'He'll kill you,' I said.
'You think so?'
'He killed Cecil, didn't he? He'll kill you too. He'll drive you right back to the bench. He'll humiliate you, Roy. Coach'll have to send Skink in. He'll be reduced to that. Len Skink. DogBoy. He'll have to do it. Because seventyseven is going to eat your face. You'd better fake an injury the first time we have the ball. It's your only hope. I promise I won't let on. If you try to play against that big horrible thing, he'll send you home in pieces. He did it to Cecil and he'll do it to you. Look, Roy, I'm just kidding. It helps me relax.'
'Are you serious?'
'I'm kidding.'
'That's what I mean.'
'You'll do the job, Roy. I just said those things to undermine my sense of harmony. It's very complex. It has to do with the ambiguity of this whole business.'
I got up and punched a locker. It was almost time. I didn't expect Creed to have any final words and I realized I was right when I saw George Owen get up on a chair. His gaze moved slowly across the room, then back again. He held his clenched fists against the sides of his head. Slowly, his knees began to bend.
'Creeunch,' he said softly. 'Creeunch. Creech. Crunch.'
We started to make noises.
'You know what to do,' he said, and his voice grew louder. 'You know what this means. You know where we are. You know who to get.'
We were all making the private sounds. We were getting ready. We were getting high. The noise increased in volume.
'Footbawl,' George Owen shouted. 'This is footbawl. You thow it, you ketch it, you kick it. Footbawl. Footbawl. Footbawl.'
We were running through the tunnel out onto the field. Billy Mast and I met at the sideline. He raised his hands above his head and then brought them down on my pads-one, two, three times. I jumped up and down and threw a shoulder into Billy. The band marched off now. We were both jumping up and down, doing private and almost theological calisthenics, bringing God into the frenzied body, casting out fear.
'How to go, little Billy.'
'Hiyoto, hiyoto.'
'They're out to get us. They'll bleach our skulls with hydrosulfite.'
'They'll rip off our clothes and piss on our bare feet.'
'Yawaba, yawaba, yawaba.'
'How to go, Gary boy. How to jump, how to jump.'
'They'll twist our fingers back.'
'They'll kill us and eat us.'
Centrex came out. We gathered around Creed again and then broke with a shout. The kickoff team went on. Bing Jackmin kicked to the 7 or 8 and they returned to the 31 where Andy Chudko hit the ballcarrier at full force and then skidded on his knees over the fallen player's body. I watched Creed take his stance at the midfield stripe. Bing Jackmin came off the field and sat next to me.
'One two three anation. I received my confirmation. On the day of declaration. One two three anation.'
'They're coming out in a doublewing,' I said.
'It's all double, Gary. Double consciousness. Old form superimposed on new. It's a breakingdown of reality. Primitive mirror awareness. Divine electricity. The football feels. The football knows. This is not just one thing we're watching. This is many things.'
'You know what Coach says. It's only a game but it's the only game.'
'Gary, there's a lot more out there than games and players.'
Telcon faked a handoff, dropped slowly back (ball on his hip), then lofted a pass to his flanker who had five steps on Bobby Luke. The ball went through his hands, a sure six, and he stood on our 45yard line just a bit stunned, his hands parted, a tall kid with bony wrists, looking upfield to the spot in time and space he would have been occupying that very second if only he had caught the football. They sagged a little after that and had to punt. Bobby Hopper called for a fair catch and fumbled. About six players fought for possession, burrowing, crawling, tearing at the ground. A Cenirex player leaped out of the mass, his fist in the air, and their offense came back on. Lee Roy Tyler limped to the sideline. Vern Feck stomped his clipboard, then turned his back to the field and looked beyond our bench, way out over the top of the stadium. From our 32 they picked up two, one and five on the ground. Telcon looked across at his head coach. We rose from the bench and crowded near the sideline. Centrex broke and set.
Hauptfuhrer chanted to his linemen: 'Contain. Contain. Contain those people. Infringe. Infringe on them. Rape that man, Link. Rape him. Rayyape that man.'
Dennis Smee, at middle linebacker, shouted down at the front four: 'Tangotwo. Reset red. Hoke that bickie. Mutt, mutt, mutt.'
John Butler fought off a block and held the ballcarrier upright at the 23. We made noises at the defense as they came off. Hobbs opened with a burn7 hitch to Ron Steeples off the fake picket. Second and one. Hobbs used playaction and threw to Spurgeon Cole, seamXin, leading him too much. Their tight safety came over to pick it off and ran right into Spurgeon. Their ball. Both players down. The safety needed a stretcher. Spurgeon came off on his own and then collapsed. I moved away from him, putting 'on my helmet as I watched Centrex move toward the line. A moment later I glanced over. The trainer was kneeling over Spurgeon and soon he was up and shaking his head. I took my helmet off. I patted him on the leg as he went by. He grinned down at me, a great raw grassy bruise on his left cheekbone.
'Crash,' he said.
'You're all right.'
'Carash.'
Telcon threw twice for first downs. Two holding penalties moved them back. They tried two draws. Then Buddy Shock turned a reverse inside. They punted dead on our 23. I went out, feeling the glue spreading over my ribs. Hobbs called a power 26 off the crossbow with Taft Robinson carrying. I went in low at their left end. He drove me to my knees and I grabbed an ankle and pulled. On his way down he put a knee into my head.
Out23, nearin belly toss.
Taft barely made it to the line of scrimmage. On a springaction trap I went straight ahead, careened off 77 and got leveled by Mike Mallon. He came down on top of me, breathing into my face, chugging like a train. I closed my eyes. The noise of the crowd seemed miles away.
Through my jersey the turf felt chilly and hard. I heard somebody sigh. A deep and true joy penetrated my being. I opened my eyes. All around me there were people getting off the ground. Directly above were the stars, elucidations in time, old clocks sounding their chimes down the bending universe. I regretted knowing nothing about astronomy; it would have been pleasant to calculate the heavens, Bloomberg was leaning over to help me to my feet. We joined the huddle. Garland Hobbs on one knee spoke into the crotches of those who faced him.
'Brown feather right, thirtyone springT. On two. Break.'
I couldn't believe it. The same play. The same play, I thought. He's called the same play. A fairly common maneuver, it somehow seemed rhapsodic now. How beautiful, I thought. What beauty. What a beautiful thing to do. Hobbs received the snapback, Roy Yellin pulled, and there I was with the football, the pigskin, and it was planted once more in my belly and I was running to daylight, to starlight, and getting hit again by Mallon, by number 55, by their middle linebacker, by fivefive, snorting as he hit me, an idiotically lyrical moment. Down I went, the same play, the grass and stars. It's all taking so long, I thought. The galaxy knows itself. The quasars repeat their telling of time. Nine tenths of the universe is missing. I was covered with large people. In a short while they raised
