effect was grotesque.
“Now, laugh. More! Louder! Keep those fangs out!”
It’s hard to laugh while baring your canines. A sweat-stinking, equipment-strewn room of large boys in their underwear, their faces distorted, their throats tense, ejaculating sharp, fierce, rough sounds made even the rusting lockers want to shut their doors in self-defense. Coach Crews felt his own demonstrative grimace fading as he perceived the horror of what he had unleashed.
“All right, that’s enough,” he yelled. It took twenty seconds for diaphragms to stop convulsing, and another thirty for facial muscles to relax back to prerictal state. “I want you to kneel down, here in front of me. Now repeat after me: We gonna match em physical for physical!”
“We gonna match em physical for physical!”
“We gonna be more physical!”
“We gonna be more physical!”
“We gonna smile doin it!”
“We gonna smile doin it!”
“We gonna hit em longer! We gonna hit em harder!”
“We gonna hit em longer! We gonna hit em harder!”
“Four full quarters!”
“Four full quarters!”
“Now get dressed, and get out there and beat the hell out of em! With a smile!”
“Yes, sir!”
“I can’t hear you!”
“YES, SIR!”
The coach walked out of the locker room muttering, “Sometimes the only way to win an argument is to shoot the guy.” He did earn his high salary.
Arnold lay down on his back, his shirt pulled up, allowing the contrast between the cool cement and the steamy air to become a focus for his pregame meditation. One-pointedness. Billie Jo had shown him this relaxation technique. Billie Jo. It was hard to keep his mind focused. Where was she right at this moment? Friday night in Oberlin. Did they even have a football team? How could he not know this?
“Pssst. Hey, buddy. I wanna show you something.”
It was BJ, all suited up.
“Another price list for dark meat?”
“No, man. Check this out.”
He handed Arnold a note: “Y’ALL WATCH YOUR BALLS, YOU AND YOUR NIGGER-LOVIN FRIENDS. THEY ARE TARGETED.”
“Where’d you find this?” Arnold whispered.
“It was in my locker—stuffed in my goddamn helmet. Someone has my combination.”
“Shall we show it to Crews?”
“What if he’s the one who wrote it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean who else has the locker combinations, man?”
“I don’t know. Anyone in here could have watched you opening the door.”
“You mean you think it’s someone on the team?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, shit, man, how’m I gonna play this game under friendly fire?”
“Hey, cool down. We don’t know it’s somebody from the team. I just said it could be. It’s probably not.”
“Then who?”
“Let’s just have a good game, all right?”
Arnold returned to an intensely difficult relaxation.
Maybe Arnold was shaken. Maybe BJ was spooked. Maybe the Tigers were trying too hard to smile through their fangs. For whatever reason, the opening quarter ended with Mansfield behind for the first time in the season. Arnold had completed two out of seven pass attempts, there had been one interception, and BJ had fumbled his one great catch, blowing a drive that seemed headed for scoring. The score was 7-0. Arnold was clearly tense. For one thing, who else but he was one of “your nigger-lovin friends”? He tried to gather himself, reciting his checklist each time he backpedaled—but he was off, definitely off. He was being rushed. Where was his line?
At quarter break, Coach Terwilliger gathered the team. “OK, men, this is just to get them off their guards. Now’s the time for sweet redemption. We’re gonna drive them and everything they stand for straight into the snot-ass ground. Right?”
The answering “Right!” seemed slightly shaky.
At halftime, the score stood 7-6, Eagles, the Tiger touchdown having come with a brilliant breakthrough and sixty-three-yard run by Jim Featherstone, a new black running back, still a junior. The Hitler-Frame action was stabilizing, but for short hits only. During the dueling of the bands, right tackle Darryll Ramey was shot up with Novocain for what was likely a broken hand. “Hang tough,” he was told.
The Tigers took the kickoff on their own twenty-five, and Feather-stone ran it to the Eagles’ thirty-three-yard line. The crowd was stomping, like to break the stands. Arnold took the snap and dropped back to pass, looking for BJ crossing fast to the right, angling for the end zone. From out of nowhere, there loomed above him “Boomer,” the 240-pound hunk of Texas beef, four inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than he, famous across the state for sacking and hurting opposing quarterbacks. Before he could be smashed, Arnold retracted his arm, faked a turn to the right, spun out to the left, and found a tiny alleyway. With an alert block by Joe Bob Arthur, and some expert interference, Arnold broke free of the defenders and outran them down the left sideline. “Go, Hitler, go! Go, Hitler, go!” shouted the crowd, and before they could repeat it four times, Arnold hit the end zone, and the delirious crowd hit the roof, which was the sky. George Hitler sat in the stands with a lump in his throat and thought how sweet it was to see his boy do that. God dog, can he run!
Late in the fourth quarter, with a first down at the Eagle forty-seven, Arnold dropped back to pass. He saw flanker Gordon Headlee open, but his touch was too soft, and the ball fluttered, a high fly up for grabs. Interception! His second in the game. The imposter was quickly dumped, but the moment, it turned out, was fatal. With 2:27 left in the game, the Eagle quarterback threw the finest pass of his life, a sixty-two-yard bomb to his left end, to tie the score, 13-all, and the extra point was good. In the last two minutes of play, Arnold led a fierce attack from his own thirty-yard line. After three successive first downs, between short, successful passing and brutal inching-over pileups, the Tigers were at the Eagle thirty-five, third and five. Forty-six seconds on the clock. The wide receiver went into motion, Arnold dropped back to pass, hesitated a split second, faked a handoff to the left, and started around the right, angling low for the end zone. This time Boomer was on him, lunging at him high in a full-speed blitz, smashing his enormous bulk down on Arnold’s neck.
Force = mass × acceleration. The force was great.
All right. So what? He got trashed. It was part of the game. Looking up at his assailant as he lay crumpled on the ground, he reached out for a hand—a not uncommon collegial
