by Don DeLillo
*
Counter-freeze, blue-2 wide, swing inside delay.
*
I flared to the left, taking Mallon with me. Taft waited for a two-count and swung over the middle. Under pressure Hobbs threw high. Third and four. I couldn’t contain my man. I tried to hold him. Then he and two others were all over Hobbs. I walked off without looking back. Whiteside punted sixty yards in the air. Jeff Elliott moved along the bench toward me.
“We’re not moving the ball.”
“I know,” I said.
“That first drive was tremendous, Gary. But since then.”
“We’ll probably get killed. I anticipate a final score of eighty-three to seven.”
“Not this team. This is a real team. We’ve got the character to come back. We’re only down seven. This is a team that goes out and plays.”
“I was just talking, Jeff. Psyching myself.”
“That’s some way to psych yourself. How you feeling? Let me see that hand.”
“I’m feeling happy,” I said. “Look at the arc lights, the crowd. Listen to those noises out there. Pop, pop, pop. Ving, ving. Existence without anxiety. Happiness. Knowing your body. Understanding the real needs of man. The real needs, Jeffrey.”
“I just meant your hand. It’s all gouged up.”
“The universe was born in violence. Stars die violently. Elements are created out of cosmic violence.”
“Gary, this is football.”
“I’m just fooling around, Jeff. I’m not serious.”
“This team can come back. That’s what all the pain and the struggle was for back there last summer. To give us the character to come back.”
“Quite right.”
“I believe in Coach,” Jeff said. “He’ll tell us what to do. Wait till half time. Coach will make adjustments.”
*
Telcon hit his tight end near the sideline for twelve. Champ Conway came off holding his left shoulder and John Butler replaced him. Telcon completed two, missed one, hit one. He shook off Link Brownlee and threw to one of his backs who was just lounging around in the flat. The man took it all the way to our 17 before Bobby Luke caught him from behind. They picked up two on the ground, not very stylishly, Kidd and Lowry driving the ballcarrier back about ten yards while the official chased them blowing his whistle. Telcon overthrew a man in the end zone. Then he hit number 29 coming out of the backfield. Butler and Billy Mast put him down at the 9. They called time and Telcon looked toward his bench. Their head coach, Jade Kiley, turned to one of his assistants and said something. I looked at the clock. The field-goal team came on. Hauptfuhrer started shouting at the defense, howling at them. His face was contorted, squeezed into tense pieces. Sound of lamentation. It drifted across the clear night to all bright creatures curled beneath the moon.
“Look out for the fake. Look out for the faaaaake. Aaaaaake. Aaaaaake. Aaaaaake.”
They made the field goal. Bobby Iselin returned the kickoff to the 24. We all hurried out.
*
“Bed,” Jerry Fallon said. “Pillow, sheet, blanket, mattress, spring, frame, headboard.”
*
Hobbs hit Chuck Deering on a pony-out for nine. He worked the other sideline and Spurgeon Cole was forced out after picking up thirteen. The bench was shouting encouragement. Hobbs came back with an opp-flux draw to Taft that picked up only two. He called time and went over to talk to Creed. I got my cleats scraped clean and watched Hobbs come trotting back; he seemed to have the answer to everything. I swung behind Deering, who was running a Q-route to clear out the area, and then I fanned toward the sideline and turned. The ball looked beautiful. It seemed overly large and bright. I could see it with perfect clarity. I backed up half a step, leaning with the ball. Then I had it and turned upfield. Somebody grabbed my ankle but I kicked away and picked up speed again, being sure to stay near the sideline. Two of them moved in now. They had the angle on me and I stepped out of bounds. I got hit and dropped and hit again. I came up swinging. Somebody pulled my jersey and I was kicked two or three times in the leg. I realized this was their side of the field. Fallon and Jessup pulled me away. The roughing cost them fifteen and that moved the ball inside their 20. Hobbs hit Cole on a spoon-out to the 10 and we called time. He went off to confer with Creed again. Ron Steeples, who’d been knocked unconscious in the first quarter, came running in now to replace Chuck Deering. He was happy to be back. The scent of grass and dirt filled my nostrils. Hobbs returned and we huddled. His primary receiver was Jessup on a shadow-count delay over the middle. I went into motion and the ball was snapped. I watched Jessup fake a block and come off the line. Hobbs looked to his left, pump-faked, turned toward Jessup and fired. The ball went off Jessup’s hand and right to their free safety, 46, who was standing on the goal line. We all stood around watching, either startled or pensive, trying to retrace events. Then 46 decided to take off, evading Kimbrough and Rector, cutting inside me. I went after him at top speed. At the 30 yard line I became aware of something behind me, slightly off to the side. White and green and coming on. Then it was past me, 22, Taft Robinson, running deftly and silently, a remarkable clockwork intactness, smoothly touring, no waste or independent movement. I didn’t believe a man could run that fast or well. I slowed down and took off my helmet. Taft caught 46 just the other side of midfield, hitting him below the shoulders and then rolling off and getting to his feet in one motion. I stood there watching. The gun sounded and we all headed for the tunnel.
*
I sat on the floor sucking the sweet flesh out of half an orange. Onan Moley slid down the wall and settled next to me. Somebody’s blood was all over the tape on his forearm.
“We’re hitting pretty good,” he said. “They’re just hitting better.”
“They don’t do anything unexpected. But they’re the kind of team that gets stronger and stronger. They’ll demolish us in the second half. They’ll just keep coming. They’ll keep getting stronger. I figure the final score to be about sixty-six to seven.”
“That bad?” Onan said.
“Worse maybe.”
“We’ll probably have to use cable blocking more often than not in the second half.”
“Imagine what it’s like,” I said, “to go against a major power. These people come on and on. So imagine what it must be like to go against a really major power.”
“Yeah, think what it must be like to take the field against Tennessee or Ohio State or Texas.”
“Against Notre Dame or Penn State.”
“The Fighting Irish,” Onan said. “The Nittany Lions.”
“Imagine what it must be like to play before a hundred thousand people in the L.A. Coliseum.”
“And nationwide TV.”
“UCLA versus LSU.”
“One of the all-time intersectional dream games.”
“We’ll never make it,” I said. “We’ll never even get out of here alive. They’ll just keep coming and coming.”
“That fifty-five is the meanest thing I ever hope to play against.”
“Mallon,” I said.
“That thing is clubbing me to death. He rears back and clubs me with a forearm every play. I start wincing as soon as I snap the damn ball because I know old fifty-five is already bringing that forearm around to club my head. Gary, I only go about one ninety-eight. That thing is easy two thirty-five.”
“And still growing.”
“I guarantee you I’m not about to get him any madder than he was the day he was born. I can take sixty minutes of clubbing as long as I know I’ll never see that guy again. He is one mean person, place or thing.”
The coaches started yelling for their people. Onan went over to Tweego’s group and I went to the blackboard where Oscar Veech and Emmett Creed were waiting. Creed spoke slowly and evenly, looking from Hobbs to Taft to me, ignoring the other quarterbacks and running backs gathered behind us. Bobby Hopper asked a question about the blocking assignments just put in for the drag slant right. Creed looked at Osca
r Veech. It was rather strange. He didn’t want to talk to anyone who couldn’t help him win.
“Right guard blocks down,” Veech said. “Harkness takes out the end.”
It wasn’t time to go back out yet. I went and sat against another wall. Mitchell Gorse, a reserve safetyman, walked by. In his spotless uniform he looked a bit ludicrous.
“We’ll come back, Gary,” he said.
“Bullshit.”
Across the room Bloomberg was sitting on a park bench that had somehow found its way into the dressing area. From somewhere I could hear Sam Trammel’s voice.
“Crackback. Crackback. Crackback.”
My helmet, wobbling slightly, rocking, was on the floor between my feet. I looked into it. I felt sleepy and closed my eyes. I went away for a while, just one level down. Everything was far away. I thought (or dreamed) of a sunny green garden with a table and two chairs. There was a woman somewhere, either there or almost there, and she was wearing clothes of another era. There was music. She was standing behind a chair now, listening to a Bach cantata. It was Bach all right. When I lost the woman, the music went away. But it was still nice. The garden was still there and I felt I could add to it or take away from it if I really tried. Just to see if I could do it, I took away a chair. Then I tried to bring back the woman without the music. Somebody tapped my head and I opened my eyes. I couldn’t believe where I was. Suddenly my body ached all over. They were getting up and getting ready to move out. I was looking into Roy Yellin’s chewed-up face.
“They’re putting me in for Rector,” he said.
“What’s wrong with Cecil?”
“Nothing wrong with Cecil. He’s just not hitting. He’s getting beat. His man is overpowering him. Number seventy-seven’s his man. He looks real big, Gary. Big, strong and mobile. Those are Tweego’s exact words. What do you think?”
“His tusks would bring a fortune in Zanzibar.”
“He’s jamming up the damn middle. Coach just talked to me about it. He said to fire out and really hit. Really chop him up. What do you think, Gary? Supposin’ I can’t move him? They’re counting on me to move that fucking mother animal.”
“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. Dog-Boy. He’ll have to do it. Because seventy-seven 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.
“Cree-unch,” he said softly. “Cree-unch. 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 a-nation. I received my confirmation. On the day of declaration. One two three a-nation.”
“They’re coming out in a double-wing,” I said.
“It’s all double, Gary. Double consciousness. Old form superimposed on new. It’s a breaking-down 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 hand-off, 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 45 yard 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 Centrex 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. Ray-yape that man.”
Dennis Smee, at middle linebacker, shouted down at the front four: “Tango-two. 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 burn-7 hitch to Ron Steeples off the fake picket. Second and one. Hobbs used play-action and threw to Spurgeon Cole, seam-X-in, 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.”
“Ca-rash.”
*
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 spre
ading 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.
*
Out-23, near-in belly toss.
*
Taft barely made it to the line of scrimmage. On a spring-action 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, thirty-one spring-T. 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 five-five, 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 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.”
