The Rough English Equivalent (The Jack Mason Saga Book 1)

by Stan Hayes

  “Looky here,” said Dotty, turning the beanie over in her hands. “The buttons have comic characters on ’em.” She looked intently at each button. “Here’s Smilin' Jack, and Perry Winkle, Lillums, Skeezix, Kayo, Little Moose, Dick Tracy, Tess Truehart, Hans ’n Fritz, th’ Inspector… this is great! Don’t put it up, Robbie, leave it on the table for us to look at, OK?”

  “Sure, honey, if you like them little rascals. Can’t tell what people’re gonna liike, can ya?” Roberta said with a shake of her head. “Now, Mr. Lee, lemme ask ya- any of yore recordin’ artists ever drop in fer a visit?”

  “We ain’t that big… yet,” Lee snickered good-humoredly. “I’d love to do some live interviews with th’ big names; up-and-comers, too, before they get too big-” swinging his arm and slapping his Red Cap, sending it spinning off the table- “to monkey around with small-town DJs.”

  “Jeesus,” yelped Dotty, as the ale sprayed her.

  “Small-town, but not small-time, honey,” said Roberta, patting his soggy knee and leaving her hand there. “Anybody ’sides Lee ready for another round?”

  By a little after one, the conversation’s tempo had slowed, but Roberta had kept it focused on the romance of radio rhythm and blues. Nels had been gone for quite awhile, having left with two girls Janice grimly identified as the Gump sisters. “Who’s that guy that does th’ lead vocal on Sixty Minute Man?” she asked. “He’s great. I know it’s th’ Dominos, but nobody ever says who he is.”

  “Billy Ward,” said Lee, squelching a belch. “You like that song, huh?”

  “Hell, who don’t? I love it; ‘If yo’ man ain’t treatin’ you riit, come up an’ see ole Dan…” she laughed. “I’d luuve to see what that bawey looks liike.”

  “Maybe we could catch ’im in Atlanta sometime,” said Lee. “Zack Shears…”

  “Zack Shears! You know Pappy Shears? Blues Train? He’s been on WTGS fa’ever! Wisht he come in clearer over heanh. How come you know ’im?”

  “Well, I haven’t alwaysh been a small-town jock, honey. I knew Zack when I was at WBS.”

  “Wow! WBS! When we goin’?”

  “Oh, most anytime that the Dominos’re in town and our off times match up,” said Lee, the instant impresario. “I’ll give ’im a call.”

  “Looks like you’ll get to Atlanta before Dotty,” said Moses.

  “Yeah, but not to stay. But maybe I’ll figure out a way to do it by the time you’re there, honey.”

  “I don’t see why not,” said Dotty. “There’s not much holdin’ you here. You’ll never get rich at Whitehead’s,” she giggled.

  Roberta grinned mirthlessly as she stubbed out her cigarette. “I’ll never get close to rich ’less I get trained ta do sump’m ’sides debits ’n credits.”

  “There’s all sortsha schools in Atlanta,” observed Lee. All you need to do is decide what you wanta learn; beauty operator, court reporter, hell, even broadcashtin’ school. I’ve known lotsha people who’ve changed jobs after takin’ courses like ’at.”

  “Yeah, an’ if they’re like th’ ones in N’yoauk, here’s one thing you’ll hear sooner or later.” He picked up the button-studded beanie, now somewhat soggy, and set it on the crown of his head.

  “Whassat?” asked Roberta.

  Moses’ voice went up an octave: “Step troo da klessroom doah dere, gif your money to da Jew, an’ heve a zeat.”

  Lee, getting it, commenced wheezing. The wheeze turned into a run of whoops, accompanied by uncertain smiles from the women, Roberta emitting a little bark of laughter as Lee’s whooping subsided into a gasping fit. “Goddam,” he sputtered, “you oughta have an AFTRA card. That was friggin’ perfect!”

  Dotty’s smile had disappeared almost as soon as she flashed it; she looked at Moses, still wearing the beanie, the way she might look at something that she wished dead. She asked, “Why was that funny?” She turned her head to look at all three of them in turn. Getting no answer, she asked again, “Why was that funny? Is it because you all think Jews are funny?”

  Moses’ face went flat as he returned her stare. “Shitcheah; they’re human, aren’t they?”

  “All but one. But that one makes them special. They’re Jesus’s people, and I don’t like it when anybody makes fun of them.”

  “Well, then, sugar, speakin’ as a Jew- which I am- I can tell ya that yer in for a lot of grief.”

  “You’re not a Jew,” Dotty proclaimed through a Mount Rushmore-audition face. A Jew wouldn’t say something like that.”

  “Your friend knows lotsha Jews, does she, honey?” Lee asked, thinking that he was suppressing a grin. “Sure shounds like she does.”

  “Oh shit, Lee, hush,” gritted Roberta through her teeth. “She taikes all this stuff real serious.”

  As Moses took a breath to continue the exchange, Nelson Lord sidled up to the table. “Where you been?” Lee asked him. “We heard you left with th’ Gumps.”

  “Who? Gumps? Aw hell, that’s jus’ what Janice calls them girls. Ther name’s McGinnis. I ran out to ther place fer a lil’ bit, but ther damn dog woke up th’ chickens, an’ ’at woke up ther ol’ man. Shoulda never rode out ’air wid them; hadta haul ass out on foot.”

  “I need to get on home, Robbie,” said Dotty.

  Roberta removed her tongue from Lee’s ear. “You wanta go, honey? OK. Haing on jus’ a minnit.” Returning to Lee’s ear, she whispered, “C’mon’n go with me ta drop her off.”

  “Sure, baby,” Lee said, starting to move his bulk to a standing position.

  “Nice to’ve met you, ladies,” said Moses. “Don’t take any wooden Hebrews.” Nels, sprawled in the next chair, his fingers coming close to grazing the floor, grinned and nodded his head. “Hey Lee.”

  “What?” barely containing his glee.

  “You comin’ back?”

  “We miit be awhile,” said Roberta.

  Lee bent over close to Moses’ ear. “Thish girl want R&B dick, an’ ol’ Lee gonna let ’er have it. You’n Nels go on.”

  “OK, pal, if you’re sure. Tally ho.”

  As the trio moved toward the door, Janice approached the table, eyeing Nels, whose eyes had shut. “ ’Scuse me; you probly don’t know it, but Lenny lets ’im sleep here when he gets liike ’is. There’s a cot in th’ back.”

  The Bisque Bears were on the road, a two-hour school-bus ride away from home for the opening game of the 1952 season. The home team, traditional rival Ledbetter, set the tone for the evening with its opening cheer:

  “Miscue high,

  Miscue low,

  Miscue got a problem,

  Ho-ho-ho!

  Go-o-o-o, Lions!”

  The cheer, from Bisque’s point of view, had the unfortunate ring of truth; they hadn’t beaten Ledbetter, a perennial state champion of the Georgia High School Association’s Class A division, since before the war. Bisque’s cheerleaders exhorted a response from the visiting crowd, which responded with:

  “Leadbelly, Leadbelly, so high-class; tonight you’d better watch your… “

  The Bisque stands finished the cheer: “ASS!” With much grinning and nudging, and faculty wincing. The cheerleaders would get hell for doing the unauthorized cheer, but this was war.

  “Coach, team, pep, steam; fifteen rahs for the whole dern team!

  Rah, rah, rah-rah-rah,

  Rah, rah, rah-rah-rah,

  Rah, rah, rah-rah-rah,

  Yeeaa, Bisque!”

  Everyone on Bisque’s side of the field knew that the cheer was an empty threat; Ledbetter’s line averaged fifteen pounds heavier, most of their backs were seniors, faster and more experienced, and their quarterback, Leonard (Lash) LaRue, had made All-State for the last two years. He was throwing forty and fifty-yard passes during the pre-game warm-up, making it look way too easy.

  Rocky Whitehead watched his Bears warming up, preparing himself for what he knew would be required of him tonight. First, a rousing pre-game harangue before the Lord’s Prayer; then, a “we’gn still get �
��em” speech at halftime; and an “I’m proud of ever’body on this bus” benediction after the inevitable loss. Everybody, players, cheerleaders and the team managers, bawling. Christ. All this and three classes of Civics, for four thousand a year and a free suit of clothes from Squires Men’s Clothing. If we win at Homecoming. I was better off getting shot at by the Krauts; at least all the fire was from the front, and all my damn clothes were free. …and no wife.

  Scratching his crotch, he watched another long Lash LaRue pass fly down the opposite sideline, into the waiting hands of that squatty little halfback, Pierce. And sure as hell, as soon as we drop back to try to defend against that, they’ll run a sweep or some goddam thing. He swiveled his head back to his team, just as Terrell let a pretty good one go to Mason, who picked it out of the air with those good hands of his. Good average high school players, both of them, but he was putting them in harm’s way tonight. He’d brought them up from the B team last season for the final two games, so they’d had some game time. The ’51 season had been complete crap- 2 and 8- so he’d had very little to lose. And they looked good enough then, and in early practice this year, that he was starting them, several other juniors and two sophomores tonight. Whether they’d have the sand to hold up against this buncha crackers, he thought, we’ll soon find out. Just have to hope we don’t get our asses kicked too seriously.

  Warm-ups completed, the teams clustered on the sidelines, fidgeting, slapping asses and staring across the field at each other as the officials completed their pre-game discussions. “OK, fellas,” Whitehead said, “If we win the toss, we’ll receive. If they do, they’ll take the ball, and you know what you’ve got to watch out for. You backs and linebackers, don’t let them receivers get behind you. If they beat you by a step, LaRue’s gonna hit ’em every time. Linemen, watch for traps; if you get past your man too easy, you know a trap block’s comin’. Rush hard, we can’t give LaRue time to get set to throw; just be alert to gettin’ past your man too easy. Ends, keep your heads up and eyes open for the run; they’ll send that little number 23, Pierce, takin’ off to the outside on pitchouts if they can turn you inside. OK, get in here and gitchyer prayer.”

  The team gathered around him in a cloud of sour-smelling nervous sweat, stacking their hands on top of his outstretched one as they chanted the Lord’s Prayer in quicktime. They broke their cluster with “GO, BEARS!” as one of the officials approached to escort senior tackle Chuck Collier, the team captain, to the middle of the field for the coin toss.

  Jack and Ricky stood together, watching for the referee’s signal for the winner of the toss. Straightening up from his crouch, the official raised both arms and brought them down toward Chuck. Ricky slapped Jack on the butt, saying,”All right! We’ll run 26 on first down, then I’m hitting your ass in the flat. 63 fly.”

  “If I don’t run the kickoff all the way back,” said Jack through clenched teeth; he always felt like he had to shit just as the game started.

  “OK, Bears,” said Whitehead. “Gimme the receivin’ team over here.” The receivers, mostly backs and ends, moved into a tight circle around him. “Nothing fancy on this return; check which side they kick to, probably away from Thomas, get back and form the wedge. And everybody KNOCK SOMEBODY DOWN!”

  Jack, trotting over to his spot on the far right side of the receiving formation, struggled to control the pre-game butterflies that were more active than usual. They’ll kick to me, he thought, away from Dick Thomas. Coach doesn’t want to chance a fumble, so no handoff to him. I’ve just gotta read my blocking and get to daylight if I can. I wish they’d hurry. The quicker that ball’s in the air, the quicker I’ll stop feeling like I’m going to shit my pants. He watched Ledbetter lining up to kick, the big lineman, 76, squeezing the ball a couple of times before tossing it to the holder. He looks like he could hit the end zone anytime he wants to. Maybe he will this time; I hope not. I want this runback.

  He glanced over at the line of cheerleaders, clapping staccato just before they’d turn to the crowd to blunt Ledbetter’s kickoff cheer. Terry caught his eye, as though she’d been waiting for him. She raised her clasped hands over her head in a boxer’s self-handshake. He clapped his hands twice in response as they turned away. 76 raised his hand, responding to the ref’s own, indicating that Ledbetter was ready. He ran forward at the sound of the official’s whistle; Jack watched the ball as it arced high above them, looking for the first clue to where it was coming. To me, he thought. To me. The ball came to him; it was short of where he’d thought it would come, and he stepped up, catching it in outstretched hands and tucking it away in the cradle of his right hand and arm. He ran straight ahead, watching his teammates fall back to form the blocking wedge.

  As they turned to face the oncoming Ledbetter rush, he scanned the colliding bodies for the first clue of an opening. Nothing up the middle; players hit and stuck momentarily in a solid mass. No room to the right; Jack cut left, still looking for daylight. Then the first Ledbetter player to break through the wedge bore down on him from the right; running at full speed now and using his momentum, Jack head-faked a move to the would-be tackler’s left, running past him as he took the fake. He was close to the left sideline now, the corner of his eye picking up the blur of his teammates’ red-and-white uniforms. Turning upfield near the thirty-five yard line, he picked up two blockers, one slowing the rush of a defender long enough to let him get by, the other putting his man on his back with a well-timed shot as Jack cut toward the middle of the field. He saw daylight again to the left, and planted his right foot to cut back. As he did, a pair of arms from his right side encircled his knees, taking him down in his tracks just short of midfield. Going down, he was hit hard in the ribs from the left, and quickly found himself underneath half a ton of grunting, sweating, cursing young male humanity.

  “Howya like gittin’ yo’ dick knocked in th’ dirt, 81?” At’s all th’ runnin’ yo ass’s gone be doin’ toniit.” grated a Ledbetter player from somewhere in the pile.

  “At’s all you’re gonna be seein’ toniit, bub; my ass. Get used to it,” Jack said, as an official approached to spot the ball.

  Getting up, Jack loped back to the Bears’ huddle. Ricky, already kneeling inside it, glanced up at him. “Way to go, Mason.” He looked out at the Lions’ formation, then back inside. “26,” he said. “On three.” They broke the huddle and moved into their offensive lineup, the newly-adopted T formation. Coach Whitehead’s decision to abandon the single wing wasn’t at all popular with Bisque fans or with Cecil McMillan, the Bisque Gazette’s sports editor. It was an offense built on passing, and most Bisquites still favored the running game… three yards and a cloud of dust.

  26 was a running play over right tackle; Jack, at right end, lined up split right, some ten feet outside the tackle’s spot. His hands between the center’s legs, Ricky looked the defense over, then called “Down! 53; hut-one, hut-two, hut-three-” As the ball was snapped, Jack took one step to the right, then pivoted left and sprinted toward his blocking assignment, the left linebacker in the Lion’s five-three-two-one defensive formation. The linebacker had first taken the fake, moving toward Jack; then, seeing Ricky’s handoff to the Bears’ halfback, he turned back to meet the run. Coming through a large hole in the line, the ballcarrier turned upfield. Allowing for the linebacker’s redirection, Jack ran toward the spot on the field where their combined motion would bring them together. As he reached it, he pushed off the ground with his right foot, launching himself into his target. The linebacker had kept too much of his eye on the runner; by the time he’d switched back to Jack, it was too late. He was hit solidly, just above the belt, and had no place to go but down. The ballcarrier cut to the outside of their tangled arms and legs, gaining momentum and nearly twenty yards from scrimmage before the Lions’ safety man could bring him down. The official spotted the ball five yards into Lion territory.

  Headed back to the huddle, Ricky gave Junior Jordan, the right tackle, a slap on the butt. “Great bloc
k,” he said, grinning broadly. “You too, Jack.” In the huddle, he looked briefly outside at the defense, then at Jack. “63 fly, on two.” As they came to the line and Jack took his same split right position, he avoided looking downfield at his destination, looking instead toward the center before taking a three-point stance. The play called for a fake run over the same spot as 26. Anticipating the “two” count ever so slightly, Jack cut right, then left toward the linebacker for two steps, then back right, sprinting past the closest defender for as much distance as possible as he looked back for the ball. Ricky pump-faked once to the left, then let the ball go in a high trajectory toward Jack. Coming from his left, the Lions’ safety couldn’t reach the ball as it screamed in high to their right. On a dead run, Jack looked over his right shoulder, picking up the ball in flight. Reaching out as far as he could, he watched the ball onto his outstretched fingers, juggling it momentarily, then grasping it and cradling it securely in the crook of his right arm. Instinct had him stop short, causing the charging safety to run a step past him. He cut behind the defender, accelerated again and sprinted across the goal line. Standing in the end zone, he raised the ball over his head as his teammates, with Ricky in the lead, surrounded him, hugging him and pounding his helmet and shoulder pads. Crowell, the Lions’ head coach, gazed down the field at his shellshocked team, his jaw clenched shut. The game clock showed nine minutes and five seconds left to play in the first quarter.

  Coach Whitehead sat in the front of the bus, his assistant Roger Price beside him. “I still don’t believe it,” he shouted over the continued uproar behind them. “That’s it; these guys were unbelievable tonight. Could you imagine- holdin’ LaRue to eight completions and 62 yards on the ground? We stayed in their backfield all night long. Them Bishop twins- it was like they knew the play before LaRue ran it.”