Pig Skin!
Dear Sweet Baby Touchdown Jesus:
We are very ready for the Super Bowl. Please send it posthaste, and let there be massive murder-death hits, and bloody stumps, and atomic explosions. Let there be knives in the knee pads, and H-bombs in the helmets.
We’re not asking much. We want the bad team to get hit so hard their babies go Down Syndrome. We’re lighting a candle in the end zone of your altar. We’re crossing our fingers in the seats of your bleachers.
In anticipation of this weekend’s melee we’re reading our favorite football novel. End Zone by Don DeLillo. (Not that book by Rudy Ruetigger). — Brian Allen Carr
Don DeLillo’s second book is arguably his finest. Essentially an extended metaphor for football as war, End Zone follows blocking back Gary Harckness through a football season at fictional Logos College, which is set in a West Texas town. Harkness is an over analyzer, with some awkward atomic fetish, who plays second string to star running back Taft Robinson — Logos’ first African American athlete.
WAR!
Most who read the book would agree that the true genius behind the work is the blending of philosophies and physicality. Harkness and his fellow teammates are hard hitting animals on the field, and somehow introspective and socially sensitive off it.
And while we agree that the paradoxes in the book are its points of pride, here we will focus on the hard hitting action that DeLillo delivers, as it is in better keeping with the spirit of this post to do so. This week is for football, so we’ll focus on the football in End Zone, and primarily on the rivalry game between Logos College and Centrex Biotechnical institute.
The special teams collided, swarm and thud of interchangeable bodies, small wars commencing here and there, exaltation and firstblood, a helmet bouncing brightly on the splendid grass, the breathless impact of two destructive masses, quite pretty to watch.
DeLillo devotes an entire section of End Zone to this rivalry game. Here we will give you a taste.
I was the lone setback. Nobody took out their middle linebacker. I got hit at the line of scrimmage, the 31, a high hard shot that settled my stomach and got rid of the noise in my head. Hobbs threw to Jessup on a halfmoon pattern good for twelve. Taft went outside for six yards, then three, then five. I went straight ahead for five. Taft took a trigger pitch, cut inside a good block and went to their 22. We left the huddle with a sharp handclap and trotted up to the line, eager to move off the ball, sensing a faint anxiety on the other side of the line.
– — –
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.
– — –
The Don
“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.”
– — –
My helmet, wobbling slightly, rocking, was on the floor between my feet. I looked into it. I felt sleepy and closed my eyes. I went away for a while, just one level down. Everything was far away. I thought (or dreamed) of a sunny green garden with a table and two chairs. There was a woman somewhere, either there or almost there, and she was wearing clothes of another era. There was music. She was standing behind a chair now, listening to a Bach cantata. It was Bach all right. When I lost the woman, the music went away. But it was still nice. The garden was still there and I felt I could add to it or take away from it if I really tried. Just to see if I could do it, I took away a chair. Then I tried to bring back the woman without the music. Somebody tapped my head and I opened my eyes. I couldn’t believe where I was. Suddenly my body ached all over. They were getting up and getting ready to move out. I was looking into Roy Yellin’s chewedup face.
We think that moves the chains. What’s your call?
Video: Some Big Hits
