This Team Is Not Real, but It Has a Genuine Appeal

Visited the locker room of the Detroit Cougars the other night at the Flight Theater in Hollywood, home of the play, “Gameface,” which was written by John Schalter and former Ram offensive lineman Russ Bollinger.

Some team, these Cougars.

Let’s see, there’s a steroid-stuffing, pill-popping, beer-chugging, womanizing linebacker named B.D. Murdock. There’s a born-again, holier-than-thou teammate named Blake Walters; an aging cornerback/lawyer named Babs Winston who will try anything to remain in the game; a picket line-crossing running back named Tommy Nathan; an overweight lineman named Orwell Weaver and a rookie racist teammate named Kenny Samson, played nicely by Bollinger, by the way. Have I forgotten any stereotypes?

Oh, yes, there’s the scheming owner, the fatherly equipment manager, the drunkard doctor, the back-stabbing assistant coach, the buffoonish head coach, the goofy assistant equipment man and my personal favorites, the slimier-than-slime, resplendent-in-polyester sportswriter (what else?), Scott Schultz, and his knockout journalist-in-training, the beautiful Nancy Johnson.

I’m no theater critic, but if this is your average National Football League team, someone better alert Commissioner Pete Rozelle--and quick. And while they’re at it, they might want to give a call to a sports editor or two. Scott and Nancy won’t be winning the Pulitzer any time soon.

Here’s the plot, or at least, one of them:

Our main man, B.D. Murdock, overhears a conversation involving the Cougars’ owner. Seems the owner has devised a plan to force Murdock out of the league and, by doing so, also forces the linebacker to forfeit his big-money annuity plan. What Murdock doesn’t know, is that the sportswriter has planted a voice-activated tape recorder (equipped, apparently, with what must be a remarkable 12-hour tape) atop a dressing stall ledge. Pretty clever.

Naturally, all of this takes place the day before the Cougars play the Dallas Stars in the conference championship game.

As scenarios go, this one belongs in playwright hell. The tipoff is the sportswriter. No self-respecting scribe would accept this owner’s offer; he would have asked for more.

But for all the occasional holes in the plot--some gaping, some hardly noticeable--Bollinger and Schalter manage to convey the hypocrisy that is rarely seen outside a team’s locker room. They’ve taken the familiar heavies--the druggies, the God-squaders, the eccentrics, the racists, the corrupt--and given them a good twist. Turns out the on-stage vignettes, not the unlikely main story, are what makes “Gameface” enjoyable, at times, even memorable.

We learn that football teams aren’t always happy families, that emotional schisms can contribute more to a loss than a faulty game plan. We learn ultimately that each player is alone, left only with his sometimes wavering convictions and his one asset--his body.

In a clever bit of writing, Bollinger and Schalter show how winning temporarily masks all hatred, all insecurity, all differences. One moment, the redneck rookie Samson is ready to fight the black running back Nathan. The next moment, they mug together for a postgame television interview.

The born-again player swears allegiance to the Lord, going so far as to ask in the pregame prayer that “may the best team win.” But in the end, he wants the victory more than anything. He may tote a Bible, but deep in his heart, he worships a game.

The good-natured equipment manager quiets a rowdy locker room by declaring that back in the days of Lombardi “we didn’t use steroids.” Atta boy, that should do it. He cares, but not enough to do something drastic, such as turn in a player, arrange outside counseling . . . anything, but lecture people about the evils.

The supposed intellectual of the group, Babs Winston, professes a drug-free body, but later changes his mind and pays the consequences.

As for Murdock, he may be the only guy who truly understands the games within the game. “Live hard, die young,” he says. “Never be outpharmacied,” he warns. Players are victims of the Dixie Cup system, he says: “They use you up and throw you away.”

So Murdock turns to steroids (as Bollinger himself did while with the Rams) to survive. He pops pills. He revs his body up to the red zone to compete. Eventually, his body answers back.

There are no heroes in this play, which is fitting because the number of role models in the real league seems to decrease daily. However, there are moments when you believe what Bollinger and Schalter have presented here is true, or could be. The in-fighting . . . the tension before a game . . . the daily dilemma a team doctor must face: serve the player or the employer . . . the ambition that probably takes place on plenty of coaching staffs . . . the loneliness.

“We all have our Super Bowls,” Murdock says, “and we’ll do anything to get there.”

But is it worth it? As Bollinger and Schalter tell it, the answer is a resounding no.