End Zone (17 page)

I
STUCK MY HEAD
under the black windbreaker that hung inside my dressing cubicle in the locker room. Then I took two more drags on the joint, whistling in reverse, swallowing deeply, all vigilance and greed. Two more drags then. My throat was very dry; it burned a bit. I stepped back away from the cubicle, hoping all stray smoke would cling to the garments hanging there. I wondered if my teammates or the coaches could smell anything or detect visually a trace of modest smog. The place was getting quieter. We were almost ready to take the field. I was all suited up except for headgear. I palmed the joint and went quickly into the bathroom. In one of the stalls somebody was trying to vomit. It was a poignant sound, monumentally hoarse, soulful, oddly lacking in urgency. A herd of seals. I entered the far stall and tried another drag. The pinpoint glow was gone already but I had a book of matches tucked into one of my shoes. I lit up again and inhaled deeply, getting paper and loose grains along with the smoke. I
took in everything, hurrying, feeling the smoke pinch my sensitive palpitating throat, watching the remaining paper sputter slightly and go brown, then dragging again and lip-breathing like a malevolent jungle plant to gather in the escaping smoke and finally sucking everything into the deepest parts of my lungs and brain. The sick player emerged. I peered out at him from a narrow opening as he washed up and gargled with cold water. It was 47, Bobby Hopper. I took a final drag, then flushed butt-end and matches down the toilet; there would be no safe way to use them later on. Bobby and I left the bathroom together. Mitchell Gorse passed us on his way to throw up.

I drank some water from the fountain, swallowed, then took another mouthful and spat it on the concrete floor. I liked to spit water all over the floor. It was something you couldn’t do indoors as a rule. In a few minutes we were out on the field. Some kind of ceremony was going on. I sat on the bench waiting for the game to start. It was a cool bright afternoon. The grass seemed extremely green. Buddy Shock came over, put one foot on the bench and leaned toward me.

“Gary, we didn’t hit each other. We didn’t trade blows. You didn’t give me the forearm to the chest. I looked all over for you.”

“Not today, Buddy.”

“It’s a tradition. We have to do it. It’ll be bad luck not to do it. Come on, get up. I want to put three dents in your head.”

“I don’t plan any quick movements just yet. I’m saving myself. It’s a new methodology I’ve just worked out.”

“We’ve done it eight games running, Gary.”

“When men vomit together, they feel joined in body and spirit. Women have no such luck.”

“I hate to see a good tradition wiped out,” Buddy said.

In a little while the ceremony ended. I was feeling heavy-headed; the air was getting thick. Bing Jackmin kicked off. The opposition sustained a drive for three first downs, about eight plays, before losing the ball on a fumble. As I started out I felt unbelievably ponderous. My head was made of Aztec stone. I watched my feet go slowly up and down over the marvelous grass. My teammates were out there already, waiting for me. Garland Hobbs stood above the huddle, above the lowered heads, waiting for me to get there. I continued across the grass, uncranking my arms, watching the long white laces whisk lightly over my black shoes. I reached the huddle. I realized I didn’t want to be with all these people. They were all staring at me through their cages. Hobbs called a pass play. We broke and set. Somebody came at me, a huge individual in silver and blue. I fell at his feet and grabbed one shoe. I started untying the lace. He kicked away from me and went after Hobbs. I got up and walked off. I was exceedingly hungry.

The next day Terry Madden and I were playing gin rummy in the lounge. Link Brownlee dragged a chair over and sat down.

“Did you hear?” he said.

“What?” I said.

“Taft Robinson. You haven’t seen him? You haven’t heard?”

“No, what?”

“He shaved his skull. He’s bald.”

“How bald?” Terry said.

“Completely and totally bald. He shaved his skull. He must have done it last night.”

“What do you think it means?” Terry said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know what it means. How would I know what it means?”

“It means something,” he said.

“Things used to be so simple,” Brownlee said.

W
ALLY
P
IPPICH SAT
behind his desk, facing up into a sun lamp, a strip of Reynolds Wrap covering his eyes. The smell of mops standing in dirty water had penetrated the office.

“Gary, I called you in here to get briefed on the so-called leaving the game incident. I was downstate doing advance work on an all-girl rodeo so I’ve had to rely on eyewitness accounts. As it was given to me, word for word, you walked right off the field after your team’s first play from scrimmage. Everybody thought you were injured.”

“I was hungry,” I said.

“That’s what I understand your story is. The story you told Oscar Veech. That’s what you allege to be the case. Hunger pangs.”

“I just couldn’t stay out there. I was really starved for something to eat. Hunger pangs can be interpreted as a form of injury. I had to leave and get some food.”

I liked the idea of talking with someone who could not
see me. I watched his mouth as he spoke. It was extremely active, almost an animated cartoon, a visual guide to the soundmaking process. His mouth seemed to invent the words as well as speak them; it was as though he’d been raised among lip readers. Wally’s tongue was lumpy and bluish. His right hand, hanging down between his thighs, moved in a vaguely masturbatory way as he spoke.

“The game had just started,” he said. “Oscar Veech said he saw you fall on the ground and grab somebody’s foot. He thought you were sick or having some kind of fit.”

“I was hungry. Really, that’s all it was.”

“Gary, I’m going to level with you. I don’t believe a word you’re saying. Nobody leaves an intercollegiate athletic event out of sheer appetite motivations.”

“Wally, why else? Why else then? Why would I walk off like that?”

“I know one thing, Gary. You’ve piqued my innate curiosity. This kind of thing is bread and butter to me. This is part and parcel of the dream stuff of publicity and public relations. I want to follow up on this thing. I’d like to see what I can do with it. Temperamental star. Psychosis attack. Loss of memory. Give me something to go on. I’ll slam out a human interest thing, real fast, down and dirty, and I’ll get it to the wire services for immediate release. Season’s over. We have to get moving on it.”

“What are they going to do to me?” I said.

“They can’t suspend you because there aren’t any games left. And I don’t know what Emmett thinks because he’s under the weather. They’ve got him isolated over in his room. I guess they’ll just have to wait on Emmett.”

“We won the game,” I said. “I knew there wouldn’t be any problem. I wouldn’t have left if I thought we’d have trouble winning.”

“Gary, I’ve told you all I know. I’ll stick my neck out for you if the situation calls for any necks to be stuck out. In return I ask just one thing. Tell me what happened. Tell me why you walked off the field.”

“I had to make peepee.”

“Pissation.”

“That’s right.”

“Gary, I like flair. I like freak appeal. I like any kind of charisma. When I was an access coordinator for the phone company, I got together a specialty act in my spare time. Two sword-swallowers on a trampoline. You got to daze people. You got to climb inside their mouth. Gary, I’ll stick up for you all the way. Next season we make it big. The T and G backfield. I sure do like the sound of that. Slick as a turd.”

“Wally, aren’t you going to hurt your eyes with just that aluminum foil over them?”

“This stuff is oven-tempered,” he said.

I took a long walk around the college grounds. The wind blew across the plains, gusting now, leaving gray dust everywhere, on buildings, trees, benches, so that in time we too seemed bare, the campus and its people, sparse as the land around us, the hand of the wind on everything. I walked back to Staley Hall. In my room I did nothing for an hour or more. Then I went to visit Billy Mast. He was sitting on his bed, sewing a button on a blue dress. Ted Joost walked in behind me. He and I talked about Billy’s course in the untellable. Billy himself merely listened. In a few minutes, Chester Randall and Jeff Elliott came in. Chester wore an old bathrobe and basketball sneakers.

“Nothing’s happening,” he said. “I’ve been walking the halls all afternoon. I’ve been trying to figure out what
might be happening. Season’s over. Nothing’s happening.”

“I tried to get in to see Coach,” Jeff said. “But he can’t see anybody yet.”

“Whose dress is that?” Chester said.

Chuck Deering walked in. He did a dance step and then went over and sat on the windowsill.

“Whose dress is that?” he said. “Is that Alla Joy Burney’s dress? Let me put my head in there. I want to bury my head in that erotic material.”

“We might as well take turns,” Chester said. “There’s no reason not to, what with the season being over. Nothing happening till spring practice.”

“I graduate,” Deering said. “Talk about nothing happening, that’s the biggest nothing there is. That’s the ultimate nothing. I graduate in the spring.”

“No more football,” Billy Mast said.

“I’m all through school. I graduate. I’m gone for good.”

“No more football. No more hitting. No more sweat and pain. No more fear.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“No more being yelled at and cursed by those insane coaches. No more running in the heat. No more two laps around the goal posts. No more getting kicked and elbowed and spat upon.”

“It’s awful. I can’t accept it. It’s a bitch.”

“Literally spat upon,” Billy said. “No more. None of it. Never. Not ever again for the rest of your natural days.”

“I need the dress. Give me the dress. I have to put my head under the dress.”

Bobby Iselin and Bobby Hopper came in. Iselin was still limping from the Centrex game.

“Did you hear?” Hopper said. “Mrs. Tom was in a
plane crash. She was in a light plane going to some conference. It overshot the runway. She’s on the critical list.”

“Let’s have the details,” Jeff said.

“Those
are
the details. I about wet my pants when I heard.”

“Let me get it straight. Critical list. Overshot the runway. Light plane.”

“Going to some conference.”

“Look at that dress,” Bobby Iselin said. “Whose dress is that? I bet that’s Alla Joy Burney’s dress.”

“He won’t let me put my head under it,” Deering said.

“That’s about the only exercise we can expect to get,” Chester said. “I’ve been walking the halls all afternoon. One thought in mind. Spring practice. We hit and get hit. We sweat off the excess poundage. We really sweat. Sweeee-et. We hit. We hurl our bodies. We get hit.”

“Not Deering,” Jeff said.

“Not me. I’ve had it forever. I graduate. I’m gone for good. The ultimate nothing. My only hope is Billy gives me some leeway with that damn dress.”

George Dole walked in.

“They got Coach behind closed doors,” he said. “They’re keeping him isolated for some reason.”

“Did you hear about the plane crash?” Jeff said. “She’s on the critical list. It overshot the runway. She was in a light plane going to some conference. Bobby knows the details.”

“Who’s on the critical list?”

“Mrs. Tom,” Hopper said. “It overshot the runway. She’s on the critical list. I’d prefer to be called Bob from now on. I’ll be a senior next year. I’ve had it with Bobby.”

“That’s a damn shame. No, I didn’t hear about that. I
didn’t know about that at all. This is the first I’ve heard.”

Howard Lowry, Billy’s roommate, came in and sat on the desk, addressing himself to Billy.

“People keep bringing up that course you’re taking. The untellable. I keep hearing about that course. Nobody talks about it but I keep hearing.”

“So do I,” Ted Joost said.

“There’s not much I can say about it,” Billy said.

“You can tell us what goes on.”

“We delve into the untellable.”

“How deep?” Bobby Iselin said.

“It’s hard to tell. I don’t think anybody knows how deep the untellable is. We’ve done a certain amount of delving. We plan to delve some more. That’s about all I can tell you.”

“But what do you talk about?” Howard said. “There are ten of you in there and there’s some kind of instructor or professor. You must say things to each other.”

“We shout in German a lot. There are different language exercises we take turns doing. We may go on a field trip next week. I don’t know where to.”

“But you don’t know German. I know damn well you don’t. I’m your damn roommate. I know things about you.”

“Unfortunately I’ve picked up a few words. I guess that’s one of the hazards in a course like this. You pick up things you’re better off without. The course is pretty experimental. It’s given by a man who may or may not have spent three and a half years in one of the camps. He doesn’t think there’ll be a final exam.”

“Why things in German?” Ted Joost said.

“I think the theory is if any words exist beyond speech, they’re probably German words, or pretty close.”

“What do I say to people who keep bringing up the untellable?” Howard said.

“It’s a three-credit course. It’s a very hard course, no matter how bright you are. And apparently there are field trips. I don’t know what else you can tell them.”

“Look at him work on that dress,” Deering said. “Let me at least lick the button before you finish sewing it. That’s all I ask. If I can’t put my head under the dress, at least let me lick the button.”

“I really and truly did not know about the plane crash at all,” George said. “It overshot the runway. Is that what happened?”

“They had to rush her to the hospital,” Hopper said.

“Did she regain consciousness?”

“I don’t know if she ever lost it. I just know they had to rush her to the hospital. She’s on the critical list.”

Tim Flanders and John Butler came in. Butler carried a laundry bag and three pairs of sneakers.