The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [131]
She remembered that Saturday in Rockford; how she had sighed with such relief when Arnold came home and said he had played his last game with the high-school team. She had had her premonitions in those days, too. when he would be playing, and she knew that he would have been maimed for life or killed, but for her prayers. A boy could only trifle so much with the Grace of God, though. She felt it in her that Arnold would be carried home, perhaps dead.
She took a chair by the parlor window, and prayed. She looked out across the street at the leafless trees in the graying October Sunday. Down at the other end of the park, he was playing; perhaps at the very moment, he might he injured, dead. She knew, knew in her mother’s way, that something would happen to her oldest boy.
Arnold was her favorite child, her first-born. Her four girls gave her no trouble. They were well-raised, and she could trust them; only sometimes she worried that they couldn’t have more clothes. But their father was only a motorman. The youngest lad, Arthur, he was an altar boy, a bright, fine, innocent lad who always obeyed. And Horace, he worked in a gambling house, but he was steady, and brought money home to her regularly, and he didn’t drink like Arnold. Arnold, her baby, he worried her. He was the most generous of her children, when he had it to give, with a heart of pure gold. Only he had gotten in with the wrong sort. With the Grace of God, he would settle down.
Her premonitions would not down, and her prayers were not completely self-comforting. Hers was a mother’s agony.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I
Watching himself in the mirror, Studs hitched up his football pants, carefully arranging the cotton hip pads around his sides. Wished he had better ones. Wouldn’t be much protection from a boot in the ribs. He touched the schimmels under his blue jersey, and put on his black helmet. Every inch a football player!
He thought of himself going out to play with old street pants, a jersey, and football shoes. Dressed that way, tackling so hard he’d knock them cuckoo; jumping up ready to go on, no matter how hard he was slammed. No use to be senseless and play without sufficient padding. Only it was swell thinking of being reckless that way, having the crowd recognize such gameness.
He flexed and unflexed his arm muscles. Even with the drinking and carousing he’d done these last couple of years, he was still pretty hard and tough. He slapped his guts. They were hard enough, too, and there was no alderman yet, or not enough anyway to be noticed. And there never would be, because he’d take care of himself before that ever happened. He’d never have a paunch like his old man had. Iron Man Lonigan! The bigger they are, the harder they fall. He lit a cigarette and sat on the bed, thinking proudly of his body, good and strong, even if he was small; powerful football, shoulders, good for fighting. And this afternoon, he’d prove that it was a good body, and that there was heart and courage inside of it.
But there wouldn’t be any girls out there for him to be playing for. Other guys had girls. Wished he had a girl, Lucy, a girl coming out only to see him play... Goofy!... But he still loved Lucy even if he hadn’t seen her in about four years. And if she was coming out there to see him play, because she loved him, he would play much better, and instead of being in it just for the fun and the glory, and to show them all what he was made of, he’d be playing for her also. And he wanted to. Christ sake, he was getting like a clown, all mush inside. He tried to laugh at himself; it was forced.
Smells of the cooking Sunday dinner came tantalizingly from the kitchen. His mother came to the bedroom door, and said that she had a bite ready for him.
“I can’t! I’m going to play football,” he snapped in uncontrolled exasperation.
“I certainly don’t think much of a game that deprives you of your food,” she replied.
Jesus Christ! Couldn’t she understand anything!
She nagged and persuaded. He got up, and walked towards the door, with her