Dont get shitty. Flood got up quickly. Lets go out and get drunksee if we can get arrested or something.
Ive got an early class tomorrow. Raphael turned back to his book.
Talk to me, goddammit! Flood said irritably, snatching the book from Raphaels hands. What the hell are you reading, anyway?
Kierkegaard. Raphael reached for his book.
The Sickness unto Death, Flood read. Now theres a cheery little tide. What class is this for?
Raphael shrugged. It came up in a discussion. I thought I ought to look into it.
You mean its not even required? Flood demanded incredulously, tossing the book back. Thats disgusting, Raphael, disgusting.
Different strokes, Raphael said, finding his place again and settling back to his reading. Flood sat watching him, his black eyes as hard as agates.
And then there was the problem of the girl. She sat across the room from him in one of his afternoon classes, and Raphael found his eyes frequently drawn to her face. It was not that she was exceptionally beautiful, for she was not. Her face was slightly angular with strong bones, and she was quite tall with a coltish legginess that made her seem somehow very young. Her voice, however, was a deep, rich contralto with a vibrance, a quality, that stirred Raphael immeasurably each time she spoke. But she spoke infrequently. Sometimes a week would pass without a word from her. While others in the class talked endlessly, arguing, discussing, pushing themselves forward, she would sit quietly, taking occasional notes and now and then stirring restlessly as Raphaels gaze became warmly obvious.
He began to try to challenge herto force her to speak. He frequently said things he did not actually believe, hoping to lever her into discussion. He did not even care what she said, but merely yearned for the sound of that voice, that rich, vibrant sound that seemed somehow to plunge directly into the center of his being. She began, in time, to return his glances, but she still seldom spoke, and the infrequency of her speech left him frustratedeven angry with himself for his absurd fascination. Her name, he discovered, was Marilyn Hamilton, and she lived off campus. Beyond that, he was able to find out very little about her.
Youre Taylor, arent you? a large, bulky man with a huge black beard asked him one afternoon as he came out of the library.
Right, Raphael replied.
Names Wallace Pierson. The big man held out his hand. I understand youve played a little football.
Some. Raphael shifted his books so that he could shake the mans hand.
Wereuhtrying to put together a team, Pierson said, seeming almost apologetic. Nothing very formal. Wondered if you might be interested.
Intramural?
No, not exactly. Pierson laughed. Its just for the hell of it, really. You see, theres a Quaker college across townGeorge Fox. They have a sort of a teampretty low-key. They sent us an invitation. We thought it might be sort of interesting. He fell in beside Raphael and they walked across the broad lawn toward the dormitories.
I havent got the kind of time it takes for practice, Raphael told him.
Who has? Were not really planning to make a big thing out of it-just a few afternoons so that we can get familiar with each othernot embarrass ourselves too badly.
Thats not the way to win football games.
Win? Pierson seemed startled. Hell, Taylor, we werent planning to winjust play. Good God, man, you could get expelled for winningoveremphasis and all that jazz. We just thought it might be kind of interesting to play, thats all.
Raphael laughed. Thats the Reed spirit.
Sure. Pierson grinned. If we can hold them to ten touchdowns, itll be a moral victory, wont it?
Ill think it over.
Wed appreciate it. Were a little thin in the backfield. We thought wed get together about four or so this afternoonsee if there are enough of us to make a team. Drop on down if youd like.
Whens the game?
Friday.
Three days? You plan to put a team together in three days? Pierson shrugged. Were not really very serious about it. I can see that. Ill think it over.
Okay, the bearded man said. Maybe well see you at four then.
Maybe.
But of course he did play. The memory of so many afternoons was still strong, and he had, he finally admitted, missed the excitement, the challenge, the chance to hurl himself wholly into violent physical activity.
Pierson, despite his bulk, played quarterback, and the great black beard protruding from the face mask of his helmet made the whole affair seem ludicrous. On the day of the game their plays were at best rudimentary, and they lost ground quite steadily. The small cluster of students who had gathered to watch the game cheered ironically each time they were thrown for a loss.
Hand it off to me, Raphael suggested to Pierson in the huddle on their third series of plays when they were trailing 13-0. If you try that keeper play one more time, that left tackle of theirs is going to scramble your brains for you.
Gladly, Pierson agreed, puffing.
Which way are you going? one of the linemen asked Raphael.
I havent decided yet, Raphael said, and broke out of the huddle.
After the snap Pierson handed him the ball, and Raphael angled at the opposing line. He sidestepped a clumsy tackle, found a hole, and broke through. The afternoon sun was very bright, and his cleats dug satisfyingly into the turf. He reversed direction, outran two tacklers, and scored quite easily.
A thin cheer went up from the spectators.
In time his excellence even became embarrassing. He began to permit himself to be tackled simply to prevent the score from getting completely one-sided. More and more of the students drifted down to watch.
On the last play of the game, knowing that it was the last play and knowing that he would probably never play again, Raphael hurled himself up and intercepted an opponents pass deep in his own end zone. Then, simply for the joy of it, he ran directly into the clot of players massed at the goal line. Dodging, feinting, sidestepping with perfect coordination, he ran through the other team. Once past the line, he deliberately ran at each member of the backfield, giving all in turn a clear shot at him and evading them at the last instant.
The wind burned in his throat, and he felt the soaring exhilaration that came from the perfect functioning of his body. Then, after running the full length of the field and having offered himself to every member of the opposing team, he ran into the end zone, leaped high into the air, and slammed the ball down on the turf so violently that it bounced twenty feet straight up. When he came down, he fell onto his back, laughing for sheer joy.
iv
On the Saturday morning after the football game Raphael was stiff and sore. His body was out of condition, and his muscles reacted to the exertion and bruising contact of the game. He still felt good, though.
Flood was up early, which was unusual, since he normally slept late on weekends. Come along, football hero, he said to Raphael, rise and shine. His eyes glittered brightly.