The Man Game (53 page)

Well, see, said the cowboy, leaning back on a hip to give Berry some room to think, a lot a us in town are concerned aboot the unwanted ele
ment
invading our city a late. As you can see it's all around us as we speak, and, we fear, might aim to take our town over completely. Like locusts. You catch what I'm drifting?

Yes, I do, said Terry Berry as he regained his original footing. And I believe I might sympathize with your cause. Me and a buddy plan to open ourselves a dry goods store and …

The cowboy smacked his lips and said: It means a lot to us to know we have your support. It's been nice to meet you, my name's RD Pitt.

Yeah, I see you around, Pitt. I'm Terry Berry.

Klahowya.

Vicars, said his buddy.

Klahowya, Vicars, said Pitt.

They all shook hands with their calluses, reading each other's honesty through the roughness there. Pitt, soft-handed
but for the hard yellow palms from his horse's reins, gave the good men a poster, which read, in part:
DO YOU WANT FOUR HUNDRED MILLIONS OF CHINESE IN YOUR BACKYARDS? IS THAT WHY WE BUILT OUR HOMES AND STAKED OUR CLAIMS? TO HAND IT OVER TO THE ORIENT?

Men, said Pitt, it'd sure do a lot for the cause if you all attended our meeting next Sunday, and show them how us're working men.

Well, by the looks there's only twenty or so, said Vicars, eyeballing the beach where the shantytown had cropped up. I'm not sure I agree all that much with your cause for …

Pitt interrupted, said: I heard a vanguard a
fifteen hun
dred or more are
on route
. Should be here by the end a the week. Think that's something to speak up aboot?

Fif
teen
hundred. Well. Sure as hell do.

Can't encourage slave labour a any size, is my thinking on the matter. We already got a Chinatown, you think we need another one setting up? Besides the unsanitary conditions, alls we have with Chinamen is them helping fill coffers a the industrialists, magnates, and railroad capitalists.

I hear you.

Eroding the strength a the labourers, making obstacles for unionization. Me and some a the other guys in the Knights a Labour are starting an anti-Chinese league.

I'm interested.

Good to meet you, said Pitt, shook Terry Berry's hand again, and moved on.

When the cowboy came around in his direction, Moe Dee expectorated a cheekful of tobacco at Pitt's cracked leather boots, said: Get that shit out a my face.

You're a real and true pissant, Moe Dee, said Pitt.

Big crowd that day, lot of money on the line. It was a betting crowd. Everyone had a stake. Those cast along the last ring of
the audience couldn't see a damn thing and resigned themselves to smoke and banter over employment and wait for game updates to trickle back. Miguel Calderón set up his Bar Rústico, and business was brisk as usual, but Calderón was not his old self. What was once his jovial face was now a pale skull draped with what might have been wet paper. His eyes were set back as far as they could go inside bleak, dark, cavernous bowls. He broke into song now without warning. Along with his mangy, long-horned goat and ice-cold ale there was now his husky voice singing Mexican folk ballads, the ones that always began with a filial murder and ended in revenge. He waved his arm and his tenor shook his jowls, the songs from deep within the gullet of his cowardice and sorrow. He was a good, powerful singer, untrained as a mule, but with heart in it. A lot of men sat on the stools just to listen and try not to weep. Men with broken noses listened and thought of their mothers. It's hard to believe the private loneliness of strangers together.

Campbell and Hoss shook hands and introduced themselves
{see
fig. 12.1
}
.

FIGURE 12.1
The Handshake

Calabi's commentary: So often misinterpreted by novices as a lampooning of formality, a veteran player reads his opponent carefully in that last peaceful salutation before the brutality begins.

Campbell.

Klahowya, it's Hoss you're aboot to taste.

As the salty water splashed against the beach, Campbell and Hoss paced through the packed sand and tubular clods of old goosedung. A tremulous silence appeared within the circle of devoted fans. People inspected the players like racehorses. Hoss, though unshapely in this respect, was surprisingly a threat when shucked of all his husks, the jackets, vests, shirts, and slacks. Campbell lacked the size of his opponent, but his stomach was a solid shield and there was real beef in his biceps and forearms. Campbell made up for size and slowness with accuracy. This was also what he was known for in the bush.

When Hoss worked for Furry & Daggett he'd done slash and burn in Cougar Canyon. Thinking of those chutes and flumes he remembered how solid on his feet Campbell had been, as unbudging as a tree stump. An average brain with barnacles for legs, shouldering rocks and heavy branches as they tumbled around him. There was no point in Hoss testing the guy's balance.

Hoss was a potato with bulky arms and a seaman's complexion, pale pink and burnt, with a loaf in his belly as inert as a giant wad of bread dough. His legs were short stones wedged in the sand. He was born to throw an axe; those arms took down trees in half the time of your father. Strength was one thing, but unlike Campbell, he also had speed. Hoss kept his elbows locked at his belly and his fists out like a boxer's. And when Campbell walked up to him, sure enough, Hoss danced back.

What's wrong? said Campbell. You hurt?

Hoss walked gently on the beach, checking everywhichway for obstacles, so deep in concentration he wasn't aware of his surroundings at all. Campbell was enjoying this easy bit of intimidation. The crowd was ridiculous, and it startled Hoss the way it had startled Campbell in January.

A shrewd voice cleared his throat and said: Hoss, you got to get your arms in there and start looking for an
a
venue.

A wave of agreement, then Hoss said: Do what?

The voice said: First, take a swing at him, and when he tries the Daggett see if you can't take it into your
own
whatever, pirouette fuck. Just do something.

Yeah, said another bohunk. Then you chuck Campbell to the ground.

Yeah, that's good, said the first voice. Then throw him to the ground.

What the fuck? said Campbell. Will you all just shut the fuck up, we're trying to play the man game here, eh.

Yeah, I got some advice for you too, Campbell. I'll tell you; besides, Hoss don't have to listen to us.

Yeah, he does, said another fellow, or he ain't gonna win.

Shut up because we all got to listen to you all.

Hey, fuck you, too.

A debate was ready to break out instead of a man game, so Campbell got his running start at Hoss, who did not budge, then, predicting the worst, turned and ran. Campbell was catching up. From his vantage point, Clough received a jolt when he realized how Campbell planned to take his first point. Campbell raced Hoss down the beach as the crowd swarmed. He sprinted to catch up, his toes scratching at Hoss's heels, until in desperation Hoss lost his balance. A muscle memory pulsed through Campbell; it was of Clough saying: Your opponent loses balance on purpose. In that slow moment before Hoss tripped and fell, Campbell grabbed his wrist and, with solid footing and tremendous momentum, swung him around in a complete circle. Campbell was bent over backwards so far that while Hoss swung and stumbled around him he had his free hand on the ground, turning in place on the mucky, leafy ground. In Hoss's last few steps to complete the three-sixty he was doing everything in his power to avoid falling flat on top of Campbell. And just when it felt like he couldn't hold out any longer, Campbell reversed the
momentum and yanked Hoss straight down, dunked him on his face
{see
fig. 12.2
}
.

It was Campbell's first point in the man game. The clamour was tremendous. All the men of Vancouver tolled his name: Cam-bell, Cam-bell. With profound new humility, he bowed his head. The sensation in his palms and temples, it was a kind of glory he thought was possible only in Biblical days.

He's a real Galileo a the man game, cried a walleyed gentleman with money on Campbell.

It's best out a five, eh? said Hoss, killing the boo-ya. Long way to go before you deserve that smile on your gob, he said.

Before long, Campbell took another spin at Hoss. Hoss dodged it, not surprised by the attack; seeing Campbell's ribcage was yellow from bruises as he flew by, he noted it duly. Hoss twisted under Campbell's falling body, going in for a sprawling fireman's-style carry with hopes of
turking
, or wheelbarrowing him. In the lichen and stones and sand they randomly shoved and bumped and choked, Hoss's elbows and fingers leveraged against the thigh hitting his stomach, a butcher's sound, the wet snapple of meat against fat, all the while Hoss aiming to get those legs of Campbell's under his arms. When he succeeded in
tricking Campbell into letting him put a lock on his thighs while his hands were on the ground, Hoss knew if he didn't start running that very instant Campbell would catch wind of the plan and squirrel his way out.

FIGURE 12.2
The Flywheel, aka the Tonearm

Calabi's commentary: Fully extended is the ideal position for both arms, but rarely can it be sustained for an entire revolution. A player must be sure that when he releases his opponent after the complete turn he has not allowed the man to get a grip on him.

Hoss went for it; he started to jog. Duck-slapping the ground with his hands, Campbell did his best to strategize as he ran, though he couldn't see a smart way out of the wheelbarrow except to cram his head against his chest and try to roll Hoss over him.

Campbell was getting creeping suspicions. He did the roll because it made sense, yet it was playing into Hoss's plan. Hoss had a plan? When the tread of his spine hit the ground, the only thing Campbell saw was Hoss's legs, so he lunged for them, grabbed his ankles. Hoss changed his hand-hold and his new grip was Campbell's ankles. Now they formed a hoop that looked a lot like the one they'd just made in the last move. And thanks to the experience, Hoss made them roll around the yard doing two threesixties before ellipsing to a stop like a giant coin flat on its side. For two or three beats the two men just lay there, in position
{see
fig. 12.3
}
.

The next thing Campbell did was take Hoss by his wrists, throw him over his head like a mallet, and thwack him on the ground. That winded him of his boastfulness. Hoss spat out a shard of mushroom and some dirt. In his weakened state it
was easy for Campbell to do it again, thwacking him another time like a mallet
{see
fig. 12.4
}
. That was a point and made it two-one for Campbell.

FIGURE 12.3
The Dirty Penny