The Last Route

Huh-Hut. Hut, hut, hut----

And release.

My-uffff.

Jammed me right in the wind pod again. Little sniveling, needle-dick redneck shit. Shove a cow prod up my pooter, he would. And he didn't buy the fake neither, right.

Here we go again.

My ribs moan. Got another busted one, you bet. And my left thumbnail is clean gone. Haven't come off the line once without misery and pain all day. But Fein's right hand is padded up, too, from where I walked on it good before the half. And we are both blowed out--oh, the fans ain't gettin' their money's worth now. Not here. Not on this side of the field, uh-uh.

Once more without feelin', let us shuck and jive, as Hightail would say.

Didn't eat the inside fake, because Fein knows where I'm goin'. Seventeen little dits on the clock, they don't send me down-field on a fly. No, sir. Just a dull old outer t' the side line, if I can even get there before they sack Knep again. Draw Fein outa the coverage is all I'm here for. A weepin' baby-sit.

Damn, they got 40-'leven teeny nickel backs in here now. Zippin' by like no-see-ums. I do not understand this new kinda football. Dill is runnin' flat-out down the side line by now, with a corner and the free hangin' on him. Fresco is rotatin' and settin' a pick for little Coleman outa the back. With Reggie on an X t' flood the zone. I'd pitch it t' Coleman, but Knepper won't forget he dropped one deep-sixer already, uh-uh. Knep don't forget. He takes it personal.

And I surely wouldn't throw t' me.

You're tired, Fein. I know, I know. And you're pissed at me. Lookit our breaths goin' chug, chug, chug together. You expected Hightail Homer t' play, not old Nelse. But Hightail cut hisself with a cocaine spoon, right. And Knep's thrown t' me twice all day. And you were gonna break the Cougar intercept record on us. Well, shees, if you'd give me some space out here, let me see turf for half a minute, maybe we'd get the action, huh. God, I am pitiful (concluded on page 160) Last Route (continued from page 83) slow. I am pathetic. Tall and pathetic and worn on down.

Time t' wrap, Nelson. This is the big plastic taco and we screwed it up. Damn, our asses have been pinworm tight. Five points down, just like the Vegas line said, and milliseconds t' go. Well, no one gonna interview you in the locker room, buddo. No prime time for you. Pick up the wife and trailer and head back West with a quart of Wild Turkey and a bag of Cheez-Its. Forget the Cheez-Its, right; I gotta drive.

Back off, Fein.

Seven steps to control and cut. I'm the last man in all of football t' count his own strides, like old Ray Berry. Fein knows you're not runnin' a post, knows you've gotta catch and get outa bounds. Yah, but he thinks I'm goin' down at least 20 yards, not 12. Make the cut spiffy for once, else you'll never put a step on him. A half step. Little fox face, he's watchin' my belly button again. Can't fake with your navel; damn thing goes where you go, uh-huh.

Jesus, I just thought, This here is my very last route, could be. Twenty years of runnin' patterns, man and boy. My mind is fulla flares and slants and flags and drags, like wiggly bacteria. And from what Shep said this ayem, they are not gonna pick up Bob Nelson's contract next year. Draftin' for speed, right. What'd he say? "Play this like it was your last." Comin' in loud and clear--the last. And I swear before the holy savior, next fall I will not play touch in the park. Show us how you useta do it, Mr. Nelson. Thank God we only got female children. I am through, the-roo.

Cripes, what'm I gonna do for a livin'?

Shunta been rude t' those beer people.

Gotta get rid of this accent. Gotta learn t' talk plain American for the TV.

Fat chance, Nelse.

You haveta admire Fein's technique, you do. Little peckerhead can backpedal faster'n I go frontward. And he's got zero respect. He is givin' me all of a one-yard cushion. It's rape; he has carnal knowledge of me is what, which is also why we're losin' here. Covered me, man, all day, by his lonesome, like he couldn'ta done with Hightail. Freed up all their D.B.s, right. And four more steps t' my cut--then nine exact t' the side line from this hash. Exit Nelson and so long.

My hamstrings are strung. Haven't run this much since the first pre-seeze. And here we go.

Hey, I'll just do it this time. No cutes at all. Just flap my arm like Batperson and swivel out. So schoolyard poor Fein'll think it's gotta be a fake. Yo, Fein; this way, Fein; flap and--cut.

Son of a bitch. I caught a full step. This game's easy as jack-lightin' a deer, when you know how. And ha. Listen t' Fein curse. He can't believe it. Here we are 45 yards from the E.Z., and I'm cuttin' before the down marker, even. How could we be so dumb?

Don't ask.

Uh-oh, hear that now. Listen at the yahoos roar for blood up there. Knep must be flushed out and scramblin'. It's not the ugly roar yet, not the sack-and-step-on-his-gonads roar, not yet. Gotta hit the side line and maybe drift back deep for a Hail Mary. Lookit those Cougarettes bouncin' their milk muscles behind the bench. I'll have a slice of inner thigh, thanks, and a lip fillet. Oh, murder, it is gonna be hard stayin' home with Nancy all year long. Yes, ma'am, I play pro football; would you care t' hold my cock?

Today you are a man, Braindead. Today you swear off this nasty boy's game.

Maybe go back and get my degree.

Sure is a handsome day, like when we useta play Wyoming late November.

What? What?

Jesus, the safety's comin' up.

Why's damn Armstrong here? I didn't read zone. Move, Nelse. Knep must be lookin' this way, maybe just t' throw her outa bounds. And now I'll haveta squint back inta that miserable low sun. Jesus. Jesus, Armstrong'll break my piss pouch if he gets a blind shot. Animal was red-shirted 12 years in school, just loves t' spear slow white-boy receivers like me.

Don't look up yet. Look up, you'll lose your step.

Ball'll be there, one stride shorta the line or it's no dang use at all. Just turn and go up, gotta put some height on Fein. Like practice. Like Knep an' me've played catch since we were rooks together.

In six steps.

They're lookin' up. Cougars on the side line are lookin' up. It's headed here, sure as a mink has cousins.

In three.

Big hands, Nelse. Visualize: You got big, soft hands. Coupla hammocks there. Go out with a catch, Nelse, see it. Outside shoulder, Knep'll float it, what's left of his elbow----

And up.

Hunnnnh?

My God, you got it. You didn't see it and you got it. Bugger's stuck between my face mask and my arm, just stuck, shit. Threw it behind me, hadda reach back and Fein's got holda my shirt but good, holdin' me in bounds. Should I drop it, should I drop it? Armstrong's almost here. Fein has me hung up like Jesus on the cross and Armstrong's almost here. Roll it down, work the ball onto your pads----

Nnnnngaaahh.

I wanna drop, please. Speared me in the kidney, I wanna drop. Oh, Lord, oh, Lord, I hurt. Fall outa bounds, Nelse----

No.

Holy shit, no.

I'm free. I'm standin' here mile-wide and free.

Damn madman Armstrong knocked Fein off me and fell. He tried t' kill me too much and he fell. Don't go down, Nelse. Step over Fein, do a 180 and chug. Alone--in front of 60,000 people, in all this sudden silence here, move. Thirty yards, with not one blue shirt near enough t' phone in. Lookit that Cougarette there, down on her sweet dimpled knees. God, I'm gonna score a T.D. I never saw comin'. They're froze along the side line, all teeth--like the muzzle of that ground hog I gut-shot, snarl at the pain and dribble piss down one leg.

So run smooth here, with those big white-man strides. It is all highlight film and slo-mo now. Twenty yards, what a big red shiny apple of a day. I'll die of lung cancer, I'll die of fat arteries and I'll remember this. This is what my life'll reduce to. All the 10,000 hours of practice and the 'scope twice in my knee and the eight busted ribs. It comes on down t' this--what you caught with your goddamn helmet, right.

I hate this loathsome game. I hate this ugly power I just caught hold of. Ten yards t' go and the bookies of America are weepin' and hootin', right. See that Cougar coach's son tear and bite at his little woolly hat. Fein is after me now, so crazy he's yellin', "Stop, stop!" I'm an instant replay of myself. A thing that happened, an accident, a single play in a single game. It's taken my goddamn manhood away, I feel it, like it always did.

I'm sorry, y'all. I'm sorry I come t' your nice ball park and did this dirty thing. I am not a winner, see. I do not have the killer in me; Shep was right.

I'm in.

But you caught it. Nobody but you caught it, Nelse. The hands were big, the body was there and loose. Give me one moment alone before you come and pound on me, my friends. Give me one slim moment t' myself.

Yes.

I'll just set this ball down gently on the turf. In case you folks wanta play with it again next year.

"This is what my life'll reduce to. All the 10,000 hours of practice and the eight busted ribs."