themselves and I drifted back to the huddle. The chains came out. First down. Hobbs overthrew Jessup, then Steeples. Taft went wide for two. Centrex returned the punt to their 33.
Ted Joost squatted next to me on the sideline.
'This whole game could be played via satellite. They could shoot signals right down here. We'd be equipped with electronic listening devices. Transistor things sealed into our headgear. We'd receive data from the satellites and run our plays accordingly. The quarterback gets one set of data. The linemen get blocking patterns. The receivers get pass routes. Ek cetera. Same for the defense. Ek cetera.'
'Who sends the data?' I said.
'The satellites.'
'Who feeds the satellites?'
'A computer provides the necessary input. There'd be a computerized data bank of offensive plays, of defensive formations, of frequencies. What works best against a sixone on second down and four inside your own thirty? The computer tells the satellite. The satellite broadcasts to the helmet. There'd be an offensive satellite and a defensive satellite.'
Centrex stayed on the ground. Their guards and tackles came off the ball. Dickie Kidd was helped off and George Dole replaced him. They picked up nine, four, eight, three, three, six. They moved quickly in and out of the huddle. They kept grinding it out. They kept hitting, they kept moving. Billy Mast's jersey was torn off his back and he had to come off for a new one. He removed his helmet. Both his eyes were puffed up and there was a patch of dry blood at the corner of his mouth. Telcon skirted John Butler and picked up two key blocks. Bobby Iselin bumped him out at the 16.
Vern Feck to Butler: 'Shitbird. Shitbird. Shitbird. Shit.'^
Our defense called time to get organized. Larry Nix went in for Lloyd Philpot. I watched Lloyd come toward the bench. His jersey wasn't tucked into his pants. Tape was hanging from his left wrist and hand. He squatted down between Ted Joost and me.
'I didn't infringe. The coaches wanted optimum infringement. But I didn't do the job. I didn't infringe.'
Two running plays gained little or nothing. Then Telcon got pressure from Howard Lowry and had to throw the ball away. Their fieldgoal kicker came on. The ball hit the crossbar and bounced back.
Delta3 series, saddlebackin, shallow hinge reverse. Spanout option, jumbo trap.
I followed a good block by Jerry Fallon, tripping over somebody's leg and gaining only three. Then, on a column sweep, Taft turned the corner and picked up speed just as a lane opened and suddenly he was gone, out into open territory, and I watched from my knees as he dipped and swerved and cut past a cornerback, one motion, accelerating off the cut and heading straight for the last man, the free safety, and then veering off just slightly, almost contemptuously, not bothering to waste a good hipfake, still operating on that first immaculate thrust, cruising downhill from there. I was on my feet and following him. We were all running after him, running past our bench, everybody standing and yelling, jumping, looking at the back of his jersey, at 22 in white and green, the crowd up and screaming-a massive, sustained and somehow lonely roar. I slowed to a walk and watched Taft glide into the end zone. He executed a dainty little curl to the left and casually dropped the football. Moody Kimbrough stumbled over the goal line and picked him up. Then Fallon and Jessup were there and they were all carrying Taft back across the goal line, holding him at the waist and under the arms, and Roy Yellin was jumping up and down and smacking Taft on the helmet. Spurgeon Cole stood beneath the goal posts, repeating them, arms raised in the shape of a crossbar and uprights, his fists clenched. The crowd was still up, leaning, in full voice, addressing its own noise. Taft came off. Bing Jackmin kicked the extra point. I hit Taft on the helmet and sat next to Tim Flanders.
'We got a game going now,' he said. 'We got a game going. We got a game going now.'
'I think my ribs are busted,' I said. 'You're okay. You're okay. You're okay.' Bing kicked out of bounds and had to do it over. They returned to the 38. The quarter ended. I went over to hit Taft on the helmet again. Hauptfuhrer and Vern Feck were explaining something about gapangle blocking to Dennis Smee. Emmett Creed moved his right foot over the grass, a few inches either way. This was his power, to deny us the words we needed. He was the maker of plays, the namegiver. We were his chalkscrawls. Something like that.
Centrex stayed inside the tackles, making two first downs. Then Telcon handed to his big back, 35, and I watched him come right toward us, toward the bench, rumbling over the turf, really pounding along. He got ready to lower a shoulder as he sensed Buddy Shock coming straight across from his linebacker's spot They met before the runner could turn upfield. Buddy left his feet as he made contact, coming in hard, swinging a forearm under the lowered shoulder. They went down a few yards away from us. We heard the hard blunt heavy sound of impact and then the wild boar grunt as they hit the ground and bounced slightly, gasping now, breathing desperately, looking into the earth for knowledge and power. Standing above them we watched solemnly, six or seven of us, as Buddy put his hand on the ballcarrier's head and pushed himself upright. Then 35 got to his feet, slowly, still panting. John Jessup spoke to him, conversationally, in a near whisper.
'You're a nippleprick, thirtyfive. You're an eensieweensie. You got your dong from a cereal box.'
'He's barely got a dong,' Jim Deering said.
'Nippleprick. Nippleprick.'
'Eensie, eensie, eensie.'
They stayed on the ground, moving to our 16. Telcon rolled out right, threw left. Their tight end, all alone on the 5, walked in with it. I felt tired suddenly. A wave of sorrow passed over our bench. After the extra point, they kicked away from Taft, a low floater that Ted Joost fell on at the 29. Taft picked up three on a ripslant. Roy Yellin came up limping.
'Walk it off,' Kimbrough told him.
'Oh mother,' Yellin said. 'Oh Grace Porterfield Yellin. Oh it hurts, it hurts.'
'Walk it off, shovelhead.'
Zone set, triple tex, offhit recon dive.
I was passblocking for Hobbs. The big thing, 77, shed Yellin and came dogpaddling in. I jammed my helmet into his chest and brought it up fast, striking his chin. He made a noise and kept coming, kept mauling me. He backed me up right into Hobbs and we all went down. I heard the coaches screaming, their voices warming our huddle. Hobbs left the pocket and threw to Taft in a crowd. A linebacker tipped it, gained control and brought it in. Taft got a piece of him and Ron Steeples put him down. As we went off, Oscar Veech screamed into our chests.
'What in the hell is going on here? What are you feebs doing out there? What in the goddamn goatshit hell is the name of the game you people are playing?'
The ball was spotted at our 33. Dennis Smee moved along the line, slapping helmets and pads. Jessup sat next to me on the bench. Blades of grass were stuck to the dry blood on his face. Centrex shifted into a tightT. Halfback picked up four. Telcon kept for six. Halfback went straight ahead for nine. Halfback went straight ahead for eight. Fullback went offtackle for four. Fullback went straight ahead, taking George Dole into the end zone with him. The extra point was good.
'Feeuck,' Jessup said.
'It's all over.'
'Feeuck, man. This game is still on. I get that sixtytwo yet. I get his ass and whip it into shape. Damnright. get that shitpiss sixtytwo and beat his black ass into the ground.'
'He's white,'Isaid.
