North Dallas Forty (33 page)

“Goddam, Doc,” John Wilson moaned. He was standing at one end of a wooden table grimacing while the team doctor probed the point of his right hip with a three-inch needle. Wilson had a hip pointer.

The needle slid easily into a roll of flesh at the top of the afflicted hip. The doctor moved the stainless-steel spine around, changing the angle of insertion five or six times and simultaneously pumping in several cubic centimeters of Novocain. He succeeded in deadening a large portion of the muscle.

Alongside the doctor, the trainer lined up a row of syringes filled with local anesthesia. Several nervous players waiting their turns milled around behind Wilson.

“How’s it feel?” the doctor asked the scowling safety man.

Wilson keeping one hand on his hip and the other on the table for balance, flexed from the waist like a ballet dancer.

“Fine,” Wilson nodded. “I can’t feel a thing.”

“Good,” the doctor said. “Next.” He reached out to take a prepared syringe from the trainer and caught sight of me standing to one side watching. “How about it?” He held up the syringe.

“No thanks, Doc,” I said, recalling my previous bout with his needle “I’m trying to quit.”

The last time he tried to block my back with Novocain he had used three syringes of the opiate and I made it only half-way through warmup before collapsing. I rubbed the spot absently, feeling the dead skin and sore muscles beneath.

I watched while the doctor quickly jammed another needle into Monroe White’s thigh. Monroe sported a slight cut under his eye, a result of his short and furious fight with Jo Bob during Thursday’s practice. I turned to leave.

“Phil.” the doctor called, “wait a minute “ He handed the used needle to the trainer and grabbed me by the arm, walking me into a corner. His eyes were on Monroe White, limping out towards the lockers “Goddam goldbrickin’ nigger.”

“What?” I had heard what he said.

“That White,” he said, pointing at the wide black back as it moved back into the dressing area. “He ain’t hurt, just like all them niggers. Only place you can’t hurt ’em is in the head.”

I nodded.

“Listen,” the doctor leaned close, “I don’t think there’s anything bad wrong with your leg. I know it hurts you but there ain’t nothing worse you can do to it by playin’ on it.”

“That’s what you said about my back.”

“You’re playing, ain’t ya? Anyway I overheard the coaches talkin’ and they’re beginning to think you’re doggin’ it. Now you and I know better, but that’s what they’re saying, so go out and show ’em something today.”

“Okay, Doc.” I nodded, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor. He slapped me on the shoulder and walked back and grabbed a new needle. As I walked away he was shoving the shiny stainless-steel point into the top of Jo Bob Williams’s shoulder. Jo Bob winced and screamed in pain.

I hopped up and sat on top of one of the equipment trunks and watched the eye blinking, jaw working, and lip licking that indicated several of my teammates were beginning to feel the effects of their amphetamines. O.W. Meadows was sitting on the floor rolling his head and jerking his shoulders, trying to loosen the speed-tightened neck muscles. Tony Douglas was sitting next to him rubbing his hands together as if they were cold. Both men’s eyes were glassy.

Conrad Hunter walked in from outside, his cheeks rosy from the cold. He was smiling with anticipation. At his side was his friend, advisor, and constant companion Monsignor Twill of the Sacred Heart Catholic Church. The two men circulated rapidly around the room, slapping players on the back and giving smiles and words of encouragement. They missed me and continued to the training area, Monsignor Twill digging a Coca-Cola out of one of the ice chests and guzzling it down in one long swallow. Hot pipes, the sign of a long night of drinking.

Maxwell was sitting by his locker looking absently around the room, his mind already out in the stadium dealing with mud, wind, blitzes, zones, his teammates, and B.A.

I wandered into the bathroom to pee. All the commode stalls were closed. A row of stockinged feet with jockstraps and silver football pants hanging around the ankles testified to the effect of fear on the bowels. From the moment the team arrived at a stadium until we assembled for the pregame supplications, the commodes were occupied. The nauseating sounds and smell kept all but the most desperate at a safe distance. I held my breath, feeling the rise of panic as the capacity of my lungs threatened to be outstripped by the size of my bladder.

I clattered back into the dressing area and was hailed by Gino Machado.

“Elliott, gimme a hand.”

Machado was trying to wind some tape around his forearm to secure a plastic forearm pad.

“Wind it for me, will ya?” he ordered, breathing heavy. He ground his teeth and tapped his toes rapidly.

“Tighter,” he moaned, his huge pupils burning a hole in me. “Come on, asshole. Tighter.”

“Jesus, Gino,” I argued, “you’re gonna get gangrene.”

“Don’t worry about it, fuckhead,” he shot back. “Just wrap it tighter.”

I complied, wrapping the tape so tightly around his forearm and pad that the veins on the back of his hand stood out half an inch. I hoped his fucking fingers fell off.

“Okay! First group on the field.”

I fell in step next to Maxwell. We followed the tunnel to the dugout, both of us carrying blue warmup jackets over our shoulders.

“How you feelin’?” I inquired nervously, not really interested in how he felt.

“Awright,” he answered absently, not bothering to look at me. “B.A. gave me shit on the bus about walking out of the devotional.”

“Did you explain to him about Bullwinkle?”

Maxwell gave me a blank stare, his lips curling with a hint of disgust. He shook his head.

Reaching the dugout, we stepped over a pool of stagnant water and up onto the field. It was chilly and we both slipped our jackets on, then broke into a jog. There was a scattering of applause among the fans already in their seats. Maxwell was a New York favorite.

When we reached our bench, Doctor Tom Bennett was standing there holding a ball.

“Missed you boys at the devotional this morning.” Doctor Tom sang out, tossing me the ball with the commissioner’s autograph on it.

“We were getting head from the maid in the linen closet,” I answered, gathering in the ball. Doctor Tom laughed good-naturedly and nodded.

Throwing the ball back and forth, Maxwell and I slowly backed away from each other to a distance of about fifteen yards, where we stood and played catch. Maxwell loosening up his arm while I practiced different catches.

The sounds of cadence numbers and the heavy thunk of foot against ball filled the stadium as the kicking specialists worked out, getting the wind and range from different parts of the field. Vendors were already hawking and the public address system kept crackling on and off.

The field was soft where we stood, but one of the kickers said the infield and the ground inside the twenties was pretty hard. I decided against mud cleats.

The assembled fans began to cheer and boo simultaneously as the Giant specialists, quarterbacks, and receivers took the field. Tarkenton and Maxwell exchanged waves and Bobby Joe Putnam, a wide receiver, trotted over to shake hands. Bobby Joe had gone to Texas Tech.

“Howdy, Seth. Phil,” Bobby Joe said. “How ya’ll doin’?”

“Passable, Bobby Joe. How ’bout yerself?” Maxwell answered. We started a game of three-cornered catch.

“How’s the new coach?” Maxwell asked. The New York team had fired their coach at the start of the regular season and the owner had hired the new coach from his team “family.” An ex-player and all-round nice guy, the new coach was having great difficulty winning any games.

“He’s a good guy,” Bobby Joe responded, tossing me the ball. “You know, dumb like most of ’em and scared to death of Jerele.”

Jerele Sanford Davis was the owner of the New York franchise and ruled it with an iron hand. Tyrannical and religious, Davis ran his team by the same principles that ruled Conrad Hunter. He differed from Hunter by not giving his coaching and management personnel as wide a latitude in running the team as Conrad did.

I tossed the ball to Seth.

“You know what Leon did the day Jerele announced he was the new coach?” Bobby Joe asked, giggling. “He called a meeting of the team, Jerele was there too, and stood up in the front and told us he wasn’t gonna be a hard ass and from Sunday night to Wednesday we could drink and chase pussy as much as we wanted. That’s exactly what he said, we could drink and chase pussy as much as we wanted.”

“Sounds like my kinda coach,” Maxwell interjected, zinging the ball to Bobby Joe. It bounced off his hands.

“Goddam, Seth.” Bobby Joe complained, shaking his hands and bending down to pick up the ball, “no wonder you get so many drops.” Bobby Joe threw the ball to me as hard as he could.

“Hey. What the fuck are we playing,” I asked, rubbing my palm where the laces had hit, “burn out?”

“Anyway,” Bobby Joe continued his story, “Jerele stood up at the back of the room and said that was bullshit. Nobody on his team was drinking or chasing pussy ever. Leon retracted his statement.”

Seth shot the ball to Bobby Joe again.

“Goddammit, Seth. Cut that shit out. The fate of New York rests on these babies.” Bobby Joe held out his hands for inspection.

“The fingers look a little stubby to me, Seth,” I said “What do you think?”

“Looks like the forepaws on a momma ’coon,” Seth drawled. “Probably can’t catch but if he does he runs to the nearest stream and washes the ball.”

Seth and I laughed insanely, while Bobby Joe stood glaring good-naturedly at us. Finally we recovered enough to resume our game of catch and Bobby started another story about his new coach.

“After we lost to the Jets,” he went on, “Leon came in and tol’ us that the reason we lost was that nobody was sittin’ in the right place on the bench. Now he’s painted numbers on the bench and we all have assigned seats. Can you believe that?”

“Yes,” Maxwell and I said together.

Bobby Joe threw the ball ten feet over my head, wished us good luck, and trotted, laughing, back to the end zone where his teammates had assembled.

“Nice guy,” I said, watching Bobby Joe jogging to the end of the field.

“There ain’t no nice guys,” Maxwell answered, sounding foolishly like Leo Durocher.

The rest of our team was coming out of the dugout and running onto the field. They passed Seth and me, and began breaking into ranks for exercises. Seth jogged to the front to lead, while I walked slowly to the twenty-yard line, where the other members of my file would shortly assemble.

I could feel Jim Johnson glaring at me from somewhere in the press box as I sauntered to my assigned position and began to stretch my aching legs and back. The soreness wasn’t acute, the nerves dulled somewhat by the codeine, but they still seemed unusually painful. I decided to increase my codeine dosage when we went to the lockers for the ritual.

Maxwell led us quickly through exercises, finishing with the usual ten jumping jacks. I started to count, then caught myself and remained silent for the rest of the drill.

We broke into passing groups. The temperature was in the high forties and it took a while for everybody but the speed freaks to warm up. But soon we were running deep routes and Maxwell was hitting with amazing efficiency.

“Phil,” Maxwell ordered, “gimme a deep square in. I’ll drop it right on the six.”

He called the snap number, backed up ten yards, and planted, gathering himself to throw. I drove at John Wilson full speed, moving slightly inside, forcing Wilson to adjust his outside position. He showed no sign of favoring his recently anesthetized hip. By fifteen yards downfield I had moved a couple of yards inside and Wilson had turned, ready to run deep. I broke the pattern off square inside and simply ran away from the defender. The ball came on a straight line, between linebackers, never getting more than six feet off the ground. I took it in the chest, feeling the solid thunk. It had traveled better than twenty-five yards in the air, slamming into the left side of my chest, right on the six of my jersey numeral 86.

“Great shot!” I exclaimed, charged with the thrill of a perfectly executed play.

Maxwell couldn’t do it again on a bet. But that was Maxwell’s secret. He always knew when he could do it.

After we ran a few team plays, B.A. herded us back into the dressing room for the final prekickoff preparations and pep talk. Inside, everybody moved around nervously, a few guys puffing on cigarettes, a couple of last-minute bowel movements. Finally, B.A. called us all together.

“Okay, listen up,” B.A. droned. “Don’t forget to take your helmets off during the national anthem. And it wouldn’t hurt some of you guys to sing.”

We used to stay in the locker room until after “The Star Spangled Banner,” then would come player introductions, toss of the coin and all that. But now the national anthem was last and we got typed instructions from the commissioner on how to stand and on what we should not do, such as picking our noses, or scratching our nuts. I tried to do at least one at every game.

It was part of the television package, the cameras moving with deliberate slowness down rows of players, faces contorted with fear, speed, and attempts at remembering the words.

“... Uncle Sam needs your help again

He’s got himself in a terrible jam

Way down yonder in Vietnam ...”

The Blue Angels fly by, while Anita Bryant smiles. Flags waving, color guards standing, and men sitting in their living rooms trying not to raise their beer cans until the end, usually starting toward their lips on “home of the brave.”

“... There ain’t no time to wonder why

Whoopee we’re all gonna die ...”

Sometimes when we were all lined up, neatly in a row, helmets on our hips, I would have to fight the urge to put my arms around the men flanking me and do a fast series of high kicks.

“And Phil,” B.A. called, his eyes searching me out. My heart accelerated at the sound of my name. “You stay close. I may need you to run plays.”