End Zone

Part Two
19

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 shadowcounï 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.