North Dallas Forty

by Peter Gent

  An aged black stadium custodian swept the used tape and gauze, the disposable syringes and needles, and the discarded paper cups and drink cans into a pile in the center of the room.

  The last sportswriter had just left after listening to B.A. “reluctantly” place the blame on several players, most notably Delma Huddle and Alan Claridge.

  The last bus to the airport was outside the stadium, its exhaust blowing white in the cold New York twilight. The first bus was well on its way to Kennedy.

  The trainer had just given me a muscle-relaxant shot, had rubbed down and rewrapped my legs, and had strapped my arm to my chest. The taping gave protective support to the shoulder that had collided with Whitman.

  I heard the sound of running water in the shower room. I pulled my coat on over my shoulders and walked back to investigate. Seth Maxwell was sitting in a steel folding chair, his head on his chest and a steady stream of water pounding on the back of his neck. His ankles were still taped. Every now and then he rotated his right arm at the shoulder and flexed his fingers. I watched him silently for several minutes. Finally I broke in.

  “Hey, man, the last bus goes in about twenty minutes.”

  “Okay, okay,” he responded instantly. “Throw me some tape cutters.”

  I borrowed cutters from the trainers and tossed them to Maxwell. He quickly sliced off the tape and slammed the water-soaked bandages against the shower floor.

  “Cocksucker. Cocksucker,” he shouted, punctuating the epithets by whacking the tape on the wet tile. “Cocksucker!”

  “Shit,” I said, smiling and trying to adjust my taped shoulder comfortably. “The way it went today, I’m surprised you hit the floor.”

  I ducked aside and the tape cutters clanged on the wall behind my head.

  “That’s more like it,” I said, wincing slightly. Dodging the cutters had made my shoulder throb. I pushed up on my tightly bound forearm. “Come on, get dressed and let’s find someplace to get high.”

  The trainers were taking their showers when we left the locker room. In the tunnel, the equipment man was loading the trunks into the back of an air-freight van for transport to Kennedy, where an orange Braniff 727 with a galley full of dry chicken sandwiches and eighty warm beers sat waiting.

  “I sure could use me a Cutty and water,” Maxwell rasped, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his brown cashmere coat. His hair was slicked back and still slightly wet from his shower. Little beads of perspiration dotted his forehead.

  “I mentioned it to Mary Jane on the way up. I’m sure she’ll have us something.”

  The leather trench coat started slipping off my taped shoulder. I tried to pull it back on with my free hand but the twisting motion sent hot pains into my head. Maxwell noticed my struggle, grabbed the coat and reseated it on my shoulder.

  As we reached the exit to the parking lot Maxwell went past and started up the ramp to the stadium seats. I followed, after making sure the bus was still waiting.

  “We don’t have much time,” I called, as Maxwell disappeared into the stadium.

  The covered seats were in such deep shadows that I had to stop for a moment to let my eyes adjust before I located Maxwell. He was sitting on the aisle four rows in front of me.

  “You got a joint?” he asked.

  There was a determination, a destructiveness, in his voice. He kept his eyes fixed on the field, almost totally lost in darkness. It looked cold and barren in the gray city dusk.

  “Yeah, I think so. But we’ll have to hurry.” My caution drew a look of distaste.

  “Sometimes I wonder about your manhood,” he said.

  The insult puzzled me, but I avoided his eyes and dug in my pocket for a joint. As long as I played well I was seldom upset by a loss. I looked at winning or losing as someone else’s benefit, distantly removed from my daily struggles for existence. Maxwell took losses to heart, regardless of his personal performance.

  I lit the joint and inhaled deeply; it made my shoulder hurt. I leaned over and passed to Maxwell, at the same time looking around the stadium for the police I knew were hiding behind every pillar. Maxwell pushed his cowboy hat down over his eyes, propped his feet on the seat in front, took a long, loud drag, and passed back to me. We smoked the whole joint in silence. Finally Maxwell stood up and flicked the glowing roach away.

  “Well,” he said, starting back down the ramp to the waiting bus, “she whipped me again.”

  Mary Jane had reserved the same seats for us and had filled the seat-back pouches with tiny bottles of Cutty Sark and Jack Daniels. It took over an hour to get clearance out of New York and during the wait we consumed eight bottles apiece. I took two more codeine pills and Maxwell took one. The combination of codeine, marijuana, booze, and the heavy drone of the jet engines put Maxwell to sleep and me into a trance.

  A short but furious pillow fight erupted between some members of the defense and several men who hadn’t played in the course of the afternoon. As the tiny airline pillows sailed back and forth, it looked like a Michigan snow storm. A heavy-throated, official-sounding voice quoted some obscure FAA regulation over the intercom and brought the fight to a halt, although every now and then a white square would hum through the air and land with a thump.

  Some players were up and moving around. Distinctive bulges and flashes of white under their clothing identified the wounded. My shoulder had become numb and I sat pleasantly stoned.

  Alan Claridge, stitched up and sedated, arrived semiconscious by ambulance just before we taxied into line for takeoff. The doctor suggested placing him in the first-class section where he would have more room but his constant gagging and spitting blood disgusted Conrad Hunter’s wife. He was carried back to the tourist section, both his eyes swollen shut. There were seventeen stitches in his lip.

  I recalled B.A.’s postgame locker room press conference. “Undoubtedly,” he had said, standing by the wooden taping tables, “the two fumbles by Claridge and Huddle were costly. Nevertheless, that’s no excuse for our all-around sloppy play.”

  B.A. would probably place Claridge on injured waivers for the remainder of the season, making certain to state it had no bearing on his performance against New York. He was merely a damaged part being replaced. And he was right, that was what was so infuriating. He was always right, analytically, scientifically, technically, and psychocybernetically right. Football was technology and he was a master technician.

  Andy Crawford sat across the aisle in his undershorts, ice packed on his right thigh to keep down the swelling of a bruise. He had been leg-whipped, just above the knee, in the first half. The Novocain had worn off John Wilson’s hip, making it so painful he couldn’t sit. He spent the entire flight in the aisle, watching Jo Bob and Tony Douglas play gin. Jo Bob set down his cards and, with great pain, made his way toward me and the bathroom beyond. As he passed he smiled weakly and congratulated my play. It was always surprising how sedate and friendly Jo Bob was after a game. I am sure it is the same principle that recommends masturbating circus lions to exhaustion before setting foot in their cages. The postgame Jo Bob was as calm and affable as the Dreyfus Lion after a couple of good whackoffs.

  “Everything all right?” Mary Jane Woodley slipped into the row of seats behind Maxwell and me.

  The question was directed at me, but her attention seemed to be on the sleeping quarterback. Leaning on the back of his seat, she was looking wistfully at her fingers as they trailed gently through his thick brown hair.

  “As good as can be expected, the quadruple amputee replied trying to rise and shake hands,” I said. “Thanks for the drinks.”

  She didn’t reply and I looked back to see if she had heard me. Her eyes were still focused on the top of Maxwell’s head as she combed the hair away from his eyes with her red-brown fingernails.

  “How’s he feeling?” she asked.

  “Okay, I guess,” I answered, without really considering the question. Besides, I never knew how Maxwell really felt. “A little depressed ...
and really smashed,” I added, to give her something to work with.

  “He played a great game,” she said, disappointed but not surprised by the thought that Maxwell was despondent.

  “We didn’t win,” I pointed out

  “Does it matter that much?”

  “To him it does.”

  “Not to you?” She seemed surprised.

  “A little, I suppose. Mostly I’m just trying to survive.” I was a little embarrassed by the drama in my statement.

  “I’m just trying to get the job,” I explained. “He worries about getting it done right, or what he thinks is right.”

  I paused for a minute and watched her fooling absently with his hair.

  “You really like him, don’t you?” I observed.

  “I really do,” she said, keeping her eyes on Maxwell. There was a tone of hopelessness in her voice.

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s a man,” she said. “What I thought all men were supposed to be like.”

  “What about me?” I asked with mock indignity.

  “You,” she said, turning to look at me and smiling wryly. “You. You’re what men really are. Like you said, just trying to survive.”

  I started to protest, but she was approximately right and my defense could, at best, be termed extenuating circumstances.

  “I brung ya a drank.” Seymour Scoop Zolinzowsky stood in the aisle in front of me holding out a styrofoam cup with the club insignia silk-screened on the side.

  “What is it?” I asked, making no move to accept the drink.

  “Vodka and Alka-Seltzer. They didn’t have no tonic water.” Scoop was weaving perceptibly and his face was ruddy. He called it his amphetamine flush.

  I waved the drink off, not only nauseated by the idea of vodka and Alka-Seltzer but also knowing there were strings attached to almost any outright gift from this newspaperman.

  “How ’bout you?” Scoop offered the drink to Mary Jane, who had stepped into the aisle and was trying to edge by him to get to the front. She shook her head and he stepped aside and bowed, waving her by with a flourish. He turned back to me.

  “Well, what happened?” He tried vainly to focus his eyes on me.

  “No comment, Scoop.”

  “Come on, man, quit movin’ and tell me what happened. I missed the whole goddam thing.”

  “Didn’t you even go to the game?” I was astonished that even Scoop would fail to attend at least part of the game.

  “I went awright, I jus’ don’t ’member any of it.” Suddenly he fell to the floor as if he had been struck dead by the hand of God. I leaned over to look at him. “Did you see that guy push me?” he said as he grabbed onto my chair arm and pulled himself rather shakily to his feet.

  The seat in front of me was empty, so Scoop pushed the seat back forward until it lay flat, then crawled up on it and assumed the lotus position.

  “C’mon, man, tell me what happened.”

  “We lost.”

  “Good,” he said, nodding his head, then looking around absently. “I forgot my pencil ’n pad. You gotta pencil ’n pad?” I shook my head. “Never min’, I’ll ’member.” He winked at me and tapped the side of his head. He offered me a drink from his cup. I leaned forward and peered into it. It looked like vodka and Alka-Seltzer. I shook my head and waved it away.

  “Say,” Scoop said, snapping his fingers soundlessly, “did the nigger really lose the game?” I winced at the volume that he used on the word nigger.

  “What nigger?” I asked, too loudly. I looked around but didn’t see any black faces or glaring eyes.

  “I dunno,” he continued, reeling and almost falling backward off the seat. “Clinton jes’ said that the dumb nigger dropped the ball.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  Down the aisle Monsignor Twill made his way rather clumsily from first class back to tourist. He was quite drunk, as he always was on return flights, and stopped by various players to offer his condolences and pat them on the shoulder. Twice as he leaned over to talk to players the plane hit light air pockets and he sprawled into their laps. When he reached us, Scoop had noticed my gaze and was also watching him.

  “I can’t stan’ drunks,” Scoop said, as the Monsignor came to a halt beside us. The Monsignor was noticeably offended by the remark.

  “Don’t mind him, Father,” I soothed. “He’s upset by the loss.”

  “I can understand your feelings, Seymour,” the Monsignor said, “but that is still no reason to be disrespectful.”

  “Don’t call me Seymour.”

  “Should I call you Mr. Zolinzowsky?” The Monsignor straightened up, angry at Scoop’s abrupt and rude manner. Scoop didn’t answer and the Monsignor tried to calm himself and right the situation. “Isn’t that a Polish name?”

  “Why do you wanna know?” Scoop demanded, taking a long swig of his drink. “You selling bowling shirts?”

  The Monsignor glared momentarily at Scoop, then shifted his eyes to me as if expecting an explanation. I shrugged. He shook his head and turned around to tell Andy Crawford he played a great game and he hoped the leg wasn’t too long in healing because “we” needed him next week. Then he moved on down the aisle and disappeared into one of the two rest rooms.

  “I hate Catholics,” Scoop said.

  “I thought you were Catholic.”

  “Tha’s what I hate ’bout ’em.”

  Art Hartman slid into the seat next to Scoop.

  “Hey, guys.” He smiled. “Played a great game, Phil.”

  Scoop perked up at the comment.

  “He did?” the reporter asked, grabbing at his ear for the nonexistent pencil. He turned to Hartman. “You gotta pencil ’n pad?” Hartman shook his head and then looked at me. His eyes wide, he rolled them in the direction of Scoop. I smiled and nodded.

  “I gotta go talk to the losin’ coach,” Scoop announced, sliding from the seat back to a kneeling position on the floor. As he pulled himself upright, he sloshed his drink all over his hand. He saluted Hartman and me and moved back up toward the front.

  “That oughta be a great interview,” Hartman observed.

  Scoop missed the doorway between sections by about six inches and banged his shoulders into the bulkhead. Backing away, the determined newsman made another run and shot through into first class only slightly scathed.

  “How’s the King feeling?” Hartman asked, looking around the seat at the sleeping Maxwell.

  “Older, I think.”

  “He’ll never get any older.”

  “That an observation or a complaint?”

  “Just a statement, guy. I don’t need him to grow old before I get that job. I’ll get it when I deserve it.”

  “Some people thought you deserved it this year.”

  “Well, it just didn’t work out”

  “Doesn’t that piss you off?”

  “Naw.” He shook his head. “I’d like to have started this year but B.A. doesn’t think I’m ready and I can see his point. I need seasoning. And listen, guy, I love that man,” he said, looking at the unconscious quarterback. “He’s one of the best in the business. He’s taught me a lot. We’re good friends.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “Sure, our friendship has nothing to do with competition on the field. We respect each other. When I’m playing, I work my butt off to beat him out, to take that job, but when we step off the field we’re still friends.”

  “Don’t you think you’re better than he is?”

  The question stopped the former All American and he chewed thoughtfully on his upper lip, his eyes squeezing into slits. He thought for a long time.

  “Well,” he finally said, hesitantly, “that’s hard to say. I mean sure I think I’m better than he is. I have to if I ever hope to win the job. But it’s B.A.’s decision as to who starts.”

  “What if B.A. makes the wrong decision. Or the right one and you don’t start?”

  “That won’t happen.�
��

  “Why not?”

  “ ’Cause it just won’t. I concentrate. I follow directions. I work hard. When my chance comes I’ll be ready.”

  “What if it doesn’t come?”

  “It will come. It has to. I mean if I do everything right, it just has to.”

  “What if Maxwell’s better than you?”

  “He’s not.”

  “Then why aren’t you playing?”

  “Look, I told you, that’s B.A.’s decision. I wouldn’t have done some of the things Maxwell did today and when my chance comes that’ll be the difference between us.”

  “If you say so,” I said, leaning back in my seat and closing my eyes.

  “Whattaya mean by that? We lost, didn’t we?”

  “I don’t think the loss was his fault.”

  “It’s always the quarterback’s fault when you lose.”

  “Okay,” I said, pushing my feet against the floor, feeling the strangely delicious ache in the muscles. “If you say so.” I dug my head into the seat back and fell asleep.

  In a dream I was transported to the playing field at the Los Angeles Coliseum. The dream had something to do with being able to throw a football through an old tire. I don’t know what the contest was, but I remember that I was scared to death that I couldn’t do it. The guy in front of me had just missed and they were carrying him toward the tunnel. The crowd was yelling so loud I woke up. I opened my eyes to hear the sounds of an argument between O.W. Meadows and Jim Johnson. Apparently one, and most likely both, of the Dexamyl Spansules the giant defensive tackle had taken at halftime were beginning to work. The argument was typical postgame behavior for Meadows; he didn’t quite grasp the chemistry of time capsules. Standing, screaming at Johnson and inspired by thirty milligrams of Dexedrine and Miltown, he gave vent to a new theory of football that had begun to take shape in his normally fallow brain.

  Meadows’s gestures were strangely exaggerated by the ice pack secured to his elbow with Ace Bandages and elastic tape. The elbow had been hyperextended in the second half. I was still in a dreamlike state, watching the ice bag wave in the air. I pictured the gruesome mechanics of Meadows’s hyperextension. He had been knocked to the ground early in the third period and had extended his right arm to cushion the fall. His palm had dug into the soft ground and he had locked the elbow for support when the ball carrier slammed into the joint from the backside. The blow forced the bones the wrong way; ligaments and muscles stretched and tore. The two primary bones rode grinding over each other. For an instant the elbow dislocated, leaving a huge hole where the elbow point used to be. Somehow the remnants of the muscles and ligaments held and the bones popped back into place with a resounding snap.