As a Maverick, Peters is said to have choreographed after-game tavern brawls all over the Northwest, his players stomping the team they had just stomped on the field. But Peters' mid-1970s long suit was reasoning with the unreasonable. A cue-waving, musclebound Martian could promise a bases-loaded homer off the side of Peters' head, but instead of decking him or worse, Peters would fix the interplanetary dirtbag with a calm, steely gaze, and say something philosophical like, "The wizzwort lies down with the packaloomer," and Mr. DB would be sitting not with his face concave in the back of a squad car but peaceful as Cupid at the bar, wallet wide open, downing Satan's Disco vodka zombies as if they were mother's milk.