The Defender served first, a probing serve to test the quickness of the Challenger. He used an image, from a poet who had written in the dying language called English, of a youth gliding over a hilltop at night to catch a star falling from a shower of milk-white light.
The Challenger slapped it right back; the star was nothing but a burnt-out children’s sparkler made from fuel wastes. The youth on the hilltop was left with a sticky purple mess.
The Defender was surprised at how long he struggled with the sadness of the thought. A Judge hit the screamer. Unified led, 1-0.
Coach called time-out.
The falling-star image had been one of his best serves, a frequent ace. No one had ever handled it so well, turning the beautiful vision of humanity’s quest for immortality into an ugly image of self-destruction.
They decided to switch tactics—to serve a fireball, No. 7 style. The Defender hurled a blazing tornado of searing gases and immeasurable heat. The Challenger’s mind scooped it up like a hockey puck and plopped it into an ocean filled with icebergs.
Off-balance, the Defender tried to give himself time by thinking steaming vapors from the ocean, but the Challenger turned the vapors into great fleecy clouds that shaped themselves into mocking caricatures of famous Earthlings.
Desperately, the Defender answered with another fireball, and a Judge hit the screamer, calling it a Non Sequitur—the thought had not logically followed the Challenger’s thought.
Unified led, 2-0.
The Defender served a complex image of universal peace: white-robed choruses in sweet harmony, endless vials of nutrient liquids flowing through galaxies aglow with life-giving stars, and hands—white, brown, green, orange, blue, black, red, and yellow—clasped.
The Challenger slashed back with mineral dredges that drowned out the singing, lasers that poisoned the vials, and a dark night created by monster Earth shields that were purposely blocking the sunlight of a small planet. The clasping hands tightened until they crushed each other to bloody pulp.
The Defender was gasping at the bitter overload when he heard the screamer. He was down, 3-0. He had never lost his serve before.
The Challenger’s first serve was vividly simple: black Earthling trooper boots stomping on thousands of green forms like itself.
Screamer.
The Judge called “Foul” and explained that the thought was too political—the Galactic League was still debating whether Earth colonists had trampled the rights of the hairy green offspring of the accident victims.
The Challenger’s second serve was an image of black-gloved Earthling hands pulling apart Greenie families and shoving parents and children into separate cages.
Foul screamer.
The third serve was an image of Earth rocket exhausts aimed to burn down Greenie houses.
Foul screamer.
Tie score, 3-3. The Judge called an official time-out.
Coach’s strong thumbs were working under the Defender’s helmet. “Register a protest, right now. Don’t let that little fur ball make a farce of the game.”
“He’s allowed to think freely,” said the Defender. He wondered if the Challenger was a “he.” Did it matter?
“He’s using the game just to further his cause.”
“Maybe he has a just cause.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Coach. “This is a game.”
“I’ll get him next period,” said the Defender, trying to sound more confident than he was.
The second period was a repeat of the first. The Defender’s best serves were deflected, twisted, sent back in bewildering patterns while the Challenger fouled on three more images of Earthling inhumanity. As the scoreboard glowed 6-6, the crowd buzzed angrily.
Coach said, “I order you to register a protest or you will never play for this high school again.”
“It’s my last game here.”
“I’ll see you don’t get a college scholarship.”
“I’m not sure I ever want to play this game again.”
“Look, Jose”—Coach’s voice became soft, wheedling—“you are the best high-school player who ever—”
“Not anymore,” said the Defender.
His helmet had never felt so tight—it was crushing his mind numb—as he trudged out for the last regulation period.
His three serves were weak, random flashes of thought that barely registered on the video screens. The Challenger easily re-created them into bursting thoughts that made the Defender’s head spin. The Challenger’s three serves were cluster bombs of cruelty and greed, horrible images of his people trapped in starvation and hopelessness because of Earth. They were all called foul.
It was 9-9 going into sudden-death overtime.
The Principal was waiting for No. 1 at the edge of the Pit. With him was the Chief Judge, the Superintendent of Earth High Schools, the Commissioner of the Mental Athletics Association, the Secretary-General of the Galactic League, and other important-looking faces he recognized from telepathé-news.
They all nodded as the Principal said, “You are the Defender. You have a responsibility to your school, your people, the planet. I order you to register a protest. We cannot be beaten by a foul little malcontent Greenie.”
“It’s only a game,” said the Defender.
“Maybe to you,” snapped the Superintendent.
He strode back into the Pit.
The Challenger had never left; the Defender suddenly realized the little creature had no coach or friends. He had come up alone to stand and fight for himself and his people.
The warning buzzer sounded. Seconds to serve. Sudden death. The Defender would go first. He thought of his all-time best serves, the ones he saved for desperate situations, because coming up with them was so exhausting, so mind-bending that if they failed he was lost. He thought of the end of the world, of sucking black holes, of nightmares beyond hope.
Suddenly he knew what to do.
He served an image of a dry and dusty field on a lonely colony planet. The land was scarred and barren, filled with thousands of round green creatures standing hopelessly beyond barbed wire as a harsh wind ruffled their dry fur.
For the first time, the Challenger took the full five seconds to return serve. He was obviously puzzled. His return was his weakest so far, merely widening the image to include a ring of Earthlings, healthy and happy, pointing and laughing at the Greenies. It was just what the Defender had expected.
He took his full five, then sent a soft, slow image of two Earthlings leaving the circle to walk among the Greenies until they picked one whose hands they held.
They led it skipping into a golden meadow under a sunny blue sky. The Earthlings were José and Sophia, and the Greenie who danced and sang with them was the Challenger.
In the shocked silence of the arena, the Challenger took the thought as if it were a knockout punch, his mind wobbling.
He was unable to deal with the thought, the kindness in it, the fellowship.
He can’t handle love, thought the Defender. What a way to win.
The Challenger was still struggling to answer when the screamer sounded.
The match was over, 10-9. The crowd was roaring, the Principal was dancing on his chair, the video screens were filled with the face of José Nunez, the first ever to win the galactic championship twice.
They swarmed around him now, the important faces, calling his name, slapping at his helmet, but he pushed through, shutting out their congratulations, the screams of the crowd, the exploding scoreboard.
He made his way through to the Challenger, alone and quivering in the middle of the Pit. I don’t even know its name, thought the Defender. “It”?
Sophia and Tombo were running toward them. They knew what José was thinking.
It was only a game.
But it might be a start.
Robert Lipsyte
A former prizewinning sports reporter for The New York Times, Robert Lipsyte entered the world of young adult books in 1967 with T
he Contender, the story of a young African American boxer trying to be somebody. Besides receiving other awards, in 1994 the book was named by the American Library Association one of the 100 Best of the Best Books for Young Adults published in the previous twenty-five years. Alfred Brooks, the contender in that first novel, has appeared more recently in The Brave and The Chief’as a police officer who attempts to help a young Native American boxer become a challenger.
Mr. Lipsyte is also the author of two nonfiction books for teens, Assignment: Sports and Free to Be Muhammad Ali.
Years of covering boxing and other sports, and of thinking about how important it is to “psych out” an opponent, led him to create the world of mental competition portrayed in “The Defender.”
In addition to writing novels for young people, Mr. Lipsyte was a reporter and interviewer for the CBS television program Sunday Morning with Charles Kuralt and then the host of his own program, The Eleventh Hour, on New York City’s public television station, for which he received an Emmy Award.
He has most recently written lively biographies of Jim Thorpe, Joe Louis, Michael Jordan, and Arnold Schwarzenegger as part of the Superstar lineup series, while developing a television documentary about sports.
One might think that with a reputation as a sports reporter and a writer of books featuring real and fictional athletes, Robert Lipsyte would have been a very athletic teenager. Instead, he reports, “I was a varsity writer as a kid.” The character of Bobby Marks in his One Fat Summer and its sequels, Summer Rules and A Summer Boy, more accurately reflects Mr. Lipsyte as a teenager. He now jogs, plays tennis, and does yoga.
The Moose is an outstanding left tackle. But he longs for the chance to be in the backfield, to dazzle the crowd in the stands, to carry the ball….
Just Once
Everybody liked the Moose. To his father and mother he was Bryan—as in Bryan Jefferson Crawford—but to everyone at Bedford City High he was the Moose. He was large and strong, as you might imagine from his nickname, and he was pretty fast on his feet—sort of nimble, you might say—considering his size. He didn’t have a pretty face but he had a quick and easy smile—“sweet,” some of the teachers called it; “nice,” others said.
But on the football field, the Moose was neither sweet nor nice. He was just strong and fast and a little bit devastating as the left tackle of the Bedford City Bears. When the Moose blocked somebody, he stayed blocked. When the Moose was called on to open a hole in the line for one of the Bears’ runners, the hole more often than not resembled an open garage door.
Now in his senior season, the Moose had twice been named to the all-conference team and was considered a cinch for all-state. He spent a lot of his spare time, when he wasn’t in a classroom or on the football field, reading letters from colleges eager to have the Moose pursue higher education—and football—at their institution.
But the Moose had a hang-up.
He didn’t go public with his hang-up until the sixth game of the season. But, looking back, most of his teammates agreed that probably the Moose had been nurturing the hang-up secretly for two years or more.
The Moose wanted to carry the ball.
For sure, the Moose was not the first interior lineman in the history of football, or even the history of Bedford City High, who banged heads up front and wore bruises like badges of honor—and dreamed of racing down the field with the ball to the end zone while everybody in the bleachers screamed his name.
But most linemen, it seems, are able to stifle the urge. The idea may pop into their minds from time to time, but in their hearts they know they can’t run fast enough, they know they can’t do that fancy dancing to elude tacklers, they know they aren’t trained to read blocks. They know that their strengths and talents are best utilized in the line. Football is, after all, a team sport, and everyone plays the position where he most helps the team. And so these linemen, or most of them, go back to banging heads without saying the first word about the dream that flickered through their minds.
Not so with the Moose.
That sixth game, when the Moose’s hang-up first came into public view, had ended with the Moose truly in all his glory as the Bears’ left tackle. Yes, glory—but uncheered and sort of anonymous. The Bears were trailing 21-17 and had the ball on Mitchell High’s five-yard line, fourth down, with time running out. The rule in such a situation is simple—the best back carries the ball behind the best blocker—and it is a rule seldom violated by those in control of their faculties. The Bears, of course, followed the rule. That meant Jerry Dixon running behind the Moose’s blocking. With the snap of the ball, the Moose knocked down one lineman, bumped another one aside, and charged forward to flatten an approaching linebacker. Jerry did a little jig behind the Moose and then ran into the end zone, virtually untouched, to win the game.
After circling in the end zone a moment while the cheers echoed through the night, Jerry did run across and hug the Moose, that’s true. Jerry knew who had made the touchdown possible.
But it wasn’t the Moose’s name that everybody was shouting. The fans in the bleachers were cheering Jerry Dixon.
It was probably at that precise moment that the Moose decided to go public.
In the dressing room, Coach Buford Williams was making his rounds among the cheering players and came to a halt in front of the Moose. “It was your great blocking that did it,” he said.
“I want to carry the ball,” the Moose said.
Coach Williams was already turning away and taking a step toward the next player due an accolade when his brain registered the fact that the Moose had said something strange. He was expecting the Moose to say, “Aw, gee, thanks, Coach.” That was what the Moose always said when the coach issued a compliment. But the Moose had said something else. The coach turned back to the Moose, a look of disbelief on his face. “What did you say?”
“I want to carry the ball.”
Coach Williams was good at quick recoveries, as any high-school football coach had better be. He gave a tolerant smile and a little nod and said, “You keep right on blocking, son.”
This time Coach Williams made good on his turn and moved away from the Moose.
The following week’s practice and the next Friday’s game passed without further incident. After all, the game was a road game over at Cartwright High, thirty-five miles away. The Moose wanted to carry the ball in front of the Bedford City fans.
Then the Moose went to work.
He caught up with the coach on the way to the practice field on Wednesday. “Remember,” he said, leaning forward and down a little to get his face in the coach’s face, “I said I want to carry the ball.”
Coach Williams must have been thinking about something else because it took him a minute to look up into the Moose’s face, and even then he didn’t say anything.
“I meant it,” the Moose said.
“Meant what?”
“I want to run the ball.”
“Oh,” Coach Williams said. Yes, he remembered. “Son, you’re a great left tackle, a great blocker. Let’s leave it that way.”
The Moose let the remaining days of the practice week and then the game on Friday night against Edge-wood High pass while he reviewed strategies. The review led him to Dan Blevins, the Bears’ quarterback. If the signal-caller would join in, maybe Coach Williams would listen.
“Yeah, I heard,” Dan said. “But, look, what about Joe Wright at guard, Bill Slocum at right tackle, even Herbie Watson at center. They might all want to carry the ball. What are we going to do—take turns? It doesn’t work that way.”
So much for Dan Blevins.
The Moose found that most of the players in the backfield agreed with Dan. They couldn’t see any reason why the Moose should carry the ball, especially in place of themselves. Even Jerry Dixon, who owed a lot of his glory to the Moose’s blocking, gaped in disbelief at the Moose’s idea. The Moose, however, got some support from his fellow linemen. Maybe they had dreams of their own, and saw
value in a precedent.
As the days went by, the word spread—not just on the practice field and in the corridors of Bedford City High, but all around town. The players by now were openly taking sides. Some thought it a jolly good idea that the Moose carry the ball. Others, like Dan Blevins, held to the purist line—a left tackle plays left tackle, a ballcarrier carries the ball, and that’s it.
Around town, the vote wasn’t even close. Everyone wanted the Moose to carry the ball.
“Look, son,” Coach Williams said to the Moose on the practice field the Thursday before the Benton Heights game, “this has gone far enough. Fun is fun. A joke is a joke. But let’s drop it.”
“Just once,” the Moose pleaded.
Coach Williams looked at the Moose and didn’t answer.
The Moose didn’t know what that meant.
The Benton Heights Tigers were duck soup for the Bears, as everyone knew they would be. The Bears scored in their first three possessions and led 28-0 at the half. The hapless Tigers had yet to cross the fifty-yard line under their own steam.
All the Bears, of course, were enjoying the way the game was going, as were the Bedford City fans jamming the bleachers.
Coach Williams looked irritated when the crowd on a couple of occasions broke into a chant: “Give the Moose the ball! Give the Moose the ball!”
On the field, the Moose did not know whether to grin at hearing his name shouted by the crowd or to frown because the sound of his name was irritating the coach. Was the crowd going to talk Coach Williams into putting the Moose in the backfield? Probably not; Coach Williams didn’t bow to that kind of pressure. Was the coach going to refuse to give the ball to the Moose just to show the crowd—and the Moose and the rest of the players—who was boss? The Moose feared so.
In his time on the sideline, when the defensive unit was on the field, the Moose, of course, said nothing to Coach Williams. He knew better than to break the coach’s concentration during a game—even a runaway victory—with a comment on any subject at all, much less his desire to carry the ball. As a matter of fact, the Moose was careful to stay out of the coach’s line of vision, especially when the crowd was chanting “Give the Moose the ball!”
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