I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [44]
We didn’t practice, just met at game time near the edge of the Hudson River, a grassy expanse, fence enclosed. I was to play right tackle. We had no offensive/defensive teams, just a bunch of buddies. But the Famwoods were organized. They had fans, uniforms, a slew of cheerleader girlfriends, and outnumbered us at least three to one. Among the onlookers in the Famwood cheering section lurked Farel. The game started, and we started losing. I didn’t understand the game, didn’t excel, never tackled anyone, and never had a chance to learn.
The Famwoods were way ahead, and on the line of scrimmage opposite me crouched the biggest guy on their team—a monster called Gaitlin. My job was to rush and block him off after the hike. When the play ended, full of anger and fury, he started shoving me. Immediately on cue, as if scripted, someone in the crowd started crowing, “Fight! Fight!” The Famwoods surrounded me, cutting me off. I crouched low, grabbed Gaitlin’s ankles, and pulled him off his feet, yelling all the time, “I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to fight.”
I was surprised at how easily he fell. I quickly crawled on top of him, embraced him around the neck, hugging and pressing him to the ground. He thrashed, struggled, and yelled, “You fuck, you fuck, you fuck!” to the Famwoods’ chorus of “Fight, fight!” A nightmare opera, we must have looked like a violently copulating couple in the throes of climax, within a circle of decadent voyeurs.
Someone was shouting, “Let’s get on with the game! Let’s get on with the game! No fighting. Let’s play football.”
Some of my team managed to break through and part us. As I staggered to my feet, a Famwood, Johnny Ford, one of two look-alike brothers, with his tough Irish face and blond thatch of hair, started bellowing incoherently at Gaitlin.
My pitiful few teammates circled around me. We were all scared. Bobby Rosario, a pal from my team, had sidled over to the Famwoods, clustered around Gaitlin. As they broke their cluster and, led by Gaitlin, walked toward me. Bobby rushed ahead. He mumbled in my ear, “They’re going to try and get you to fight. Don’t fight. Whatever you do, don’t fight.” I was trembling.
Gaitlin loomed, his face twitching. “Come on, we haven’t finished this.”
“No,” I said, “I’m not fighting. I’m not fighting!”
A bewildered look came over his face. He was dumb, ox-dumb. He literally turned around and said to the Ford brothers, “What do I do now? He doesn’t want to fight.”
Johnny Ford whispered into his ear, and Gaitlin came over and slapped me in the face. Everyone stood stunned. Immediately, I repeated what I had done before. Dropped to my knees, grabbed his ankles, and, pulling, knocked him flat on his ass. Then I scrambled on top of him, pinning him to the ground and hugging him, yelling my mantra, “I’m not fighting! I’m not fighting!”
The Famwoods circled again, keeping my pals away. Farel pushed my shirt up and started scraping a hair comb along my spine. “Cut it out! Play fair,” I hollered, though I barely felt anything. And it seemed so easy holding Gaitlin pinned. I straddled him on my knees, riding astride his furiously bucking body. He was a paper giant. Then, as if from some distant place, slowly impinging on my consciousness, came awareness of kicks to my shins and legs. I started praying, and those old Hail Marys began to spew out of my soul.
Somebody lit a cigarette and pressed it against my arm. I jumped to my feet, still yelling, “I don’t want to fight,” and, shoving my way out of the circle, started running.
Running, running! Terrified! I could hear my heart oscillating in my brain, stewed with a cacophony of pounding feet and howls from the pack behind me. Blackout. Curtain.
The next thing I remember, I was half a mile away at a water fountain with Ryan, a friend from my block. He was washing my face with his handkerchief, and he was scared to death. It wasn’t because the handkerchief was bloody, but because I’d been babbling incoherently for close to an hour. Then,