I sprayed my mouth and put the plastic mouthpiece in my mouth. The band was marching up and down the field, some high-school band, girls in blue and white uniforms trying to march in a formation to form the words BIG D. Christ, that's all I needed. I thought of all the stupid football bands I'd listened to and all the hundreds of thousands. of screamy nutsy fans singing the national anthem and screaming kill. I felt stupid, wasting my whole life. No, I had to stop thinking like this. I had to get up even for this game. Thinking like that was only an easy way out. The old excuse route. But I couldn't get away from the feeling that my feelings now about football were not only real but very valid.
It was a cold night. The lights were bright. They must be new. Doug Dunsheath came over and leaned down.
'You gotta get tough. Talk tough. You're getting chippy, baby.'
'Yeah, I'm chippy.' ' 'Think tough, baby. You gotta. You been acting like you got your head up your ass.'
'That's where it is.'
'We gotta win this. My mother's out there.'
'Keep talking. I'm going to throw up, Doug.'
'This game is my whole life.'
Pretty soon the band stopped playing and marched off the field. I felt dopey. I wondered if I'd been doped. I didn't give a damn. I felt so damn slow, like I was tired, just suddenly pooped out. Hawthorne kicked off. Klobuchar came off the field, shaking his fingers. The grass looked black. The field looked like an enormous cemetery. Klobuchar came over to me. My neck felt weak, like it wanted to flop down and roll my head on the ground.
'That sonofabitch, Hawthorne,' said Klobuchar, shaking his fingers in pain. 'The bastard must've played soccer in high school. He goddamn near kicked off my bowling hand.'
The opposite moved the ball well, four first downs, then we intercepted. I got up from the bench. I felt half asleep. When I got out on the field, the team was already in a huddle, waiting for me. I knelt down, looked at the cold grass, tried to think of a play. I called the first play that same to mind.
A Right 95 Block Pass I suddenly wished I were in bed with Mary Cassidy, not out here on this stupid football field. We broke and set. I dropped back, looked up field for Leighton. I watched him cut on a post pattern.
He put up his hands. I let him keep running. Then I threw the ball straight into the hands of the safety man. Somebody huge rose above me. This big thing was coming at me. I didn't move. Then a hand hit me in the face. The big rusher was flying through the air above me, coming down at me, with both arms out. He looked like a giant bird. I sprang back but the big bird roared straight down at me and I felt his helmet slam into my guts. I went down. I lay still. It was dark. I was gone. Completely gone.
Then I felt somebody lifting me. I was walking off. Somebody had his shoulder under my armpit and his forearm across my back. I wanted a cold bourbon and soda the worst way.
On the bus when I woke up, Jack Dow was sitting next to me.
'You know what?' he said.
'Who won?' I asked.
'We killed them. You know what?'
'Nope.'
'Klobuchar. You seen what he's doing? Right on the bus. Even here? He does it in his room all the time.'
'What?'
'He talks to flowers. He bought a book, says if you talk to a flower, it'll help it grow. He talks to flowers all the time.'
'He's punchy,' said Dave.
'He does it at night a lot,' said Dow.
'Maybe we ought to tell Reed,' Dave said.
'It might keep him awake,' I said. 'Maybe it helps Klobuchar play better.'
'He ought to leave them flowers alone at night,' Dow said.
'He'll probably stunt their growth,' Dave said.
Chapter 18
Binks, wearing one of his new two-hundred-dollar silk suits, sat behind his desk, licking his lips thoughtfully. The office stunk of stale cigarette butts.
'I want to know what happened,' he said. 'I didn't see it, but Reed told me. You looked over all your receivers. You looked right at Leighton and then you toss it right into the safety's hands. Then stood there and got knocked on your ass.'
'Somebody drugged me,' I lied.
'Good story. Reed told me about the stuff in your locker. Said you claimed somebody tried to frame you.'
'I just couldn't seem to move. I felt dopey as hell. I never saw that guard who knocked me down.'
I wondered what he would do if I told him the truth. His eyes were very serious. He leaned forward on his desk, leaned on both elbows, giving me his straight-in-the-eye look. I was supposed to look back straight into his eyes. I looked at his right ear, then his forehead, then back at his right ear. Finally his right hand went to his right ear. He rubbed it to see if perhaps something might be hanging from the lobe. So I switched my gaze and looked, puzzled, at his forehead. He rubbed his forehead.
'Why didn't you tell Reed?' he said. 'Reed said you deliberately, as far as he's concerned, tossed the ball to the other team.'
'I was dopey. Maybe the Mafia had money on the game.'
'Matt, don't give me a lot of crap. Nobody bets on these teams. You're full of crap.'
'You should have given me a saliva test.'
'Don't talk to anybody about it.'
'What about the press?'
'What press? We could use some good press.'
'Vakos won it anyway,' I said. 'He's doing okay.'
'Listen, Matt, I want it straight. Why did you throw the ball to the opposition?'
'I don't even remember throwing it.'
'Concussion?'
'Could be.'
'Doc says you're okay.'
'Maybe it went away.'
Hell, I thought, why don't I say it? Piss on football. Get up and walk out. Only two games left: Piss on it. Money. I needed the damn money. Nope. You're kidding yourself. You're still nuts, Scallen. You still think you might make it back to big time, even if you hate it. Of course, it was true. I hated the goddamn game now, but I wanted- one Sunday, just one Sunday back in the NFL. Just one Sunday to show all those cruddy bastards who said I was washed up. Of course, you're washed up, Scallen. Nope. Just one Sunday. That's all you want. Then tell them to piss up a rope. The knee maybe was good for one Sunday. But I had as much chance of getting one big Sunday as I had of falling in a toilet and coming up with gold ingots.
'Matt, I like the way you throw the ball. You got some charisma, too. I'm going to back you up this time. No more of that shit.'
'Don't you ever get the ashtrays cleaned around here?'
'Goddamn secretaries,' he said.
I rode around town. I didn't know where I was going. Des Moines looks gray in the fall. The sky was gray, even the lawns looked gray, not brown, and the longer I drove the grayer all the buildings looked. I felt I was breathing gray air. I drove back to my apartment. I didn't know what to do. I felt dead, zapped. Bored. I didn't want to do anything.
A couple of hours later it was very cold out on the practice field. We were practicing kill-the-clock drill. The idea was to practice stopping the clock. Line up on the football without using a huddle. Just a predetermined play. Ends run sideline cuts. You drill the ball high and hard over the head of one of the ends out-of-bounds. Some
