Neiman was screaming, 'Sneak pass!' and jumping up and down.
Our strong safety didn't sucker. He took the ball right out of the fullback's hands.
B-Right-50 Trap
A-Right-X-34 I looked at the clock. Bat it up. Off tackle. Hold onto the ball. I dived between Klobuchar's legs. The gun sounded. I ran off the field with everybody hammering each other on the back. We were yacking going into the locker room.
Reed came over to me.
'You were lucky today,' he said.
Chapter 15
I felt lousy after the game. I didn't understand it. I was sore all over, but the trainer said there was nothing wrong. Just bruises. Yeah, bruises about ten feet deep, but nothing broken. I didn't understand feeling lousy. I usually felt damn good after winning, and after this win I ought to feel especially,good. Maybe I was just pooped out, no juice, left inside me to feel good. I felt my right knee. Not puffy. Well, I'd know tomorrow. It wouldn't show until tomorrow. Maybe that's what worried me. I remembered now wrenching it, but not aware of it in the game. I had hurt it a long time ago in college, and now on wet and cold days, it got stiff at times. There were two buses. I was sitting on the second bus with Neiman.
'What about Vakos?' I said.
'Little concussion,' said Klobuchar, who was sitting across the aisle. 'Schaeffer pulled a leg muscle.'
'Bad?'
'He'll make it.'
The rest of the injuries sounded like a special litany: lacerations, lacerations, knee, knee, knee, ankle, ankle, ankle, teeth, teeth, teeth, bruises, deep, deep, deep, arms, broken, broken.
'They ought to put it to music. We could chant it before every game.'
'What?' Neiman said.
'Or get a choir.'
'What's the matter? You get hit in the head?'
'Hit in the head, hit in the head, hit in the head,' I chanted.
'Hey,' Neiman said. 'Somebody get the doc. Scallen's gone bonkers.'
'Bonkers. Bonkers. Bonkers. Over the Bonkers and far away,' I started to sing and went on singing.
'Jesus!' Klobuchar stared. 'Talk about me?'
'Ely's going to fall into the iron-ore pit.'
Klobuchar started singing and then we were all singing, 'Ricker, racker, firecracker, Des Moines' a cracker- jacker.'
'Jacker-off,' said Neiman. 'I thought for a while you'd slipped your trolley.'
'I did,' I said. 'I'm O.K. now. All 'I have to do is sing and everything's happy.'
'You're nuts.'
'Nuts. Nuts. Nuts.'
I went to sleep on the bus, dreaming about Mary Cassidy. It was dawn when we got into Des Moines. My knee felt stiff as I stepped out of the bus. I felt like walking death. It was seven-thirty in the morning. The sky looked like somebody had pissed on it. I went to the nearest telephone booth and called Mary. A female voice answered, half asleep.
'She's not here.'
'Can I reach her at the hospital?'
'Who's calling?'
'Matt Scallen.'
'She left a message for you. `Good luck.'' 'What're you talking about?'
'She moved out. Gone.'
'Where?'
'Out of town. She didn't say. For good.'
'Quit kidding.'
'I'm not kidding. Not at this hour.'
I called the hospital. She'd left town. No forwarding address. It was awful. I wondered suddenly why I had thought it was so important now to make a comeback. Without her, there was no point to the comeback. Nothing at all. A real depression hit me. I fought it. I stood there in the telephone booth fighting it. Maybe her mother died. Or father. Why would she leave so suddenly? I couldn't get rid of the fuzzy feeling that her leaving had something to do with me. I felt like I was dead. I took a taxi back to the motel and went to bed. There wasn't a goddamn thing I could do. Wouldn't you know it? Fall in love with a dizzy dame. Some kind of nut. Well, I was back on track. No mbre broads. That wouldn't be easy. That was stupid. No more booze. That was smart. Work. My knee felt stiff. Work. I dozed, dreaming of a Niagara Falls of bodies falling on top of me. Even now I could smell the grass from the field. I must work. Damn it, I can make it back.
I woke up without remembering I had been sleeping. The light was on. Mary Beth was sitting on the edge of the bed. What the hell, I thought, what the hell?
'Who let you in?'
'Don't you ever lock your door?'
'The morgue is always open.'
I only had a look at her eyes to know what her intentions were. Her eyes were saying it; I want it and I want all of it and I'm' going to show you a good time. My cock understood. I cursed myself. Damn it. Did it run me or did I run it? Here it was running me again and I was in love with Mary. But where was she? My goddamn dick didn't care about love. I felt it getting hard.
If Mary Cassidy was going to run out, to hell with it. Save love for who? Maybe the nearest thing to love I was ever going to get was the same: pubic area pressure and needed relief. Periodic purging of gorged muscle. Christ, all the romantic poetry that had been written in its name.
'How's everything going with the team?' she asked.
'Fine. Still at the supermarket?'
'I haven't been there in a couple of weeks.'
'New job?'
'Drugstore. Better hours.'
I got out of bed and asked her if she'd like a bottle of pop.
'You've got to be kidding;' she giggled.
'I'm off the sauce.'
'Well, if you don't mind, no pop.'
She smiled.
'Let's get your clothes off and get into bed,' I said.
'Awful hurry, aren't you?'
'That's what you want, isn't it?'
'Could be.'
She looked at the wall for a long moment.
'Sure,' she said. 'I like it. I want it.'
I laughed. 'Now you're being yourself.' I sat down beside her on the bed.
We were still a couple of feet apart. It was a big double bed.
'You're really a nice guy,' she said.
'How's that?'
'You try so hard being a tough bastard, but you're a big slob.'
I had to laugh at that.
'Anybody ever tell you that you're a nice guy?'
