Don DeLillo - End Zone

"What?" Chuck Deering said.

"On hut."

"No, the other thing. F something."

"F weak switch and sideline," Hobbs said.

"What kind of pattern is that?"

"Are you kidding?"

"What a bunch of fetuseaters," Kimbrough said.

"When did they put that pattern in, Hobbsie?"

"Tuesday or Wednesday. Where the hell were you?"

"It must have been Wednesday. I was at the dentist."

"Nobody told you?"

"I don't think so, Hobbsie."

"Look, you run out ten yards, put some moves on your man and end up near the damn sideline."

"I'm cocaptain to a bunch of fetuseaters."

"On hut. Break."

Third and eleven. They sent their linebackers. Hobbs left the pocket and I had Mallon, their psychotic middle linebacker, by the jersey. He tripped and I released, moving into a passing plane for Hobbs. He saw me but threw low. I didn't bother diving for it. Creed seemed to be looking right past us as we moved off the field. I sat next to Chester Randall, a reserve lineman. He had broken his right wrist the week before and it was still in a cast.

"Make no mistake, I can play with this thing. Hauptfuhrer gave me the go. If they need me, I can play, arm or no arm. The only thing that worries me is the dryness. I wish I could spit. I'm too dry to spit. I've been trying to work up some saliva for the past hour. I'd feel a whole lot better if I could only spit."

"Why don't you drink some water?"

"I've been trying to avoid that. It's what killed my sister's baby. There's something in it."

Centrex, starting from midfield, picked up six, eight, five, four, nine. Lenny Wells came off in pain-his left arm. George Owen screamed at him. The quarter ended. I thought of ice melting above the banks of streams in high country. Billy Mast replaced Wells. Telcon kept the ball on a bootleg and went to the 1 (flag in the air) before Buddy Shock caught him with a shoulder. Their penalty, clipping, and that put the ball outside the 20 from point of infraction. Telcon tried to hit his flanker on a post pattern. Bobby Iselin picked it off and returned to the 19. I couldn't find my helmet for a moment.

Garland Hobbs: "Let's ching those nancies."

Monsoon sweep, stringin left, ready right. Cradleout, drill9 shiver, ends chuS. Broadside option, flowandgo.

I got bounced out of bounds and stepped on. Veech shouted down at me. Hardearned first down for the unspectacular Harkness. Taft ran out of room and cut back into traffic. Their territory, second and eight. Hobbs looked toward Creed for guidance. The man's arms remained folded, his right foot tamping the grass.

Quickside brake and swing.

I put a light block on their end, then turned to the right to watch the play develop. Taft caught the ball about six yards behind the line and followed the center and both guards. They looked impressive, trucking along out there in front, Onan Moley flanked by Rector and Fallon, but nobody remembered to throw a block. The left cornerback sliced in to make an anklehigh tackle just as Taft was getting set to turn it on. A Centres lineman was hurt, knee or ankle, and they had to call time to get him off. We assembled near our own 45. John Jessup took off his helmet. There was blood all over his lips and teeth.

"Nobody got taken out on that brake and swing," Hobbs said.

"You just call the blanketyblank signals," Kimbrough said. "We'll do the blocking."

"When do you plan to start?"

"Suck a husky," Fallon said.

"That assbelly sixtytwo got his fist in," Jessup said. "That magnolia candyass cunt."

"You'd better go off."

"I guarantee you I'll mash his little mimmy. I'm serious, man. I'll waste that diddly dick before this thing's over."

"Go off," I said. "Your mouth is all over your face. You're making everybody sick."

"I'll get that shitpiss sixtytwo and smash his worthless face."

"Down and yardage," Cecil Rector said.

"Third and long," Deering said.

"Are there any predictions on the outcome?" Bloomberg said.

"Be serious," Onan told him.

Their linebackers seemed about to swarmdrop. Hobbs shouted numbers and colors over the defensive signals. I noticed that the knuckles on my left hand were all torn up. Hobbs kept changing plays, reacting to the defense. The whistle blew, delay of game, and we rehuddled and came back out. Hobbs threw to Spurgeon Cole up the middle. He got hit and dropped it. Centrex claimed fumble but the official paid no attention. Byrd Whiteside punted miserably. When he came off, Tweego told him he looked like something that had just come inching out of a buffalo's ass. I sat next to Bing Jackmin on the bench.

"I wonder what we're missing on TV," he said.

Centrex stayed on the ground, going mainly over our left side, Lloyd Philpot and Champ Conway. On first down Telcon faked a handoff, rolled right and hit one of his backs, number 25, all alone in the end zone. The conversion was good and our kickreturn team left the bench. Bobby Iselin returned to the 17 where he was hit and fumbled. Lee Roy Tyler recovered for us. I jogged onto the field.

Each play must have a name. The naming of plays is important. All teams run the same plays. But each team uses an entirely different system of naming. Coaches stay up well into the night in order to name plays. They heat and reheat coffee on an old burner. No play begins until its name is called.

MiddlesiftW, alphset, lemmy2.

Taft went burning up the middle for fifteen. He got six on the next play. I was up ahead, blocking, and we went down along with three or four other people. I was on my back, somebody across my legs, when I realized their tackle, 77, was talking to me, or to Taft, or perhaps to all of us spread over the turf. He was an immense and very geometric piece of work, their biggest man, about sixseven and 270, an oblong monument to the virtues of intimidation. His full hazy eyes squinted slowly deep inside the helmet as he whispered over the grass.

"Nigger kike faggot. Kike fag. Kike. Nigger fag. Nigger kike faggot."

Hobbs faked a trigger pitch to Taft, then handed to me, a variation off the KC draw. Mike Mallon and I met headon. I went down a bit faster than he did. Hobbs called for a measurement although we were obviously short, almost a yard. I was breathing heavily as we rehuddled. I thought one or two ribs might be broken. Taft went straight ahead, bounced off Onan Moley and tried to take it outside. A linebacker grabbed his jersey, somebody else held him upright and then 77 stormed into him. I knew we had lost yardage and I took off my helmet and started off. I heard a scuffle behind me. I put my helmet back on. It was Jessup and number 62 ready to go at each other. Bloomberg moved between them and they started to circle him, cursing each other. Then somebody pushed 62 away and Anatole took Jessup by the arm and led him off. About ten yards away Taft was just getting to his feet. Tweego had Cecil Rector by the pads as I crossed the sideline.

"I want you to fire out, boy. You're not blowing them out. You're not popping. I want you to punish that man. I want you to straighten him up and move him out. You're not doing any of those things."

I watched Creed take one very long step to the side in order to bring Cecil within hearing range. He spoke to Cecil while looking straight out toward the field, as if even the chaos of offensive and defensive units moving in and out was infinitely more noteworthy than this wellbalanced arrangement of armor and flesh.

"You're too nice, son."

"Yes sir."

"You're not firing out," Tweego yelled. "That man is raping you. He is moving you at will. Sting him, goddamn it. Sting him. Sting him."

"You're just too damn nice," Creed said.

Moving on the ground, Centrex picked up three, eight, nine, then lost four on a good tackle by Dennis Smee who went spinning off a block and hit the ballcarrier very hard around the midsection as he hesitated while bellying out on a sweep. Third and five. Telcon rolled out, got set to throw, saw his man covered, sidestepped Dickie Kidd and reversed his field. Buddy Shock just missed him way behind the line. Howard Lowry grabbed an ankle and then John Billy Small was all over Telcon. He seemed to be climbing him. They both went down on top of Lowry. Punt formation. Bobby Hopper called for a fair catch. My ribs seemed all right and and I went out. Three firecrackers went off in the stands. The crowd responded with prolonged applause.