Authors: Don DeLillo
*
Hauptfuhrer chanted to his linemen: “Contain. Contain. Contain those people. Infringe. Infringe on them. Rape that man, Link. Rape him. Ray-yape that man.”
Dennis Smee, at middle linebacker, shouted down at the front four: “Tango-two. 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 burn-7 hitch to Ron Steeples off the fake picket. Second and one. Hobbs used play-action and threw to Spurgeon Cole, seam-X-in, 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.”
“Ca-rash.”
*
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.
*
Out-23, near-in belly toss.
*
Taft barely made it to the line of scrimmage. On a spring-action 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, thirty-one spring-T. 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 five-five, 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 six-one 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 field-goal kicker came on. The ball hit the crossbar and bounced back.
*
Delta-3 series, saddleback-in, shallow hinge reverse.
Span-out 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 hip-fake, 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 gap-angle 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 name-giver. We were his chalk-scrawls. 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 nipple-prick, thirty-five. You’re an eensie-weensie. You got your dong from a cereal box.”
“He’s barely got a dong,” Jim Deering said.
“Nipple-prick. Nipple-prick.”
“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 rip-slant. 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, shovel-head.”
*
Zone set, triple tex, off-hit recon dive.
*
I was pass-blocking for Hobbs. The big thing, 77, shed Yellin and came dog-paddling 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 goat-shit 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 tight-T. Halfback picked up four. Telcon kept for six. Halfback went straight ahead for nine. Halfback went straight ahead for eight. Fullback went off-tackle for four. Fullback went straight ahead, taking George Dole into the end zone with him. The extra point was good.
“Fee-uck,” Jessup said.
“It’s all over.”
“Fee-uck,” man. This game is still on. I get that sixty-two yet. I get his ass and whip it into shape. Damnright. I get that shitpiss sixty-two and beat his black ass into the ground.”
“He’s white,” I said.
“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 twenty-six or thirty-one. 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 sixty-one, Andy Chudko, fumble, fumble, six feet even, about two twenty-five, 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 thirty-five, twelve yards from our vantage point here at the Orange Bowl in sun-drenched 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. Multi-talented. A magician with that ball. All the color and excitement. He’s got it with a yard to spare off a good block by fifty-three or seventy-three. 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 the 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.”