A Jacks - Passion_s Her Game

Here he was again. Jesus!

I rolled out to the right, looking downfield, listening to them coming after me, Day yelling something. I raised my arm, but I wasn't planted. I stepped back, and somebody shot past. I saw an arm swinging at my throat. I pulled back my head to avoid being clotheslined. The play was a bust. Better eat it. Then the big black body of Day slammed me down. My guts slithered with pain.

Somebody's got to hold him at the line, I thought. Then into the huddle, kneeling, facing the circle of faces, calling a swing pass, first and ten on Peoria's thirty. I called draw and got hit after the hand-off. A sword of fire ran along my ribs. It was agony for a second to breathe. I got up slowly, shook it off.

Day was there, squatting on the line, waiting, but it wasn't just Day who was getting to me. It was somebody different now on every play. Somebody off the weak side. Someplace, somehow, the line would leak. Sure, we were moving, but on every play somebody was getting to me after the hand-off. They were knocking the crap out of me. They stopped us cold and I got knocked down badly on two passes. We kicked a field goal. In the second quarter we were behind six points. It was the same pattern. The minute we got inside their thirty yard line I couldn't get any blocking in the line. At half time the coach chewed everybody's ass. My ribs were killing me. I could hardly breathe, but I didn't dare ask for novacain. I'd get benched. I had to beat the rooky they had waiting on the bench. But the chew job on the team didn't help in the third quarter. If anything, our line was leaking more inside Peoria's thirty. Their backs were forcing the receivers to do a lot of running, so the line had an excuse for not holding too long on pass plays.

Now, facing third down and nine inside Peoria's twenty yard line, I thought of many things. There were the outside linebackers – the one fast, the other a little slower but clever – and the necessity of drawing them in for a sideline pass. But they would be set for what was now the obvious play. Or with Leighton catching well, go for a touchdown; if we didn't make it, a field goal wouldn't bail us out.

I must make this play. Must make it.

Here goes, I thought, checking off audibles at the line, watching the defense playing loose, a little too deep to protect against sideline and down and out passes. But nine yards is a long way on a quarterback draw. But I must get it. I must get it. Fast and quick. Here we go. I took the snap, pivoted, moving back, ball low in both hands, snugged up against the fullback, gave him the ball against his outside hip and took it away, boot-legged it with my left hand, taking a step back to pass, seeing in that instant the hole open behind the fullback after he was tackled three yards past the line of scrimmage.

I sprang, running full speed, getting both knees high, before I hit the hole, only a fraction of a second to make it.

Then I was through and running faster, picking out the deep safety, cutting for the sideline, running, running. Suddenly a tremendous impact, and I felt myself knocked sideways into the air. I clutched the ball tighter as I seemed to cartwheel, and it flew out of my hands. In the air somebody hit me as I was spinning. I struck the ground and they were all over me as I fell.

Jagged spears of light shot through my head. I felt my body breaking, sliding down into darkness. Then the roar of the crowd ran over my head like the crash of surf. The darkness lifted suddenly. Day lay on me breathing in my face. Nailed by Day from behind and side.

I stood up and shook my head. I started walking off the field. Somebody caught my shoulder. My fumble had been recovered. I leaned over for an instant, rested with my head down, hands on my knees. A voice shouted, "Are you all right? All right? All right?" I straightened up and ran back into the huddle.

"Let's go!" I heard my voice snarl as I slapped my hands. The crowd was roaring and applauding. It was a first down on the fourteen. Day crouched, waiting. I called a trap-left, away from Day.

I looked at Day as I called signals. He looked tired, his butt was too low for a good charge.

I handed the ball off at almost the same instant I got socked from both sides, knocked first to the right and then back to the left, to be crushed on the turf. Day was on top of me again. I felt somebody sock me in the ribs with his fist. There were three of them on me. I yelled with pain. Suddenly they leaped up.

I got up slowly, my ribs on fire. We'd lost three yards.

"Who in hell is letting everybody through?" I glared in the huddle. Ten silent faces stared back at me. All right, you bastards, I'll do it alone.

I tried a pass over the middle and got smeared. No blocking. I cursed them out in the huddle. Nobody spoke. I called a quarterback sneak. I drove over left guard; they let me through. I got good blocks, but the inside linebackers came up too fast. My speed was gone, I should have made five yards. I felt the helmet spear my guts. I twisted as the other linebacker missed my head.

I heard the boos as I walked back to the huddle. At first not too loud, then louder and louder as I came nearer the huddle. Then a roaring sea of chanting. The same old Sunday afternoon creeps! Kick you in the balls when you're not perfect. Gotta be perfect every play.

All right, Day, here I come. Grinning. Grin, you bastard!

I faded back to pass.

Leighton! Leighton! Where the hell are you? A hand reached for me. I rammed a fist under a face guard and sidestepped. I tried to roll out, trapped; I whirled, but it was too late. A big guard dived at me, head down. As I stumbled I got hit from the blind side across the back of the neck and the blow of a fist slammed down into the back of my ribs, deep. I twisted, ducked, got hit again, went down. I couldn't move. Screw you! They climbed off me. I staggered over to the huddle.

"Leighton!" I snarled. "Where the hell were you?" He didn't answer. "You better catch this one or I'm going to kick your ass!"

Somebody put a hand on my shoulder.

"You O.K.?" a voice said.

I brushed off the hand, called the play.

There was the crowd roaring and the helmets of the defense waiting again.

I took the snap, started rolling to the left, punched a guard on the side of the helmet. Leighton was covered in the end zone. I spun, started back in the opposite direction, stopped, and looked back at Leighton, coming across behind the goal post. I felt the ball soar. Right straight between the goal post. Right straight for Leighton's hands. Then a monstrous blow came again, and bodies were lying on top of me.

I felt hands lifting me up. I felt myself shaking. Then I was on my feet, walking. I saw Leighton fling the ball on the grass.

Somewhere the crowd was roaring. I staggered.

I looked at my legs. My guts felt busted inside. A great spear. of pain shot through my chest. I must hold the ball for the extra point. I felt myself fall down without at first knowing I was falling. I got up on one knee. The roaring of the crowd sounded louder but far away. I'd done it. What did Binks think now? I got up on both feet and pain speared me again. I fell down and felt the sweat dripping off my face onto the grass. I felt terrible. I held onto my guts with both hands. I thought my stomach and back were going to fall out. I'd never felt this sick before and so badly hurt inside. I lay down and waited for the stretcher. Well, somebody else would have to hold the ball for the point after touchdown. Screw you, Leighton, you bastard! I did it in spite of you. They were lifting me up onto the stretcher. Leighton stood over me smiling. I shut my eyes.

When I opened my eyes Leighton was still there. I didn't hurt anymore. The room was white. I was in the hospital.

Leighton stood beside the bed smiling down at me.