by John Fante
“Who wrote that?” Wang said.
“Me,” Jake said. “Someday I’m gonna be a sports writer.”
“But our team’s called Wildcats,” Smitty said.
“Wildcats, applesauce,” Jake said. “You’re Americans, ain’t you? So you’re All-Americans.”
“He’s right,” Nunez said. “Slashing center—wow!” He jumped to his feet. “Come on, you creeps! Let’s get out there and dig! Slashing center—wow!”
Next day we played the Hooligans. A big crowd watched, people sitting in cars around the field. At half time we were ahead 24 to 0, but that was on account of the crooked referee. Jake passed a helmet through the crowd. It got almost six bucks. One guy put in a whole buck. Jake refereed the second half. We went out there and banged their brains out. The game ended 87 to 6, when the Hooligans intercepted one of our passes. It was in Monday’s paper, with all our names.
It was like that all season: San Pedro Cannery 6, All-Americans 76; St. Patrick’s 17, All-Americans 88; Beach House 0, All-Americans 58; Epworth League 0, All-Americans 105; Eight-Balls 69, All-Americans 70.
Our last game was with Japanese Settlement. They were tough cannery kids from Terminal Island, across the bay from San Pedro. They were so tough they smashed Eight-Balls 75 to 0. They had a fullback named Irish Hagaromo, who was so big and powerful that he averaged seven touchdowns a game. Irish weighed 225. He was first mate on a tuna boat, and he was thirty-five years old. It was his team. He bought all equipment and coached the team. They only had one offensive play: the center got over the ball and flipped it to Irish.
We practiced hard for the Japanese Settlement game. The only way to beat them was to score a touchdown every time we got the ball; we knew Irish would do the same for his team. If we won the toss, we could keep one touchdown ahead throughout the game.
The second night of practice Frank Adamic didn’t show up. He was there the next night, but he wouldn’t practice.
“On account of the war,” he said.
“What war?”
“The cold war.”
“The what?”
“I’m a Yugoslav, you’re an Italian. My old man says I can’t play until the Italians get out of Trieste.”
“Trieste? Who’s he?”
“It ain’t a he. It’s a place, a country or something.”
“What league they in?”
He didn’t know. We practiced without him. The next night Frenchy Dorais resigned. “If Adamic quit because of the war, I got to quit too. Bluchers a German. My old man says they killed a lot of Frenchmen. I resign.”
Then Mike Miecislaus quit. He said his old man was a Polack. He couldn’t play with Rube Novikov because Rube was a Russian. “Not till the Russians clear out of Poland. Sorry, men. Papa’s orders.”
After that, Wang quit. His father said, “China will never forget, my son. You must resign.” He meant the Japanese. Wang told us about it, and was very sad. But it made Tasi Morimoto mad.
“Is that so?” he said. “Well, I don’t play with no Chink neither.” He quit too.
“But this is America!” Jake said.
We never thought of it any other way. Russians. Japs. Chinese. Poles. Italians. This was a hell of a way to figure people. Then Blucher told his old man about it, and Herman had to quit too.
“Jake is Jewish. My old man says no soap.”
“I’m an American,” Jake said.
“My old man hates Jews.”
“But I don’t hate you, Herman.”
“I like you, too, Jake. But you don’t know my old man.”
“I know your old man,” Frenchy Dorais said. “My old man knows him, too—a lard-bellied German square-head. That’s what your old man is!”
Blucher hit him, and Frenchy hit back. They fought all over the field, punching each other and rolling on the ground. Then Mike hit Rube Novikov. I tried to separate them. All of a sudden Frank Adamic yelled, “Trieste!” and banged me in the stomach. Wang punched Frank, and Morimoto jumped on Wang’s back and started slugging. Jake tried to break it up. Somebody whanged him in the puss and somebody else kicked him in the stomach. He staggered away with blood streaming from his nose. Whitehill and Smitty pitched in too. Everybody was fighting except Joe Nunez and Swede Olson.
Pretty soon a car drove up and two cops jumped out. One was Oscar Lewis, of the Harbor Detail. They roughed us up and broke up the fighting. Oscar grabbed Blucher and shook him.
“So what’s this all about? So let’s have the truth, or in you go, charged with a riot.”
He butted Blucher all over the place with the thick cartridge belt strapped around his potbelly. Then he let him go and grabbed Joe Nunez and started butting him around.
“I wasn’t fighting,” Joe said. “I’m a Portegee.”
“Me neither,” Swede said. “I’m Swedish.”
Jake stepped up with a bloody handkerchief to his nose. “Officer Lewis, I can explain everything.”
Oscar lunged at him. “So you’re the guy!”
He butted Jake all over the field, Jake talking fast. They were in the middle of the street before Jake got the story out.
“We’re Americans,” Jake said. “We got a right to play.”
“So you got rights,” Oscar said. “So what?”
“You’re a smart man, Mr. Lewis. Maybe you could talk to the fathers of these kids,” Jake said.
“So now I’m a smart man…Hey, Harvey. Will you get a load of this punk?”
“Let’s go, Oscar,” the other cop said.
Jake grabbed Oscar’s arm. “Wait. You know what Japanese Settlement said, Mr. Lewis? They said everybody in the harbor precinct was yellow. Cowards—that’s what they called us—all of us, you, and me, and everybody.”
It worked. Oscar’s face puffed up. He pulled out his notebook. “Okay, you punks. Where do you live, and what’s the names of your fathers?”
We called them out and he wrote them down.
“Now get in there and practice. And no fighting.”
Oscar Lewis talked to every father, and the beef was squared all around. Now we were a better team than ever.
Sunday noon the team went over to Terminal Island on the nickel ferry. We had dressed at home and were ready to play as soon as we walked two blocks from the ferry landing to the Japanese Settlement Playground. Irish Hagaromo and the rest of the Settlement team were warming up. Irish punted and passed in a gold helmet and a gold nylon suit. The rest of the Settlement team wore plain khaki suits.
Mr. Slade, the playground supervisor, was referee. He appointed Jake head linesman and one of the Settlement boys was made umpire. At game time Mr. Slade flipped a coin. Irish Hagaromo won the toss for Japanese Settlement. He waved his victory to the crowd, mostly girls, cannery workers on Terminal Island.
We got into a huddle and Smitty said, “Kick it anywhere, but don’t kick it near Hagaromo.”
The whistle blew and we moved upfield as Nunez’s foot sank into the ball. It sailed to the right, at about their fifteen, as far away from Irish as he could kick it. The left half should have taken the ball, but he stepped aside and let it roll past him, and so did the other backs. They wanted Irish to have it. He came over twenty-five yards to pick it up. We rushed down on him, and he stood there smiling as the whole team closed in on him. Then he let out a yipe, waved at the girls, tucked the ball under his arm, lowered his head and came roaring through the thickest of us.
We splattered like a pie hit by a baseball. When we got up and shook our heads, Hagaromo stood behind the goal line, bowing to everybody.
He went through center for the point after touchdown. The score was 7 to 0. Irish laughed and waved to the girls.
“We can’t beat them,” Wang said. “That guy’s too old. He’s got a wife and four kids.”
We lined up to receive. Irish kicked off. The ball sailed end over end, seventy-five yards in the air, over our goal posts, out of the end zone and past the cars parked beyond the end zone. The girls screamed with
joy. Irish bowed from the waist like an actor.
With the ball on our twenty, we went into a huddle.
I called, “Rattlesnake Twister. Number Twenty-three.”
Irish was playing defensive center, spitting on his hands and standing there poised like a wrestler. On 82 Nunez let me have the ball. Before I could pivot and shovel it to Smitty in the flat, Irish crashed through the line, picked me up and threw me ten yards in the air. Then he dumped down our entire backfield. I landed on my back. We had lost twelve yards on the play. In the huddle again, we were bruised and plenty scared.
“Let’s punt it,” I said. “Let’s play it safe and try to keep the score down.”
We went into punt formation. As soon as Irish saw it, he rushed back to safety position. Smitty kicked. The ball went over Hagaromo’s head and rolled to their forty-yard line. Irish picked it up on a dead run, stopped, waved to the girls, tucked his head down and charged into us. We were smashed right and left and he went all the way for a touchdown. Standing between the goal posts, he did a jig for the girls. They loved it, shrieking and laughing.
After that we didn’t care much. He had us scared and it made us tire fast. The first quarter ended 28 to 0. Five minutes before the end of the half, with the score 49 to 0, Irish took himself out of the game. He was so tired he tossed himself on the ground and didn’t bother to wave at the applause.
With Irish out, our tricks worked. It was our chance to score, and we made the most of it. In five minutes we piled up three touchdowns and kicked goal twice. The half ended 49 to 20. At half time we felt better. We knew we could win if Irish was out of it.
Lying on our stomachs in the end zone, we listened to Jake, “You’re a great team. This half you’ll stop that big stiff. You’ll stop him so hard he’ll be carried off the field.”
“That’s nice to know,” Nunez said, holding his head. “What’ll we use, a truck?”
Oscar Lewis crossed the field from a line of parked cars. We didn’t know he had come to watch the game. We were ashamed as he stood looking down at us.
“I guess that Hagaromo’s too heavy for you punks,” he said. “You ought to complain to the referee. It ain’t right.”
We didn’t say anything.
“He must weigh as much as me,” Oscar said.
“How much do you weigh?” Jake asked.
“Me? About 250.”
“Then you got to play for us. Irish weighs 225.”
“I’m no football player. I’m an old man of fifty.”
“Mr. Lewis, the team needs you. This is your game too. You can’t just sit on the side lines—big fellow like you, all that weight. You got to get in there and use it on Hagaromo.”
“Sorry, kid. I’m an old man.”
Jake shook his head. “It’s amazing. I can’t believe it.” He turned to us. “Hey, team. We got a traitor. Yes, sir. Great big powerful traitor. It’s hard to believe.”
Oscar turned white, but he didn’t say a word. He looked hard at Jake, bit his lower lip, and walked back to the cars. The starting whistle blew and we got to our feet.
It was our turn to receive. We spread ourselves out and watched Irish come forward on the kickoff. His foot punched the ball and it soared lazily toward our goal line. Tasi Morimoto took it and started upfield. We blocked all opposition except Irish Hagaromo. He and Tasi met head-on at the twenty-yard line.
Irish got up, grinning. But Tasi didn’t get up. He was knocked cold. We carried him off the field and laid him on a patch of side-line grass. He moaned when we sponged his greenish face. It was warm in the sun. Suddenly a big shadow covered us. It was Oscar Lewis.
“How is he?”
“Wind knocked out. He’ll be okay in a minute.”
Oscar unbuckled his gun. “Gimme a helmet,” he said. “Traitor, am I? Ain’t nobody can point the finger of scorn at Oscar Lewis.”
He reported to Mr. Slade and came back to our huddle about the fifteen-yard line. He was so mad he kept working his fists open and shut.
“Let me call this one, boys,” he said. “Just gimme that ball and get the hell out of the way.”
We broke huddle, Oscar in the tailback spot. Swinging his arms and spitting on his hands, Irish Hagaromo was grinning and ready for anything. Nunez centered gently. Oscar took the ball, fumbled a moment, clutched it to his belly and boomed through center, his head down, keys and coins jingling in his pockets. There was an awful thud. He and Irish Hagaromo met head on. Both went down. Both lay still. We had not gained a yard. But it was Oscar Lewis who got to his feet, reeling and staggering. Irish Hagaromo did not get up. They poured a bucket of water on his face, but even that didn’t wash away the grin, and he slept cheerfully.
They stretched him out on the side lines before all the sad girls, and a substitute took his place. Oscar staggered around, holding his head in his hands. He was sick, his face bluish, his mouth open. He called for time, pulled off his helmet and left the game. He had lasted one play, but it was enough. Tasi Morimoto had got his wind back and was ready to play again.
After that, it was murder. On two plays we scored a touchdown and kicked goal. Two minutes later Wang recovered a fumble. We worked our Rattlesnake Twister and scored again. At the end of the third period we were one point behind, 49 to 48. Irish Hagaromo had regained consciousness, but he was still groggy and lying on the grass. In the fourth quarter we pulled all our fancy stuff and scored two more touchdowns in five minutes.
With seven minutes to play, we were ahead 62 to 49. Then Irish Hagaromo got to his feet and began warming up along the side lines. The girls screamed with new hope. But Irish was too mad to bow and clown around. He looked dangerous as we watched him trot up and down, his knees going high.
Five minutes before the end of the game he reported for action. It was a time-out period, and we looked to the side lines for Oscar Lewis. He was standing with Jake, and we waved for him to hurry back into the game. But Oscar made no move. Jake shook his head.
“Get in there and fight!” he yelled. “Show ’em that All-American spirit!”
With the ball on Japanese Settlement thirty, we took our defensive positions. Irish wasn’t smiling any more. All at once, seeing him standing there so serious, ready to take that ball and bash our line, we weren’t afraid of him. This man could be stopped. We had seen it done. It could be done again. Something had happened to us. We weren’t afraid. We all felt it, because we seemed to look at one another and say it with our eyes.
The ball was snapped. Irish drove through tackle. Wang hit him low and Rube hit him high; they were both knocked down, but Irish had lost his balance. When he got to the line of scrimmage, Blucher socked him at the knees and Tasi Morimoto dived at his neck. Smitty and I just rolled in front of him. Down he went, the whole team smothering him. The gain was three yards. We got up and looked at one another. He had been stopped again. Now we knew we had him.
And we did. With tears in his eyes, Hagaromo went back to the tailback spot. He looked at us with murder jumping out of his eyes. But we weren’t afraid, and on the next play he only gained one yard. And we kept dropping him. Sometimes he went ten yards, sometimes fifteen, with all of us riding on his back and hugging his legs, and though Japanese Settlement kept the ball most of the time, with Irish piling our whole team to the one-yard line, the final whistle blew and he didn’t score.
We took an awful beating. When we staggered off the field Hagaromo threw himself on the grass and beat it with his fists and tore up the turf with his teeth, crying and groaning. We gathered our stuff and looked around for Oscar Lewis. But he was gone. For a winning team, we were a pretty sad bunch.
“He had to go to work,” Jake said.
“He won the game for us,” Tasi said.
“No, you all won it,” Jake said.
“Yeah,” Blucher said. “But it took outside help. Oscar wasn’t a member of the team.”
“Is that so?” Jake smiled.
He opened his notebook to a page with writing on it
. And this is what we read:
From this day forward, having paid my dues in the amount of 25 cents, I hereby serve notice that I am a member of the All-American Team, and said team may call upon me at any time in the performance of my duties.
(signed) Oscar Lewis.
(Witnessed by) Jacob Rabinowitz.
That made all the difference in the world. We got aboard the ferry and sang songs all the way home.
The Dreamer
A POLICEMAN TOLD me about the room. He said it was up on Bunker Hill, a big gray stucco place. I went up there. Thirty-five years ago Bunker Hill used to be a fashionable neighborhood, but not today. Those twenty-room mansions are shabby now.
A big gray stucco place. There it was. I rang the doorbell. A Mexican woman opened the door. She was strong and erect.
Her hair had the shining black glitter of baked enamel. So dark, so shiny it gave her face an orange tint. This was Mrs. Flores.
The rent was ten a week. I gave her forty.
“Better see the room first,” she said.
But I was tired of looking for rooms. I wanted anything, merely four walls. I wanted to be alone with my typewriter. There was work to do. I didn’t care what the room was like. Mrs. Flores led me upstairs to the second floor. A very old house. Thick high doors. Brass fittings.
Seeing the room, I hesitated. It was so stark. Only four pieces of furniture: bed, dresser, chair and table. No rug. No curtains. No pictures on the wall.
“It’s a lot for this place, Mrs. Flores.”
“I told you to look at it first.”
She wasn’t angry. She merely didn’t care. When she spoke I saw her white teeth. They were exquisitely flawless. She dressed in the fashion of her people—a peasant skirt and blouse, silver earrings, a matching silver trinket at her throat. Her small feet were shod in huaraches. They looked strong, comfortable.
She went after soap and towels. I opened my grip and took out the few things I owned. A few shirts, shorts, neckties, socks. A whole ream of clear white paper. It was a lean time for me. But I had much to write. It fairly ached inside me.
