Don DeLillo - End Zone

"I'm trying to be honest here," I said. "I don't know whether I'm serious about liking you or not. Maybe I just like you because it's an odd thing to do. Sometimes I like to do odd things."

"Gary, don't fool around. You know the way I am."

"Okay, I'm sorry."

"Did they hurt you, baby?"

"They killed me," I said.

The next day we learned that the athletic department, meaning Creed, had hired a sports information director. Immediately I fashioned a theory based on the relationship between defeat and the need for publicity, or antipublicity, the elevation of evasive news to the level of literature. The man's name was Wally Pippich, formerly of Wally Pippich Creative Promotion Associates-Reno, Nevada. Later that week he sent word that he wanted to see me. His office was located in the basement of Staley Hall, near the boiler room, in a small corridor where mops and buckets were kept.

Wally was a stubby man with a crew cut and long sideburns. He shook my hand and told me to have a seat. There were cartons and stacks of photographs everywhere. On the floor near my chair were color photos of a roller derby team, a chimpanzee riding a motorcycle through a flaming hoop, and a girl in a bikini surrounded by a bunch of paraplegics holding bowling balls in their laps. In another picture Wally stood with his arm around a young man who wore a gold lame jumpsuit and held an accordion. Wally wore a straw hat in the picture. The word whamo was lettered across the hatband.

"Gary Harkness. Good name. Promotable. I like it. I even love it."

"Thank you."

"Relax and call me Wally."

"Right," I said.

"Tough loss you're coming off. Emmett gave me the whole scoop. Scoopation. I've known Emmett for seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven years. When my boy gets to be your age, I'm sending him right to Emmett. I don't care if Emmett's coaching in the Arctic Circle-up he goes. Emmett Creed is one hell of a human being. Nothing short of sensational. Am I exaggerating, Gary?"

"Not one iota."

"Let's get down to basics. I've been spending the last few days finding my way around. I've talked to the coaches. I've talked to Emmett. I've even talked to Mrs. Tom. Here's the approach as I conceive it. Taft Robinson and Gary Harkness. The T and G backfield. Taft and Gary. Touch and Go. Thunder and Gore."

"A little wordplay. A thing with letters."

"We get the vital stats. We get action photos. We get background stuff. The T and G backfield. We release to newspapers, to sports pubs, to local radio and TV, to the networks. The whole enchilada. Taft Robinson and Gary Harkness. I like the sound of those names. Some names produce a negative gut reaction in my mind. Cyd Charisse. Mohandas K. Gandhi. Xerxes. But TaftandGary has a cute little ring to it. I know I like it and I may even love it."

"So what you're doing then, if I understand you correctly, is a public relations thing, based on football, using Taft and me as spearheads, for the good of the school, more or less."

"Gary, that's as good a capsule summary as I could give myself. See that big carton over there? That carton arrived this morning. Know what's in there? The files of two hundred high school football players. These boys have definite market value. These are Cminus boys or better who are top football players. Now we'll get maybe thirtyfive of these boys and give them each a grant. With Emmett's nationwide charisma we'll get a few outofstate boys as well. Maybe another Taft Robinson or Gary Harkness. And then this tiny little grasshopper institute has a chance to make it big. Bigation. Gary, I'll tell you the honest truth. What I know about football you can inscribe with a blunt crayon around the rim of a shot glass."

"You're not a fan, Wally?"

"I don't know squat about football. I'm an indoors man. But I know the whys and wherefores of the entertainment doEar. People want spectacle plus personality. I've handled country rock freaks. I've handled midget wrestlers. Once I handled a song stylist named Mary Boots Weldon who had her goddamn throat removed because of cancer and kept right on singing out of the little voice box they put in there, croaking out these tearful ballads and drawing bigger crowds than ever. Mary Boots Weldon. Jesus, what an act. I lost my drift. What was I getting at?"

"Wally, I don't understand why you need me as part of this thing. I'm a pretty fair runner and blocker and receiver. Better than average. But Taft is on another level."

"Gary, let me shake your hand. Handation. You're a modest lad and I like that kind of attitude in a business like mine. But you're talking football and I don't know squat about football. I'm talking human interest. I'm talking dramatic balance. I'm talking bang bang-the onetwo punch. Look, you've had your problems at schools in the past. I know all about that. I also know you've settled down to become one of the real reliables. Speaking just from the football angle and from all I could gather from the various sources I've been in touch with around here, it's frankly pretty obvious that you know how to comport yourself in every aspect of the game."

"Well," I said.

"No, I'm serious, Gary. You can do it all."

"Thank you."

"No, I mean it. You can really do it all."

"Thanks, Wally."

"No, I really mean it. You're one of the team leaders."

"Right."

"No, I wouldn't lie to you, Gary. The word on you is the same everywhere I turn.' Gary Harkness? Gary Harkness can do it all."

"I think you'd be better off concentrating on Taft."

"I like your attitude, Gary. I like the way you comport yourself. This thing's going to work out real fine. Emmett's behind me one hundred and ten percent. That's the kind of man he is. I'd stand up and speak out for Emmett Creed in any public place in the country. And I'm sure you'd do the same. Gary, you're everything they told me you were. Let me shake your goddamn hand."

After our eighth game, which we won easily, I finished showering and went to my cubicle to get dressed. Lloyd Philpot Jr., wearing a jockstrap and red socks, was waiting for me.

"I have to talk to you," he said.

"Sure."

"I have some information I want to pass along."

"Okay."

"There might be a queer on the squad."

"A queer," I said.

"I found out about it just before we left here at half time. Roy Yellin told me about it. He told me to keep it quiet until we can decide what to do."

"I guess Yellin heard it from Onan. I think I heard Onan mention it once."

"Yellin heard it from Rush."

"Who's Rush?"

"Mike Rush. One of the marginal players. A fringe guy. He's been out with groin damage."

"Okay," I said. "So who's the queer?"

"I don't know," Lloyd said. "I just know there is one."

"But Yellin didn't tell you who it is."

"Yellin doesn't know either. He told me he just knows somebody on the squad is queer."

"Does Mike Rush know who it is?"

"Does Mike Rush know who it is. I don't know. Yellin didn't say."

"What did Mike Rush offer as evidence that there's a queer on the team?"

"What did Mike Rush offer as evidence," Lloyd said.

"Right."

"I don't know," he said. "But Mike's not the type to make up stories. I know Mike pretty well. Mike's daddy is a committee vicechairman."

"Look, Lloyd, why are you telling me this?"

"To get your thinking on it, Gary. Yellin and I are getting together in Ms room later on to figure out what to do. I'm for Kimbrough. Go to Kimbrough with it."

"Because he's one of the captains."

"That's it, that's it. But Yellin wants to go to Dennis Smee. Yellin can't stand Kimbrough. He hates Kimbrough's stinking guts. So he's leaning toward Smee. Maybe even one of the coaches. But I don't think we should go to the coaches at this point. You start with the lowerdowns. That's the way it is in anything. Either way we have to figure out what to do and pretty damn soon. There are guys walking around here naked right now. It could be any one of them."