Don DeLillo - End Zone

Taft took a quick toss at the point and followed me inside their left end. Then I was down and somebody was running right over me. I heard a lot of noise, pads hitting, men grunting and panting. Then it all came down on top of me. I smelled the turf and waited for the bodies to unpile. My rib cage was beginning to ache, a sense of stickiness, of glue. I felt quite happy. Somebody's hand was at the back of my neck and he put all his weight on it as he lifted himself up.

Counterfreeze, blue2 wide, swing inside delay.

I flared to the left, taking Mallon with me. Taft waited for a twocount and swung over the middle. Under pressure Hobbs threw high. Third and four. I couldn't contain my man. I tried to hold him. Then he and two others were all over Hobbs. I walked off without looking back. Whiteside punted sixty yards in the air. Jeff Elliott moved along the bench toward me.

"We're not moving the ball."

"I know," I said.

"That first drive was tremendous, Gary. But since then."

"We'll probably get killed. I anticipate a final score of eightythree to seven."

"Not this team. This is a real team. We've got the character to come back. We're only down seven. This is a team that goes out and plays."

"I was just talking, Jeff. Psyching myself."

"That's some way to psych yourself. How you feeling? Let me see that hand."

"I'm feeling happy," I said. "Look at the arc lights, the crowd. Listen to those noises out there. Pop, pop, pop. Ving, ving. Existence without anxiety. Happiness. Knowing your body. Understanding the real needs of man. The real needs, Jeffrey."

"I just meant your hand. It's all gouged up."

"The universe was born in violence. Stars die violently. Elements are created out of cosmic violence."

"Gary, this is football."

"I'm just fooling around, Jeff. I'm not serious."

"This team can come back. That's what all the pain and the struggle was for back there last summer. To give us the character to come back."

"Quite right."

"I believe in Coach," Jeff said. "He'll tell us what to do. Wait till half time. Coach will make adjustments."

Telcon hit his tight end near the sideline for twelve. Champ Conway came off holding his left shoulder and John Butler replaced him. Telcon completed two, missed one, hit one. He shook off Link Brownlee and threw to one of his backs who was just lounging around in the flat. The man took it all the way to our 17 before Bobby Luke caught him from behind. They picked up two on the ground, not very stylishly, Kidd and Lowry driving the ballcarrier back about ten yards while the official chased them blowing Ms whistle. Telcon overthrew a man in the end zone. Then he hit number 29 coming out of the backfield. Butler and Billy Mast put him down at the 9. They called time and Telcon looked toward his bench. Their head coach, Jade Kiley, turned to one of his assistants and said something. I looked at the clock. The fieldgoal team came on. Hauptfuhrer started shouting at the defense, howling at them. His face was contorted, squeezed into tense pieces. Sound of lamentation. It drifted across the clear night to all bright creatures curled beneath the moon.

"Look out for the fake. Look out for the faaaaake. Aaaaaake. Aaaaaake. Aaaaaake."

They made the field goal. Bobby Iselin returned the kickoff to the 24. We all hurried out

"Bed," Jerry Fallon said. "Pillow, sheet, blanket, mattress, spring, frame, headboard."

Hobbs hit Chuck Deering on a ponyout fcr nine. He worked the other sideline and Spurgeon Cole was forced out after picking up thirteen. The bench was shouting encouragement. Hobbs came back with an oppflux draw to Taft that picked up only two. He called time and went over to talk to Creed. I got my cleats scraped clean and watched Hobbs come trotting back; he seemed to have the answer to everything. I swung behind Deering, who was running a Qroute to clear out the area, and then I fanned toward the sideline and turned. The ball looked beautiful. It seemed overly large and bright. I could see it with perfect clarity. I backed up half a step, leaning with the ball. Then I had it and turned upfield. Somebody grabbed my ankle but I kicked away and picked up speed again, being sure to stay near the sideline. Two of them moved in now. They had the angle on me and I stepped out of bounds, I got hit and dropped and hit again. I came up swinging. Somebody pulled my jersey and I was kicked two or three times in the leg. I realized this was their side of the field. Fallon and Jessup pulled me awa The roughing cost them fifteen and that moved the bí inside their 20. Hobbs hit Cole on a spoonout to the 1 and we called time. He went off to confer with Cree again. Ron Steeples, who'd been knocked unconscious i the first quarter, came running in now to replace Chuc. Peering. He was happy to be back. The scent of gras and dirt filled my nostrils. Hobbs returned and we hud died. His primary receiver was Jessup on a shadowcounï delay over the middle. I went into motion and the ball was snapped. I watched Jessup fake a block and come off the line. Hobbs looked to his left, pumpfaked, turned toward Jessup and fired. The ball went off Jessup's hand and right to their free safety, 46, who was standing on the goal line. We all stood around watching, either starüed or pensive, trying to retrace events. Then 46 decided to take off, evading Kimbrough and Rector, cutting inside me. I went after him at top speed. At the 30yard line I became aware of something behind me, slightly off to the side. White and green and coming on. Then it was past me, 22, Taft Robinson, running deftly and silently, a remarkable clockwork intactness, smoothly touring, no waste or independent movement. I didn't believe a man could run that fast or well. I slowed down and took off my helmet. Taft caught 46 just the other side of midfield, hitting him below the shoulders and then rolling off and getting to his feet in one motion. I stood there watching. The gun sounded and we all headed for the tunnel.

I sat on the floor sucking the sweet flesh out of half an orange. Onan Moley slid down the wall and settled next to me. Somebody's blood was all over the tape on his forearm.

"We're hitting pretty good." he said. "They're just hitting better."

"They don't do anything unexpected. But they're the kind of team that gets stronger and stronger. They'll demolish us in the second half. They'll just keep coming.

They'll keep getting stronger. I figure the final score to be about sixtysix to seven."

"That bad?" Onan said.

"Worse maybe."

"We'll probably have to use cable blocking more often than not in the second half."

"Imagine what it's like," I said, "to go against a major power. These people come on and on. So imagine what it must be like to go against a really major power."

"Yeah, think what it must be like to take the field against Tennessee or Ohio State or Texas."

"Against Notre Dame or Penn State."

"The Fighting Irish," Onan said. "The Nittany Lions."

"Imagine what it must be like to play before a hundred thousand people in the L.A. Coliseum."

"And nationwide TV."

"UCLA versus LSU."

"One of the alltime intersectional dream games."

"We'll never make it," I said. "We'll never even get out of here alive. They'll just keep coming and coming."

"That fiftyfive is the meanest thing I ever hope to play against."

"Mallon," I said.

"That thing is clubbing me to death. He rears back and clubs me with a forearm every play. I start wincing as soon as I snap the damn ball because I know old fiftyfive is already bringing that forearm around to club my head. Gary, I only go about one ninetyeight That thing is easy two thirtyfive."

"And still growing."

"I guarantee you I'm not about to get him any madder than he was the day he was bom. I can take sixty minutes of clubbing as long as I know I'll never see that guy again. He is one mean person, place or thing."