and for all. So here we are, forever. Condemned to the eternal misery of 8-9 or 9-8 and perpetually teetering on a wild-card playoff spot that never, ever gets used properly. [Laughs.] 

TAWMMY [with a peal of laughter]: Forevah. Fackin’ hell, dat’s funny! Forevah. 

KRAFT [looks at the two men, and joins in the laughter]: For ever, and ever, and ever. [They slump onto their respective stalls. A long silence. Their laughter dies away and they gaze at each other.] 

KRAFT: Well, well, let’s get on with it. . . . 

CURTAIN   

******

[With sincerest apologies to Jean-Paul Sartre.]