North Dallas Forty (34 page)

I glanced at Billy Gill and watched his face fall. B.A. hadn’t bothered to tell him. It was okay with me, I couldn’t stand Gill.

“Okay, boys. Let’s bow our heads,” B.A. ordered.

Immediately half of the team fell to one knee, resting the bridges of their noses on curled fingers in a classical meditative pose. The rest remained sitting or standing with heads bowed and eyes closed.

“Well, boys,” Monsignor Twill’s voice bounced around the silent concrete room. “This morning you heard Doctor Tom Bennett, now how about a word from the competition?”

A titter of laughter flitted through the ranks.

“Dear Lord, please be with these boys as they go out today to do battle.” The priest was dressed in the standard black smock and he seemed to glide around the room as if on roller skates. He had his eyes closed and his head raised. His face seemed to glow. Every now and then as he floated around the room, he would squeeze one eye open to plot his course and to avoid stumbling over one of the kneelers.

I looked at B.A. He had his eyes closed, his hands clasped, his head bowed, and his hat on. His pants legs were rolled up a couple of turns to reveal crepe-soled shoes and white sweat socks. I wasn’t sure whether it was the cold or emotion, but his cheeks were flushed.

The prayer thanked the Good Lord for giving us the chance to play football in the United States of America, and asked his protection, reminding him that none of us care about winning or about ourselves (a little reverse psychology on the old Master Workman). I almost laughed at the mention of our sound minds and bodies. Finally the Monsignor blessed the whole Hunter family and invited us to join in the Lord’s Prayer.

I kept my eyes open, looking around, to make sure I didn’t get caught not praying. A curl of smoke ascended from behind an equipment trunk. It was Maxwell sitting on the floor, smoking a cigarette and watching the smoke drift aimlessly upward into the maze of concrete supports and electrical conduits.

“... the kingdom and the power and the glory forever. Aaamen.”

The supplicants rose to their feet and broke into a long animal roar, preparing for battle, as the Monsignor had so eloquently put it.

“Let’s kill those cocksuckers!” Tony Douglas screamed, leaping up from his knees. He caught himself and glanced sideways at the Monsignor, who was standing near him. “Sorry, Monsignor.”

“That’s all right, Tony,” the Monsignor replied. “I know how you feel.”

“Okay,” B.A. yelled. “Defensive team out first.” We had lost the coin toss, so the defense would be introduced.

The starting players elbowed their way to the front of the crowd milling by the door. When O.W. Meadows reached the door he jerked it open and the team filed out and down the tunnel to the dugout entrance.

A fat bald man with bad breath and a walkie-talkie lined up the defensive starters according to the list he had on his clipboard. He belched loudly, then said something into the walkie-talkie. Moments later an electronic voice introduced our starting team to a chorus of boos.

After the introductions the rest of us climbed through the dugout and trotted to the bench to join the wild-eyed defense, already busily banging the shit out of each other in a last-minute frenzy to ready themselves.

Maxwell picked up a ball and waved me behind the bench, where we played catch during the fraudulent coin toss. As the crowd roared over New York’s good fortune, the public address system announced that a National Guard unit from New Jersey would guard the colors and a nightclub singer from Stamford, Connecticut, would sing the national anthem. I thought momentarily about Charlotte and the late John Caulder.

While the teams lined up on the sidelines for the anthem, Maxwell and I stayed behind the bench. I began to toss the ball nervously from hand to hand, dropping it twice. I couldn’t remember any of the plays, and I was beginning to regret not wearing mud cleats. The field would certainly get soggier as the day progressed.

I dropped the ball again and when I bent to pick it up, a twinge of pain in my lower back reminded me I had forgotten my codeine. I panicked and walked several strides toward the rigid trainers (standing like seabees on parade in their white duck pants and shirts) before I realized the crowd was only at “ramparts’ red glare.” I was the only person in the stadium not at attention. I flinched and expected the color guard to open fire on me at any moment. I continued on to the end of the bench and stood behind the trainers, waiting for the anthem to end.

There was a general uneasiness in the stands as the crowd finished a full line ahead of the Stamford songster. The noise of the crowd erased the last four words from his lips and threw countless beer drinkers across the country out of sync.

I smiled at the confusion, scored two codeine, washed them down with Gatorade, and went back to our game of catch.

The team was huddling on the sidelines, the coach giving last-minute encouragement, and everybody stacking their hands on top of other guys. It was a tradition I avoided since discovering in high school that the coach said the same thing every week.

“Hey man,” I said, tossing the ball to Maxwell, “have a good one.”

“Uh-huh,” he responded, tossing the ball back.

The crowd bellowed as our kicker bore down on the ball, the roar increasing as the ball sailed through the air. It sounded as if they were surprised he hit it. They apparently knew about our kicker. The sounds of the crowd, although having a definite pattern, don’t seem to coincide with their wishes. The clamor rose again as the New York receiver caught the ball and moved upfield. The noise reached its peak as our coverage team knocked the shit out of him.

As the eleven men on the New York offense huddled in the middle of the field, I watched the other twenty-nine men walk to the bench to find their numbers and sit down. I pointed this out to Maxwell. He didn’t seem interested.

On first down, New York ran an unsuccessful trap for a loss of two yards. Maxwell quit playing catch, picked up his helmet, and walked to the sideline. I moved close to B.A. by the phone table and watched O.W. Meadows bat away a second down pass. On third, New York lost two on a draw when the back fumbled the handoff in the backfield. The crowd booed their offense to the bench.

New York lined up to punt. Alan Claridge and Delma Huddle were back to receive as Bobby Joe Putnam lofted the ball from his twenty-five. Alan caught it and started back upfield. He was turning the corner, trying to get behind his blocking wall, when a New York tackler hit him head on. The ball popped straight up, hanging in the air an eternity, and then dropping straight into the arms of another New York player. He looked around startled and then ran the thirty yards to our end zone unmolested. B.A. threw his hat down and glared Claridge to the bench.

After the official time-out to sell beer and shaving lotion, the crowd settled down. B.A. put his hat back on, and New York kicked off. The kick was short and Huddle raced forward to grab it. Misjudging his stride and the condition of the field, he overran the ball, tried to stop, and slipped down. The ball bounced off his shoulder. New York recovered on our nineteen. B.A. hit himself in the forehead with the palm of his hand and walked to the phone table. He picked up a headset and screamed at one of the assistants in the press box.

New York quickly lined up at scrimmage, snapped the ball, and ran a reverse, handing off to the split end. Nineteen yards later the split end slammed the ball onto the end zone grass. He was so excited, he raced to the bench and leaped on Tarkenton’s back. They both fell in a heap on the sidelines. New York 14–Dallas 0.

Maxwell stood at the far end of our bench. He stared at the scoreboard. The kickoff went out of the end zone and Maxwell walked slowly toward the forming huddle.

“Elliott.” B.A. called me to his side as the huddle broke. He put his arm around my shoulder and leaned close to my ear, ready to send me in with instructions.

Stepping quickly under the center, Maxwell went on a quick count, not bothering to set the line. He caught the defense in the middle of a shift. Both backs faked into the line, while Maxwell kept and rolled to the weak side, laying the ball out in front of Delma Huddle five yards behind the New York secondary. Delma stepped out of bounds on the five.

Seeing the completion, B.A. pushed me away and strode down the sideline yelling encouragement.

A dive play didn’t fool anybody. On second and goal, a picture pass over the middle hit Billy Gill in the face and fell harmlessly to the ground. Maxwell had barely gotten the ball off ahead of a blitz and sat on the ground watching Gill walk back to the huddle.

I could tell by the third down formation it would be another pass to Gill. It was like Maxwell to come right back to a receiver who had just dropped a pass. He did it for me often enough. I tried not to hope Gill would drop the difficult outside throw, but I did, and he did.

The field goal team passed Gill and Maxwell as they left the field. Gill extended his arms to show Seth how far he thought the ball was off target.

The field goal was blocked and New York recovered on their own fourteen.

Tarkenton was unsuccessful in moving the Giants the first two downs, and on third and nine his deep post was intercepted by safetyman John Wilson and returned to the New York twenty.

Maxwell took the offense back on the field, turning back to yell at B.A. and point at me. The first play was a strong-side pitch to Andy Crawford trying to sweep the end. Morris, New York’s strong safety, came up fast behind his linebacker and quickly forced the play, dodging the tackle’s block and stopping Crawford at the line of scrimmage.

“Elliott. Elliott.” B.A. was motioning for me. “Get in there and tell Seth to watch for a sara blitz.”

Gill saw me coming, dropped his head, and trotted off the field. Neither of us said a word as we passed.

I stepped into the circle of heavily breathing men. Maxwell was down on one knee looking up at me expectantly.

“All he said was to watch for that strongside blitz.” I shrugged.

“Okay,” he said. “Fire ninety T pull pass. Wing zig out.”

It was a good call, faking the fullback into the line while Crawford flared wide from the halfback spot with the tackle pulling and leading, faking a rim. If Morris, the strong safety, forced the run fake, I would be man to man against Ely, the cornerback. Ely’s tendency to look constantly into the back-field should set him up perfectly for Maxwell’s pump fake on the inside move of the zig out.

Schmidt, the center, snapped the ball. The tackle, the two backs, and Maxwell executed their fakes, forcing the strongside linebacker and safety to play the run and leaving me one on one against Ely.

I drove down hard slightly to the cornerback’s inside, making him adjust his outside position. He was inching in, afraid of the quick-breaking post route. The play fake had robbed him of any inside help. At six yards I made my inside break. Ely went with me driving strong toward me trying to close the distance between us. He was covering the quick post well. I swiveled my head looking into our backfield. Maxwell brought the ball up high and made a strong pump fake at me. I planted my left foot and drove back outside, passing under Ely, still covering the inside move.

“Goddammit,” Ely said as I slid beneath him and headed at a forty-five degree angle for the sideline.

As he released the ball, Maxwell was hit from the blind side and the pass took off. I turned quickly back to my left, diving for the ball as it wobbled toward the ground. I caught it with my right hand and bounced into the end zone on my head and left shoulder. Sitting up, I checked for flags. Seeing the official with his hands up, I slowly got to my feet and started toward the bench, where Maxwell stood smiling with his hands on his hips.

B.A. would leave me in until I made a mistake. I would try not to make any.

The defense held New York again on the next series, and, after a fair catch by Delma Huddle, we took over on our thirty-five.

There was an official television time-out as we were forming our huddle on the twenty-five. Maxwell stood back on the twenty alone looking toward the other end zone. The rest of us milled around giving each other encouragement. The whistle blew and Schmidt, the center, raised his hands arid called the huddle on him. We were all waiting expectantly when Maxwell stepped back into the circle. He was singing.

“It wasn’t God that made honky-tonk angels ... I shoulda knowed that you’d never make a wiiiife ...” He stopped, looked around the huddle smiling, and called a play.

During that series of downs Maxwell was superb, mixing his passes and runs, and in ten plays completed the drive with an audible pass to Delma Huddle. The split end stole the ball from the hands of Davey Waite, New York’s right cornerback, for fifteen yards and the score. I had two catches during the drive, for eight and fifteen yards. The fifteen yarder was a good catch, going over the top of two defenders. Both catches were third downs. I was having a good day.

We went to the locker room tied 14–14.

The tops of the equipment trunks were covered with cans of Coca-Cola and Dr. Pepper. The Cokes were disappearing quickly. As far as I knew, Maxwell, Jo Bob, and O.W. Meadows were the only Dr. Pepper drinkers.

I sat in front of my locker wiping the sweat from my eyes and trying to catch my breath. Ever since I had been benched, I had trouble getting my second wind. Sometimes I thought it was conditioning, other times panic.

Several players were sprawled around the floor smoking cigarettes and coughing. Maxwell sat down next to me with a lighted cigarette and a Dr. Pepper.

“All I need now is a moon pie,” he said, grinning and dropping his voice to a rasp, “and halftime would be hog heaven.” He was confident and it was contagious. I felt my spirits rise.

On the blackboard was a list of the first half Giant defenses. B.A. and Jim Johnson were standing beside the board studying them and listing the offensive formations we would use the second half to penetrate those defenses.

Our defense was huddled in the back of the dressing room considering the most systematic way to stop Tarkenton’s scrambling. Except for that and the one end around, the New York offense had been powerless.