'I know he's white. They're all white. Everybody's white. Those black fucks.'
Taft took the kickoff six yards deep and brought it out to the 44. Len Skink reported in for Yellin. Randy King replaced Onan Moley. Terry Madden came in at quarterback. He hit Taft on a snowbird flare for no gain. He threw deep to Steeples incomplete. He fumbled the snap and fell on it. Bing Jackmin met me at the sideline.
'Our uniforms are green and white,' he said. 'The field itself is green and white-grass and chalk markings. We melt into our environment. We are doubled in the primitive mirror.'
I walked down to the very end of the bench. Raymond Toon was all alone, talking into his right fist.
'There it goes, end over end, a high spiral. The deep man avoids or evades would be better. Down he goes, woof. First and ten at the twentysix or thirtyone. Now they come out in a flood left to work against a rotating zone.'
'Toony, that's not a flood.'
'Hey, Gary. Been practicing.'
'So have we.'
'There they go. Andy Chudko, in now for Butler, goes in high, number sixtyone, Andy Chudko, fumble, fumble, six feet even, about two twentyfive, doubles at center on offense, Chudko, Chudko, majoring in airport commissary management, plays a guitar to relax, no other hobbies, fumble after the whistle. College football-a pleasant and colorful way to spend an autumn afternoon. There goes five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven yards, big thirtyfive, twelve yards from our vantage point here at the Orange Bowl in sundrenched Miami, Florida. John Billy Small combined to bring him down. John Billy, as they break the huddle, what a story behind this boy, a message of hope and inspiration for all those similarly afflicted, and now look at him literally slicing through those big ballcarriers. Capacity crowd. Emmett Big Bend Creed. Mike Mallon, they call him Mad Dog. Telcon. Multitalented. A magician with that ball. All the color and excitement. He's got it with a yard to spare off a good block by fiftythree or seventythree. Woof. Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh or Cincinnati. Perfect weather for football. Time out on the field. And now back to our studios for this message. They're a powerhouse, Gary. They play power football. I'd like to get in there and see what I could do. It looks like some of the guys got banged up pretty bad.'
'Nobody's died yet. But then the game isn't over.' 'Telcon looks out over the defense. He's a good one. Hut, hut, offside. He's one of the good ones. Plenty of hitting out on that field. I'm sure glad I'm up here. D.C. Stadium in trie heart of the nation's capital. Crisp blue skies. Emmett Big Bend Creed. And there's more on tap next week when the Chicago Bears, the monsters of the midway, take on the always rough and tough Green Bay Packers of coach something something. Gary, what's going to happen up there on the banks of the Fox River in little Green Bay when the big bad Bears come blowing in from the windy city?'
'You'd better take it easy,' I said. 'Try to get a grip on things. I'm serious, Toony. You'd better slow down. I really think you'd better watch yourself.'
I went over and sat with Garland Hobbs. Centrex was running sweeps. They picked up a first down at our 38. People began to go home. Somebody in the stands behind us, way up high, was blowing into some kind of air horn. It sent a prehistoric cry across the night, a message of grief from the hills down to the suffering plain. Objects were thrown out of the stands.
'Fug,' Hobbs said. 'That's all I can say. That's the only word in my head right now. Fug, fug, fug.'
Somebody fumbled and Link Brownlee fell on it. I hit Hobbs on the pads and went out. Terry Madden left the pocket, what there was of it, and headed toward the sideline, looking downfield for someone to throw to. Their left end pushed him out of bounds and a linebacker knocked him over the Centrex bench. I strolled over there. Players were milling about, shoving each other just a bit.
Jessup to Dumber 62: 'Suckmouth. Peach pit. Shitfinger.'
They got fifteen yards for roughing. We went to the near hashmark and huddled. Madden's nose was bleeding, Ai the snap I moved into my frozen insect pose, ready to passblock. Jessup ignored his pass route and went right at the linebacker playing over him, 62, leading with a forearm smash to the head and following with a kick in the leg. I watched 62 actually bare his teeth. Soon everybody was in it, swinging fists and headgear, kicking, spitting, holding on to pads, clutching jerseys, both benches emptying now, more objects sailing out of the stands. I was in the very middle of the rocking mass. It was relatively safe there. We were packed too tightly for any serious punching or kicking to be done. The real danger was at the periphery where charges could be made, individual attacks mounted, and I felt quite relaxed where I was, being rocked back and forth. A lot of crazed eyes peered out of the helmets nearby. In the distance I could see some spectators climbing over the guard rails and running onto the field. Then there was a sudden shift in equilibrium and I caught an elbow in the stomach. I turned, noted color of uniform, and started swinging. I moved in for more, very conscious of the man's number, 45, backfield, my size or smaller. Somebody ran into me from behind and I went down. It was impossible to get up. I crawled over bodies and around churning legs. I reached an open area and got to my knees. There was someone standing above me, a spectator, a man in a white linen suit, his hand over his mouth, apparently concealing something, and he seemed to be trying to speak to me, but under the circumstances it was not possible to tell what he was saying or even in what language he was saying it. A player tripped over me; another player, backpedaling, ended in my lap. Then I was completely buried. By the time I got out, it was just about over. Jessup and 62 were down on the ground, motionless in each other's arms, neither one willing to relinquish his hold. But nobody was fighting now and the officials moved in. It took them about half a minute to persuade Jessup to let go of the other player. I felt all right. My ribs didn't ache for the moment. Both men were thrown out for fighting. The field was cleared. Randy King sat on the grass, trying to get his right shoe back on.
Twin deck left, ride series, white divide. Gapangle down, 17, dummy stitch. Bone country special, doubleD to right.
Papers blew across the field. I put a gentle block on their left end, helping out Kimbrough. Madden threw to nobody in particular. The stands were almost empty now. I ran a desultory curl pattern over the middle, putting moves on everybody I passed, including teammates. Madden threw behind me. I reached back with my left hand and pulled it in, a fairly miraculous catch. There was open field for a second. Then I was hit from the side and went down. One of their cornerbacks helped me up. I returned to the huddle. We went to the line and set. The left side of our line was offside. We went back again. Taft ran a near offbike delay that picked up four. The gun sounded. I walked off the field with newspapers whipping across my legs. We went quietly through the tunnel and into the locker room. We began taking off our uniforms. In front of me, Garland Hobbs took a long red box from the bottom of his dressing area. The label on it read ALLAMERICAN QUARTERBACK, A MENDELSOHNTOPPINO sports motivation concept. Carefully he opened the box. He arranged twentytwo figurines on a tiny gridiron and then spun a dial. His team moved smartly downfield. Sam Trammel went along the rows of cubicles, asking for complete silence. I assumed a team prayer was forthcoming. Next to me, Billy Mast recited a few German words to himself in the total stillness. When I asked for a translation he said it was just a simple listing of things- house, bridge, fountain, gate, jug, olive tree, window. He said the German words gave him comfort, though not as much as they used to when he didn't know what they meant.
Hauptfuhrer was standing over us. 'Shut up and pray,' he said.
Part Three
20
Llenny Wells walked up the aisle toward the rear of the bus. He was wearing his fuzzy white Hibbs amp; Harmon cowboy hat, a gift from an Oklahoma uncle. He also wore a cast on bis left arm, no less a gift judging from the proud look on bis face, the sense of selfesteem that noble wounds tend to arouse. Sunlight came through the rear window and he blinked and winced into it, then grinned at Billy Mast and me, spinning into the seat in front of us and turning with the grin on his face and wincing again into the sun.
