Flights (10 page)

The solid red helmets bobbed in an extended line before him, and he could pick out Louis's above the rest as the defense prepared to go back in.

“All right, let's stuff 'em here,” Dom called.

Fairfield Prep wore black: simple, villainous, no frills. They were Stratford's main league rivals. Both teams were undefeated.

This was one of Stratford's best years ever, Dom was claiming as he watched the defense stream onto the field. No matter what happened, whether they won the MBIAC or not.

Louis wore number 89 and a full cage face mask. On the first play, he pressured Prep's quarterback and forced him to throw the ball away, and Dom worried aloud that his son wasn't mean enough, that he was holding back when hitting people.

“That's all you need. Louis to grow up like Jack Tatum,” Biddy's father said.

Dom shrugged. “It sounds awful, but that's the way the game is played. Give him a shot now and maybe the next time instead of thinking about coverages he's thinking about you. Or maybe he throws it a little sooner than he should.”

They watched the Prep fullback trundle around the end for eighteen or twenty yards.

“He still gets fooled on those traps,” Dom said. The officials moved the chains.

“The All-MBIAC team comes out this week, after the Milford game,” Dom said, unzipping his jacket. The flap of one side was restless in the wind. “A lot depends on how he does here and against Milford. Most of the tube steaks who vote only pay attention to the big games.”

Biddy's father mentioned that it was too bad. Dom brought up the Bullard-Havens game as an example, likening it to watching men against boys.

On the next snap, Louis got good penetration, sweeping around his man, but the play went the other way.

“He always loved football,” Dom said. “I always said I'm not going to pressure this kid into anything. He wants to play, he'll play. Anyway, how could you pressure him?” Biddy's father smiled.

“He never quits. He's just a hell of a good kid.” The three of them raised their hands to their mouths to warm them, a shortened chorus line. “Imagine if he makes All-MBIAC?”

Prep scored, the halfback leaping into the tangle of bodies at the goal line.

“Hey, Dom,” a fat man said across the aisle. “What's wrong with Louis today? They're goin' right over him.”

“What's wrong with you?” Dom said. “What game you watching?”

The first quarter ended with Prep ahead 7–0 and threatening again. Ginnie and Cindy threaded their way down the aisle. “What'd we miss? Anything?” Ginnie said.

Dom looked over the field sourly. “Where's Mickey?”

“He's coming. He's getting some ice cream. We miss anything?”

“Not a goddamned thing.”

Cindy turned to Biddy. “We behind?”

He nodded. “Seven nothing.”

“Oh, that's not too bad. Dad, you make it sound like it's fifty-seven to seven.”

“Yeah, I'm terrible. Seven looks like a lot to me right now.”

“We'll get it back.”

“I just hope he doesn't get hurt,” Ginnie said.

“What else is new?” Dom said. “Come on, defense.” Prep continued to drive, and he sat down. “He's not stopping the sweep on his side,” he said to no one in particular. “They're moving him out and going right over him.”

“They're running on the whole side, not just Louis,” Biddy's father said.

“Bullshit. He's the defensive end on that side. And right now he's invisible out there.”

“He'll adjust,” Cindy said. “They'll adjust.”

“Yeah. Well one more touchdown and we won't have to worry about it.”

Prep set up near the Stratford goal line. “You gotta get the uniform dirty,” Dom said. “They have to be more aggressive. He has to be more aggressive. He's gotta start throwing himself at people out there.” He looked around. “Where the hell is Mickey? I thought he was just getting an ice cream.”

“He was,” Ginnie said. “Maybe he found some friends.”

“Come on, Louis!” Cindy yelled. Louis waved. Prep, all in black, came out of their huddle. Biddy craned his neck to see, felt himself digging in with Louis, mentally trying to push Prep back.

At the snap the defense rose up on Louis's side and threw back the sweep and the crowd roared and shook the bleachers. A second-down pass failed, and on the third down the runner was chased out of bounds.

“Hit 'em again! Hit 'em again! Harder! Harder!” the bleachers began to chant, Biddy's row picking it up. The chant had been growing in strength with each successive down, and he began to feel a part of that unity of spectators and players that was halting and mastering Fairfield Prep, and he shouted, “Defense, defense,” with the others, the air cool on his throat and their voices mixing and filling the air above the red line of defenders on the field. They leaped together, Cindy hugging him and Dom hugging them both when the red of the North Paraders overwhelmed Prep, the fullback slipping and stumbling on fourth down under a wave of bodies with houses and telephone wires rising beyond them, in the second quarter of an MBIAC high-school football game in Stratford, Connecticut.

The next Monday, he played kids from Bridgeport on the bluffs near the beach. Ronnie Pierce was the only spectator, having pulled his car onto the grass to watch. The game was rough and quickly grew mean; no one knew anyone on the opposite side or intended to lose under those circumstances. Mickey had the sweat shirt torn from his back; a kid from Bridgeport had his nose bloodied. They decided to call a halftime at five touchdowns, and when they did Bridgeport was ahead five to two.

Ronnie left his car and walked over. “Bad guys look tough today,” he said.

“That one kid's fast,” Biddy panted.

“Those sweeps're killing you, all right. That was some shot you took at the end there.”

“I'm okay.”

Ronnie sat and zipped up his jacket, and Biddy took off a sneaker and began to relace it. The wind was cold on his sweaty foot.

“You guys are gonna have to force that play.”

Biddy nodded. Ronnie retied his sneaker as well, a mirror image. “How come you're not working today?” Biddy said. He had the uneasy feeling that Ronnie knew him very well and lacked the interest to pursue any insight he might possess further.

“I took the day off. Spring fever.”

“Now?”

Ronnie shrugged. “Fall fever.” He grinned, and Biddy grinned back.

“Where's Cindy?”

He shrugged again. “I don't know. Work, right?”

Biddy kept lacing. “You have to do a lot of stuff to get ready for the wedding?”

Ronnie sucked at a tooth with his tongue. “A lot of stuff has to be done. Doesn't mean I have to do it.”

“You're not going to help?”

“Hey, you know how long it took just to find a hall? Three weeks. Three weeks for the hall. You're talking about serious hours here when you put everything together.”

Someone from Bridgeport punted the ball off the side of his foot into the thickets and dune grass below the bluffs.

“Do you think about getting married a lot?” Biddy asked.

“On and off,” Ronnie said. “Not much.”

They gazed out over the water beyond the bluffs, gray and whitecapped. The wind was running parallel to the shore. He had the nagging sense of being like Ronnie in some fundamental, elusive way.

“Your mother says I don't think about it enough.”

“My mother?”

“We had a talk about it one day. I think the worry is I'm not good enough. Or I'm not going to treat Cindy good enough.”

Biddy looked at the grass guiltily.

“And she worries about other things,” Ronnie said.

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don't know. It's all grown-up stuff. You wouldn't be interested.”

“About Cindy?”

“No, other things. Your mother worries I don't grapple with the larger problems,” he said. “I think Ginnie and Dom do, too.” He smiled. The Bridgeport kid struggled back up the steep side of the bluffs with the ball. “I told her I don't grapple with anything I can't take the top off of.” Biddy stood as the teams reformed. Ronnie smiled, and seemed younger to him suddenly. “That didn't go over so big. Anyway, go get 'em. And don't let that kid turn the corner on you.”

But they couldn't stop the kid outside and still adequately cover the middle. They continued to get pounded. He was acutely aware of Ronnie. He fumbled. He was run over and faked to his knees. He fumbled again the next time he touched the ball, and, outraged at his performance, he raced up and threw himself at the blockers and runner on the first play afterward.

“Take it easy,” Ronnie called. “This isn't the Super Bowl.”

On the next play, he threw himself forward again, driving in low and turning away from the oncoming legs that kicked and trampled. Two or three people went down, but not the runner, who leaped the tangle and kept going.

“Too aggressive,” Ronnie called. “Keep your head up. Don't commit yourself too soon.”

“Who is that guy?” one of the Bridgeport kids said. “You got your own coach?”

Some kids laughed and he hunched over, bruised, panting, waiting for the snap. He couldn't stop this kid, they were playing up to 10, the score was already 7–2.

They were on the road at night, jostling back and forth with the bumps, coming home from visiting. His mother's sister lived in Norwich and the ride was not a short one. They went rarely because of it. He was slumped against his mother in the front seat, gazing into the darkness as they descended from the highway exit to the lonely road through the meadows and flooded salt marsh that connected Lordship to Bridgeport. Officially it was Lordship Boulevard, a two-and-a-half-mile blacktop outlined in low wooden guardrails which meandered through the swamp, skirting bays and tidal wetlands. Biddy's father called it the Burma Road.

Kristi was taking up the entire back seat; she'd been sick the last few days and it was hoped she'd sleep on the way home. His father was driving badly. His mother was angry.

There were no lights on the road; the darkness was complete except for the tiny points of the houses ahead and the multicolored lights of the airport to the left. On the curves the car's headlights flashed stands of cattails fading from yellow to deep brown in the glare, and white speed-limit signs surfaced from the black and swept by.

Curves were handled loosely, gradual turns corrected by jerks that made his shoulders quiver. His mother, looking out her window toward the sea, finally said something sharp and his father seemed to settle down.

His father had been angry since late afternoon; when they had been leaving Lordship, he had said, “Get in, get in, get in,” holding the car door open. “Your mother isn't happy unless we're on the move.” To which his mother had replied, “Your father isn't happy unless he's sitting on his ass.”

They continued around curves in the dark, Lordship's lights growing larger. The grace of the movement of lights across the windshield gave him the pleasant sensation of being part of a dance.

“
Just what makes that little old ant
,” his father sang in a soft voice. “
Think'll he'll move that rubber tree plant
.”

His mother sighed.

“
Anyone knows an ant, can't, move a rubber tree plant. But he's got—high hopes
.” He patted Biddy's thigh in time to his singing. “
He's got—high hopes
.”

“Kristi's sleeping,” his mother said.

His father's voice dropped in volume. “
He's got high apple pie in the sky hopes. So any time you're gettin' low, 'stead of lettin' go, just remember that ant: whoops, there goes another rubber tree plant, there goes another rubber tree plant
.” His voice trailed off.

“Wanna take the wheel?” he finally said, and Biddy looked at him closely and realized with a start that he might be drunk. He looked hot and lazy. His hat was perfectly straight and there were beads of sweat under his sideburns. He was leaning back against the seat and had one finger hooked over the bottom of the steering wheel.

“Walt.”

“Yeah, yeah. C'mon, take the wheel. Don't reach over. Get on my lap.” Biddy had never touched the wheel of their car while it was moving and had never wanted to, but he climbed onto his father's lap.

“Walt.”

“Got it?”

“Walt. Biddy, leave the wheel alone.”

“I'm lettin' go,” his father said.

The car sailed in a sickening diagonal across the road before big hands around his righted the wheel with a jerk. “Take it,” his father said.

He held on, feeling awesomely responsible for all of this, wanting his father to take the wheel back. In the distance he saw lights turn onto the road.

“Dad. There's a car coming.”

“You're fine.”

“Dad.”

“Walt.”

“You're all right.”

The car came on them quickly and he seemed too far to the right, too close to the wood and cable of the guardrails, and he tried to compensate and the lights blinded him, his mother's cry filling the car, and she grabbed the wheel just as his father did, and suddenly they were jerking to a stop, his father laughing, his mother leaning across him, her hands still on the wheel.

“You asshole,” she hissed, and he could see the dashboard light in her eyes, reflecting in small points off her lipstick.

That night in bed at Three Rivers Stadium he came out of a huddle next to Bobby Bryant and Matt Blair, turning to face the Pittsburgh Steelers. Strip the interference, Blair told him as he drifted into position. If they come wide to your side, you're gonna have to strip the interference. Don't think you can stop the sweep by just waving at them as they go by. The crowd noise resounded on the artificial turf, and TV cameramen hustled along the sidelines. He waited, opposite John Stallworth. The Steelers were in deep black and yellow, and the lights reflected in bright white circles off the gloss of Stallworth's helmet. It was a Monday night in Three Rivers Stadium with the whole world watching, and he was trying desperately to hold up his end of the Minnesota Viking defense. The white horns of his teammates' helmets angled in unison as they bobbed close to the line of scrimmage, waiting. Bradshaw was shouting signals over the crowd noise.