The Fumbling Phantom

XII

He played the first few minutes of that second half in a daze, too. A lot of memories came flooding back at him.

She had said she’d asked Zomby to dinner at the Key. That note that had made Bill so mad. It sort of backed up what Zomby’d just told him. Maybe he’d been wrong about her all this time. Maybe she wasn’t just a two-timer after all.

But what difference did it make? He’d done practically everything he could do to insult her, embarrass her, antagonize her. And after that run-in with her old man, Bill would stand about as much chance of patching things up as a kid with a busted vase!

He came out of his fog when Stanford scored on a tricky bootleg pass that shook Ettan loose at the Stallions forty, let him thread his way down to the five before Mike murdered him. The Indians battered over on the next play. They converted. The score: 7–0!

Snub rushed in replacements. The Stallions received. They battled up from the fifteen to the Palo Alto twenty. Then lost the ball on an incomplete. It was Zomby to O’Doul, and it was overthrown as the others had been. And for the same reason; the passer was being hurried.

Stanford roared downfield. They lost possession on an interception by Telfer. The Rampaging Remuda hammered back, punted, went on the defensive again. Every time they got inside that Indian thirty, it was like working in hip-deep mud; they just couldn’t get going.

Two minutes before the quarter ended, Mike gambled on third down, deep in their own territory. Called for the thirty-two.

Bill looked at Zomby. “Sideline it, keed. Shoot it for that bench.”

Zomby smacked his hands together. “Wildo. Roger.”

With the snap-back, Bill streaked straight downfield. He’d been careful not to wipe his hands on his pants, or monkey with his helmet, but Ettan was covering him like a blanket just the same.

Bill looked over his shoulder without slowing. Zomby’s arm went back. The ball came up. Bill cut sharply to the left, threw Ettan off balance swerved to the right.

Zomby’d put too much steam in his throw. The leather was so high Bill would have to go out of bounds to get it. But he might! And he did! He went up, snagged the ball, came down with his feet a foot inside the sideline.

Then Ettan hit him, from behind, knocked him over the white stripe, into a couple of Stanford substitutes. A sharp pain stabbed at Bill’s left shoulder. He got his knees under him, feeling dizzy.

The Indian trainer ran over. “All right, Cady?”

Bill wiped sweat off his face with the jersey of his right arm. “Sure.”

Probably was, at that. He’d cracked into one of those subs hard enough to loosen his back teeth. That red-hot knife jabbing into his shoulder was most likely a bone bruise.

He knew better, by the time he’d lined up on the Stanford forty-five. He rested his weight on his right arm, cringed involuntarily when Zomby pounded him on the back in, congratulation. Something was busted up there. Shoulder-blade. Or collarbone.

Zomby noticed something was wrong. In the next huddle, he asked: “You hurt, keed?”

Bill thought fast. If he said ‘Yes,’ they’d take him out. If they took him out, they’d lose the threat of having a long pass go for a TD... and even if he wasn’t going to be able to grab those long ones with that agony in his shoulder, still the ground attack would go better if the threat remained. He said, “No. I’m jake. Jarred me some, is all.”

Zomby’s forehead wrinkled in disbelief, but he let it go at that. On the play, he went through guard for seven. That fear of having Cady get loose for a long shot was opening up the secondary for those power smashes.

Bill finished the quarter in a haze. He walked slowly to the other end of the field remained standing on the enemy twenty-eight because it was less painful than to lie down and get up again.

Three plays after the fourth period began, Mike called for a thirty-four. Bill shook his head. “Gimme a breather. Got jolted up there a little.”

Hustling Mike scowled. “Okay. Thirty-eight.” He glanced toward the bench to see if Snub had noticed anything wrong with Bill. Snub gave no sign.

The thirty-eight was a wide pass to Mike himself, after a fake sweep. It went sweet and Mike zigged and zagged and hip-slipped down to the four before they rode him into the ground. Zomby smashed it over. Zomby booted it over, too, for the extra.

What’s the difference who made the score? Bill gritted his teeth and forced himself to jog back to the kickoff as if nothing was the matter with him. What’s the difference, long’s we tied ’em?

But, though his mind was dazed with the effort of maintaining a normal appearance, he had a grim feeling there was a difference. He might have taken that ball over, on a thirty-two. They might have been yelling “Cadydidit! Cadydidit” now, instead of “Agaro! Agaro!”

Vaguely he realized that his chief regret was on account of Lou Ann, there in the stands somewhere. Not on account of the headlines, or what they might mean to his football future.

He fought in a fog, while Mike stormed and raged at them to break up those Stanford off-tackle smashes. They went clear down to the Stallions’ six, before Telfer batted down a fourth down pass.

In the first huddle, Zomby asked him again if he was okay.

“Hell, yes,” he snarled.

Mike called for a thirty-two on their own twenty-five, Bill bobbed his head. “Short,” he told Zomby. “Shoelaces.” That way he wouldn’t have to run so hard, jolt himself with that final jump.

He doubted if he could make it anyway. But this was it. If he couldn’t complete this, Snub would sense there was something wrong, and yank him for sure.

Not that Loftis couldn’t hold up his end. But without the decoy value of Zombrorowski — to — Cady, Bill knew he wasn’t kidding himself about it, — the Stallions scoring punch would be weakened.

He got off fast, let Ettan think he was loafing along in preparation for that final spurt. When the ball came, he pivoted, — and a cleaver cut at his shoulder. He took two steps back toward the line of scrimmage and fell on his knees. He fell on his face, too, after he had the ball in his belly pads.

They picked up twenty good yards on that. O’Doul added four more. Mike sneaked through for a bare six and the first. Zomby slammed into guard for three.

“Thirty-four,” barked Mike in the huddle. “Can do?”

The faces of the men in the huddle swam hazily before Bill’s eyes. “Way down yonder, Zombo,” his voice sounded faint and faraway in his own ears. It would have to be this time, or else. He wasn’t going to be able to stick it out much longer. But maybe he could ring up one more before he closed up shop.

He got away with all the speed he could find, but he couldn’t tell whether it was fast enough. He’d lost that fine edge of judging pace somewhere in the sea of racking pain. He came down to Ettan, and it seemed as if he had weights in his shoes. He glanced over his shoulder. Zomby was still retreating, still feinting.

Bill cut right, braked, came back a stride, and Ettan streaked in front of him, to interecept a low one. Bill spun, raced toward the Stanford goal. The ball loped up... high... a long, long shot. Five, maybe seven yards ahead.

Bill put the last sliver of effort into those next six steps. Ettan sprinted up beside him! They went in the air as if they’d been welded together.

Bill made a convulsive stab above him, not really seeing the ball, but feeling it. Feeling, too, a shattering, blasting shock.

That was all he did feel.

They had to pry the ball out of his fingers when they lifted him off the goal-line and slid him onto the stretcher.