the special teams collided, swarm and thud of interchangeable bodies, small wars commencing here and there, exaltation and firstblood, a helmet bouncing brightly on the splendid grass, the breathless impact of two destructive masses, quite pretty to watch.
(The spectator, at this point, is certain to wonder whether he must now endure a football game in print— the author's way of adding his own neat quarternotch to the scarred bluesteel of combat writing. The game, after all, is known for its assaulttechnology motif, and numerous commentators have been willing to risk death by analogy in their public discussions of the resemblance between football and war. But this sort of thing is of little interest to the exemplary spectator. As Alan Zapalac says later on: "I reject the notion of football as warfare. Warfare is warfare. We don't need substitutes because we've got the real thing." The exemplary spectator is the person who understands that sport is a benign illusion, the illusion that order is possible. It's a form of society that is ratfree and without harm to the unborn; that is organized so that everyone follows precisely the same rules; that is electronically controlled, thus reducing human error and benefiting industry; that roots out the inefficient and penalizes the guilty; that tends always to move toward perfection. The exemplary spectator has his occasional lusts, but not for warfare, hardly at all for that. No, it's details he needs—impressions, colors, statistics, patterns, mysteries, numbers, idioms, symbols. Football, more than other sports, fulfills this need. It is the one sport guided by language, by the word signal, the snap number, the color code, the play name. The spectator's pleasure, when not derived from the action itself, evolves from a notion of the game's unique organic nature. Here is not just order but civilization. And part of the spectator's need is to sort the many levels of material: to allot, to compress, to catalogue. This need leaps from season to season, devouring much of what is passionate and serene in the spectator. He tries not to panic at the final game's final gun. He knows he must retain something, squirrel some food for summer's winter. He feels the tender need to survive the termination of the replay. So maybe what follows is a form of sustenance, a game on paper to be scanned when there are stale days between events; to be propped up and looked at—the book as television set—for whatever is in here of terminology, pattern, numbering. But maybe not. It's possible there are deeper reasons to attempt a playbyplay. The best course is for the spectator to continue forward, reading himself into the very middle of that benign illusion. The author, always somewhat corrupt in his inventions and vanities, has tried to reduce the contest to basic units of language and action. Every beginning, it is assumed, must have a neon twinkle of danger about it, and so grandmothers, sissies, lepidopterists and others are warned that the nomenclature that follows is often indecipherable. This is not the pity it may seem. Much of the appeal of sport derives from its dependence on elegant gibberish. And of course it remains the author's permanent duty to unbox the lexicon for all eyes to see—a cryptic ticking mechanism in search of a revolution.)
Blue turk right, doubleslot, zero snag delay.
I was the lone setback. Nobody took out their middle linebacker. I got hit at the line of scrimmage, the 31, a high hard shot that settled my stomach and got rid of the noise in my head. Hobbs threw to Jessup on a halfmoon pattern good for twelve. Taft went outside for six yards, then three, then five. I went straight ahead for five. Taft took a trigger pitch, cut inside a good block and went to their 22. We left the huddle with a sharp handclap and trotted up to the line, eager to move off the ball, sensing a faint anxiety on the other side of the line.
Quick picket left, hook right. Twin option off modified crossbow. ReT, chuckandgo.
How to hit, George Dole shouted out to us. "Way to pop, way to go, way to move. How to sting them, big Jerry. Bloomers, Bloomers, Bloomers. How to play this game."
Taft, stutterstepping, juked a man into the ground and was forced out at the 5. I went offtackle to the 1. Our line was firing out beautifully. It was crisp basic football. We were playing better than ever, in controlled bursts, probably because we were facing real talent. Taft went into the end zone standing up. Two of the receivers ran after Mm to slap his helmet and escort him off. Bing Jackmin kicked the extra point. I got down on one knee on the sideline, the chin strap of my helmet undone, material for a prizewinning sports photo. Commotion everywhere. Oscar Veech was shouting into my left ear.
Gary, on the thirtyttwo I want you to catapult out of there. I want you to really come. I want to see you zoom into the secondary. But be sure you protect that ball.
Right.
Get fetal, get fetal.
Fetal, I shouted back.
Centrex returned the kickoff to their 27. Our defense rolled into a gut 43 with variable offpicks. Their quarterback, Telcon, moved them on the ground past midfield, then went to the air on two of the next three plays. They tried a long field goal, wide to the right, and we took over. Hobbs hit Spurgeon Cole for good yardage but we were caught holding. Taft picked up eight. Ron Steeples was knocked cold and we were forced to call a timeout to get him off. Chuck Deering came running in to replace him, tripping and falling as he reached the huddle. I went inside tackle for three yards. Hobbs threw to Taft on a gatedelay out of the backfield. It picked up only seven and the punting team came on. I sat on the bench, noticing Raymond Toon down at the far end; he seemed to be talking into his fist. Byrd Whiteside punted to their 44, a fair catch. Telcon moved them on the ground, inside mostly, all the way to our 19. Dennis Smee kicked somebody. That moved the ball inside the 10. Three running plays. The extra point tied it.
When we huddled at the 24, Hobbs said: "Stem left, L and R hitch and cross, F weak switch and sideline. On hut."
What? Chuck Deering said.
On hut.
No, the other thing. F something.
F weak switch and sideline, Hobbs said.
What kind of pattern is that?
Are you kidding?
What a bunch of fetuseaters, Kimbrough said.
When did they put that pattern in, Hobbsie?
Tuesday or Wednesday. Where the hell were you?
It must have been Wednesday. I was at the dentist.
Nobody told you?
I don't think so, Hobbsie.
Look, you run out ten yards, put some moves on your man and end up near the damn sideline.
I'm cocaptain to a bunch of fetuseaters.
On hut. Break.
Third and eleven. They sent their linebackers. Hobbs left the pocket and I had Mallon, their psychotic middle linebacker, by the jersey. He tripped and I released, moving into a passing plane for Hobbs. He saw me but threw low. I didn't bother diving for it. Creed seemed to be looking right past us as we moved off the field. I sat next to Chester Randall, a reserve lineman. He had broken his right wrist the week before and it was still in a cast.
Make no mistake, I can play with this thing. Hauptfuhrer gave me the go. If they need me, I can play, arm or no arm. The only thing that worries me is the dryness. I wish I could spit. I'm too dry to spit. I've been trying to work up some saliva for the past hour. I'd feel a whole lot better if I could only spit.
Why don't you drink some water?
I've been trying to avoid that. It's what killed my sister's baby. There's something in it.
Centrex, starting from midfield, picked up six, eight, five, four, nine. Lenny Wells came off in pain—his left arm. George Owen screamed at him. The quarter ended. I thought of ice melting above the banks of streams in high country. Billy Mast replaced Wells. Telcon kept the ball on a bootleg and went to the 1 (flag in the air) before Buddy Shock caught him with a shoulder. Their penalty, clipping, and that put the ball outside the 20 from point of infraction. Telcon tried to hit his flanker on a post pattern. Bobby Iselin picked it off and returned to the 19. I couldn't find my helmet for a moment.
Garland Hobbs: "Let's ching those nancies."
Monsoon sweep, stringin left, ready right. Cradleout, drill9 shiver, ends chuS. Broadside option, flowandgo.
I got bounced out of bounds and stepped on. Veech shouted down at me. Hardearned first down for the unspectacular Harkness. Taft ran out of room and cut back into traffic. Their territory, second and eight. Hobbs looked toward Creed for guidance. The man's arms remained folded, his right foot tamping the grass.
Quickside brake and swing.
I put a light block on their end, then turned to the right to watch the play develop. Taft caught the ball about six yards behind the line and followed the center and both guards. They looked impressive, trucking along out there in front, Onan Moley flanked by Rector and Fallon, but nobody remembered to throw a block. The left cornerback sliced in to make an anklehigh tackle just as Taft was getting set to turn it on. A Centres lineman was hurt, knee or ankle, and they had to call time to get him off. We assembled near our own 45. John Jessup took off his helmet. There was blood all over his lips and teeth.
Nobody got taken out on that brake and swing, Hobbs said.
You just call the blanketyblank signals, Kimbrough said. "We'll do the blocking."
When do you plan to start?
Suck a husky, Fallon said.
That assbelly sixtytwo got his fist in, Jessup said. "That magnolia candyass cunt."
You'd better go off.
I guarantee you I'll mash his little mimmy. I'm serious, man. I'll waste that diddly dick before this thing's over.
Go off, I said. "Your mouth is all over your face. You're making everybody sick."
I'll get that shitpiss sixtytwo and smash his worthless face.
Down and yardage, Cecil Rector said.
Third and long, Deering said.
Are there any predictions on the outcome? Bloomberg said.
Be serious, Onan told him.
Their linebackers seemed about to swarmdrop. Hobbs shouted numbers and colors over the defensive signals. I noticed that the knuckles on my left hand were all torn up. Hobbs kept changing plays, reacting to the defense. The whistle blew, delay of game, and we rehuddled and came back out. Hobbs threw to Spurgeon Cole up the middle. He got hit and dropped it. Centrex claimed fumble but the official paid no attention. Byrd Whiteside punted miserably. When he came off, Tweego told him he looked like something that had just come inching out of a buffalo's ass. I sat next to Bing Jackmin on the bench.
I wonder what we're missing on TV, he said.
Centrex stayed on the ground, going mainly over our left side, Lloyd Philpot and Champ Conway. On first down Telcon faked a handoff, rolled right and hit one of his backs, number 25, all alone in the end zone. The conversion was good and our kickreturn team left the bench. Bobby Iselin returned to the 17 where he was hit and fumbled. Lee Roy Tyler recovered for us. I jogged onto the field.
Each play must have a name. The naming of plays is important. All teams run the same plays. But each team uses an entirely different system of naming. Coaches stay up well into the night in order to name plays. They heat and reheat coffee on an old burner. No play begins until its name is called.
MiddlesiftW, alphset, lemmy2.
Taft went burning up the middle for fifteen. He got six on the next play. I was up ahead, blocking, and we went down along with three or four other people. I was on my back, somebody across my legs, when I realized their tackle, 77, was talking to me, or to Taft, or perhaps to all of us spread over the turf. He was an immense and very geometric piece of work, their biggest man, about sixseven and 270, an oblong monument to the virtues of intimidation. His full hazy eyes squinted slowly deep inside the helmet as he whispered over the grass.
Nigger kike faggot. Kike fag. Kike. Nigger fag. Nigger kike faggot.
Hobbs faked a trigger pitch to Taft, then handed to me, a variation off the KC draw. Mike Mallon and I met headon. I went down a bit faster than he did. Hobbs called for a measurement although we were obviously short, almost a yard. I was breathing heavily as we rehuddled. I thought one or two ribs might be broken. Taft went straight ahead, bounced off Onan Moley and tried to take it outside. A linebacker grabbed his jersey, somebody else held him upright and then 77 stormed into him. I knew we had lost yardage and I took off my helmet and started off. I heard a scuffle behind me. I put my helmet back on. It was Jessup and number 62 ready to go at each other. Bloomberg moved between them and they started to circle him, cursing each other. Then somebody pushed 62 away and Anatole took Jessup by the arm and led him off. About ten yards away Taft was just getting to his feet. Tweego had Cecil Rector by the pads as I crossed the sideline.
I want you to fire out, boy. You're not blowing them out. You're not popping. I want you to punish that man. I want you to straighten him up and move him out. You're not doing any of those things.
I watched Creed take one very long step to the side in order to bring Cecil within hearing range. He spoke to Cecil while looking straight out toward the field, as if even the chaos of offensive and defensive units moving in and out was infinitely more noteworthy than this wellbalanced arrangement of armor and flesh.
You're too nice, son.
Yes sir.
You're not firing out, Tweego yelled. "That man is raping you. He is moving you at will. Sting him, goddamn it. Sting him. Sting him."
You're just too damn nice, Creed said.
Moving on the ground, Centrex picked up three, eight, nine, then lost four on a good tackle by Dennis Smee who went spinning off a block and hit the ballcarrier very hard around the midsection as he hesitated while bellying out on a sweep. Third and five. Telcon rolled out, got set to throw, saw his man covered, sidestepped Dickie Kidd and reversed his field. Buddy Shock just missed him way behind the line. Howard Lowry grabbed an ankle and then John Billy Small was all over Telcon. He seemed to be climbing him. They both went down on top of Lowry. Punt formation. Bobby Hopper called for a fair catch. My ribs seemed all right and and I went out. Three firecrackers went off in the stands. The crowd responded with prolonged applause.
Taft took a quick toss at the point and followed me inside their left end. Then I was down and somebody was running right over me. I heard a lot of noise, pads hitting, men grunting and panting. Then it all came down on top of me. I smelled the turf and waited for the bodies to unpile. My rib cage was beginning to ache, a sense of stickiness, of glue. I felt quite happy. Somebody's hand was at the back of my neck and he put all his weight on it as he lifted himself up.
Counterfreeze, blue2 wide, swing inside delay.
I flared to the left, taking Mallon with me. Taft waited for a twocount and swung over the middle. Under pressure Hobbs threw high. Third and four. I couldn't contain my man. I tried to hold him. Then he and two others were all over Hobbs. I walked off without looking back. Whiteside punted sixty yards in the air. Jeff Elliott moved along the bench toward me.
We're not moving the ball.
I know, I said.
That first drive was tremendous, Gary. But since then.
We'll probably get killed. I anticipate a final score of eightythree to seven.
Not this team. This is a real team. We've got the character to come back. We're only down seven. This is a team that goes out and plays.
I was just talking, Jeff. Psyching myself.
That's some way to psych yourself. How you feeling? Let me see that hand.
I'm feeling happy, I said. "Look at the arc lights, the crowd. Listen to those noises out there. Pop, pop, pop. Ving, ving. Existence without anxiety. Happiness. Knowing your body. Understanding the real needs of man. The real needs, Jeffrey."
I just meant your hand. It's all gouged up.
The universe was born in violence. Stars die violently. Elements are created out of cosmic violence.
Gary, this is football.
I'm just fooling around, Jeff. I'm not serious.
This team can come back. That's what all the pain and the struggle was for back there last summer. To give us the character to come back.
Quite right.
I believe in Coach, Jeff said. "He'll tell us what to do. Wait till half time. Coach will make adjustments."
Telcon hit his tight end near the sideline for twelve. Champ Conway came off holding his left shoulder and John Butler replaced him. Telcon completed two, missed one, hit one. He shook off Link Brownlee and threw to one of his backs who was just lounging around in the flat. The man took it all the way to our 17 before Bobby Luke caught him from behind. They picked up two on the ground, not very stylishly, Kidd and Lowry driving the ballcarrier back about ten yards while the official chased them blowing Ms whistle. Telcon overthrew a man in the end zone. Then he hit number 29 coming out of the backfield. Butler and Billy Mast put him down at the 9. They called time and Telcon looked toward his bench. Their head coach, Jade Kiley, turned to one of his assistants and said something. I looked at the clock. The fieldgoal team came on. Hauptfuhrer started shouting at the defense, howling at them. His face was contorted, squeezed into tense pieces. Sound of lamentation. It drifted across the clear night to all bright creatures curled beneath the moon.
Look out for the fake. Look out for the faaaaake. Aaaaaake. Aaaaaake. Aaaaaake.
They made the field goal. Bobby Iselin returned the kickoff to the 24. We all hurried out
Bed, Jerry Fallon said. "Pillow, sheet, blanket, mattress, spring, frame, headboard."
Hobbs hit Chuck Deering on a ponyout fcr nine. He worked the other sideline and Spurgeon Cole was forced out after picking up thirteen. The bench was shouting encouragement. Hobbs came back with an oppflux draw to Taft that picked up only two. He called time and went over to talk to Creed. I got my cleats scraped clean and watched Hobbs come trotting back; he seemed to have the answer to everything. I swung behind Deering, who was running a Qroute to clear out the area, and then I fanned toward the sideline and turned. The ball looked beautiful. It seemed overly large and bright. I could see it with perfect clarity. I backed up half a step, leaning with the ball. Then I had it and turned upfield. Somebody grabbed my ankle but I kicked away and picked up speed again, being sure to stay near the sideline. Two of them moved in now. They had the angle on me and I stepped out of bounds, I got hit and dropped and hit again. I came up swinging. Somebody pulled my jersey and I was kicked two or three times in the leg. I realized this was their side of the field. Fallon and Jessup pulled me awa The roughing cost them fifteen and that moved the bí inside their 20. Hobbs hit Cole on a spoonout to the 1 and we called time. He went off to confer with Cree again. Ron Steeples, who'd been knocked unconscious i the first quarter, came running in now to replace Chuc. Peering. He was happy to be back. The scent of gras and dirt filled my nostrils. Hobbs returned and we hud died. His primary receiver was Jessup on a shadowcoun? delay over the middle. I went into motion and the ball was snapped. I watched Jessup fake a block and come off the line. Hobbs looked to his left, pumpfaked, turned toward Jessup and fired. The ball went off Jessup's hand and right to their free safety, 46, who was standing on the goal line. We all stood around watching, either starüed or pensive, trying to retrace events. Then 46 decided to take off, evading Kimbrough and Rector, cutting inside me. I went after him at top speed. At the 30yard line I became aware of something behind me, slightly off to the side. White and green and coming on. Then it was past me, 22, Taft Robinson, running deftly and silently, a remarkable clockwork intactness, smoothly touring, no waste or independent movement. I didn't believe a man could run that fast or well. I slowed down and took off my helmet. Taft caught 46 just the other side of midfield, hitting him below the shoulders and then rolling off and getting to his feet in one motion. I stood there watching. The gun sounded and we all headed for the tunnel.
I sat on the floor sucking the sweet flesh out of half an orange. Onan Moley slid down the wall and settled next to me. Somebody's blood was all over the tape on his forearm.
We're hitting pretty good. he said. "They're just hitting better."
"They don't do anything unexpected. But they're the kind of team that gets stronger and stronger. They'll demolish us in the second half. They'll just keep coming. They'll keep getting stronger. I figure the final score to be about sixtysix to seven.
"That bad? Onan said.
Worse maybe.
We'll probably have to use cable blocking more often than not in the second half.
Imagine what it's like, I said, "to go against a major power. These people come on and on. So imagine what it must be like to go against a really major power."
Yeah, think what it must be like to take the field against Tennessee or Ohio State or Texas.
Against Notre Dame or Penn State.
The Fighting Irish, Onan said. "The Nittany Lions."
Imagine what it must be like to play before a hundred thousand people in the L.A. Coliseum.
And nationwide TV.
UCLA versus LSU.
One of the alltime intersectional dream games.
We'll never make it, I said. "We'll never even get out of here alive. They'll just keep coming and coming."
That fiftyfive is the meanest thing I ever hope to play against.
Mallon, I said.
That thing is clubbing me to death. He rears back and clubs me with a forearm every play. I start wincing as soon as I snap the damn ball because I know old fiftyfive is already bringing that forearm around to club my head. Gary, I only go about one ninetyeight That thing is easy two thirtyfive.
And still growing.
I guarantee you I'm not about to get him any madder than he was the day he was bom. I can take sixty minutes of clubbing as long as I know I'll never see that guy again. He is one mean person, place or thing.
The coaches started yelling for their people. Onan went over to Tweego's group and I went to the blackboard where Oscar Veech and Emmett Creed were waiting.
Creed spoke slowly and evenly, looking from Hobbs to Taft to me, ignoring the other quarterbacks and running backs gathered behind us. Bobby Hopper asked a questíon about the blocking assignments just put in for the drag slant right. Creed looked at Oscar Veech. It was rather strange. He didn't want to talk to anyone who couldn't help him win.
Right guard blocks down, Veech said. "Harkness takes out the end."
It wasn't time to go back out yet. I went and sat against another wall. Mitchell Gorse, a reserve safetyman, walked by. In his spotless uniform he looked a bit ludicrous.
We'll come back, Gary, he said.
Bullshit.
Across the room Bloomberg was sitting on a park bench that had somehow found its way into the dressing area. From somewhere I could hear Sam Trammel's voice.
Crackback. Crackback. Crackback.
My helmet, wobbling slightly, rocking, was on the floor between my feet. I looked into it. I felt sleepy and closed my eyes. I went away for a while, just one level down. Everything was far away. I thought (or dreamed) of a sunny green garden with a table and two chairs. There was a woman somewhere, either there or almost there, and she was wearing clothes of another era. There was music. She was standing behind a chair now, listening to a Bach cantata. It was Bach all right. When I lost the woman, the music went away. But it was still nice. The garden was still there and I felt I could add to it or take away from it if I really tried. Just to see if I could do it, I took away a chair. Then I tried to bring back the woman without the music. Somebody tapped my head and I opened my eyes. I couldn't believe where I was. Suddenly my body ached all over. They were getting up and getting ready to move out. I was looking into Roy Yellin's chewedup face.
They're putting me in for Rector, he said.
What's wrong with Cecil?
Nothing wrong with Cecil. He's just not hitting. He's getting beat. His man is overpowering him. Number seventyseven's his man. He looks real big, Gary. Big, strong and mobile. Those are Tweego's exact words. What do you think?
His tusks would bring a fortune in Zanzibar.
He's jamming up the damn middle. Coach just talked to me about it. He said to fire out and really hit. Really chop him up. What do you think, Gary? Supposin' I can't move him? They're counting on me to move that fucking mother animal.
He'll kill you, I said.
You think so?
He killed Cecil, didn't he? He'll kill you too. He'll drive you right back to the bench. He'll humiliate you, Roy. Coach'll have to send Skink in. He'll be reduced to that. Len Skink. DogBoy. He'll have to do it. Because seventyseven is going to eat your face. You'd better fake an injury the first time we have the ball. It's your only hope. I promise I won't let on. If you try to play against that big horrible thing, he'll send you home in pieces. He did it to Cecil and he'll do it to you. Look, Roy, I'm just kidding. It helps me relax.
Are you serious?
I'm kidding.
That's what I mean.
You'll do the job, Roy. I just said those things to undermine my sense of harmony. It's very complex. It has to do with the ambiguity of this whole business.
I got up and punched a locker. It was almost time. I didn't expect Creed to have any final words and I realized I was right when I saw George Owen get up on a chair. His gaze moved slowly across the room, then back again. He held his clenched fists against the sides of his head. Slowly, his knees began to bend.
Creeunch, he said softly. "Creeunch. Creech. Crunch."
We started to make noises.
You know what to do, he said, and his voice grew louder. "You know what this means. You know where we are. You know who to get."
We were all making the private sounds. We were getting ready. We were getting high. The noise increased in volume.
Footbawl, George Owen shouted. "This is footbawl. You thow it, you ketch it, you kick it. Footbawl. Footbawl. Footbawl."
We were running through the tunnel out onto the field. Billy Mast and I met at the sideline. He raised his hands above his head and then brought them down on my pads—one, two, three times. I jumped up and down and threw a shoulder into Billy. The band marched off now. We were both jumping up and down, doing private and almost theological calisthenics, bringing God into the frenzied body, casting out fear.
How to go, little Billy.
Hiyoto, hiyoto.
They're out to get us. They'll bleach our skulls with hydrosulfite.
They'll rip off our clothes and piss on our bare feet.
Yawaba, yawaba, yawaba.
How to go, Gary boy. How to jump, how to jump.
They'll twist our fingers back.
They'll kill us and eat us.
Centrex came out. We gathered around Creed again and then broke with a shout. The kickoff team went on. Bing Jackmin kicked to the 7 or 8 and they returned to the 31 where Andy Chudko hit the ballcarrier at full force and then skidded on his knees over the fallen player's body. I watched Creed take his stance at the midfield stripe. Bing Jackmin came off the field and sat next to me.
One two three anation. I received my confirmation. On the day of declaration. One two three anation.
They're coming out in a doublewing, I said.
It's all double, Gary. Double consciousness. Old form superimposed on new. It's a breakingdown of reality. Primitive mirror awareness. Divine electricity. The football feels. The football knows. This is not just one thing we're watching. This is many things.
You know what Coach says. It's only a game but it's the only game.
Gary, there's a lot more out there than games and players.
Telcon faked a handoff, dropped slowly back (ball on his hip), then lofted a pass to his flanker who had five steps on Bobby Luke. The ball went through his hands, a sure six, and he stood on our 45yard line just a bit stunned, his hands parted, a tall kid with bony wrists, looking upfield to the spot in time and space he would have been occupying that very second if only he had caught the football. They sagged a little after that and had to punt. Bobby Hopper called for a fair catch and fumbled. About six players fought for possession, burrowing, crawling, tearing at the ground. A Cenírex player leaped out of the mass, his fist in the air, and their offense came back on. Lee Roy Tyler limped to the sideline. Vern Feck stomped his clipboard, then turned his back to the field and looked beyond our bench, way out over the top of the stadium. From our 32 they picked up two, one and five on the ground. Telcon looked across at his head coach. We rose from the bench and crowded near the sideline. Centrex broke and set.
Hauptfuhrer chanted to his linemen: "Contain. Contain. Contain those people. Infringe. Infringe on them. Rape that man, Link. Rape him. Rayyape that man."
Dennis Smee, at middle linebacker, shouted down at the front four: "Tangotwo. Reset red. Hoke that bickie. Mutt, mutt, mutt."
John Butler fought off a block and held the ballcarrier upright at the 23. We made noises at the defense as they came off. Hobbs opened with a burn7 hitch to Ron Steeples off the fake picket. Second and one. Hobbs used playaction and threw to Spurgeon Cole, seamXin, leading him too much. Their tight safety came over to pick it off and ran right into Spurgeon. Their ball. Both players down. The safety needed a stretcher. Spurgeon came off on his own and then collapsed. I moved away from him, putting 'on my helmet as I watched Centrex move toward the line. A moment later I glanced over. The trainer was kneeling over Spurgeon and soon he was up and shaking his head. I took my helmet off. I patted him on the leg as he went by. He grinned down at me, a great raw grassy bruise on his left cheekbone.
Crash, he said.
You're all right.
Carash.
Telcon threw twice for first downs. Two holding penalties moved them back. They tried two draws. Then Buddy Shock turned a reverse inside. They punted dead on our 23. I went out, feeling the glue spreading over my ribs. Hobbs called a power 26 off the crossbow with Taft Robinson carrying. I went in low at their left end. He drove me to my knees and I grabbed an ankle and pulled. On his way down he put a knee into my head.
Out23, nearin belly toss.
Taft barely made it to the line of scrimmage. On a springaction trap I went straight ahead, careened off 77 and got leveled by Mike Mallon. He came down on top of me, breathing into my face, chugging like a train. I closed my eyes. The noise of the crowd seemed miles away.
Through my jersey the turf felt chilly and hard. I heard somebody sigh. A deep and true joy penetrated my being. I opened my eyes. All around me there were people getting off the ground. Directly above were the stars, elucidations in time, old clocks sounding their chimes down the bending universe. I regretted knowing nothing about astronomy; it would have been pleasant to calculate the heavens, Bloomberg was leaning over to help me to my feet. We joined the huddle. Garland Hobbs on one knee spoke into the crotches of those who faced him.
Brown feather right, thirtyone springT. On two. Break.
I couldn't believe it. The same play. The same play, I thought. He's called the same play. A fairly common maneuver, it somehow seemed rhapsodic now. How beautiful, I thought. What beauty. What a beautiful thing to do. Hobbs received the snapback, Roy Yellin pulled, and there I was with the football, the pigskin, and it was planted once more in my belly and I was running to daylight, to starlight, and getting hit again by Mallon, by number 55, by their middle linebacker, by fivefive, snorting as he hit me, an idiotically lyrical moment. Down I went, the same play, the grass and stars. It's all taking so long, I thought. The galaxy knows itself. The quasars repeat their telling of time. Nine tenths of the universe is missing. I was covered with large people. In a short while they raised themselves and I drifted back to the huddle. The chains came out. First down. Hobbs overthrew Jessup, then Steeples. Taft went wide for two. Centrex returned the punt to their 33.
Ted Joost squatted next to me on the sideline.
This whole game could be played via satellite. They could shoot signals right down here. We'd be equipped with electronic listening devices. Transistor things sealed into our headgear. We'd receive data from the satellites and run our plays accordingly. The quarterback gets one set of data. The linemen get blocking patterns. The receivers get pass routes. Ek cetera. Same for the defense. Ek cetera.
Who sends the data? I said.
The satellites.
Who feeds the satellites?
A computer provides the necessary input. There'd be a computerized data bank of offensive plays, of defensive formations, of frequencies. What works best against a sixone on second down and four inside your own thirty? The computer tells the satellite. The satellite broadcasts to the helmet. There'd be an offensive satellite and a defensive satellite.
Centrex stayed on the ground. Their guards and tackles came off the ball. Dickie Kidd was helped off and George Dole replaced him. They picked up nine, four, eight, three, three, six. They moved quickly in and out of the huddle. They kept grinding it out. They kept hitting, they kept moving. Billy Mast's jersey was torn off his back and he had to come off for a new one. He removed his helmet. Both his eyes were puffed up and there was a patch of dry blood at the corner of his mouth. Telcon skirted John Butler and picked up two key blocks. Bobby Iselin bumped him out at the 16.
Vern Feck to Butler: "Shitbird. Shitbird. Shitbird. Shit."^
Our defense called time to get organized. Larry Nix went in for Lloyd Philpot. I watched Lloyd come toward the bench. His jersey wasn't tucked into his pants. Tape was hanging from his left wrist and hand. He squatted down between Ted Joost and me.
I didn't infringe. The coaches wanted optimum infringement. But I didn't do the job. I didn't infringe.
Two running plays gained little or nothing. Then Telcon got pressure from Howard Lowry and had to throw the ball away. Their fieldgoal kicker came on. The ball hit the crossbar and bounced back.
Delta3 series, saddlebackin, shallow hinge reverse. Spanout option, jumbo trap.
I followed a good block by Jerry Fallon, tripping over somebody's leg and gaining only three. Then, on a column sweep, Taft turned the corner and picked up speed just as a lane opened and suddenly he was gone, out into open territory, and I watched from my knees as he dipped and swerved and cut past a cornerback, one motion, accelerating off the cut and heading straight for the last man, the free safety, and then veering off just slightly, almost contemptuously, not bothering to waste a good hipfake, still operating on that first immaculate thrust, cruising downhill from there. I was on my feet and following him. We were all running after him, running past our bench, everybody standing and yelling, jumping, looking at the back of his jersey, at 22 in white and green, the crowd up and screaming—a massive, sustained and somehow lonely roar. I slowed to a walk and watched Taft glide into the end zone. He executed a dainty little curl to the left and casually dropped the football. Moody Kimbrough stumbled over the goal line and picked him up. Then Fallon and Jessup were there and they were all carrying Taft back across the goal line, holding him at the waist and under the arms, and Roy Yellin was jumping up and down and smacking Taft on the helmet. Spurgeon Cole stood beneath the goal posts, repeating them, arms raised in the shape of a crossbar and uprights, his fists clenched. The crowd was still up, leaning, in full voice, addressing its own noise. Taft came off. Bing Jackmin kicked the extra point. I hit Taft on the helmet and sat next to Tim Flanders.
We got a game going now, he said. "We got a game going. We got a game going now."
I think my ribs are busted, I said. "You're okay. You're okay. You're okay." Bing kicked out of bounds and had to do it over. They returned to the 38. The quarter ended. I went over to hit Taft on the helmet again. Hauptfuhrer and Vern Feck were explaining something about gapangle blocking to Dennis Smee. Emmett Creed moved his right foot over the grass, a few inches either way. This was his power, to deny us the words we needed. He was the maker of plays, the namegiver. We were his chalkscrawls. Something like that.
Centrex stayed inside the tackles, making two first downs. Then Telcon handed to his big back, 35, and I watched him come right toward us, toward the bench, rumbling over the turf, really pounding along. He got ready to lower a shoulder as he sensed Buddy Shock coming straight across from his linebacker's spot They met before the runner could turn upfield. Buddy left his feet as he made contact, coming in hard, swinging a forearm under the lowered shoulder. They went down a few yards away from us. We heard the hard blunt heavy sound of impact and then the wild boar grunt as they hit the ground and bounced slightly, gasping now, breathing desperately, looking into the earth for knowledge and power. Standing above them we watched solemnly, six or seven of us, as Buddy put his hand on the ballcarrier's head and pushed himself upright. Then 35 got to his feet, slowly, still panting. John Jessup spoke to him, conversationally, in a near whisper.
You're a nippleprick, thirtyfive. You're an eensieweensie. You got your dong from a cereal box.
He's barely got a dong, Jim Deering said.
Nippleprick. Nippleprick.
Eensie, eensie, eensie.
They stayed on the ground, moving to our 16. Telcon rolled out right, threw left. Their tight end, all alone on the 5, walked in with it. I felt tired suddenly. A wave of sorrow passed over our bench. After the extra point, they kicked away from Taft, a low floater that Ted Joost fell on at the 29. Taft picked up three on a ripslant. Roy Yellin came up limping.
Walk it off, Kimbrough told him.
Oh mother, Yellin said. "Oh Grace Porterfield Yellin. Oh it hurts, it hurts."
Walk it off, shovelhead.
Zone set, triple tex, offhit recon dive.
I was passblocking for Hobbs. The big thing, 77, shed Yellin and came dogpaddling in. I jammed my helmet into his chest and brought it up fast, striking his chin. He made a noise and kept coming, kept mauling me. He backed me up right into Hobbs and we all went down. I heard the coaches screaming, their voices warming our huddle. Hobbs left the pocket and threw to Taft in a crowd. A linebacker tipped it, gained control and brought it in. Taft got a piece of him and Ron Steeples put him down. As we went off, Oscar Veech screamed into our chests.
What in the hell is going on here? What are you feebs doing out there? What in the goddamn goatshit hell is the name of the game you people are playing?
The ball was spotted at our 33. Dennis Smee moved along the line, slapping helmets and pads. Jessup sat next to me on the bench. Blades of grass were stuck to the dry blood on his face. Centrex shifted into a tightT. Halfback picked up four. Telcon kept for six. Halfback went straight ahead for nine. Halfback went straight ahead for eight. Fullback went offtackle for four. Fullback went straight ahead, taking George Dole into the end zone with him. The extra point was good.
Feeuck, Jessup said.
It's all over.
Feeuck, man. This game is still on. I get that sixtytwo yet. I get his ass and whip it into shape. Damnright. get that shitpiss sixtytwo and beat his black ass into the ground.
He's white,Isaid.
I know he's white. They're all white. Everybody's white. Those black fucks.
Taft took the kickoff six yards deep and brought it out to the 44. Len Skink reported in for Yellin. Randy King replaced Onan Moley. Terry Madden came in at quarterback. He hit Taft on a snowbird flare for no gain. He threw deep to Steeples incomplete. He fumbled the snap and fell on it. Bing Jackmin met me at the sideline.
Our uniforms are green and white, he said. "The field itself is green and white—grass and chalk markings. We melt into our environment. We are doubled in the primitive mirror."
I walked down to the very end of the bench. Raymond Toon was all alone, talking into his right fist.
There it goes, end over end, a high spiral. The deep man avoids or evades would be better. Down he goes, woof. First and ten at the twentysix or thirtyone. Now they come out in a flood left to work against a rotating zone.
Toony, that's not a flood.
Hey, Gary. Been practicing.
So have we.
There they go. Andy Chudko, in now for Butler, goes in high, number sixtyone, Andy Chudko, fumble, fumble, six feet even, about two twentyfive, doubles at center on offense, Chudko, Chudko, majoring in airport commissary management, plays a guitar to relax, no other hobbies, fumble after the whistle. College football—a pleasant and colorful way to spend an autumn afternoon. There goes five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven yards, big thirtyfive, twelve yards from our vantage point here at the Orange Bowl in sundrenched Miami, Florida. John Billy Small combined to bring him down. John Billy, as they break the huddle, what a story behind this boy, a message of hope and inspiration for all those similarly afflicted, and now look at him literally slicing through those big ballcarriers. Capacity crowd. Emmett Big Bend Creed. Mike Mallon, they call him Mad Dog. Telcon. Multitalented. A magician with that ball. All the color and excitement. He's got it with a yard to spare off a good block by fiftythree or seventythree. Woof. Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh or Cincinnati. Perfect weather for football. Time out on the field. And now back to our studios for this message. They're a powerhouse, Gary. They play power football. I'd like to get in there and see what I could do. It looks like some of the guys got banged up pretty bad.
Nobody's died yet. But then the game isn't over. "Telcon looks out over the defense. He's a good one. Hut, hut, offside. He's one of the good ones. Plenty of hitting out on that field. I'm sure glad I'm up here. D.C. Stadium in trie heart of the nation's capital. Crisp blue skies. Emmett Big Bend Creed. And there's more on tap next week when the Chicago Bears, the monsters of the midway, take on the always rough and tough Green Bay Packers of coach something something. Gary, what's going to happen up there on the banks of the Fox River in little Green Bay when the big bad Bears come blowing in from the windy city?"
You'd better take it easy, I said. "Try to get a grip on things. I'm serious, Toony. You'd better slow down. I really think you'd better watch yourself."
I went over and sat with Garland Hobbs. Centrex was running sweeps. They picked up a first down at our 38. People began to go home. Somebody in the stands behind us, way up high, was blowing into some kind of air horn. It sent a prehistoric cry across the night, a message of grief from the hills down to the suffering plain. Objects were thrown out of the stands.
Fug, Hobbs said. "That's all I can say. That's the only word in my head right now. Fug, fug, fug."
Somebody fumbled and Link Brownlee fell on it. I hit Hobbs on the pads and went out. Terry Madden left the pocket, what there was of it, and headed toward the sideline, looking downfield for someone to throw to. Their left end pushed him out of bounds and a linebacker knocked him over the Centrex bench. I strolled over there. Players were milling about, shoving each other just a bit.
Jessup to Dumber 62: "Suckmouth. Peach pit. Shitfinger."
They got fifteen yards for roughing. We went to the near hashmark and huddled. Madden's nose was bleeding, Aí the snap I moved into my frozen insect pose, ready to passblock. Jessup ignored his pass route and went right at the linebacker playing over him, 62, leading with a forearm smash to the head and following with a kick in the leg. I watched 62 actually bare his teeth. Soon everybody was in it, swinging fists and headgear, kicking, spitting, holding on to pads, clutching jerseys, both benches emptying now, more objects sailing out of the stands. I was in the very middle of the rocking mass. It was relatively safe there. We were packed too tightly for any serious punching or kicking to be done. The real danger was at the periphery where charges could be made, individual attacks mounted, and I felt quite relaxed where I was, being rocked back and forth. A lot of crazed eyes peered out of the helmets nearby. In the distance I could see some spectators climbing over the guard rails and running onto the field. Then there was a sudden shift in equilibrium and I caught an elbow in the stomach. I turned, noted color of uniform, and started swinging. I moved in for more, very conscious of the man's number, 45, backfield, my size or smaller. Somebody ran into me from behind and I went down. It was impossible to get up. I crawled over bodies and around churning legs. I reached an open area and got to my knees. There was someone standing above me, a spectator, a man in a white linen suit, his hand over his mouth, apparently concealing something, and he seemed to be trying to speak to me, but under the circumstances it was not possible to tell what he was saying or even in what language he was saying it. A player tripped over me; another player, backpedaling, ended in my lap. Then I was completely buried. By the time I got out, it was just about over. Jessup and 62 were down on the ground, motionless in each other's arms, neither one willing to relinquish his hold. But nobody was fighting now and the officials moved in. It took them about half a minute to persuade Jessup to let go of the other player. I felt all right. My ribs didn't ache for the moment. Both men were thrown out for fighting. The field was cleared. Randy King sat on the grass, trying to get his right shoe back on.
Twin deck left, ride series, white divide. Gapangle down, 17, dummy stitch. Bone country special, doubleD to right.
Papers blew across the field. I put a gentle block on their left end, helping out Kimbrough. Madden threw to nobody in particular. The stands were almost empty now. I ran a desultory curl pattern over the middle, putting moves on everybody I passed, including teammates. Madden threw behind me. I reached back with my left hand and pulled it in, a fairly miraculous catch. There was open field for a second. Then I was hit from the side and went down. One of their cornerbacks helped me up. I returned to the huddle. We went to the line and set. The left side of our line was offside. We went back again. Taft ran a near offbike delay that picked up four. The gun sounded. I walked off the field with newspapers whipping across my legs. We went quietly through the tunnel and into the locker room. We began taking off our uniforms. In front of me, Garland Hobbs took a long red box from the bottom of his dressing area. The label on it read ALLAMERICAN QUARTERBACK, A MENDELSOHNTOPPINO sports motivation concept. Carefully he opened the box. He arranged twentytwo figurines on a tiny gridiron and then spun a dial. His team moved smartly downfield. Sam Trammel went along the rows of cubicles, asking for complete silence. I assumed a team prayer was forthcoming. Next to me, Billy Mast recited a few German words to himself in the total stillness. When I asked for a translation he said it was just a simple listing of things— house, bridge, fountain, gate, jug, olive tree, window. He said the German words gave him comfort, though not as much as they used to when he didn't know what they meant.
Hauptfuhrer was standing over us. "Shut up and pray," he said.
lenny wells walked up the aisle toward the rear of the bus. He was wearing his fuzzy white Hibbs & Harmon cowboy hat, a gift from an Oklahoma uncle. He also wore a cast on bis left arm, no less a gift judging from the proud look on bis face, the sense of selfesteem that noble wounds tend to arouse. Sunlight came through the rear window and he blinked and winced into it, then grinned at Billy Mast and me, spinning into the seat in front of us and turning with the grin on his face and wincing again into the sun.
They broke it, he said. "It's a clean fracture. Right below the elbow. I saw the x ray. It's broke clean. They broke it all right. No question about it."
I hate to tell you how many yards they gained rushing, Billy said. "A lot of them right over my frail body."
I didn't even see the last three quarters, Lenny said. "I was having this thing looked at. Having this thing of mine xrayed."
Where's Creed? I said. "I haven't seen Creed all morning."
The driver closed the door and eased onto the highway. This time there was no separation of offense and defense; the two buses were mixed. Lenny turned toward the front and put the hat down over his eyes. The sun came in through the side windows now. Physically I felt more or less intact. After the game the trainer had looked at my ribs and they were all right, just bruised. Both my legs were bruised also. With the game over I wondered what had made it seem so important. It was nothing now. I remembered only by my body, vaguely, in terms of soreness. There were two games still to play but I didn't look forward to them. I realized I had nothing to look forward to, nothing at all. I hoped this was just a momentary postgame depression.
How's Conway? I said.
Collarbone, Billy Mast said. "I don't know how bad. He must be in the other bus. I haven't seen him. But I know it's the collarbone. Kimbrough told me at breakfast. They got the collarbone."
How's Lee Roy Tyler?
Knee. They got the knee. Wrenched knee. Not too bad. He'll be ready.
What about Randy King?
Knee. Knee. They bundsided him. They got him good. Last play of the game. The blind side. They got the knee. They caved it in on him.
What about Yellin? How's Yellin? He was really hopping around.
They got the ankle. They kicked it and then stepped on it. I saw it this morning. The right ankle. It's badly swollen. It's purplish in color. He'll be limping for a few days.
Dickie Kidd, I said.
Shoulder separation. Deep bruise on left calf. Latter injury reported to be of particular interest. Starshaped. Multicolored.
How'd he get it?
Shrapnel, Billy said.
What about Jessup? Jessup was running around halfmad. Signs of violence were rife.
He bit his tongue. Fat lip too. Swelling under both eyes. No further comment at this time.
Who else got what?
Bobby Iselin, pulled hamstring. Terry Madden, broken nose. Ron Steeples, mild concussion. Len Skink, worms. Everybody else, assorted contusions and lacerations.
What about Fallon? I saw them working on Fallen in the training room.
Fallon. An oversight on my part. Fallon. They got his middle finger.
What did they do with it?
They broke it.
We rode in silence for a while. Jerry Fallon came back and showed us his finger. One of his teeth had been knocked out and he showed us the blank space. I had slept ten hours the night before but I was getting sleepy. Fallon went away and I settled down in the seat. Up front Andy Chudko started strumming his silver guitar. Dennis Smee, the defensive captain, was moving slowly up the aisle, stopping at every seat and saying something to the occupants. As he got closer he took a stick of gum out of his breast pocket and put it in his mouth. Every few seconds his tongue would appear, wrapped in transparent spearmint, and he'd produce a perfect little bubble and then snap it with his front teeth. He was leaning over Chudko now. A sentence entered my mind. I spoke the words with a monotonous intonation.
Uh, this is maxcom, robomat.
Billy Mast looked at me.
Robomat, this is maxcom. Do you read?
Uh, roger, maxcom, he said.
You're looking real good, robomat. Is that affirm?
Uh, roger. We're looking real good.
What is your thermal passive mode control?
Vector five and locking.
Uh, what is your inertial thrust correction on fourth and long?
We read circularize and nonadjust.
That is affirm, robomat. You are looking real super on the inset retro deployment thing. We read three one niner five niner. Twelve seconds to adapter vent circuit cutoff.
"Affirmative, maxcom. Three one niner five niner. Twelve seconds to vent cut. There is God. We have just seen God. He is all around us.
"Uh, roger, robomat. Suggest braking burn and midcourse tracking profile. Autopath is transtandem. Blue and holding.
Dennis Smee reached us now. He looked very sincere. The chewing gum crackled between his teeth. He whispered to us.
We didn't give it enough. We didn't let it all hang out. But it's over now and we still have two games to play. Next week we find out what we're made of. We have to be big out there. A lot of the guys are hurting. Practically everybody's hurting. But we have to shake it off and come back. We have to guard against a letdown. You can suffer a letdown by winning big or a letdown by losing big. Either way it's dangerous. Kimbrough's over in the other bus saying the exact same thing. We worked it out at breakfast, word for word. That's our function as cocaptains. To work for the good of the team.
Function, Billy said. "A rule of correspondence between two sets related in value and nature to the extent that there is a unique element in one set assigned to each element in the corresponding set, given the respective value differences."
I stepped out of the bus under a strange silverwhite sky. It was awful to be back. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, to look forward to. I went searching for Myna. She was wearing an Icelandic sheep coat, a visored butterscotch cap, her 1930 celluloid bracelet, and tricolored hockey socks.
I'm trying to be honest here, I said. "I don't know whether I'm serious about liking you or not. Maybe I just like you because it's an odd thing to do. Sometimes I like to do odd things."
Gary, don't fool around. You know the way I am.
Okay, I'm sorry.
Did they hurt you, baby?
They killed me, I said.
the next day we learned that the athletic department, meaning Creed, had hired a sports information director. Immediately I fashioned a theory based on the relationship between defeat and the need for publicity, or antipublicity, the elevation of evasive news to the level of literature. The man's name was Wally Pippich, formerly of Wally Pippich Creative Promotion Associates—Reno, Nevada. Later that week he sent word that he wanted to see me. His office was located in the basement of Staley Hall, near the boiler room, in a small corridor where mops and buckets were kept.
Wally was a stubby man with a crew cut and long sideburns. He shook my hand and told me to have a seat. There were cartons and stacks of photographs everywhere. On the floor near my chair were color photos of a roller derby team, a chimpanzee riding a motorcycle through a flaming hoop, and a girl in a bikini surrounded by a bunch of paraplegics holding bowling balls in their laps. In another picture Wally stood with his arm around a young man who wore a gold lame jumpsuit and held an accordion. Wally wore a straw hat in the picture. The word whamo was lettered across the hatband.
Gary Harkness. Good name. Promotable. I like it. I even love it.
Thank you.
Relax and call me Wally.
Right, I said.
Tough loss you're coming off. Emmett gave me the whole scoop. Scoopation. I've known Emmett for seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven years. When my boy gets to be your age, I'm sending him right to Emmett. I don't care if Emmett's coaching in the Arctic Circle—up he goes. Emmett Creed is one hell of a human being. Nothing short of sensational. Am I exaggerating, Gary?
Not one iota.
Let's get down to basics. I've been spending the last few days finding my way around. I've talked to the coaches. I've talked to Emmett. I've even talked to Mrs. Tom. Here's the approach as I conceive it. Taft Robinson and Gary Harkness. The T and G backfield. Taft and Gary. Touch and Go. Thunder and Gore.
A little wordplay. A thing with letters.
We get the vital stats. We get action photos. We get background stuff. The T and G backfield. We release to newspapers, to sports pubs, to local radio and TV, to the networks. The whole enchilada. Taft Robinson and Gary Harkness. I like the sound of those names. Some names produce a negative gut reaction in my mind. Cyd Charisse. Mohandas K. Gandhi. Xerxes. But TaftandGary has a cute little ring to it. I know I like it and I may even love it.
So what you're doing then, if I understand you correctly, is a public relations thing, based on football, using Taft and me as spearheads, for the good of the school, more or less.
Gary, that's as good a capsule summary as I could give myself. See that big carton over there? That carton arrived this morning. Know what's in there? The files of two hundred high school football players. These boys have definite market value. These are Cminus boys or better who are top football players. Now we'll get maybe thirtyfive of these boys and give them each a grant. With Emmett's nationwide charisma we'll get a few outofstate boys as well. Maybe another Taft Robinson or Gary Harkness. And then this tiny little grasshopper institute has a chance to make it big. Bigation. Gary, I'll tell you the honest truth. What I know about football you can inscribe with a blunt crayon around the rim of a shot glass.
You're not a fan, Wally?
I don't know squat about football. I'm an indoors man. But I know the whys and wherefores of the entertainment doEar. People want spectacle plus personality. I've handled country rock freaks. I've handled midget wrestlers. Once I handled a song stylist named Mary Boots Weldon who had her goddamn throat removed because of cancer and kept right on singing out of the little voice box they put in there, croaking out these tearful ballads and drawing bigger crowds than ever. Mary Boots Weldon. Jesus, what an act. I lost my drift. What was I getting at?
Wally, I don't understand why you need me as part of this thing. I'm a pretty fair runner and blocker and receiver. Better than average. But Taft is on another level.
Gary, let me shake your hand. Handation. You're a modest lad and I like that kind of attitude in a business like mine. But you're talking football and I don't know squat about football. I'm talking human interest. I'm talking dramatic balance. I'm talking bang bang—the onetwo punch. Look, you've had your problems at schools in the past. I know all about that. I also know you've settled down to become one of the real reliables. Speaking just from the football angle and from all I could gather from the various sources I've been in touch with around here, it's frankly pretty obvious that you know how to comport yourself in every aspect of the game.
Well, I said.
No, I'm serious, Gary. You can do it all.
Thank you.
No, I mean it. You can really do it all.
Thanks, Wally.
No, I really mean it. You're one of the team leaders.
Right.
No, I wouldn't lie to you, Gary. The word on you is the same everywhere I turn.' Gary Harkness? Gary Harkness can do it all.
I think you'd be better off concentrating on Taft.
I like your attitude, Gary. I like the way you comport yourself. This thing's going to work out real fine. Emmett's behind me one hundred and ten percent. That's the kind of man he is. I'd stand up and speak out for Emmett Creed in any public place in the country. And I'm sure you'd do the same. Gary, you're everything they told me you were. Let me shake your goddamn hand.
after our eighth game, which we won easily, I finished showering and went to my cubicle to get dressed. Lloyd Philpot Jr., wearing a jockstrap and red socks, was waiting for me.
I have to talk to you, he said.
Sure.
I have some information I want to pass along.
Okay.
There might be a queer on the squad.
A queer, I said.
I found out about it just before we left here at half time. Roy Yellin told me about it. He told me to keep it quiet until we can decide what to do.
I guess Yellin heard it from Onan. I think I heard Onan mention it once.
Yellin heard it from Rush.
Who's Rush?
Mike Rush. One of the marginal players. A fringe guy. He's been out with groin damage.
Okay, I said. "So who's the queer?"
I don't know, Lloyd said. "I just know there is one."
But Yellin didn't tell you who it is.
Yellin doesn't know either. He told me he just knows somebody on the squad is queer.
Does Mike Rush know who it is?
Does Mike Rush know who it is. I don't know. Yellin didn't say.
What did Mike Rush offer as evidence that there's a queer on the team?
What did Mike Rush offer as evidence, Lloyd said.
Right.
I don't know, he said. "But Mike's not the type to make up stories. I know Mike pretty well. Mike's daddy is a committee vicechairman."
Look, Lloyd, why are you telling me this?
To get your thinking on it, Gary. Yellin and I are getting together in Ms room later on to figure out what to do. I'm for Kimbrough. Go to Kimbrough with it.
Because he's one of the captains.
That's it, that's it. But Yellin wants to go to Dennis Smee. Yellin can't stand Kimbrough. He hates Kimbrough's stinking guts. So he's leaning toward Smee. Maybe even one of the coaches. But I don't think we should go to the coaches at this point. You start with the lowerdowns. That's the way it is in anything. Either way we have to figure out what to do and pretty damn soon. There are guys walking around here naked right now. It could be any one of them.
I began to worry seriously about the fact that the season was nearly over. There would be no more football until spring practice in April. Without football there was nothing, really and absolutely nothing, to look forward to.
In class Major Staley lectured on the firststrike survival capability of our nuclear arsenal, ranging from the landbased Minuteman and Titan missile silos to the nuclearpowered Polaris submarine missilelaunching fleet to the more than five hundred combatready bombers of the Strategic Air Command. There were about fortyfive student cadets in Major Staley's class and they were all very conscientious. But somehow, without even trying, I was by far the best student in class. I knew the manual almost by heart and I had read everything the school library had to offer on aspects of modern war. I asked the most penetrating questions. I got perfect scores on every quiz. After his talk on survival capability, the major asked me to remain after class for a moment. I walked up front and stood by his desk. He seemed to be looking into my nostrils.
Gary, you're wasting your time just auditing this course. You could be getting two credits for it. Join the cadet wing. It's a good wing. We need your kind of mind in the wing. Two credits. A meaningful future. The Air Force is the most selfactualizing branch of the military. Do one thing for me. Think about joining the wing. Just think about it. No more, no less.
The wing, I said. "You want me to join the wing."
You've got the mind. You've got the good body and the good eyes.
I don't really, sir, think that I want to go that far in my commitment to this interest I have, seem to have, in the subject matter we've been involved in here. I'm interested in certain areas of this thing in a purely outside interest kind of way. Extracurricular. I don't want to drop Hbombs on the Eskimos or somebody. But I'm not necessarily averse to the purely speculative features of the thing. The hypothetical areas.
Gary, I'm not asking you to drop bombs on anybody.
Major, you join an organization like the United States Air Force and before you know it—
The leg's been giving me trouble, he said.
What leg is that, sir?
The right leg. I don't know what's the matter with it. I'll have to have it looked at again. They looked at it once before. But I guess they'll have to look again.
What did they find the first time?
Tests were inconclusive.
You'd better be sure to have it looked at, I said.
Gary, you've got the seekingout kind of mind we need in this branch of the service. This arm of the service. Whatever you want to call it.
I don't know. I don't think so.
You've got the good eyes. You're an athlete and that's always a plus factor. You've got the body. You've got the probing mind.
I'm here to play football, major.
It won't interfere very much. Two hours of drills a week. You're already taking the required classroom work. We've got nine football players in the wing.
Sir, it's the hypothetical part of it that interests me. I really wouldn't want to get too close to it. I wouldn't want to put on a uniform or anything like that. I wouldn't want to march or visit air bases. I'm interested in certain provinces, areas, and I don't want to get any closer than that. I don't want to get any closer at all.
Do one thing for me. Think about it. Just think about it. It's a damn good wing for a school this size. Do that for me, Gary. Think about it.
No, I said.
You can't say I didn't try. I tried, didn't I?
You were very convincing, major. Really, you almost had me there for a minute.
We walked across campus together. I had a class in exobiology coming up and I didn't want to be late. But although I was hurrying right along I had trouble keeping pace with the major. We said goodbye to each other and as he turned to head for the barracks his right leg suddenly buckled and he almost went down. I watched him as he regained his balance and then tried to continue on his way, not looking back at me, limping badly, trying to adjust to the burden of his own weight. I turned and saw Myna Corbett fifty yards ahead. I ran to catch up with her, picking up speed the last ten yards and then coming to an abrupt stop in order to frighten her. It worked beautifully: her startled body was lifted an inch off the ground.
Zapalac circled his desk as he spoke.
It should be interesting to ask what our life on earth owes to all those comets which deposited so many millions of tons of chemical materials when they crashed into us in the formative years of our history, our growingup years, and it's probably not too overly poetic to maintain that we were being nourished by the heavens, helped along for our first two billion years or until we could finally do it ourself, synthesize basic materials, take the first step in returning the favor, heading out into space with chow mein dinners fresh from the freezer. But if the truth be known, I'm not really all that fascinated by the carbon content of meteorites or arguing about exactly when the first living organisms appeared on earth. My own feeling is twoseventeen b.c. at Kearney, Nebraska. But what about the last living organisms, the spores and hydrozoans left behind after our protectors protect us into oblivion? We'll all end as astroplankton, clouds of dusty stuff drifting through space. Let me ask. What's the strangest thing about this country? It's that when I wake up tomorrow morning, any morning, the first bit of fear I have doesn't concern our national enemies, our traditional coldwar or whateverkindofwar enemies. I'm not afraid of those people at all. So then who am I afraid of because I'm definitely afraid of somebody. Listen and I'll tell you. I'm afraid of my own country. I'm afraid of the United States of America. It's ridiculous, isn't it? But look. Take the Pentagon. If anybody kills us on a grand scale, it'll be the Pentagon. On a small scale, watch out for your local police. Look at you looking at me that way, some of you. Question. Will two polite collegeeducatedofcourse friendly agents of the brainwash squad knock on my door at three in the morning? You see my winning infectious smile and you know I'm not worried. This is America. We say what we want. I could talk all day, citing chapter and verse. But when the true test comes, I'll probably go running to a beauty shop, if you can find one in this neck of the world, and I'll get my hair dyed blond so everybody will think I'm one of those small blondie boys with that faraway look in their eyes who used to be so big on the Himmelplatz three or four decades ago. We're supposed to be talking about biotic potential in today's session as it applies to organisms in farflung environments, far beyond the highways and byways of our solar system. Man's biotic potential diminishes as everything else increases. That pithy little formula may well earn me a research grant to study modes of survival on the other side of the atmosphere. The first orbiting fellowship. I have a deep thought for you. Science fiction is just beginning to catch up with the Old Testament. See artificial nitrates run off into the rivers and oceans. See carbon dioxide melt the polar ice caps. See the world's mineral reserves dwindle. See war, famine and plague. See barbaric hordes defile the temple of the virgins. See wild stallions mount the prairie dogs. I said science fiction but I guess I meant science. Anyway there's some kind of mythical and/or historic circlething being completed here. But I keep smiling. I keep telling myself there's nothing to worry about as long as the youth of America knows what's going on. Brains, brawn, good teeth, tallness. I look at your faces and I have to let out a controversial little grin. Some of you in your nifty blue uniforms here to learn about outer space and how to police it. Uniforms, flags, battle hymns. I offer you my only quotable remark of the entire fall semester. A nation is never more ridiculous than in its patriotic manifestations. Why should I be afraid of my own government? There's something wrong here. But I'm not worried. Fortunately I'm good at ducking. I can bob and weave with the best of them. It takes a lot to stop a little man. Let's open to page seventyeight. The panspermia hypothesis and its heartwarming implications.
After class Myna invited Zapalac to our picnic that afternoon. I collected my mail and went to my room. Bloomberg was silently asleep, curled about the pillow in a dream. There was a letter in my father's handwriting. It concerned my trip home at Christmastime, still about a month away.
Flying is easy if you keep alert and know what you're doing. When you get to the MidlandOdessa airport, go straight to the ticket counter of the airline you're flying. If the airport there is too small to have separate ticket counters, go to the single allpurpose counter. All right, you're at the counter now. You hand the person the ticket and you put your suitcase on the weight machine. (Carry your ticket in the inside left pocket of your jacket. That's the best place because you're righthanded and you'll be able to reach it easier. It's also safe from anybody with ideas on their mind. They go looking for credit cards to steal mostly. You don't have one yet.) The airline employee will write on your ticket and stamp some things on it purely for airline use and then he'll give you back the ticket and tell you the gate number to go to. Go at once to that gate. If you fool around and start exploring the airport or wandering off somewhere like you always do, you're going to miss your plane. So head for the gate right off the bat and avoid headaches later on. If you have trouble finding the gate, ask someone in authority. That usually means uniformed personnel. When you find the gate, you give your ticket to the man on duty and he sends you aboard the plane. (Your luggage is already on.) Try to get a window seat so you can look out. Don't go to the bathroom until after the plane takes off. Follow similar procedures to the abovementioned at the Dallas and NYC airports. We'll be at the airport in Saranac Lake to meet you when you land. If there's any foulup, I'm telling your Aunt Helen where we'? be. So if you don't see us, call your Aunt Helen and she'll know where we are. She's staying home that day on purpose. Don't forget to ask her about her wisdom tooth. And be sure you carry some land of identification in case of a crash.
For some reason the letter was signed by my mother (Love, Mom). I put it away and got the dictionary. It was time to add a new word to my vocabulary. My word for the day was apotheosis. I looked out the window and repeated to myself the word and its meaning. I used it in three different sentences. I liked the word. It was a particularly beautiful word to be memorizing while looking across the smoldering flannel plain to the tender seam of earth and sky. It was a word lavish with sunlight, with the gods' gladsome songs, the golden power of the sun. I got a blanket and went out to meet Myna.
We ate some fruit and discussed Mexico. She seemed serious about going. 'She wanted to live in a house that jutted out over a high crag, a house with gardens inside and out. We'd grow our own food, get high whenever we wanted, and read the lives of the saints to each other through the terrifying nights. Zapalac joined us then, loudly, dropping to the blanket as if expecting a sudden burst of smallarms fire. His face split into a warm smile, teeth creamy and even, a filament of spittle fluttering between upper and lower sets.
I'm glad to be here, he said. "With me it's a constant and neverending race to get from someplace of no particular distinction to someplace where you were better off before you got there. But this is different. A real, an actual picnic."
We do it a lot, Myna said. "It's nice to get away, even a few yards."
This whole place, no exaggeration, is close to> unbelievable. From the first day I arrived I figured any minute now the word will go out and everybody will wake up one morning and get out of bed and put on a uniform, an actual military uniform, because everybody will know that the word is out, everybody but me, and they'll see me walking 'around in my frayed twobutton suit that I've worn since high school with moths circling me like vultures ever since and they'll stand me up at a very choice spot against the nearest wall and let me have it. Granted I'm a little bit paranoid. But I've got a nose for terror. I can sense it. I can hear the engines revving. Still, I like it better here than in the Midwest where I was teaching last and where I came across nothing but insanely neat, wellgroomed and punctual Republicans. It nearly killed me, the sight of them all, because I get a lift out of, if anything, the confusions, the potential for disorganization in things and people. But my wife is from the Midwest, my wifetobe if we ever get to see each other again in order to get married, meaning who knows when they'll put on their uniforms and feed me to the dingo dogs out there or whatever they're called, and she's just like the rest of them so I think a certain amount of unpredictability is going to be introduced into her life that she didn't know was lurking on the back steps. Those people know their place. They're masters of the categories of things. They've been raised to believe everything they're told by their elders. They do things in alphabetical order. They know their place. They've known it since early childhood. Drummed into them by respectable parents. The same people who are ripping up the forests with their engines, their moneybuilding machines. But imagine. To respect your elders. It's remarkable, isn't it?
I never forget that they're the enemy, Myna said.
Gary Harkness—is that your name?
Right.
A football player.
That's right.
Fantastic, Zapalac said. "What I wouldn't give to be an ace quarterback for the Denver Broncos. I love sports. I love football. I reject the notion of football as warfare. Warfare is warfare. We don't need substitutes because we've got the real thing. Football is discipline. It's team love. It's reason plus passion. The crowds are fantastic. They jump and scream. Hockey, I love hockey. Basketball, too much sweating goes on where you can see it. It's a sweating sport, an armpit sport. But football, I love football. I'm crazy for it. I wallow in it."
The real needs of man, I said.
Fantastic, he said.
Have an orange, Myna said.
What you were saying earlier about what scares you. Where the true danger is. Something about patriotic manifestations.
Let me just simply mention flagwaving and the insane repetitive ritualizing that goes on every time a flag is hiked up a pole or some veterans of Gettysburg come hobbling along with their medals, their stickpins, their poppies, their flags, their hats, their banners, their bumper stickers, or some simple sports event where you look up suddenly and there's sixteen thousand Shriners and Masons with their comical Turkish hats and they're covering every inch of the playing field with, in the middle of them all, three hundred and eightyfive high school 'girls dressed in red, white and blue who are prostrating themselves on the cold earth as they assume the shape of an American flag being dragged through yak dung by syphilitic foreign students and off to the side there's some crippled television personality in a wheelchair and pulleys singing the national anthem as the cystic fibrosis child of the month poses in the nude for the cover of Life. I tend to worry about such spectacles.
Back in my hometown I took a walk one morning and I kept seeing the same word everywhere I went. Store ' windows. Leaflets in the street. Advertising space on walls. I kept seeing it for about two weeks. militarize. It was everywhere—printed, written, scribbled, chalked on walls. I didn't know what it was all about.
I would have gone into bidding, Zapalac said. "That kind of word, I would have taken food and water and gone into the mountains."
I would have gone to Mexico, Myna said. "Here, eat this orange, Zap."
That kind of word, I don't hang around to find out what it all means. I'm a little guy. I look slightly Oriental. I look a little bit Mexican. I've been taken for an Iraqi and I've been taken for a Jew. I don't trust a place where that kind of ize word appears. Ize words make me nervous. I go underground. I go into the mountains.
I'd go running to Canada or Mexico, Myna said. "I'd buy a big house and let everybody stay there who's running away from the ize people. We'd eat chili and nectarines. We'd take care of each other."
But if you want to know the truth, Zapalac said, "I don't worry about my size at all except as it relates to my inability to gain ace quarterback status with the Denver Broncos. I really want that job. I think about it a lot."
Size is a big factor, I said.
Regrettably.
Tall quarterbacks are in demand because they can peer over the curvature of the earth in order to spot their receivers.
Fantastic, he said. "From now on, you're my personal bodyguard. When the oilmen and sheriffs form their inevitable posse and come riding after me with thundering hoofbeats, be there in full battle regalia. I've got a class to get to now. Thanks for the orange and try not to be afraid."
Myna ate bean sprouts and drank a can of AfroCola. I stuck to fruit. She was wearing her orange dress appliquéd with white atomic mushroom. A beetle moved across the edge of the blanket and I got to my feet and stood off to the side until it was gone. Myna looked at me.
I hate sudden movements, I said. "It startled me for just a second. I didn't know what it was."
My brother used to eat them, she said.
Oh my God.
Sit down and relax, Gary. Listen to this idea I've got. Vera halfgot it, kind of, and I got the rest. It's for your last game. It's a scientific experiment. An audiovisualsensorytype thing.
What is it?
Smoke some dope before the game.
They'd kill me.
Tell what'shisthing not to give you the ball. The big jerk. The one who calls the plays.
Hobbs.
Tell him not to give you the ball. You could just stand off to the side and observe what it all looks like. I bet it would look wild, Gary. All that running and the colors. Would it be speeded up or slowed down? Would your sensory parts function in terms of football or dope? You wouldn't have to carry the ball.
Ball or no ball, I'd get killed. I'd have no coordination. I'd just stand there and get hit. They'd kill me. They'd tear me to pieces.
"I guess you're right. It's better not to take chances. But it would have been tremendous to observe all that action from close up and being high.
"There's no tension in our relationship, I said.
Where did that come from? What do you mean? Now don't talk that way, Gary. You know the way I am when it comes to us. I'm too emotional to just sit here and talk about our relationship. That's a horrible word anyway.
I was just fooling around. Probing for a sense of definition. How's your book coming along?
This book is an unbelievable book. I don't know what else to say. Do you want to hear what it's all about?
I don't think so.
It's the last part of a trilogy by Tudev Nemkhu, that Mongolian I mentioned once before. It's a whole total experience, Gary. I'll just tell you one or two little things about it.
How little?
These halfmollusk creatures called nautiloids inhabit a tiny planet in a galaxy not too far from here. The planet has just one ocean. It's a big round circle of liquid and gases. That's where the nautiloids live. The rest of the planet is barren except for one small mountain. There's no surface life whatsoever. There's just the nautiloids in the ocean. The nautiloids, who are about twice humansize, communicate with each other through some intricate ESP number system that the author spends almost two chapters on but that's way over my head but still tremendous to read if only because it kills me to think how anybody could think of this thing. I forgot to tell you, Gary. There's a thick hard foam that encases the planet about fifty miles above the surface. So anyway one day without warning there's a disturbance in the nautiloids' system of communication. Their numerical language gets all garbled. They can't communicate properly and they get very disoriented and panicstricken. Some of them start coming up out of the ocean. Then more of them come up. They crawl over the land. They're all in a state of panic. Then one of them goes into a fantastic spasm and breaks out of its shell. At the very second this happens, the thick foam around the planet also breaks. Then there's silence everywhere. Oh, I forgot to tell you. The mountain is completely uneroded. It's triangular in shape. And because of its strange configuration, if you were to walk completely around it you would always see the same flat plane in the shape of a triangle. So the nautiloids go back to the ocean. All but the one that broke out of its shell. It stays there on the ground until finally something comes pouring through the break in the planet's outer crust. It's powdery black light. It's a form of electromagnetic radiation that's semiblack and has weird texture. The author spends dozens of pages on this part So then the light becomes sort of infused into the complex brain apparatus of the nautiloid. The creature's form begins to change. The black light continues to wash over the creature for what we would call many centuries but what in cosmic terms is just an eyelash blinking. The creature's body becomes incredible. Tudev Nemkhu almost doesn't even want to describe it. Finally he does it but only in terms of chemical formulas, mathematical equations and statements from formal logic which I think are all supposed to be really true and documented and not just made up. So there's this creature that's been formed of the landscape itself through the power of this black light. It's almost an abstract being. It's barren of features or really of any kind of distinguishing elements. I guess it's hard for people with arms and legs to conceive of this thing. The thing is visible but not really describable except in scientific terms. But it's not just a blob or a bunch of protons. It's a mass of equations and formulas rendered into some kind of tangible form. The thing's shape changes a million times every millionth of a second. That gives you some idea. And its brain is slowly evolving into phases of light and nonlight. "What does that mean?"
I don't know, she said. "But then everything begins to double. Within the thing's brain mechanism there are now two landscapes perceived by two mechanisms. The thing sees itself seeing what is outside it being seen by itself. As Tudev Nemkhu explains it, this duplication results in the making of words. Each likeness is a word rather than a thing. When the word is imprinted on the thing's original mechanism, the likeness that was the word's picture instantaneously disappears. The thing's brain keeps on producing likenesses and then delivering words into its own circuitry. The thing perceives everything into itself. It duplicates perceptions and then reduplicates the results. The author finally gives the thing a name. The thing becomes monadanom—the thing that's everything. It keeps making likenesses to make words. The words have no meaning. They're just fragments of cosmic language. So everything is existing inside this complex brain apparatus that was formerly based on a numerical system and that now is guided by phases of light and nonlight, or something pretty much like that. And this duplication goes on and on for what we would call millenniums until suddenly without warning one of the words erases itself. The brain didn't order this and doesn't comprehend it. The word just erased itself. It no longer exists. There is no record of it."
What about the triangular mountain? I said.
That's as far as I've gotten. I guess the mountain turns up again in the ending. I forgot to tell you one other thing. The thick foam around the planet is an organic selfhealing thing. The crack is slowly closing up again.
Monadanom, I said.
That right.
And this guy's a Mongolian.
That's right, Gary. But he writes in German instead of Mongol. The translation leaves a lot to be desired. Which reminds me. Vera wants a sample of your handwriting.
What for?
"Vera's into psychographology and character analysis. It's all related to early Mayan forms of astrology. Esther's into bottled water.
"I just thought of something, I said.
What, Gary?
That word I kept seeing all over town. It represented some kind of apotheosis. I'm pretty sure that's what it was. An apotheosis of some kind. The air was thick with it.
I stuck my head under the black windbreaker that hung inside my dressing cubicle in the locker room. Then I took two more drags on the joint, whistling in reverse, swallowing deeply, all vigilance and greed. Two more drags then. My throat was very dry; it burned a bit. I stepped back away from the cubicle, hoping all stray smoke would cling to the garments hanging there. I wondered if my teammates or the coaches could smell anything or detect visually a trace of modest smog. The place was getting quieter. We were almost ready to take the field. I was all suited up except for headgear. I palmed the joint and went quickly into the bathroom. In one of the stalls somebody was trying to vomit. It was a poignant sound, monumentally hoarse, soulful, oddly lacking in urgency. A herd of seals. I entered the far stall and tried another drag. The pinpoint glow was gone already but I had a book of matches tucked into one of my shoes. I lit up again and inhaled deeply, getting paper and loose grains along with the smoke. I took in everything, hurrying, feeling the smoke pinch my sensitive palpitating throat, watching the remaining paper sputter slightly and go brown, then dragging again and lipbreathing like a malevolent jungle plant to gather in the escaping smoke and finally sucking everything into the deepest parts of my lungs and brain. The sick player emerged. I peered out at him from a narrow opening as he washed up and gargled with cold water. It was 47, Bobby Hopper. I took a final drag, then flushed buttend and matches down the toilet; there would be no safe way to use them later on. Bobby and I left the bathroom together. Mitchell Gorse passed us on his way to throw up.
I drank some water from the fountain, swallowed, then took another mouthful and spat it on the concrete floor. I liked to spit water all over the floor. It was something you couldn't do indoors as a rule. In a few minutes we were out on the field. Some kind of ceremony was going on. I sat on the bench waiting for the game to start. It was a cool bright afternoon. The grass seemed extremely green. Buddy Shock came over, put one foot on the bench and leaned toward me.
Gary, we didn't hit each other. We didn't trade blows. You didn't give me the forearm to the chest. I looked all over for you.
Not today, Buddy.
It's a tradition. We have to do it. It'll be bad luck not to do it. Come on, get up, I want to put three dents in your head.
I don't plan any quick movements just yet. I'm saving myself. It's a new methodology I've just worked out.
We've done it eight games running, Gary.
When men vomit together, they feel joined in body and spirit. Women have no such luck.
I hate to see a good tradition wiped out, Buddy said.
In a little while the ceremony ended. I was feeling heavyheaded; the air was getting thick. Bing Jackmin kicked off. The opposition sustained a drive for three first downs, about eight plays, before losing the ball on a fumble. As I started out I felt unbelievably ponderous. My head was made of Aztec stone. I watched my feet go slowly up and down over the marvelous grass. My teammates were out there already, waiting for me. Garland Hobbs stood above the huddle, above the lowered heads, waiting for me to get there. I continued across the grass, uncranking my arms, watching the long white laces whisk lightly over my black shoes. I reached the huddle. I realized I didn't want to be with all these people. They were all staring at me through their cages. Hobbs called a pass play. We broke and set. Somebody came at me, a huge individual in silver and blue. I fell at his feet and grabbed one shoe. I started untying the lace. He kicked away from me and went after Hobbs. I got up and walked off. I was exceedingly hungry.
The next day Terry Madden and I were playing gin rummy in the lounge. Link Brownlee dragged a chair over and sat down.
Did you hear? he said.
What? I said.
Taft Robinson. You haven't seen him? You haven't heard?
No, what?
He shaved his skull. He's bald.
How bald? Terry said.
Completely and totally bald. He shaved his skull. He must have done it last night.
What do you think it means? Terry said.
I don't know, I said. "I don't know what it means. How would I know what it means?"
It means something, he said.
Thing used to be so simple, Brownlee said.