by Don DeLillo
“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 six-one 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 field-goal kicker came on. The ball hit the crossbar and bounced back.
*
Delta-3 series, saddleback-in, shallow hinge reverse.
Span-out 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 hip-fake, 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 gap-angle 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 name-giver. We were his chalk-scrawls. 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 nipple-prick, thirty-five. You’re an eensie-weensie. You got your dong from a cereal box.”
“He’s barely got a dong,” Jim Deering said.
“Nipple-prick. Nipple-prick.”
“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 rip-slant. 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, shovel-head.”
*
Zone set, triple tex, off-hit recon dive.
*
I was pass-blocking for Hobbs. The big thing, 77, shed Yellin and came dog-paddling 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 goat-shit 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 tight-T. Halfback picked up four. Telcon kept for six. Halfback went straight ahead for nine. Halfback went straight ahead for eight. Fullback went off-tackle for four. Fullback went straight ahead, taking George Dole into the end zone with him. The extra point was good.
“Fee-uck,” Jessup said.
“It’s all over.”
“Fee-uck,” man. This game is still on. I get that sixty-two yet. I get his ass and whip it into shape. Damnright. I get that shitpiss sixty-two and beat his black ass into the ground.”
“He’s white,” I said.
“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. D
own he goes, woof. First and ten at the twenty-six or thirty-one. 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 sixty-one, Andy Chudko, fumble, fumble, six feet even, about two twenty-five, 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 thirty-five, twelve yards from our vantage point here at the Orange Bowl in sun-drenched 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. Multi-talented. A magician with that ball. All the color and excitement. He’s got it with a yard to spare off a good block by fifty-three or seventy-three. 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 the 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 number 62: “Suckmouth. Peach pit. Shit-finger.”
*
They got fifteen yards for roughing. We went to the near hashmark and huddled. Madden’s nose was bleeding. At the snap I moved into my frozen insect pose, ready to pass-block. 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, back-pedaling, 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.
Gap-angle down, 17, dummy stitch.
Bone country special, double-D 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 off-bike 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: ALL-AMERICAN QUARTERBACK, A MENDELSOHN-TOPPING SPORTS MOTIVATION CONCEPT. Carefully he opened the box. He arranged twenty-two 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
LENNY WELLS WALKED up the aisle toward the rear of the bus. He was wearing his fuzzy white Hibbs & Hannon cowboy hat, a gift from an Oklahoma uncle. He also wore a cast on his left arm, no less a gift judging from the proud look on his face, the sense of self-esteem 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.
“They broke it,” he said. “It’s a clean fracture. Right below the elbow. I saw the x ray. It’s broke clean. They broke it all right. No question about it.”
“I hate to tell you how many yards they gained rushing,” Billy said. “A lot of them right over my frail body.”
“I didn’t even see the last three quarters,” Lenny said. “I was having this thing looked at. Having this thing of mine x-rayed.”
“Where’s Creed?” I said. “I haven�
�t seen Creed all morning.”
The driver closed the door and eased onto the highway. This time there was no separation of offense and defense; the two buses were mixed. Lenny turned toward the front and put the hat down over his eyes. The sun came in through the side windows now. Physically I felt more or less intact. After the game the trainer had looked at my ribs and they were all right, just bruised. Both my legs were bruised also. With the game over I wondered what had made it seem so important. It was nothing now, remembered only by my body, vaguely, in terms of soreness. There were two games still to play but I didn’t look forward to them. I realized I had nothing to look forward to, nothing at all. I hoped this was just a momentary post-game depression.
“How’s Conway?” I said.
“Collarbone,” Billy Mast said. “I don’t know how bad. He must be in the other bus. I haven’t seen him. But I know it’s the collarbone. Kimbrough told me at breakfast. They got the collarbone.”
“How’s Lee Roy Tyler?”
“Knee. They got the knee. Wrenched knee. Not too bad. He’ll be ready.”
“What about Randy King?”
“Knee. Knee. They blind-sided him. They got him good. Last play of the game. The blind side. They got the knee. They caved it in on him.”
“What about Yellin? How’s Yellin? He was really hopping around.”
“They got the ankle. They kicked it and then stepped on it. I saw it this morning. The right ankle. It’s badly swollen. It’s purplish in color. He’ll be limping for a few days.”
“Dickie Kidd,” I said.
“Shoulder separation. Deep bruise on left calf. Latter injury reported to be of particular interest. Star-shaped. Multicolored.”
“How’d he get it?”
