North Dallas Forty (35 page)

Over by the wooden tables, the trainers were patching a hole in the bridge of Jo Bob’s nose. His helmet had smashed down and gouged out a quarter-sized hunk of flesh from between his eyes. Red rivulets had been running down both sides of his nose since the start of the second quarter. It looked as if he was crying blood. The doctor was bent over John Wilson, shooting his hip full of Novocain again. Three or four others were waiting their turn for treatment, blood pouring from torn flesh and joints swelling as body fluids pumped out of mutilated vessels.

The cigarette smoke began to get thick and I moved back to the showers to get some air. I took two more codeine.

Halftime was just long enough for muscles and ligaments to stiffen, while America sat and watched Dick Butkus shave without water. Many teams lost their momentum at the half, slowed by too many cigarettes and too much advice.

I watched O.W Meadows down two fifteen-milligram Dexamyl Spansules. The pills wouldn’t start working until the fourth quarter and maybe not until after the game. Dexamyl Spansules were one reason why Meadows never shut up all the way home after a road game. Spurred on by a goodly amount of bootlegged liquor, he would babble incredible shit at the top of his lungs about his personal philosophy of life, which fell somewhere between Spartacus and the Marquis de Sade.

I walked nervously into the bathroom and met John Wilson as he came out wiping his hands on the front of his silver pants.

“Pissed all over ’em,” he said, holding the hands out for my inspection.

Most of the team was up and milling around. The coaches were still next to the blackboard talking over last-minute strategy that would be forgotten as soon as we hit the field.

Alan Claridge lay face down on a table while the doctor probed and prodded his right hamstring. Finding the knot, the doctor held his thumb on it and reached for a syringe. He drove the needle deep into Claridge’s leg, moved it around, and emptied the syringe into the muscle. Repeating the procedure twice more, he deadened a large portion of the hamstring. If Claridge reinjured the leg in the second half, he wouldn’t know until it was too late, but with luck he would finish the game with little problem.

The referee stuck his head in the door and signaled five minutes remaining in the halftime. As he opened the door, I could hear the distant strains of “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head.” I hoped everything was going off like clockwork for the boys with the sousaphones.

“Okay, listen up,” B.A. said, walking to the middle of the room. “We’ve had some bad breaks out there, but we’ve come back and it’s a brand-new game. We receive this half, so let’s take it to ’em. The same team that started the game starts the second half.”

Since Gill was the only starter on the bench, it would have been easier just to tell him and me. But B.A. didn’t believe in dealing in personalities.

The crowd was back from the hot dog stand and America had returned safely, if somewhat confused, from CBS Control, when we took the field for the second half. The shadow of the stadium had moved almost halfway across the playing field, adding a dimension of time to the vacuum of fear. It was beginning to get cold and the sky was a fast-darkening gray.

The third quarter went quickly, with me alternating my attention from the field to the clock, hoping New York would get out ahead and I would get back into the game. The shadow steadily moved across the yardlines.

The Giants didn’t move in the third quarter and Gill played a steady game, catching a nice turn in and a difficult sideline. I waited vainly for a signal from B.A. to carry in a play. Feeling powerless as my fate was being decided by twenty-two other men, I sat silently hating football, B.A., Conrad Hunter, Maxwell, my teammates, and the color guard from New Jersey. I could do nothing but wait and wish bad luck on my own team.

Near the end of the third quarter, Crawford fumbled a pitchout and my spirits rose. The Giants recovered on our thirty-five. Three plays later our defense had pushed them back to the forty. I could feel B.A.’s eyes searching me out as the ball hit the crossbar and bounced over. New York 17–Dallas 14.

“Elliott.”

That familiar cry, cloud of dust, and a hearty hi-ho.

I turned my smile into a grimace and walked quickly to his side, trying my best to look as dedicated as I felt.

“Go in for Gill on the next series,” he said, never taking his eyes off the field.

“Yes, sir,” I said, immediately changing my allegiances and looking for Maxwell to discuss how we could salvage a victory. He was at the phones talking to a coach in the press box. His face was ashen and he was talking rapidly.

“Goddammit,” he shouted into the phone, “I haven’t had time to throw a deep zig out all day, maybe that’s why they ain’t coverin’ it. Fuck you, don’t tell me, you cocksucker, tell your fuckin’ lineman.”

Slamming down the earphones, Maxwell took a cup of water from one of the trainers. Looking over the rim of the cup, he watched me approach. The cup came away from his face.

“You in?” he asked, his breath coming in gasps. I nodded.

“Good. I wanna try and run wide and I want you cracking back on Whitman.”

That news took the edge off the thrill of playing. It wasn’t the fear of hitting the 235-pound linebacker, although that was substantial. It was the fear of missing him. If I missed and Maxwell didn’t run me off the field, B.A. certainly would. The only way I could be sure of making the block was to spear him with my head; for me, it was the surest of open field blocks. I would dive headfirst at his knees, making it next to impossible to miss. The drawback was that I wouldn’t have any control over where I took the blow—head, face, neck, back. It all depended on whether Whitman saw me sneaking back down the line at him and what kind of evasive technique he used if he did.

I watched Claridge bring the kickoff out from three yards deep in the end zone. Reaching the twenty-yard line, he suddenly straightened up and grabbed the back of his leg. He went rigid and as he fell forward Bobby Joe Putnam hit him full speed flush in the face with his headgear.

Seeing the ball torn loose elated me for an instant. Then guilt washed over me as I realized I was back in the game and had changed sides. I felt as if I had wished the fumble. I felt no better when Tarkenton scrambled to the five on the first play from scrimmage and the quarter ended.

The fourth quarter started. We were trailing 17–14 and New York had the ball, first and goal, on our five. Tarkenton tried to roll out, was trapped, and reversed his field back to the twenty-five, dancing around our exhausted defensive linemen for a full thirty seconds, finally making it back to the ten. New York was penalized for holding the next two plays in a row, and on second and goal from the forty Meadows trapped Tarkenton back at the New York forty-five. The next play we were called for pass interference and New York took the five-yard penalty and automatic first down.

They stayed on the ground the remainder of the drive, pushing out three first downs, getting the final yards on fourth down each time. They stalled on our eighteen and settled for a field goal. New York 20–Dallas 14.

I moved around the sidelines to loosen up, waiting for the network to return the slightly altered television audience so New York could kick off. Several people were standing over Claridge, who was stretched out face down on the bench. The doctor was digging his fingers in the hamstring he had anesthetized at halftime.

“See,” the doctor said, “feel this. The hole? I can put my four fingers in it. It’s torn pretty bad.”

Claridge had his face turned away, into the back of the bench. He appeared to be in great pain, mumbling and crying apologies for the fumble. I knelt down next to him and put my hand on his shoulder. I shook him gently. I was going to explain that New York only got a field goal and we would get that back this series. I was again amazed at how quickly the team spirit possessed me when I was in the game.

Claridge turned to me; he was covered with blood. His double bar mask was shattered and his face was swollen and discolored a purplish-black. It seemed lopsided, twisted into a grotesque scowl, the running blood continually changing the expression. His nose was smashed flat and split open as if someone had sliced the length of it with a razor. The white cartilage shone brightly from the red-black maw that had been his nose. His eyes were wide and bright but seemed sightless. He tried to say something, raising his hand, but it was lost in a gurgle as black blood poured from his mouth.

“Goddam,” I screamed. “Goddam, somebody get over here and fix his face!”

Claridge had apparently gotten off the field under his own power and collapsed on the bench. Face down was the only way he could keep from strangling on the blood. I held his head up slightly, gripping his headgear through the earholes.

My cries brought several people and directed the doctor’s attention from one end of Claridge to the other.

“Did he bite his tongue?” The doctor shoved a finger into Claridge’s mouth and searched for his tongue, making sure he hadn’t bitten it off or swallowed it. “We’d better get him to a hospital.”

“What happened?” B.A. was peering over the huddle around Claridge.

“Smashed up his nose pretty bad,” the doctor said. “Better take him to the hospital.”

“Oh.” B.A. nodded, and turned back to the field.

The crowd noises indicated America had returned to her living room and New York was about to kick off. Backing away from the mutilated man, I heard the kick but couldn’t take my eyes off the black blood running through the slats in the bench and into the damp sand below.

The ball sailed out of the end zone and I walked slowly alongside Maxwell to the huddle at the ten-yard line.

“Jesus,” I said, recalling the face that didn’t resemble Claridge and the pitiful mindless eyes, “did you see Claridge’s face?”

“I ain’t got time to worry about that shit,” he said, his mouth drawn and his eyes tired. “If you can’t take it ...” He broke into a trot and hurried to the huddle before he finished.

I followed a few steps behind.

The men in the huddle were tired and openly hostile to each other, the day’s frustrations pushing several to the breaking point. The spirit and attitude had degenerated markedly from the first half.

“Goddammit, Andy. Hold onto the fuckin’ ball this time.”

“Fuck you, Schmidt. You just snap the ball, I’ll take care of myself.”

“All right, quiet down,” Maxwell instructed angrily, kneeling into the huddle. “I’m the only one that talks in this huddle. All you guys shut up unless I ask you somethin’.”

I looked around the huddle at the battered, bruised, and exhausted men, some already worrying about mistakes they would have to explain next Tuesday. Scared to death and angry, it would be a miracle if they could even get off on the same count, let alone outthink, outmaneuver, and outmuscle the men of similar talent across the line.

The shadows of the stadium had covered the field, adding further gloom to an already dismal afternoon.

“All right,” Maxwell ordered. “Red right dive forty-one G pull. On two.”

It was a simple trap up the middle. Jo Bob Williams jumped offsides. We walked back five yards.

“Goddammit, Jo Bob, pay attention to the count.”

“Shove it up your ass, Schmidt. Who died and left you in charge?”

“Okay, I’m telling you guys,” Maxwell shouted. “You better shut the fuck up in my huddle.”

The huddle was silent as the quarterback scanned the grimy, sweaty faces. The gouge in Jo Bob’s nose had opened up again and the blood was running into his mouth, turning his lips shiny red. He licked them nervously.

“Okay, Brown right dive forty-nine G take. On three.”

It was a pitchout with a guard lead, coming off a fullback slant fake over the tackle. We ran it from a set backfield and the key block was our tight end against their defensive end Deyer. Deyer made the tackle for a two-yard loss.

“Jesus Christ,” Crawford yelled, straightening his helmet as he regained his feet. “What the fuck is goin’ on?” He wobbled back to the huddle, spitting out grass and mud.

“Sorry, Andy.”

“Fuckin’ sorry ain’t gonna get it.”

“Come on. Knock it off—”

“All right,” Maxwell screamed. “This is the last time I’m gonna say it. Shut the fuck up in my huddle.”

“If the dumb cocksuckers would do their jobs.” Bill Schmidt, the center, was talking. Because he was a member of the original expansion family and worked for Conrad Hunter personally in the off season, Schmidt considered himself a player-coach and the leader of the offensive line.

“Shut your mouth, Schmidt,” Maxwell ordered, “or you’re off the field.”

“Bullshit, I am,” Schmidt shot back, glaring at the quarterback.

Maxwell looked up, shocked, and returned Schmidt’s gaze thoughtfully for a few seconds, then shook his head and stepped from the huddle. He walked in measured steps to the referee and then on to the sidelines.

The official signaled a Dallas time-out. The huddle dissolved into a group of pointless men, pulling off their helmets and kneeling down, or standing and looking around aimlessly, waiting for Maxwell to return. Nobody said a word. I looked over at Delma Huddle and he flashed a big smile and gave me the thumbs up sign. I smiled back. Looking up into the stands at the mass of gray dots that were faces, perched atop flashes of colors that expressed their egos, I suddenly realized how peculiar we must look. I thought of Al Capp shmoos paying six dollars a head to watch and scream while trained mice scurried around in panic.

Eddie Rand, his whites smudged and bloodied at the end of a long day, started out on the field with towels and water. Maxwell stopped him and sent him back to the sidelines.

B.A. walked a few steps onto the field to meet with Maxwell. Neither man looked at each other, Maxwell had turned almost away from his coach and seemed to be staring out at the milling, disorganized rabble that was his command. B.A. was looking down to one end zone and the scoreboard. The stadium band broke into a halting “Tea for Two Cha Cha.” Maxwell suddenly whirled around and pointed his finger directly into B.A.’s face. The coach dropped his head momentarily, then nodded and turned back to the bench. Maxwell returned to the huddle.