by Peter Gent
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 sh
outed. “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.
“Schmidt,” he said, matter-of-factly, “you’re out.”
Marion Konklin, a backup guard who doubled at center only in practice, lumbered onto the field.
Schmidt stared at Maxwell with pure animal hatred. Maxwell turned his back and stepped into the huddle already forming around Konklin. The veteran center turned and walked rapidly to the sidelines, throwing his helmet into a crowd of his teammates. The row of players lining the sidelines opened up slightly to dodge the helmet and let Schmidt pass, then closed as the furious man disappeared.
“All right, goddammit,” Maxwell ordered. “This time we go. I wanted you out here, Konklin. Don’t lemme down. You know what to do on a draw delay trap?”
It was third and fifteen.
“I’m not sure.”
Several players coughed and moved uneasily.
“Just set for pass. Then fire out and get the middle linebacker. It’s no sweat,” Maxwell reassured the frightened substitute.
The whistle blew, signaling time back in.
“All right. Red right draw delay trap on two. Got it Marion? On two.”
Maxwell stepped up behind Konklin and patted him reassuringly on the hip. The terrified center nearly leaped into New York’s secondary. Maxwell shouted out the defensive alignment, set the line, and stood scanning the linebackers and deep backs. The middle linebacker moved up into the line showing blitz. I watched Maxwell as he considered an audible against the blitz. Konklin’s legs started shaking slightly. Maxwell decided against the audible. Konklin would certainly miss it. Maxwell was gambling the linebacker was faking.
By the time Maxwell called the second hut, Konklin’s legs were shaking noticeably. He slammed the ball up into Maxwell’s hands and shot into the middle linebacker. He forgot about waiting to show pass set. It couldn’t have worked better if it had been executed correctly. The straight power block caught the linebacker guessing. He had been expecting a pass or at least a pass set. The block caught him totally unprepared and he went right over backward with Konklin on top of him. Crawford carried for fourteen and the first down.
“That’s a start. That’s a start,” Maxwell chattered confidently, clapping his hands and smiling broadly. He slipped into a heavy Texas drawl. “We’re gonna run an’ tho’ this ball rat down their throats.”
The huddle formed around Konklin, who was smiling broadly as everyone congratulated him. The energy was returning.
“All right. All right.” Maxwell knelt back into the huddle. “Fire draw forty-one Y zig out on two. Now come on, you guys. I didn’t leave them sand hills jest to come to the big city an’ git beat.” The huddle broke with a low grunt.
Maxwell hit Delma going out of bounds on the New York thirty-five. They had two men on him when he caught the ball.
The sound waves from fifty thousand diaphragms blew through our bodies. It was innervating. My stomach started to churn violently. I needed to evacuate; the pressure was intense. I farted and felt better.
“Who the hell did that?”
“Goddam.”
The huddle started to break up as players fanned at the air in front of their faces and scowled with disgust.
“All right, you guys. Get back in here,” Maxwell ordered. “Jesus, who did that?” He looked around the huddle. I looked accusingly at Crawford next to me. “Okay,” Maxwell began again. “Red right freeze protection. Wing out at six yards. You linemen on the strongside cut block to get their hands down.”
I took long strides heading for Ely’s outside shoulder forcing him back. On my fourth step I made a rounded cut with no fake and drove hard for the sideline. The ball was in the air when I looked back. I grabbed it and put it away quickly. I planted my right foot, dropped my shoulder, and turned upfield. Ely drilled me in the chest with his headgear and knocked me flat on my back at the twenty-five. The back of my head slammed into the ground, making my nose burn and my eyes water. The roof of my mouth hurt.
“All right. All right. Green right pitch twenty-nine wing T pull. On two.”
My heart jumped and my mouth went dry at the call. I would have to crack back on Whitman, the outside linebacker on the right-hand side. Crawford would try to get outside of my block with the help of the strongside tackle.
Whitman moved toward the sideline in a low crouch, stringing the play out and watching Andy and the leading tackle. At the last second he felt me coming back down the line at him. I dove headlong as he turned. He tried to jump the block and his knees caught me in the forehead and the side of the neck. We went down in a jumble of arms and legs, my shoulder went numb, and a hot burn shot up my neck and into the back of my head. The play gained eight yards.
“All right. All right. Here we go.” Maxwell looked up at me. I was shrugging my shoulders and rolling my neck, trying to ease the sting. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“All right. All right. Here we go. Red right freeze. Wing out and go. You guys cut block just like the out but tie ’em up an’ gimme some more time.”
Just before the snap Ely moved up close to the line and played me tight, bumping me as I
sprinted off the line. He covered the out move I had beaten him on earlier. I took three hard strides to the sideline, looking back for the ball, then planted hard and turned upfield past him.
“Son of a bitch!” he yelled when he realized Maxwell’s pump was a fake and his interception had dissolved.
I caught the ball on the five and ran it into the end zone. Dallas 21–New York 20.
Our defense kept New York bottled up inside their own twenty and after a long punt by Bobby Joe Putnam we took over on our own thirty-five. There were less than two minutes to play.
An I formation tackle slant was good for three yards and we were huddling up for the second and seven situation when Billy Gill raced in from the sidelines. He slapped me on the shoulder and delivered a play to Seth.
B.A. waved me to his side when I reached the bench. He put his arm around me, keeping his eyes on the field as our huddle broke and the team lined up to run the play. It was a draw delay trap. The fullback made it to the line of scrimmage.
It was third and ten.
“Tell him to roll weakside and hit Delma on a sideline. Or run with it himself.”
I turned and raced to the already forming huddle.
I repeated the order, leaning into the huddle.
“Okay,” Maxwell nodded. “Green left. Roll right Y sideline at twelve. Okay, Delma?”
“You get it there, Bubba, and I’ll catch it.”
The Giants rolled up into a zone against Delma. He dodged the cornerman’s cut block and curled out to the sideline in front of the deep covering safety. Maxwell dropped the ball right in the hole to him. Delma dodged the fast-closing deep man and was cutting across the grain heading down the middle for the end zone. The middle linebacker made a desperate dive and hooked his arm. The ball popped free. Lewis, the Giant free safety, scooped up the crazily bouncing ball and returned it to our twenty. Gogolak kicked his third field goal of the day with fifteen seconds to play.
New York 23–Dallas 21
The locker room was almost deserted. The equipment man was finishing packing the soiled and bloody uniforms into the blue trunks and was making a last-minute check of the lockers. He found Jo Bob’s headgear. “Goddam Williams,” he grumbled. “He’d ferget his ass if he wasn’t always on it.”