Don DeLillo - End Zone

"That's right, Gary. But he writes in German instead of Mongol. The translation leaves a lot to be desired. Which reminds me. Vera wants a sample of your handwriting."

"What for?"

"Vera's into psychographology and character analysis.

It's all related to early Mayan forms of astrology. Esther's into bottled water."

"I just thought of something," I said.

"What, Gary?"

"That word I kept seeing all over town. It represented some kind of apotheosis. I'm pretty sure that's what it was. An apotheosis of some kind. The air was thick with it."

I stuck my head under the black windbreaker that hung inside my dressing cubicle in the locker room. Then I took two more drags on the joint, whistling in reverse, swallowing deeply, all vigilance and greed. Two more drags then. My throat was very dry; it burned a bit. I stepped back away from the cubicle, hoping all stray smoke would cling to the garments hanging there. I wondered if my teammates or the coaches could smell anything or detect visually a trace of modest smog. The place was getting quieter. We were almost ready to take the field. I was all suited up except for headgear. I palmed the joint and went quickly into the bathroom. In one of the stalls somebody was trying to vomit. It was a poignant sound, monumentally hoarse, soulful, oddly lacking in urgency. A herd of seals. I entered the far stall and tried another drag. The pinpoint glow was gone already but I had a book of matches tucked into one of my shoes. I lit up again and inhaled deeply, getting paper and loose grains along with the smoke. I took in everything, hurrying, feeling the smoke pinch my sensitive palpitating throat, watching the remaining paper sputter slightly and go brown, then dragging again and lipbreathing like a malevolent jungle plant to gather in the escaping smoke and finally sucking everything into the deepest parts of my lungs and brain. The sick player emerged. I peered out at him from a narrow opening as he washed up and gargled with cold water. It was 47, Bobby Hopper. I took a final drag, then flushed buttend and matches down the toilet; there would be no safe way to use them later on. Bobby and I left the bathroom together. Mitchell Gorse passed us on his way to throw up.

I drank some water from the fountain, swallowed, then took another mouthful and spat it on the concrete floor. I liked to spit water all over the floor. It was something you couldn't do indoors as a rule. In a few minutes we were out on the field. Some kind of ceremony was going on. I sat on the bench waiting for the game to start. It was a cool bright afternoon. The grass seemed extremely green. Buddy Shock came over, put one foot on the bench and leaned toward me.

"Gary, we didn't hit each other. We didn't trade blows. You didn't give me the forearm to the chest. I looked all over for you."

"Not today, Buddy."

"It's a tradition. We have to do it. It'll be bad luck not to do it. Come on, get up, I want to put three dents in your head."

"I don't plan any quick movements just yet. I'm saving myself. It's a new methodology I've just worked out."

"We've done it eight games running, Gary."

"When men vomit together, they feel joined in body and spirit. Women have no such luck."

"I hate to see a good tradition wiped out," Buddy said.

In a little while the ceremony ended. I was feeling heavyheaded; the air was getting thick. Bing Jackmin kicked off. The opposition sustained a drive for three first downs, about eight plays, before losing the ball on a fumble. As I started out I felt unbelievably ponderous. My head was made of Aztec stone. I watched my feet go slowly up and down over the marvelous grass. My teammates were out there already, waiting for me. Garland Hobbs stood above the huddle, above the lowered heads, waiting for me to get there. I continued across the grass, uncranking my arms, watching the long white laces whisk lightly over my black shoes. I reached the huddle. I realized I didn't want to be with all these people. They were all staring at me through their cages. Hobbs called a pass play. We broke and set. Somebody came at me, a huge individual in silver and blue. I fell at his feet and grabbed one shoe. I started untying the lace. He kicked away from me and went after Hobbs. I got up and walked off. I was exceedingly hungry.

The next day Terry Madden and I were playing gin rummy in the lounge. Link Brownlee dragged a chair over and sat down.

"Did you hear?" he said.

"What?" I said.

"Taft Robinson. You haven't seen him? You haven't heard?"

"No, what?"

"He shaved his skull. He's bald."

"How bald?" Terry said.

"Completely and totally bald. He shaved his skull. He must have done it last night."

"What do you think it means?" Terry said.

"I don't know," I said. "I don't know what it means. How would I know what it means?"

"It means something," he said.

"Thing used to be so simple," Brownlee said.

Wally Pippich sat behind his desk, facing up into a sun lamp, a strip of Reynolds Wrap covering his eyes. The smell of mops standing in dirty water had penetrated the office.

"Gary, I called you in here to get briefed on the socalled leaving the game incident. I was downstate doing advance work on an allgirl rodeo so I've had to rely on eyewitness accounts. As it was given to me, word for word, you walked right off the field after your team's first play from scrimmage. Everybody thought you were injured."

"I was hungry," I said.

"That's what I understand your story is. The story you told Oscar Veech. That's what you allege to be the case. Hunger pangs."

"I just couldn't stay out there. I was really starved for something to eat. Hunger pangs can be interpreted as a form of injury. I had to leave and get some food."

I liked the idea of talking with someone who could not see me. I watched his mouth as he spoke. It was extremely active, almost an animated cartoon, a visual guide to the soundmaking process. His mouth seemed to invent the words as well as speak them; it was as though he'd been raised among lip readers. Wally's tongue was lumpy and bluish. His right hand, hanging down between his thighs, moved in a vaguely masturbatory way as he spoke.

"The game had just started," he said. "Oscar Veech said he saw you fall on the ground and grab somebody's foot. He thought you were sick or having some kind of fit."

"I was hungry. Really, that's all it was."

"Gary, I'm going to level with you. I don't believe a word you're saying. Nobody leaves an intercollegiate athletic event out of sheer appetite motivations."

"Wally, why else? Why else then? Why would I walk off like that?"

"I know one thing, Gary. You've piqued my innate curiosity. This kind of thing is bread and butter to me. This is part and parcel of the dream stuff of publicity and public relations. I want to follow up on this thing. I'd like to see what I can do with it. Temperamental star. Psychosis attack. Loss of memory. Give me something to go on. I'll slam out a human interest thing, real fast, down and dirty, and I'll get it to the wire services for immediate release. Season's over. We have to get moving on it."

"What are they going to do to me?" I said.

"They can't suspend you because there aren't any games left. And I don't know what Emmett thinks because he's under the weather. They've got him isolated over in his room. I guess they'll just have to wait on Emmett."

"We won the game," I said. "I knew there wouldn't be any problem. I wouldn't have left if I thought we'd have trouble winning."

"Gary, I've told you all I know. I'll stick my neck out for you if the situation calls for any necks to be stuck out. In return I ask just one thing. Tell me what happened. Tell me why you walked off the field."