Chapter 8 — It’s How You Play The Game

Joe Rotch, captain of Kennebec’s football team,lay in bed watching a cold,raw easterly wind lift the curtains of his open window. Today was his last day as football captain, the day of the climactic “big game” with Penobscot. Some climax! Neither team had won a game all season. Whoever lost would be the league’s doormat. “At least,” thought Joe, “it doesn’t have to be us. We ought to be able to pull this one out somehow. Those guys can’t be that good, anyway,” his thoughts rambled on. “Thanksgiving weekend is coming up, and no matter what happens today, it will be all over by then and I’ll get home. I suppose Father will be away in Chicago as usual, but Ma and Sally will be there and I’ll get something fit to eat for a change.” As the turkey was borne in before his mind’s eye, a flung pillow blew it away. “C’mon, Champ – up and at ’em!” said Sam, his roommate. “Today’s the big day. Today we win one. Stover at Yale? Left Tackle Todd! Roger Stahbach to the rescue? GO GO GO!” “Don’t put me in, coach; I’m not ready,” moaned Joe, reaching for one last comfortable moment before the day began. But Sam was already out of bed, pulling up his pants. “Let’s see a little leadership here. Anyway, it isn’t whether you win or lose; it’s how you play the

game.”

“Screw you! If I hear that crack about three times more, I’ll turn into a monkey up a palm tree. I’ll slug someone. I swear to God I will. Anyway, we don’t have to lose today. We almost won the Machias game; and if Timmy can play today, we can pass them silly.” “How to go, Cap.” said Sam as he slammed the window down and the door shut on his way to the

john.

It was a “hard old day.” The theme that Mr. Floyd returned in English class was covered with neat corrections and suggestions in Mr. Floyd’s careful handwriting, done as always with a fine-point fountain pen in red ink. ‘Occasionally’ was spelled wrong. A comma is used after an introductory adverb clause. A period is considered an ornament at the end of a sentence. Be specific. Don’t tell me; show me. The sentence “It was not too wet.” drew the query, “How wet is too wet?” This is a barbaric expression. The back of the paper was completely filled with a neat essay in red ink on a system for the clear organization of academic essays, on the wise selection of specific detail, and the value of correct–or at least conventional–spelling and punctuation. It was not sarcastic – indeed, it was constructive and rather neatly put; but Joe was too depressed to read it all. The D+ at the top was all he saw. The class went on around him, a small class in senior English, engaged at the moment in discussing that tense moment in Hamlet when the prince discovers that the fencing match has been rigged against him. Mr. Floyd was really rather deeply moved by the crisis in the life of the prince, and for the moment Joe was carried with him. “Before the match, Hamlet knew that the king had murdered his father, seduced his mother, robbed him of the throne, and plotted against his life. Horatio had told him that the fencing match would be 35

something other than a fair contest. Thus far, he had been quite incapable of doing anything about it, despite sure proof and two excellent opportunities, – except write his uncle’s name down in his notebook! Why, then, did the discovery that Laertes had been using a sharp and poisoned foil and that his mother had been poisoned with wine intended for him cause this heretofore painfully confused lad to spring upon his uncle, force the poisoned wine between his teeth, and stab him repeatedly with the poisoned sword? It all happens in one line: The point envenom’d too?...Here, thou incestuous, mud’rous damned Dane, Drink off this potion.” Ed Harris began an answer to the question, which did not interest Joe at all. His mind drifted away from the problems of a fictitious emotionally disturbed youth in another century and another country. Right here and now, everything was so lousy! The gloomy sky, the somber hill across the river, dark green with spruce now the last bright leaves were gone, the lead-gray river, the strip of brown grass under the window, the dull room, painted a putty color above and below the slate blackboard and enlivened only with a faded picture of a whaling ship which would be relevant to Moby Dick in the winter term, a tired literary map of England, and a portrait of Longfellow, on which some adolescent humorist had sketched an extravagant moustache. And the paper before him was a failure. He had really tried hard to do a good job, he told himself, but himself was not really convinced, for he knew he had ripped it off on the typewriter at six o’clock one morning, hurrying to finish it before breakfast. “And Joe, how do you think a longtime loser could suddenly become a winner?” The question crashed through the paper wall of his reverie. “Loser.” Joe winced. Mr. Floyd knew before he was half through the question that he had put it the wrong way. It would hurt. Both as quarterback and captain, Joe took his team’s defeats personally; and Mr. Floyd, although no great athlete himself, had lost a few and sympathized. But once the word “loser” was out, there was nothing he could do but finish the sentence. Apology would only rub in salt. Joe was caught flat-footed. Hamlet had drifted a long way into the back of his mind. The question, only half heard, seemed to have a more immediate relevance anyway. “I dunno. Maybe it was just his time had come to win the big one.” It was a stupid answer, just grabbed off the shelf, and Joe braced for embarrassment. But Mr. Floyd seized on the answer. It was close enough to what he had been looking for. The period was almost over, and he could perhaps pour a little balm on Joe’s wound at the same time. “You’re right, Joe. That is perhaps the best answer anyone could give, and Shakespeare in his characteristic way has already given it. You remember that in conversation with Horatio before the match, Hamlet had said with considerable emphasis, ‘The readiness is all.’ When the time comes, I will do what I have to do, whatever it may be. He was thinking of death when he said it, and indeed the poison was already in his veins when he acted; but when the time came to move, he moved! “If anyone is unhappy about his grade on the paper I handed back at the beginning of the period, come and see me. I will be on duty in the dormitory this weekend. And good luck in… The bell rang suddenly, stridently, unconcerned in its pre-programmed course what it might be so rudely interrupting. The class left, chattering. “Maybe today, Joe, your team is ready. This is the big one, isn’t it? But win or lose, we’re all behind

you.”

Thank God he didn’t say anything about the way you play the game. That would have done it. “Yes sir, thank you, sir. The boys will appreciate it I’m sure. We’ll do it today.” “The readiness is all,” mused Mr. Floyd. “How durable the poets are!” After third period Joe went to the school post office for his mail – Box 138 in a wall of little glassed pigeonholes. There was the welcome white diagonal of a letter across the glass, a letter from home. It was short, hastily written, and had a check in it.

Dear Joe,

Something has come up in the business and your father has to be in Chicago again on Thanksgiving. I think it is important for several reasons that Sally and I are with him so there will be no one at home. You won’t mind staying at school this time, will you? Use the enclosed to be good to yourself and we look forward to Christmas.

P.S. Hope you win Saturday. Love, Ma

That did it – washed it out! “Jee–sus!” exploded Joe. “Stay in this Christ-forgotten hole for Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday!” He did not often swear. The trick of drawing out the name of his savior into two distinct and equally accented syllables gave him some satisfaction. The adjective he had picked up from Cap Milliken, director of maintenance, lobsterman, and JV crew coach. It was some help but not much, for misery spread gray wings of doubt over him again. What are the “several reasons” why his mother had to be in Chicago? Did it have anything to do with that bright, sexy woman his father had taken him to lunch with in New York? Fullback Ed Harris passed by, collected his mail, and stopped to pick up a slip off the floor. “This yours, Joe? Looks like it fell out of your box. I got one too.” It was just a folded piece of paper with his name on the outside and a single typed sentence within: “The football team will eat in the small dining room at 12.” “What’s up?” asked Ed “Don’t know. Coach prob’ly wants us to eat early so we won’t have the heartburn at game time.” “Hey - good move. We’ll get ’em today. You’ll see. Kick ’em the hell out of the way, and I’ll go through that line for ten every time.” Ed tucked his books under his arm, charged down to the post office, swung hard left at the door, shouting “Reverse” and was gone. “What a kook,” said Joe out loud. “He might even do it this time.” At lunch in the small dining room delight overflowed when the managers, serving as waiters, brought in a platter of steaks for each table. “Fresh cooked and red in the middle! How about that! We’ll tear ’em apart this afternoon.” The coach began to tell his old story about how two Yale men tried to psych out the great Harvard captain, Barry Wood, when Mr. Sawyer, the Headmaster, stepped in. “Gentlemen, the peons are eating beans and hot dogs today for lunch, but it did not seem appropriate to me on this important occasion to afflict with beans and hot dogs men who have ahead of them a very strenuous afternoon. You need red meat, and I am glad to see that Mr. Healey has given these steaks his personal attention. Go ahead and eat them while they’re hot.” Mr. Sawyer dropped his mock-heroic pose, leaned against the door frame as if he had nothing else in the world to do, and reminisced about his school and college athletic experiences, great moments in earlier Kennebec games, particularly games against Penobscot. He remembered the year Penobscot had had two ends, each well over six feet tall, and a quarterback who could throw a football like an anti-tank rocket. The score had been astronomical, and at the post-game tea the Penobscot coach was heard to remark, rather too loudly to be tactful, that the day when Kennebec beat Penobscot would be the day he gave up football. Penobscot came to the banks of the Kennebec the next year – tough, skillful, and determined as ever, but purged by graduation. The battle raged for three quarters, scoreless, up and down the field. Early in the fourth quarter, a Kennebec guard broke through the line, blocked a Penobscot punt, and chased it over the goal line for six points. The conversion failed, and Kennebec played over its head for seven minutes to win the game.

“That game ball, rather sadly deflated to be sure, is on the top shelf of the trophy case right now,” concluded Mr. Sawyer. He left the room in an aura of battles hard fought and victory hard won. Joe led his team to the gym for pre-game taping, feeling strong, quick, and ready to go. Sam was gamboling about among the others. “Psyched up, are you? Old Sticky-Fingers Tim is back with us today. Watch us go-go-go…” In front of the gym stood a yellow school bus from which young men descended and filed into the visiting team room. The kidding stopped while Kennebec took its first look at the opposition. In street clothes, nothing special. The familiar smell, compounded of wintergreen, tape, sweaty pads, soap, and the disinfectant used to wash the floor swept over Joe as he and the coach entered last and stopped just inside the door. “Joe, we’ve got to do it today and we’ve got to do it in the first half. Timmy is all right to play,but he may not be able to go the distance, and he hasn’t worked out for ten days. The guys are tired and some of them aren’t in too hot shape. If we get behind, I’m afraid we’ve had it. Start fast. Play the first period like it was the last. If Sam and Ed can gain on the ground, grind it out and use Tim on third down if you have to. You and Sam will have to play both ways, but I’ll put in the defensive line and Murphy to help you back them up. Watch Campbell, their fullback, number 32. He is fast. If the ends can turn him in, we should be able to stop him with what we have in the middle. Let him know early in the game that he is going to get hit very, very hard every time he takes the ball. Understand? If you can keep our guys psyched up, we can win; but if they get down,they can’t fight their way out of a wet paper bag.” Twenty-five players slammed their locker doors, hauled out pads, undressed. Someone began to pound a locker, shouting rhythmically “Kill, kill, kill, kill…” Others joined. The racket was deafening. From behind the grill whence were dispensed towels, ankle wraps, and shoe laces, Jimmie, the storekeeper bellowed over the racket, “Pipe down. Save it for Penobscot.” Two managers came through with water jugs and wooden trays of paper cups. Mr. Edgehill clanged and clashed the chains and down markers on the concrete floor, urging on everyone he saw. He had coached most of them during one of the last two years as they had come up through the freshman team. Laces tightened around hip and shoulder pads. Red-and-yellow shirts blossomed against gray lockers. Cleats rasped and clacked on the floor and quieted. The coach spoke: “I haven’t much to say today. I’ve said it all before. Get out there and warm up well. It’s going to be a rough afternoon. Follow Joe.” “C’mon, you guys, let’s go!” shouted Joe, running for the door, down the bank, across the end of the soccer field where that game was already under way, to the east end of the gridiron. As the team lined up and started calisthenics – stretching exercises, jumping jacks – squats, Joe stole a look at Penobscot, warming up at the other end of the field. Why do white shirts make people look so much bigger? His own team was just his own team. Ed Harris didn’t look any bigger than he had in the post office.

Referees in striped shirts appeared, conferred with the coaches. Mr. Edgehill had drafted two little kids, Cluett and Edwards, to hold the stakes and was putting yellow practice shirts, much too big for them, over their jackets. The team was standing in a circle, tossing a ball from one to the other. Spectators were gathering. Mr. Whitmore approached,swinging his walking stick and wearing his Scottish hat, which he claimed he wore to keep him as warm outside as his Scotch whisky kept him inside. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, the baseball coach, and Mr. Floyd with someone’s parents. Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer,she wearing a crew jacket with a hood. A few others: parents, boys,faculty, Ada, who worked in the kitchen, Mr. Hanshaw, a tall, broad lady, probably his wife. Someone blew a whistle. “Captains here.” The team went to the bench, Joe to the fifty-yard-line. The referees introduced themselves: Mr.

Cargill who had refereed Kennebec games for years, and another whose name Joe missed. The Penobscot captain put out his hand, shook with Joe; they looked each other over, neither smiling. The coin spun. Kennebec to receive. Back to the bench, where the team was gathered in a tight knot around the coach. “Receive,” said Joe. “Good news. Offense to start. Timmy will play today. The rest as usual. Now we want this one. It’s our last chance, the last day that some of you will ever wear a Kennebec football jersey. It’s been a disappointing season, but we’re going to pull it out today and have this one to remember. You know how to play good football. You’re tough guys. You come from a first class school. Now get out there and prove it.” Hands grabbed and clasped in the middle of the circle, broke apart with a wordless roar, and Kennebec took the field. The fortunes of war carried the ball one way and the other, for the Penobscot coach had said about the same things to the same kinds of boys with much the same results. Kennebec had a first down on Penobscot’s 21-yard line and fumbled. Murphy intercepted a Penobscot pass on the Kennebec 10. As the second period drew toward a scoreless close, the cross country team was lining up to start their race which would finish at half time; the soccer team, victorious, gathered on the Penobscot goal line, shouting deepvoiced encouragement, and Joe took a time out to talk to the coach at the sideline. “The game plan isn’t working, coach. We aren’t making it. Ed and Sam gain some on the ground, but whenever we get down we blow it one way or another. What now? The long bomb? They cover Timmy and Bill like a rug.” “It’s first down. You have about enough time for four tries at it. First, send Sam on a sweep around right, number 48. Forget taking out their left tackle. He hasn’t done anything all afternoon. You help Curt knock that end out. If Sam can turn the corner, it’s a first down. Then the long bomb. Then another. If neither connects, then use number 31.” Joe went back to his team, explained the plan. The sweep went well, netted 12 yards and a first down on Penobscot’s 31-yard line. The first long pass bounced out of Timmy’s hands in the end zone and the second went out of bounds on the 2-yard line. Now for number 31. Joe wiped his hands on the center’s towel, blew in his fingers, called the numbers, felt the snap of the leather, the surge of the charging line, dropped back three steps, apparently to pass. Receivers shouting in the end zone, all covered, line backers dropping back, and a hole at old 31, just where it should be. Joe followed Sam through it, saw him wipe out a linebacker, and then scuttled for the goal line, remembering very little in later years about the details of the trip.

Kennebec left the field at half time with a 6-0 lead. In the locker room the coach was enthusiastic. Mr. Sawyer put his head in, grinning. The team rested, glad to have some laurel to rest on. “We go out in about a minute,” said the coach. “We’re on the way. Our game plan is working. We’re going to win this one. Here’s how. Cover against long passes first. Ends remember to go straight in on defense and keep that #32, Campbell, inside. The heavy artillery in the line can shoot him down. Be tough. Hit hard, very hard. Offense, we need another TD. We get it by opening up holes and grinding it out on the ground. This means Ed and Sam and Curt. Their left tackle is soft, so hit that hole hard. If the secondary tightens and moves up, loosen them up with a pass or a reverse. OK, wade into ’em!” The Penobscot team, also emotionally charged up in the halftime, came back hard; but good football, good luck, and good morale saved the 6-point lead until deep into the fourth period. Joe was tired; it had been the roughest game he had ever played. Sam, Ed, and Curt, who had carried the ball most of the afternoon, were about through, although Dickie had relieved each in turn for a spell. The line had done well, but now lacked that surge of power on the snap of the ball, which had made all the difference. The sidelines were quiet now, and looking a little thin. Mr. Sawyer and Mr. Floyd were still patrolling up and down the field, following the ball, but the soccer team had dressed and left, many of the

other kids had drifted off, and only a faithful little band of parents remained, two of whom, Joe saw, were listening avidly to a little portable radio, probably tuned to the Dartherst game. Coach, to Mr. Edgehill: “If we can hold them for three downs, we might pull it out, but the guys are tired. That Campbell is going like a tank. We need him to fumble the worst way.” Mr. Edgehill, to coach: “Put in Jerry and Steve at tackles. They’re rested. Coach: That’s setting boys to do men’s work. Whistle. Snap. Campbell through Kennebec’s left guard for four yards, brought down with smash of pads and shrill of whistle. Cheers from the Penobscot bench. Thin shouts from the Kennebec sidelines. Snap. Trampling feet, smashing leather, and again, Campbell for five yards. “Third down and short,” said Joe. “Get in there this time and sack that guy before he gets going.” “Oh, we been here before,” said Murphy. “We always lose in the end. Why break your butt for another lousy game.” Joe slapped Murph’s tail. “If you don’t wipe him out, I wipe you out.” He knew it was the wrong approach. He needed a positive statement and some way to jolly Murph into keeping going just a little longer. “Let’s blitz. They always snap on the third or fourth number.” Joe hit the line running, broke through, nailed the quarterback, but Campbell had it on a wide sweep, turned the corner, and was gone for a fifteen yard gain. Joe called time out. The team flopped on the field, their spirit draining. “We’ll never hold these guys. Same old story. Break your ass to lose again? The hell with that. I’m saving myself for basketball.” Joe fought to stem the tide setting against him. If there was only something he could say! But he felt empty. There was nothing in him and nothing, no one, behind him. He was a failure every way, and in the darkening afternoon, he was about to fail again. “C’mon, girls,” – Sam speaking – “let’s bust up their little daisy chain. They won’t pass as long as they can run through us, so let’s really clout that guy and goose the ball right out of his hands. All we need is four downs and Kitty-bar-the-door.” Joe felt himself coming back, knew Sam had done it just right. Felt a little lift in the others. A minute is all we need he thought, and old Sam has given it to us. “Right. This one we win!” Whistle. Snap. Trample and smash. This time not Campbell but #48 into Kennebec’s right tackle, just where Sam guessed he would come. No gain. No fumble. “How to go, Sam the Spoiler. Hit him again, Bunkie!” Sam grinned back. Murph scuffed the sod,

dug in.

“Get the ball. Get the ball!” Chanted the bench. The chant thinned, died out. Silence. Signals. Murphy moving in fast for a blitz. The white-shirted quarterback encircled in red arms, the ball loose for an instant and submerged. A striped arm signaling decisively. “First down, Kennebec.” Time almost gone. The offense rushed on to the field. “The coach says we got it now. Just stay on the ground and run out the clock,” said Dickie in the huddle. Joe called for Sam on a right end sweep, “and keep running. Stay on your feet as long as you can. You don’t have to gain; just run.” Silence.

Snap. Trample and crash and grunt and Sam was doing it for little gain, but doing it. On the second down Joe was blitzed and sacked, steamrolled before he could get rid of the ball. Under three men, with his face full of feet, he felt an arm yank at the ball, but he froze to it savagely and at length came to the surface, dazed and dizzy. “Third and eight,” said the ref. Huddle. Hard breathing. A line of muddy feet. “Dickie around the left end and keep running. Only seconds left and we’re ahead. Second number.” Silence. Snap. Trample and crush. Fourth and six. 35 seconds to go. Penobscot called its last time out. Joe to the sideline. Coach to Joe: “If you punt, they will have time for one play and you might be in trouble. Now do this. Line up as if you were going to try to make it on a play from scrimmage. Take a lot of time -- almost too much. Then use the quick-kick play, short and high and get everyone under it. Maybe the guy will drop it and you ought to be able to smother him.” Joe was not quite sure he understood. A screw was loose somewhere in his head and the coach’s words blurred a little. “Yeah,” he said, “Line up and try for it.” “Go to it, Joe. We got this one.” Huddle. The last one. “Line up to make it,Sam through right tackle.” Something blurred. “Open me a hole, OK? A big one.” He heard Sam’s voice from far away and knew there was something he had forgotten to say, but he couldn’t remember quite what it was. Silence. Signals. Snap. Rush and trample and smash No gain. Edgehill to coach: “Oh God, he blew it!” First down, Penobscot. 15 seconds left. Silence. Signals. Snap. Rush. Campbell coming right at him through the center - - but he didn’t have the ball! “Pass. Pass!” from the sidelines. Flat in the mud, Joe heard the spontaneous yell of joy from the Penobscot sidelines, saw the striped arms aloft. The kick was good. The team dragged itself off the field, licked again. “What happened, Joe?” asked the coach. “Where was the quick kick?” “Quick kick? I dunno.” Joe shook his head to clear it, realized with a shock what it was he had forgotten in the huddle. “I guess I blew it. I blew it all by myself. God, how could I? How could I, when we had it bagged?” He sagged to the bench, gave up, no longer captain of anything. The coach, being by nature a humane man, did his best to put the pieces together. “Good season just the same … played good football … held the team together … anyone can lead a winning team … morale … school spirit … real guts. And anyway,” he concluded, “it isn’t the score that counts, whether you win or lose; it’s how you played the game, right?” Oh NO, thought Joe, not that one! Whether you win or lose does matter. It matters tremendously. It is what you go out there for. To say it doesn’t matter is to deny the whole season. “Yeah.” The shower room was quiet. The tea was subdued. Everyone was so nice and sympathetic. Joe got out as soon as he decently could with a welt rising on his cheek where he had been blitzed. As he and Sam walked back toward the dorm, Mr. Sawyer overtook them. Sam dropped back a step. “That was a great game, Joe. You certainly did all you could with what you had and you know you

can’t do more than that. I am very proud of your leadership of a great team. It isn’t whether you win or lose, you know; it’s the way you play the game. “Yes sir,” said Joe, choking down something rising in his throat and eyes. “Thank you sir. We certainly appreciated the lunch and your visit at half time. Sorry we couldn’t come through for you.” “That’s all right, Joe. Call on me any time.” Mr. Sawyer turned off on the path to his house, feeling that he had done his best and that it was hopelessly inadequate. Sam caught up. “I feel like I been run over by a ten-wheeler. Those kids play rough. Sorry I couldn’t get that last first down at the end, though.” “That was supposed to be a quick kick and I blew it, all by myself I blew that game and the season right to hell out the goddam window. And we had it in the sack too. I don’t know why. I just messed up.” “No kidding? That what the coach said? A quick kick might have done it if we could have stalled ’em off.” “Yeah. It would have made all the difference.” They were close to the dormitory now, where Mrs. Floyd in red slacks, an old Army jacket, and work gloves, was planting tulip bulbs beside the bricked path. She had dug bone meal into the ground, painfully extracting from the stubborn ground a pailful of small stones, which now stood behind her on the walk. She knew she should not have left them there where the first passer-by might stumble over them. She had made a row of holes in the loose earth, into each of which she put a bulb and carefully pressed the soil down around it, her mind busy with pictures of green shoots and brilliant blooms in April rain. Hearing steps, she turned and recognized Joe and Sam, two of her boys who had grown up in her dormitory. She remembered what her husband had told her at lunch about his tactless question in English class, Joe’s answer, and the hope that Hamlet had helped. She didn’t want to see Joe hurt. “How did the game go, Joe? I wanted to see you play, but these bulbs have to go in before the ground freezes, and we could get a cold spell any time now. And tulips do look so lovely in April. I heard cheering. Did you win?” She had turned back to her planting, still on her knees, her mind divided between the boys and the decision to plant red or yellow in the next hole. But she kept on talking in her gentle way. “No, we lost – that is, I lost” “Oh, that’s too bad.” She had caught the bitterness in Joe’s voice and looked up from the tulips. “I know you tried so hard, too. But that is really what’s important, isn’t it. Doing your best, that is. It isn’t the score that counts; it’s the way you play the game.” A wave of disappointment, guilt, loneliness and resentment toward all those who just didn’t understand swelled in him, crested in his throat and eyes. The bucket of dirty rocks on the brick path was for the instant the curse that was on him. He drew a foot back to kick it out of his world, annihilate it, not thinking of the hail of flying stones, of Mrs. Floyd on her knees beside it, of the mess on the path, or even of what kicking a bucket of rocks would do to his foot. The wave crested, broke, his foot swung with all the fierce power frustration could give it. Before it hit the bucket, he was tackled, downed, sacked, by Sam’s best defensive play of the afternoon.