or more.
“Is anybody awake?” Len said.
“I am.”
“Who’s that?” he said.
“Gary.”
“You scared me. I didn’t think anybody would be awake. I’m having trouble sleeping. Where’s Bloomers?”
“He’s in bed.”
“He doesn’t make a sound,” Len said. “I can’t hear a single sound coming from his bed. A big guy like that.”
“That means he’s asleep.”
“It’s real dark in here, isn’t it? It’s as dark with your eyes open as when they’re closed. Put your hand in front of your face. I bet you can’t see a thing. My hand is about three inches from my face and I can’t see it at all. How far is your hand, Gary?”
“I don’t know. I can’t see it.”
“We better get some sleep. This stuff isn’t for me. I remember the night I graduated high school. We stayed up all night. That was some night.”
“What did you do?”
“We stayed up,” he said.
In the morning we went out to the stadium, suited up without pads or headgear and had an extra mild workout, just getting loose, tossing the ball around, awakening our bodies to the feel of pigskin and turf. The place seemed fairly new. It was shaped like a horseshoe and probably seated about 22,000. Our workout progressed in virtual silence. It was a cool morning with no breeze to speak of. We went back in and listened to the coaches for a while. Then we rode back to the motels. At four o’clock we had our pregame meal — beef consommé steak and eggs. At five-thirty we went back out to the stadium and slowly, very slowly, got suited up in fresh uniforms. Nobody said much until we went through the runway and took the field for our warmup. In the runway a few people made their private sounds, fierce alien noises having nothing to do with speech or communication of any kind. It was a kind offrantic breathing with elements of chant, each man’s sound unique and yet mated to the other sounds, a mass rhythmic breathing that became more widespread as we emerged from the runway and trotted onto the field. We did light calisthenics and ran through some basic plays. Then the receivers and backs ran simple pass patterns as the quarterbacks took turns throwing. Off to the side the linemen exploded from their stances, each one making his private noise, the chant or urgent breathing of men in preparation for ritual danger. We returned to the locker room in silence and listened to our respective coaches issue final instructions. Then I put on my helmet and went looking for Buddy Shock. He and the other linebackers were still being lectured by Vern Feck. I waited until the coach was finished and then I grabbed Buddy by the shoulder, spun him around and hit him with a forearm across the chest, hard. He answered with three open-hand blows against the side of my helmet.
“Right,” I said. “Right, right, right.”
“Awright. Aw-
right,
Gary boy.”
“Right, right, right.”
“Awright, aw-
right.
”
“Get it up, get it in.”
“Work, work, work.”
“Awright.”
“Awright. Aw-riiiight.”
I walked slowly around the room, swinging my arms over my head. Some of the players were sitting or lying on the floor. I saw Jerry Fallon and approached him. He was standing against a wall, fists clenched at his sides, his helmet on the floor between his feet.
“Awright, Jerry boy.”
“Awright, Gary.”
“We move them out.”
“Huh huh huh.”
“How to go, big Jerry.”
“Huh huh huh.”
“Awright, awright, awright.”
“We hit, we hit.”
“Jerry boy, big Jerry.”
Somebody called for quiet. I turned and saw Emmett Creed standing in front of a blackboard at the head of the room. His arms were crossed over his chest and he held his baseball cap in his right hand. It took only a few seconds before the room was absolutely still. The cap dangled from his fingers.
“I want the maximal effort,” he said.
Then we were going down the runway, the sounds louder now, many new noises, some grunts and barks, everyone with his
“Is anybody awake?” Len said.
“I am.”
“Who’s that?” he said.
“Gary.”
“You scared me. I didn’t think anybody would be awake. I’m having trouble sleeping. Where’s Bloomers?”
“He’s in bed.”
“He doesn’t make a sound,” Len said. “I can’t hear a single sound coming from his bed. A big guy like that.”
“That means he’s asleep.”
“It’s real dark in here, isn’t it? It’s as dark with your eyes open as when they’re closed. Put your hand in front of your face. I bet you can’t see a thing. My hand is about three inches from my face and I can’t see it at all. How far is your hand, Gary?”
“I don’t know. I can’t see it.”
“We better get some sleep. This stuff isn’t for me. I remember the night I graduated high school. We stayed up all night. That was some night.”
“What did you do?”
“We stayed up,” he said.
In the morning we went out to the stadium, suited up without pads or headgear and had an extra mild workout, just getting loose, tossing the ball around, awakening our bodies to the feel of pigskin and turf. The place seemed fairly new. It was shaped like a horseshoe and probably seated about 22,000. Our workout progressed in virtual silence. It was a cool morning with no breeze to speak of. We went back in and listened to the coaches for a while. Then we rode back to the motels. At four o’clock we had our pregame meal — beef consommé steak and eggs. At five-thirty we went back out to the stadium and slowly, very slowly, got suited up in fresh uniforms. Nobody said much until we went through the runway and took the field for our warmup. In the runway a few people made their private sounds, fierce alien noises having nothing to do with speech or communication of any kind. It was a kind offrantic breathing with elements of chant, each man’s sound unique and yet mated to the other sounds, a mass rhythmic breathing that became more widespread as we emerged from the runway and trotted onto the field. We did light calisthenics and ran through some basic plays. Then the receivers and backs ran simple pass patterns as the quarterbacks took turns throwing. Off to the side the linemen exploded from their stances, each one making his private noise, the chant or urgent breathing of men in preparation for ritual danger. We returned to the locker room in silence and listened to our respective coaches issue final instructions. Then I put on my helmet and went looking for Buddy Shock. He and the other linebackers were still being lectured by Vern Feck. I waited until the coach was finished and then I grabbed Buddy by the shoulder, spun him around and hit him with a forearm across the chest, hard. He answered with three open-hand blows against the side of my helmet.
“Right,” I said. “Right, right, right.”
“Awright. Aw-
right,
Gary boy.”
“Right, right, right.”
“Awright, aw-
right.
”
“Get it up, get it in.”
“Work, work, work.”
“Awright.”
“Awright. Aw-riiiight.”
I walked slowly around the room, swinging my arms over my head. Some of the players were sitting or lying on the floor. I saw Jerry Fallon and approached him. He was standing against a wall, fists clenched at his sides, his helmet on the floor between his feet.
“Awright, Jerry boy.”
“Awright, Gary.”
“We move them out.”
“Huh huh huh.”
“How to go, big Jerry.”
“Huh huh huh.”
“Awright, awright, awright.”
“We hit, we hit.”
“Jerry boy, big Jerry.”
Somebody called for quiet. I turned and saw Emmett Creed standing in front of a blackboard at the head of the room. His arms were crossed over his chest and he held his baseball cap in his right hand. It took only a few seconds before the room was absolutely still. The cap dangled from his fingers.
“I want the maximal effort,” he said.
Then we were going down the runway, the sounds louder now, many new noises, some grunts and barks, everyone with his
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