every squat, rise, block, his great arms bent in front of him at the elbows, but even here I’m falling into philosophy, poetry, Americana. I start a letter on the program to an old love. “ The football player in America is like the artist in America'. When Danny was in high school and it was apparent that athletics was to be his path, I often equated, to him and to my friends, the poet and the athlete, focusing on the high ambition in both to excel, the spirituality of the quest to find the self-genius. (Genius, genii: guardian deity or spirit of a person.) Muse and second wind, as Danny himself found out, are the same word in Greek. This was an important revelation as all my friends were raving to us about the evils of competition and of organized sports in America. Now my revelation, sitting with this crowd in this mythical American sports stadium is sociological, more evolved. “ . . . like the artist in America! The same loner, the same heroic figure so outside the mainstream, but performing for it. Both are like the shaman, the one who heats oneself, who comes back transformed from the mutilating experience to show the world how. The same quest in both for magic, transcendence, the same vision to turn the self, great in allot us, into the supremacy of the collective human whole. . . the same insecurities (“No job security, Mom.”), and often the same rootless lifestyle. “Still I have these funny moments. Is this what I birthed and raised my child for? Football? What would my son be, with his perfect, giant body, in a perfect society? And there remains the other great mystery. What is the function of this game for the spectators? Why do Americans love football?" I write in circles and leaps around the names and stats, wherever there’s a blank. Isign my letter with a big American kiss. Halftime: 21-0, Maulers. This is really amazing. My first pro game and my kid is playing every play. Just like this was high school. But now, this is what happens when you gloat. “Hey Sharon, your son held them up!” the beer vendor is leering in my face. Saliva. “They’ll be practicing that one all week,” Tony spits. At me, it seems. Langlois misses the ball, coming right at him. The Gold make a touchdown. 21-13 now, third quarter. “That’s it,” says Fred, Tony’s partner. “Games over. 21-13. I don’t think anyone’s going to score now.” Dave Langlois intercepts. 9:19 left. Now 21-21. Dave Langlois down. Hurt. Spread out on the field. Danny walking back and forth, helmet off, kicking popcans. The Flashdancers take advantage of the break—she’s a maniac. How obscene they are, shaking their purple bodies, Dave in pain behind them. Suddenly my friends get up to leave. 27-21 Gold. Tap my shoulder, bend perfunctorily to me. “So long. Tell your son good luck.” They say this very ironically. “Very nice to meet you.” “There go your fans,” the announcer says. “Today’s attendance, ladies and “The reason,”he says, pronouncing each word with hate, “I’ve not been as good as I should be is that I have the unfortunate luck of beingfrom a ninth-generation hippy mother. ” gentleman, sixteen thousand, seven hundred and thirty three.” Tony’s face, manner and gesture. Hatred. The scorn of the fan. The power. The fans’ role in this, the fans’ importance. We will show you, your very son sprawled broken on that field, you people from God knows where with your motorcycle jackets and your silver furs, that the game is finally ours, that finally we can desert you. I feel hurt, like a lover has betrayed me. I didn’t even see it, but I guess he fucked up. Shaking his head. Now on his knees. Pounding his helmet to the ground. God Danny, get up. the gong and hiss of the maul on steel rings out. 31-21. Now the fans are gone. Just us family left. Wives and moms, the girls. As they drive up the field. Four seconds. Danny down. Holding his right arm as if it hurts. Someone down there yelling at him, hanging over the cement wall. Head down. Sun in Libra, moon in Scorpio, God, can’t you see how bad he feels, leave him alone. Final score: 31-21, the Denver Gold. Icome home with Danny and Hoss. Isit in the back. Hoss drives. Though he sat through the entire game, it is he who consoles my son. “You did okay, a few mistakes at the end, that’s all.” “I thought you played great,” I offered my head to the guillotine. The truth is I did. Somehow I was blind that last quarter, didn’t see any of it. “Mom, you don’t know nothing. . .(the disgust is horrible). . .about football. Didn’t you see those sacks I allowed?” I’m sure I’m somehow to blame for them. How are you going to make it in pro ball with a mom like me? “I was stronger than sixty”—He’s talking slowly to Hoss now, low and depressed. We’re coming across the dark, swollen Ohio—“but he found my weakness. Kept going for it. One time,” he sits up, “he went for my eyes with his fingers.” That’d really screw up a dyslexic, I think. “As I was leaving the field a fan yelled at me. ‘You motherfucker'.’ That’s the first time in my whole life I’ve been booed." ' Motherfucker. First time I ever heard that word. A month after youn father and I were married. China Lake Naval Air Station, the Mojave Desert in July, 1959. Motherfucker. It was the first word George had said to me since the wedding. Hjs commanding officer, this short guy, called him a motherfucker. He mumbled all this, ■ bdrely a whisper as he slid behind the wheel, but the hot air exploded, his em- barassment that he had said this word to me, that he had said any word to me. It did make me gasp, my heart stop, I’d never thought of that before, heard it, the concept, motherfucker. So I laughed, sweetly, gratefully. I was so happy he had finally spoken. I wanted him to know there was nothing he couldn’t say to me. There wasn’t. Now I am coming with our son, our warrior who has just lost a battle, into the dark Whitehall. Somehow I’m surprised, how they just go home now, like all people after work. In the backseat I see the Flashdancers kicking in a chorus line across the dark Appalachian hills. Maniac. Dave and Mr. Langlois sit on the couch, Dave leaning into his father’s arms. His pants are down around his ankles, he has . grey sweat shorts on beneath, an ice pack on his elevated knee, a beer between his thighs. Mrs. Langlois brings her husband a screwdriver. Danny is convinced he’s going to be cut. “Don’t think I’ll be at the L.A. game.” His father is very excited about this game, May 5; is chartering a bus of Dou- biago fans from Manhattan Beach. “Your life is as insecure as a poet’s,” I say, gently grinning. He grins back. Hoss is talking about his father, the 135-ton truck he drives. We parents and our love is getting to him. We are all a little drunk, sweetly so. Mrs. Langlois tells her husband she wants to sit next to her son. She eases into Dave’s left side. Her nails so perfect and red around his neck. “If you were younger,” she says to him, “I could kiss it.” It never occurs to me that this boy is seriously hurt. They just sent him home. ' but on Monday he’ll have X rays. Surgery on Tuesday. Out for the season. In the night girls coming and going, doors slamming. The guys’ depression my own, like the weight of the house on top of me. All night I think it’s time to get up, afraid I’ll miss my 6 am bus. Wanting to free him of me. Get out of here. “The mother of a warrior, the most honorific role of all,” says Mary Gordon, in a rare essay about birthing a son. I read the word as “horrific.” April 22, 1984—Easter Sunday Martha’s Vineyard I watch the New Jersey Generals play the Maulers live at Three Rivers Stadium on a black and white in the kitchen of the small house where I am staying. Watching my kid. Again, that lonely feeling, the strangeness of watching TV by myself. It’s like a live visit. Where I was last week. Wonder if Fred and Tony who sat behind me are in their seats. It’s the mid-point of the season and the announcers are discussing the Mauler’s heartbreaking losses—how statistically they are one of the top teams—but have lost nearly all their games in the last minute. Danny is playing tight end again. And here at the very end of another game they are about to lose it. The Maulers now like a choreographed ballet in the pouring down rain. “Heartbreaking Losses” I’ll call this little story. May 5, 1984— Boston, phone with Shawn • ' “You know what happened, Mom! You won’t believe this. The Hole-in-the-Wall got a bus for Doubiago fans from Manhattan Beach to go to the Pittsburgh-L.A. game. Everyone had jerseys with Doubiago written on them. They served margaritas on the bus. Ugh. I hate to get drunk. After the game Danny came back with us. Dad was so sweet, enthusiastic, loving to him. He treats me like I’m not here. Ijust started crying. You know what Dad said to me then. He said I had to get tough. I was too sensitive. He said I 8 We measure the flour, Cut in the butter, Roll out the dough, All you have to do is wake up! B ERY The Weekend Place For Fine Pastries & Bread Saturday & Sunday 8:30-5:00 615 W. McGraw Street 284-6327 Clinton St. Quarterly—Spring, 1987 LUPES URLIAPAN 3508 Fremont Place N. Seattle, Wa 633-1621 (iOur Enchilada Sauce is Numero Uno!) NOW FEATURING MEXICAN BREAKFAST SAT & SUN OPEN M-TH 11am-9pm FRi 11am-9:30pm Credit Cards Welcome SAT ga rn-9pm Beer and Wine 5 SUN 9am-3pm ORDERS TO GO
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