End Zone (14 page)

*

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 number 62: “Suckmouth. Peach pit. Shit-finger.”

*

They got fifteen yards for roughing. We went to the near hashmark and huddled. Madden’s nose was bleeding. At the snap I moved into my frozen insect pose, ready to pass-block. 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, back-pedaling, 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.

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 off-bike 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:
ALL-AMERICAN QUARTERBACK
,
A MENDELSOHN-TOPPING SPORTS MOTIVATION CONCEPT
. Carefully he opened the box. He arranged twenty-two 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.

L
ENNY
W
ELLS WALKED
up the aisle toward the rear of the bus. He was wearing his fuzzy white Hibbs & Hannon cowboy hat, a gift from an Oklahoma uncle. He also wore a cast on his left arm, no less a gift judging from the proud look on his face, the sense of self-esteem 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 x-rayed.”

“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, 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 post-game 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 blind-sided 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. Star-shaped. Multicolored.”

“How’d he get it?”

“Shrapnel,” Billy said.

“What about Jessup? Jessup was running around half-mad. 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 Fallon 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 mid-course tracking profile. Auto-path is trans-tandem. 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 co-captains. 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.

T
HE 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 anti-publicity, 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 side-burns. 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 naming 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 lamé 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 word-play. 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 Taft-and-Gary 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.”