We squeezed on each other like good friends and kind of stood there.
She said, "I wonder what I've missed, not ever knowing anybody very well except Old Twenty-three and Old Eighty-eight?"
"Hardly anything," I said.
"I've never even cared about anybody else, not really," she said. "Damn it, nobody else ever laughed enough."
I said, "If you ever had cared about anybody else, you couldn't have been a Two."
"One," Barb said.
"Two," I repeated.
"One," she said softly, looking up and kissing me again, and then putting her head back where it was.
I smiled and I think she did too.
There was another pause. And then Barb said, "A serious question, O.K.?"
She said that to my shirt.
"Anything, anytime, anywhere," I said.
"What's the story on the game?" Barb said. "Do we win or do we lose?"
I said, "Straight deal?"
"Straight deal," she said.
"No owl shit?" I said.
"No owl shit," she said, looking up. "Just unbutton your shirt and let your heart fall out, boy."
I kind of cleared my throat and took a breath and said, "Well, I think we've got a better team. I think we've got more character."
"Is that an answer?" Barb said.
"Big Ed says we've got better niggers." I smiled.
We untangled and Barb held my hands and looked into my eyes as if there was a scoreboard in there somewhere.
She looked at me for several seconds and I looked at her, which is always a delight.
Finally, she squeezed my hands tight and said, "We'll win."
Barb went on off across the room, then, presumably to see if she could rescue anybody that Big Ed and Big Barb were boring to death.
And now I, Billy Clyde Puckett, am going off to slack me up some Z's.
See you around the campus, as they say.
Is that what they say?
PART THREE
Game-Face
Will they play a Super Bowl in Heaven?
Will the fans be drinkin' beer?
Will any long-haired, lovely girls
Be there to cheer?
— from "The Ballad of Billy Clyde,"
a song by Elroy Blunt
I MAY HAVE TO DOUGH-POP CISSY Walford before I ever get around to the dog-ass Jets.
What she has done is semi-unforgivable and a rotten thing to do to somebody that she is supposed to be about half-crazy about, which is me.
I am hotter than a pot of butter beans right now, as you might can guess. Shit, I'm hot.
What Cissy did was go squirt off her mouth to Boke Kellum, our friendly neighborhood fag Western hero, about this book I am writing.
And what Boke Kellum did was go squirt off his mouth to the newspapers about it, and here it all is, right here in my hand in the Saturday morning Los Angeles Times.
The dog-ass headline says:
PUCKETT TURNS AUTHOR FOR SUPER BOWL.
The story says:
All-Pro Running Back Billy Clyde Puckett, who may hold the key to the New York Giants' chances in tomorrow's Super Bowl, will be taking notes on the sidelines throughout the game.
The Times has learned that Puckett is keeping a diary of Super Bowl Week and will turn it into a
hard-cover book for a major publishing house next fall.
Puckett's book will be most revealing, according to reliable sources.
It is understood that Puckett is delving into many personalities involved in the Super Bowl attraction, and will present some of the darker sides of the game of pro football itself.
Much of the book, the Times has learned, will be devoted by Puckett to describing exactly how the Giants prepared for the contest.
It is also believed that Puckett will describe how he developed his rip-roaring running style, a style which has made him the leading rusher in the NFL.
Parts of the book will also touch on some of Puckett's close friends, such as Boke Kellum, the handsome star of the hit TV series, McGill of Santa Fe.
There's some more but mainly it's quotes from some of the dog-ass Jets, like Dreamer Tatum, about me being so talented as to be able to prepare for a big game and write a book at the same time.
Boy, I am so hot right now that I could turn into some kind of T.J. Lambert.
If there was ever a bad time for something like this to come out, it is the day before the Super Bowl.
Cissy Walford has already cried a few times this morning and tried to make everything all right by grabbing me in the crotch but it hasn't helped.
I've told her that if I lay my eyes on Boke Kellum again I was gonna leave him every way but alone.
Man, I'm still hot. And all of this hit me more than an hour ago when I got up. I don't usually get hot like this for anything other than a football game. But I am hot.
Shake says that I shouldn't be so hot because a lot of other stud athletes have written books and everybody just figures that it's what a stud athlete does for money these days.
Barbara Jane said she didn't think it was anything to he bothered about.
"It's not as if we've just lost to Spring Branch." She smiled.
Barb said the best way to look at it was that the dog-ass Jets wouldn't know what to do, going up against a real live intellectual book writer.
I said what bothered me most was having to go to a squad meeting pretty soon and take a lot of shit from my pals.
But it's something I've got to do. And right away, in fact.
See you in a little while, gang. If there's anything left of me after T.J. Lambert gets through.
If not, I'd like my ashes pitched out of a taxi at the northeast corner of Fifty-fifth and Third.
That's where P. J. Clarke's is, of course.
It's probably asking too much of the owner, Danny Lavezzo, to hang my photo on the wall, back there in the back room where all the celebs hang out; back there with the checkered tablecloths and the Irish waiters.
There wouldn't be much status in having it hanging in the middle room, behind the front bar — the room where everybody stands in line, hoping and praying for a table in the back. There's nothing in the middle room but too much light, and some drunks standing around a garbage pail.
I guess I don't know of anybody who ever got his picture up on the wall in Clarke's, without dying. Not even a Greek ship owner or a columnist. If Frank Gifford or Charley Conerly or Kyle Rote couldn't do it from the old Giant glory days, I don't know how I could expect it.
Maybe my only chance is if T.J. Lambert turns me into a tragic legend.
"Oh, what could have been," they'll say in Clarke's.
And hang my picture.
Feelin' you is feelin' like a wound that's opened wide,
Feelin' you means troubles by my side.
Feelin' you ain't easy,
Don't know how much I can take.
Feelin' someone gone is feelin' nuthin' but an ache.
When you took my credit cards and headed north across the bay,
When you piled up all my clothes there in the hall,
When your anger made you laugh at all the bills I'd have to pay,
I could hear you laughin' louder while I kicked and beat the wall.
You ain't nuthin' but a servin' wench, it's true.
Serve it up and grab a tip or two.
Eggs fried greasy, coffee dark,
Donuts hard as sycamore bark,
But you'll trap another fool like you know who.
I just hope you'll keep on movin' down the road.
Movin' faster than I'm drivin' this old load.
Much more heartache I ain't needin',
Though your looks have got me bleedin',
I'm just about to get your memory throwed.
But feelin' you is feelin' like a wound that's opened wide,
Feelin' you means troubles by my side.
Feelin' you ain't easy,
Don't know how much
I can take.
Feelin' someone gone is feelin' nuthin' but an ache.
Nothing helps trouble and woe, I think, like listening to music. I've been listening to some Elroy Blunt tunes here on the portable stereo we brought with us to our palatial suite.
One of my favorites among his new songs is "Feelin' You," which is those words I've just recited, in a semi-tuneful way.
It's late in the afternoon upon this Saturday in January. I've been back from the squad meeting for quite a while and had lunch up here in the suite.
Some of the Giant fans who have flown out for the game are having a party down around the cabanas by one of the swimming pools. That's where Barbara Jane and Cissy are. Shake Tiller and Hose Manning have gone over to the Beverly Wilshire to talk to some Sports Illustrated writers and editors and reporters and photographers.
We'll be heading out to Elroy Blunt's mansion for his party in a while. He drew up directions for our rented car on how to get there.
This hasn't been too good a day for the stud hoss, unfortunately.
All of my teammates had read that story in the Los Angeles Times, and of course they all clapped when I walked into the squad meeting.
I caught a whole bunch of heat.
Varnell Swist said, "Say, baby, you ain't gonna write anything about what a cat does on the road, are you?"
Puddin Patterson said, "Tell us about that rip-roarin' runnin' style. Do you just jive it on in there for six by your own self?"
Puddin said, "Er, uh, say, baby. Do you rip first, or do you roar first?"
There was lots of giggling among my pals.
Euger Franklin said, "If me and Puddin ain't blockin' nobody's ass, he just lay down, baby."
Varnell Swist said, "What you gonna say about the road, baby? Some wives is gonna read that mother you writin', you dig what I'm sayin'?"
Puddin Patterson said to the squad, "Lookie here, cats. Lookie here at the cat who holds the key to the whole jivin' tomorrow. Ain't he a dandy? He just gonna go out there tomorrow by his own self and win his self a Super Bowl."
I was trying to grin while I blushed.
Puddin said, "Cat gonna put that rip-roarin' jive on them other cats and they just gonna say, 'Oooo, he hit har-rud.' Cat just goes shuckin' and jivin' out there with nobody but his own self. Lookie here at this mean cat."
Jimmy Keith Joy said, "Say, baby. That dark side of pro football you gonna jive about. You ain't talkin' about brothers, are you?"
Euger Franklin said, "Show us that key you holdin' to the game, baby."
"It's them moves," said Puddin Patterson. "Say. Say, lookie here. The key is in them big old strong legs that lets this cat go rippin' and roarin'."
"Make my hat hum he hit so har-rud," said Euger Franklin.
Puddin said, "Everybody get down and cat say hup. Cat say hup-hup. Cat say hup-hup-hup. And old Billy Clyde go jivin' for six. Crowd say oooo-weee, he run so har-rud because he's a-rippin' and roarin'."
O.K., I said. Go ahead on.
Puddin said, "Everybody get down and cat say hup again. Cat say hup-hup. And Billy Clyde go hummin' for six. And crowd say oooo-weee, he run so har-rud and he writin' a book while he rip-roarin'."
T.J. Lambert hadn't spoke until he finished the sack of chili cheeseburgers he brought to the squad meeting.
He finally stood up and licked his fingers and bent over, with his butt toward .me, and he cut one that must have been the color of a Christmas package.
"That's all I got for tootie fruities what write books," he groaned.
In the serious part of the squad meeting, Shoat Cooper explained to us what the drill would be for Sunday, in terms of what time everything would occur.
Shoat said we would start getting our ankles taped at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Those that needed special braces and pads taped on, he said, ought to get to the taping room thirty minutes earlier.
He said he hoped everybody on the team could have breakfast together at nine in the Señor Sombrero Cafe on the second floor.
He said we would leave for the Los Angeles Coliseum about ten-thirty. It would be about eleven-fifteen when we got there, he said, and that would give us plenty of time. "To get frisky for them piss ants," he said.
The kickoff wasn't until one-fifteen, he pointed out. It had been set back fifteen minutes by CBS, he said, in order for the network to finish up a news special it was doing on some kind of earthquake that wiped out several thousand chinks somewhere yesterday.
It was news to me and Shake and we shared some kind of look which had to do with Big Ed Bookman. News about the earthquake, I mean. Not about the kickoff.
Shoat said that both the offense and the defense would be introduced, on both teams, for television before the Hame. He said we should line up under the goal post that would be appointed to us and carry our hats under our arms when we trotted out to our own forty-five yard line and faced the dog-ass Jets and stood there for the "Star-Spangled Banner."
That would be the last thing we would do before the kickoff, Shoat said. Therefore, he said, this would come after we had warmed up and then gone back into the dressing room and crapped and peed and drank some more Dexi-coffee. Them what needed it, like the interior linemen.
"A little spiked coffee never hurt nobody's incentive," Shoat said. "Especially them lard butts who have to play down in that trench where the men are."
Shoat said we might have a long time to lay around the dressing room after we warmed up because the National Football League had a fairly lavish pregame show planned.
Shoat said he understood that both the pregame show and the halftime show would have a patriotic flavor.
"That can't be anything but good for football," he said.
According to Shoat, here's what was going to happen before the game:
Several hundred trained birds — all painted red, white and blue — would be released from cages somewhere and they would fly over the coliseum in the formation of an American flag.
As the red, white and blue birds flew over, Boke Kellum, the Western TV star, would recite the Declaration of Independence.
Next would be somebody dressed up like Mickey Mouse and somebody else dressed up like Donald Duck joining the actress Camille Virl in singing "God Bless America."
And right in the middle of the singing, here would come this Air Force cargo plane to let loose fifty sky divers who would come dropping into the coliseum.
Each sky diver would be dressed up in the regional costume of a state, and he would land in the coliseum in the order in which his state became a United State.
When all this got cleaned up, Shoat said, United States Senator Pete Rozelle, the ex-commissioner of the NFL who invented the Super Bowl, would be driven around the stadium in the car that won last year's Indianapolis 500. At the wheel would be Lt. Commander Flip Slammer, the fifteenth astronaut to walk on the moon.
Riding along behind the Indy car, Shoat said, would be two men on horses. One would be Commissioner Bob Cameron on Lurking Funk, the thoroughbred which won last year's Kentucky Derby. And on the other horse, Podna (the horse Boke Kellum pretends to ride in his TV series), would be the current president of CBS, a guy named Woody Snider.
Finally, Shoat said, the teams would be introduced and two thousand crippled and maimed soldiers on crutches and in wheel chairs and on stretchers would render the "Star-Spangled Banner."
Shoat told us the halftime was likely to run forty-five minutes. It would be a long one, at any rate, "which might be a good thing if we got some scabs to heal up," lie said.
The length of the halftime, Shoat said, would depend on whether CBS would decide to interrupt the Super Howl telecast with a special news report on the earthquake, which might still be killing chinks with its fires and floods and tidal waves.
"I never knowed a dead chink, more or less, to be more important than a football game," Shoat said. "But maybe if a whole gunnysack of 'em get wiped out, it's news."
Shoat said it was too bad we wou
ld all have to miss it but the Super Bowl halftime show was going to be even more spectacular than the pregame show.
He said there would be a water ballet in the world's largest inflatable swimming pool, a Spanish fiesta, a Hawaiian luau, a parade stressing the history of the armored tank, a sing-off between the glee clubs of all the military academies, and an actual World War I dogfight in the sky with the Red Baron's plane getting blown to pieces.
The final event of the halftime, he said, would be an induction into the pro football hall of fame of about twenty stud hosses out of the past, including our own Tucker Frederickson, the vice-president of DDD and F. United States Senator Pete Rozelle would preside, Shoat said, along with Camille Virl, the actress, and Jack Whitaker, the CBS announcer. When the induction ceremony was over, Shoat said, then Rozelle and Whitaker and Camille Virl would lead the inductees in singing a parody on the "Battle Hymn of the Republic," which was written by somebody in the league office. The title of it, he said, was "The Game Goes Marching On," and he understood it might make some people cry.
Shoat said CBS hoped the whole stadium would join in the singing, since all 92,000 people would have been given a printed copy of the lyrics.
The last thing in the halftime would be some more birds. While the stadium was singing this song, Shoat said, several thousand more painted-up birds would be released and they would fly in such a way overhead that the likeness of Vince Lombardi, the great old coach, would appear.
This was about all that was discussed at the meeting.
Shoat said for all of us to start getting our game-face on.
"When we take that field," he said, "I want you pine knots to be in a mood to stand them piss ants ever way but up."
I got a collect long-distance call from Fort Worth a while ago and of course it was from my Uncle Kenneth.
He just called up to thank me for the fifty-yard line seat I sent him along with a first-class round-trip plane ticket.
Uncle Kenneth said that as much as he wanted to be out here, he didn't rightly see how he could go off and leave an acquaintance he had made with an old boy who thought he knew all about how to play gin.