Winston Groom: Gump & Company

Then all hell broke loose.

“What in hell was that! ” one of the guys shouts.

“Hey—that ain’t right. What the hell’s he doin!” another one says.

Two or three more come up an begun hollerin an cussin an wavin their arms at Coach Hurley. I got up an run on back to the huddle.

“What’s wrong with them guys?” I ast the quarterback.

“Hell, Gump, them guys are so dumb they don’t know what to do when they see somethin they ain’t seen before. They were expectin you to do what I said—go out twenty, jig, and then corner post. You did half of that—and even that was backwards. It ain’t in the playbook. Lucky I spotted you. But that was a nice catch, anyway.”

Well, rest of the afternoon I caught five or six more passes, an everbody ceptin the defense was happy. Ole Snake had come back from the doctor by then an was standin on the sidelines, grinnin an jumpin up and down.

“Forrest,” he says, when the scrimmage is finally over, “we is going to have us a time next Sunday afternoon against them New York Giants! It is a lucky thing that I went to your strip joint that night!”

But I am wondering if this is so.

Anyhow, I practiced the whole rest of that week, an by Sunday, I was feelin pretty good about mysef. Snake had got his hand out of the splint an was first-string quarterback again an was playin his heart out during the first two quarters, so’s when we went into the locker room we was only behind 22 to 0.

“Okay, Gump,” Coach Hurley said. “Now we gonna show em somethin. I think we have lulled them New York Giants into a false sense of security now. They gonna be lookin for a easy ride. You will not give it to them.” Then he an some other coaches say a bunch of other bullshit an we gone on back out to the stadium.

First play, somebody on our side fumbles the kickoff an we are back on our own one yard line. Just like Coach Hurley say, we have lulled them Giants into a false sense of security. Coach Hurley pat me on the butt an I went into the game. The crowd all of a sudden got sort of quiet, an then a kind of low mumbling begun—I guess because they ain’t had time to put my name into the program.

Snake, he look at me with eyes flashin an say, “Okay, Forrest, now’s the time. Just do it.” He called the play, an I went out toward the sidelines. On the snap, I hauled ass downfield an turn around, an the ball ain’t there. Snake is being chased around in the backfield by five or six Giants men, back an forth, back an forth in our own end zone—he must of gained a hundred yards, but it was the wrong way.

“Sorry about that,” he says, when we get back into the huddle. He reached down in his britches an pulled out a little plastic flask an took a long slug from it.

“What is that?” I ast.

“A hundrit percent pure orange juice, you fool,” Snake says. “You don’t think I’d be runnin around out drinkin whisky at my age, do you?”

Well, they say some things never change, but they also say wonders never cease, an I am glad ole Snake is doin the right thing.

Well, Snake calls the same play to me, an I run out again. By now the crowd is booin us an throwin paper cups an programs an half-eaten hotdogs onto the field. This time I turn aroun an got hit in the face by a big half-rotten tomato that somebody in the stands had brought along to indicate their displeasure, I guess. As you can imagine, it thowed me off just a little, an I put my hands up toward my face, an lo an behole, Snake’s pass catches me right there—so hard it knocked me down, but we is at least out of the hole.

Now it is first an ten on our twenty, an Snake call the same play again. I am tryin to wipe the tomato off my face when Snake says, “You sort of got to watch out for them folks thowin things from the stands. They don’t mean nothin by it. It’s just their way down here.”

I am wishin they would find another “way.”

Anyhow, out I go, an this time before I line up I hear all this real vulgar cussin an name callin directed toward me, an I look across the line an I’ll be damned if there ain’t ole Curtis, the linebacker from my Alabama days, wearin the uniform of a New York Giant!

Now, Curtis had been my ole roommate at the University for a while, at least till he thowed the outboard motor out of the athletic dorm winder onto a police car, which got him into some trouble. An later I gave him a job at the srimp company at Bayou La Batre. Long as I had known him, Curtis did not say nothin without startin it with about ten sentences of profanity, an so it was sometimes hard to figger out just what he wanted—especially when you only have about five seconds before the play starts, which was now the case. I gave him a little wave, an this seemed to surprise him so, he looked over at somebody else on his team, an that’s when our play went off. I was past Curtis like a shot, even though he tried to trip me with his feet, an headed downfield, an Snake’s ball was right there. I didn’t even lose a step—went right on into the end zone. Touchdown!

Everbody was jumpin all over me an huggin an all that, an when I was walkin off Curtis come up an say to me, “Nice catch, asshole,” which was about as high a compliment as Curtis ever gave. Bout that time, somebody thowed a tomato an hit him with it, square in the face. It was the first time I ever saw Curtis speechless, an I felt sort of sorry for him. “Hey,” I says, “they don’t mean nothin by that, Curtis. It’s just their way down here in New Orleans. Why, they even thow stuff at people off their Mardi Gras floats.” But Curtis wadn’t havin none of that, an so he took out toward the stands yellin an cussin an givin everbody the finger. Good ole Curtis.

Well, it was a interestin afternoon. By fourth quarter we was ahead 28 to 22, an I iced the game by makin a forty-yard catch that was thowed by the second-string quarterback who had come in for Snake, who was on the sidelines gettin his leg stitched up after a Giant bit a chunk out of it. All during the last part of the game the fans be chantin, “Gump! Gump! Gump!” an when it was over, about a hundrit photographers an newspaper reporters come up an mobbed me on the field, wantin to know who I was.

After that, my life done definitely changed. For that first game against the Giants, the Saints people gave me a check for ten thousan dollars. Next week, we done played the Chicago Bears, an I caught three more touchdown passes. The Saints people figgered out a way to pay me, they says, on “an incentive basis,” which was that they would give me one thousan dollars for ever pass I catch, an a ten-thousan-dollar bonus for each touchdown I score. Well, after four more games I got nearly sixty thousan dollars in the bank an we is now 6 an 8 an movin up in the conference standins. The week before the next game, which is against the Detroit Lions, I sent Jenny Curran a check for thirty thousan dollars for little Forrest. After we whup the Detroit Lions an then the Redskins, Colts, Patriots, 49ers, an Jets, in that order, I done sent her another thirty thousan dollars, an I am figgerin that by the playoffs I will be on easy street for sure.

But it was not that way at all.

We done won the conference championship for our division an next have got to play the Dallas Cowboys on their home turf. Everthin is lookin up pretty good. Our men are all very confident an be slappin each other on they asses with towels in the locker room. Ole Snake, he even stopped drinkin, and was in the prime of health.

One day one of the fellers come up to me an says, “Look here, Gump, you need to get yourself an agent.”

“A what?” I ast.

“Agent, you dummy. Somebody to represent you and get you all the money you ever wanted. You ain’t gettin paid enough around here. None of us are. But at least we got agents to deal with them bastids up at the organization. Why, you ought to be makin three times as much as you are now.”