Free The Flex of the Thumb by James Bennett

blockin’.”
    â€œYou are out of your fucking mind, aren’t you?”
    Robin explained. “I have this mental picture. I see myself smashing and weaving my way through their whole team, without any blocks. Come on, Howard, let me try it just this once.”
    â€œIt’s not Howard, it’s Skip.”
    â€œOkay, Skip, what d’you say?”
    â€œWhat the hell,” growled Kowalski, the right guard, who hated to block, “Let him try it. It’s no skin off our ass.” The connection between the game itself and Kowalski’s mind was indeed a tenuous one. He knew that Mary Thorne was up in the stands somewhere, and he wished like everything he was up there with her. Then he wished like everything he was in bed with her. The longer he allowed this fantasy to linger in his mind’s eye, the more glazed his eyes became. Until finally, Howard (Skip) Leslie had to take him by the elbow and guide him to the line of scrimmage.
    They tried it just this once, Robin Snook carrying the ball on the 28 off tackle with no blocking. He got smeared. He was tackled simultaneously by eight players, who smothered him and gouged him and even punched him until they nearly buried him in the turf.
    Up in the stands, a leather-lunged woman named Grizelda bellowed: “Vass is loss?? Haff you effer hurt of any blokink?!” Just to make sure the players heard her, she yelled it a second time.
    In Section BB, Vano was describing each play to Arnold Beeker. Arnold’s new glasses were in his pocket, but he couldn’t wear them because his eyes and nose were still swollen from his encounter with Rita Lieberman’s dictionary. “Robin didn’t gain any yardage that time,” Vano told Arnold.
    â€œThat’s too bad,” Arnold replied. “Why not?”
    After five seconds Vano said, “I’m not sure, but it looked like there wasn’t much blocking.”
    â€œHow do they expect him to gain yardage without any blocking?”
    Vano was in too deep, and anyway, it was the kind of question which didn’t need an answer.
    Elsewhere in the stands sat Wilfong Weingrad, 87 years old. Wilfong, one of Entrada’s wealthiest and most eccentric alumni, wore a burgundy silk smoking jacket, the tail of which extended from beneath the hem of his threadbare college letter jacket. His glazed, knobby fingers were nearly translucent, while his face was like a wrinkled, pale prune. Wilfong Weingrad cared not a whit for football. He lived on the edge of hysteria.
    His housekeeper, Grizelda, sat next to him, wearing a long overcoat, even though the temperature was 86 degrees Farenheit. She wore the overcoat because it had large pockets, the better to house her pints of Jim Beam. She rarely spoke without yelling.
    Wilfong addressed the stranger seated next to him: “I have 25 million dollars in the bank.”
    The man, suspecting that Wilfong was unbalanced, only stared at the field uncomfortably.
    â€œI said, I have 25 million dollars in the bank. I would be willing to give it away if I could find a recipient who fears the Second Coming of our Lord, coming as He is on clouds of glory and lightning and thunder.”
    Again, the man did not respond; he was interested in the football game. Besides which, Wilfong made him uneasy. Weingrad assumed the man was deaf: “Hey Grizelda, there’s a man here who is deaf.”
    Then Howard (Skip) Leslie threw a long, long pass whose spiral was so tight and pure it was a thing of beauty. It sailed many, many yards over the heads of offenders and defenders alike until it bounced harmlessly onto the ground in the end zone.
    Grizelda bellowed, “ Mein Gott ! Could you just lookit der arm?!”
    Back in the huddle, Robin Snook was still pleading, “Just one more try, Skip. Just one more chance with no blocking.”
    Howard Leslie was pleased to hear Robin call him by his nickname, but he had heard the oohs and aahs of