spectator. He tries not to panic at the final game's final gun. He knows he must retain something, squirrel some food for summer's winter. He feels the tender need to survive the termination of the replay. So maybe what follows is a form of sustenance, a game on paper to be scanned when there are stale days between events; to be propped up and looked at-the book as television set-for whatever is in here of terminology, pattern, numbering. But maybe not. It's possible there are deeper reasons to attempt a playbyplay. The best course is for the spectator to continue forward, reading himself into the very middle of that benign illusion. The author, always somewhat corrupt in his inventions and vanities, has tried to reduce the contest to basic units of language and action. Every beginning, it is assumed, must have a neon twinkle of danger about it, and so grandmothers, sissies, lepidopterists and others are warned that the nomenclature that follows is often indecipherable. This is not the pity it may seem. Much of the appeal of sport derives from its dependence on elegant gibberish. And of course it remains the author's permanent duty to unbox the lexicon for all eyes to see-a cryptic ticking mechanism in search of a revolution.)
Blue turk right, doubleslot, zero snag delay.
I was the lone setback. Nobody took out their middle linebacker. I got hit at the line of scrimmage, the 31, a high hard shot that settled my stomach and got rid of the noise in my head. Hobbs threw to Jessup on a halfmoon pattern good for twelve. Taft went outside for six yards, then three, then five. I went straight ahead for five. Taft took a trigger pitch, cut inside a good block and went to their 22. We left the huddle with a sharp handclap and trotted up to the line, eager to move off the ball, sensing a faint anxiety on the other side of the line.
Quick picket left, hook right. Twin option off modified crossbow. ReT, chuckandgo.
'How to hit,' George Dole shouted out to us. 'Way to pop, way to go, way to move. How to sting them, big Jerry. Bloomers, Bloomers, Bloomers. How to play this game.'
Taft, stutterstepping, juked a man into the ground and was forced out at the 5. I went offtackle to the 1. Our line was firing out beautifully. It was crisp basic football. We were playing better than ever, in controlled bursts, probably because we were facing real talent. Taft went into the end zone standing up. Two of the receivers ran after Mm to slap his helmet and escort him off. Bing Jackmin kicked the extra point. I got down on one knee on the sideline, the chin strap of my helmet undone, material for a prizewinning sports photo. Commotion everywhere. Oscar Veech was shouting into my left ear.
'Gary, on the thirtyttwo I want you to catapult out of there. I want you to really come. I want to see you zoom into the secondary. But be sure you protect that ball.'
'Right.'
'Get fetal, get fetal.'
'Fetal,' I shouted back.
Centrex returned the kickoff to their 27. Our defense rolled into a gut 43 with variable offpicks. Their quarterback, Telcon, moved them on the ground past midfield, then went to the air on two of the next three plays. They tried a long field goal, wide to the right, and we took over. Hobbs hit Spurgeon Cole for good yardage but we were caught holding. Taft picked up eight. Ron Steeples was knocked cold and we were forced to call a timeout to get him off. Chuck Deering came running in to replace him, tripping and falling as he reached the huddle. I went inside tackle for three yards. Hobbs threw to Taft on a gatedelay out of the backfield. It picked up only seven and the punting team came on. I sat on the bench, noticing Raymond Toon down at the far end; he seemed to be talking into his fist. Byrd Whiteside punted to their 44, a fair catch. Telcon moved them on the ground, inside mostly, all the way to our 19. Dennis Smee kicked somebody. That moved the ball inside the 10. Three running plays. The extra point tied it.
When we huddled at the 24, Hobbs said: 'Stem left, L and R hitch and cross, F weak switch and sideline. On hut.'
'What?' Chuck Deering said.
'On hut.'
'No, the other thing. F something.'
'F weak switch and sideline,' Hobbs said.
'What kind of pattern is that?'
'Are you kidding?'
'What a bunch of fetuseaters,' Kimbrough said.
'When did they put that pattern in, Hobbsie?'
'Tuesday or Wednesday. Where the hell were you?'
'It must have been Wednesday. I was at the dentist.'
'Nobody told you?'
'I don't think so, Hobbsie.'
'Look, you run out ten yards, put some moves on your man and end up near the damn sideline.'
'I'm cocaptain to a bunch of fetuseaters.'
'On hut. Break.'
Third and eleven. They sent their linebackers. Hobbs left the pocket and I had Mallon, their psychotic middle linebacker, by the jersey. He tripped and I released, moving into a passing plane for Hobbs. He saw me but threw low. I didn't bother diving for it. Creed seemed to be looking right past us as we moved off the field. I sat next to Chester Randall, a reserve lineman. He had broken his right wrist the week before and it was still in a cast.
'Make no mistake, I can play with this thing. Hauptfuhrer gave me the go. If they need me, I can play, arm or no arm. The only thing that worries me is the dryness. I wish I could spit. I'm too dry to spit. I've been trying to work up some saliva for the past hour. I'd feel a whole lot better if I could only spit.'
'Why don't you drink some water?'
'I've been trying to avoid that. It's what killed my sister's baby. There's something in it.'
Centrex, starting from midfield, picked up six, eight, five, four, nine. Lenny Wells came off in pain-his left arm. George Owen screamed at him. The quarter ended. I thought of ice melting above the banks of streams in high country. Billy Mast replaced Wells. Telcon kept the ball on a bootleg and went to the 1 (flag in the air) before Buddy Shock caught him with a shoulder. Their penalty, clipping, and that put the ball outside the 20 from point of infraction. Telcon tried to hit his flanker on a post pattern. Bobby Iselin picked it off and returned to the 19. I couldn't find my helmet for a moment.
Garland Hobbs: 'Let's ching those nancies.'
Monsoon sweep, stringin left, ready right. Cradleout, drill9 shiver, ends chuS. Broadside option, flowandgo.
I got bounced out of bounds and stepped on. Veech shouted down at me. Hardearned first down for the unspectacular Harkness. Taft ran out of room and cut back into traffic. Their territory, second and eight. Hobbs looked toward Creed for guidance. The man's arms remained folded, his right foot tamping the grass.
Quickside brake and swing.
I put a light block on their end, then turned to the right to watch the play develop. Taft caught the ball about six yards behind the line and followed the center and both guards. They looked impressive, trucking along out there in front, Onan Moley flanked by Rector and Fallon, but nobody remembered to throw a block. The left cornerback sliced in to make an anklehigh tackle just as Taft was getting set to turn it on. A Centres lineman was hurt, knee or ankle, and they had to call time to get him off. We assembled near our own 45. John Jessup took off his helmet. There was blood all over his lips and teeth.
