The opposition quarterback was an Indian, left-handed. He could roll either way and throw back to the opposite. He could probably hit you right in the eye with a hand grenade from thirty yards. Just one of those small college aces somebody had dug up from a scout's report. The kid ought to be on somebody's taxi squad.
He started killing us with short passes, over the middle, sidelines, and the next thing I knew they were at the three. I was watching Vakos. No change. He was standing beside Reed, talking to him, looking relaxed. Was it just a damn sugar lump Miss Scout had given me or was it the real thing? It ought to hit Vakos in a couple of minutes. I was still watching Vakos when the opposition scored and kicked the conversion.
Schaeffer ran the kick-off back to the thirty-two and Vakos trotted slowly out onto the field. He came out of the huddle slowly. He wasn't doing anything different when he started calling signals. Just looking up and down the line, checking the defense.
Then all of a sudden you could hear his voice all over the field. He was really bellowing those signals. The fans weren't shouting, so you could hear him like he was trying to wake hogs in the next county.
He took the snap and instead of dropping straight back in the slot, he whirled around and ran straight back about fifteen yards and set up to throw. His protection was shot to heft and a big guard came straight for him.
What Vakos did, I've never seen any quarterback do. He ran straight at the big guard. Then just before they were about to smash head-on, Vakos sidestepped faster than a water bug, just a sudden jerky little sidestep and rammed a stiff arm into the guard's guts. Only it wasn't a stiff arm. It was dark out there but I could see what it was. It was one hell of a left hook and the guard went clunk on his face.
The next thing I knew Vakos had switched the ball to his left hand and decked the next rusher with his right hand, a hell of a blow right under the helmet in the side of the neck. Then Vakos took off running, leaving another guy on his face.
I've seen some crazy runs, cutting and stiff arming, standing still and jigging around, running over players. Vakow ran through the whole bag. He looked like a combination of Red Grange and Hugh McHelhenny. He ran through the whole team, through them or over them and around them.
At the end of the field, there was a brick wall. So help me, he ran three steps up the brick wall, tossed the ball over his head, did a back flip, and caught the ball as it bounced off the ground into the air.
I've seen guys on acid having good trips, but this had to be the finest trip of the century. My asshole felt as if it had fallen straight out of my pants.
But that wasn't enough. After the conversion, Vakos was over by Reed trying to hustle Reed to let him play defense.
'I know what they're going to do!' Vakos said in a high, excited, thin voice. 'I know! I know! Come on! Let me play cornerback and I'll get that ball back!'
He had both hands on Reed's shoulders and he was shaking him, urging Reed to let him play defense. Reed got out of that one. Our defense stopped them on their second series and Schaeffer ran the punt back to our forty-two. Vakos ran out on the field like he was a bird, sprinting all the way to the huddle.
On the first play he calls his own number. I know the play. It's a roll-out pass. You run with the ball one time out of ten if you want to stay alive as a quarterback.
Not Vakos. He ran right around the defense. If they'd have been antelopes, he would have trampled them. He turned the corner all alone.
He went down the sideline like an Olympic sixty-yard gold medal holder. Whoosh! And he was standing in the end zone, holding the ball up high in one hand.
'What the hell's got into that guy?' Klobuchar said as he sat down beside me on the bench and we watched the defense trot onto the stripes.
'He's hot tonight,' I said.
'He must be loaded with super pep pills.'
'He's loaded,' I said.
The next thing Vakos is jumping up and down beside Reed, begging to go in on defense. He looked like he was on a pogo stick.
'Shut up!' Reed yelled at him. He put one restraining hand on Vakos' shoulder, but it only made Vakos bounce up and down more.'
Those two touchdowns took all the guts out of the opposition. They dragged ass through a series, punted and we took over.
On the first play, a belly series, Vakos handed off to Hoke, the fullback, then took the ball back. It wasn't a fake. It was a straight hand-off. He jerked the ball back right out of Hoke's hands, ducked his head and went straight into the line like he was the fullback.
He carried the middle linebacker on his back for seven yards before three men brought him down. But that wasn't enough. On the next play, he dropped back, pumped twice, and started running up the middle, shedding tacklers right and left.
Finally the free safety and a cornerback dropped him after a thirty-yard gain. Vakos came up swinging.
'Tackle me!' he roared. 'Me! Me!' He knocked the free safety down. A big lineman tried to pin his arms from behind. Vakos flipped the elephant over his shoulders, knocked down two more big linemen trying to reach him. Both benches emptied. I sat there.
'He's crazy,' Klobuchar said. 'He musta got kicked in the head.'
'That's probably it.'
By the time the police were on the field, Vakos had decked about five of the opposition and was starting on his own team. He was moving around like a heavy-weight version of Willie Pep. He'd thrown away his helmet and when he wasn't swinging at somebody, he was stripping off his clothes. When the police maced him, he was standing there in his cleats, sweat socks and jockstrap. They took him away on a stretcher.
I played the rest of the game. I didn't run out of the slot once. I didn't have to. The opposition seemed to be in a daze the entire remainder of the game.
It was after midnight when I got home. I went out alone to eat after the game. Reed didn't have to say anything tome in the locker room. Vakos was in the hospital. They didn't know what was wrong with him. Maybe brain damage, somebody said. Probably kicked in the head. I was almost asleep, wondering when the newspapers were going to announce the news about Tarkenton or maybe some bright surgeon had installed an aluminum sternum in him. But I wasn't worried. The telephone started ringing. Who in hell could be calling at this time of night?
'Hello, Matt. I know this is a helluva time to call. Nice game. I saw you. Very smooth. I wanna talk to you in the morning.'
'Who is this?'
A kind of yuk-yuk chuckle and a man's voice said, 'Yeah. Yeah. Sorry about that. It's Eddy Schwartz.'
'Eddy Schwartz?'
'Yeah. Yeah. Member?'
I figured it was some local drunk. But how the hell did he get my number? No matter, he had it, and my name. So I decided to hang up until he said, 'Matt, I got a nice business deal for you. You wanna make some money?'
'Endorsing jockstraps?'
'Yuk-yuk,' he chuckled. 'Not a joke, Matt. Some very big green. Gonna be home in the morning?'
'What have you got, a used car lot or something?'
'Don't be funny. This is big.'
'How big?'
'See you in the morning. Your place. Ten o'clock.'
'Who the hell are you?'
'Friend of a friend. See you, Matt. Get lots of sleep.'
Some goof, I thought, and turned over and closed my eyes. Friend of a friend? Looking for somebody to pimp some product?
Eddy Schwartz was right on time the next morning.
'Friend of a friend?' he said when I opened the door. He stuck out his hand. 'Member me?'
'I never saw you before in my life.'
