Free North Dallas Forty by Peter Gent Page A

appreciate what you just said,” B.A. continued. “Keep playing like you have the past weeks and you could really help us. And remember, you don’t have to be a star to help the team. On the field at one today.”
    I turned and walked out. He was right. I am immature. I am also crippled and growing rapidly older. And there is nothing I can do about any of it.
    Driving to the practice field, I thought about the meeting with B.A. and my future in football.
    My attitude was definitely a problem—the meeting had illustrated that—but my real problem was injuries: five major operations, plus numerous muscle tears, breaks, and dislocations. I could see the computer printing me out now. I had already taken precautions to jam the diagnostic machinery by faking minor injuries to cover more severe, chronic problems. The less truth the computer knew about me the better.
    The clubhouse parking lot was about half full. It was 10:45 A.M. . The films were scheduled for 11:30. I had enough time to get into the whirlpool, loosen up, and convince the trainers and coaches I was in the prime of my life. The pain shooting through my back and legs as I slid out of the car convinced me differently. I stopped at the bulletin board and read the ancient message.
    NOTICE
    ALL PLAYERS WILL KEEP THEIR COATS AND
    TIES ON IN THE HOTEL LOBBIES AND AIRPORTS.
    THIS IS A TEAM, LET’S LOOK LIKE ONE.
    CLINTON FOOTE
    General Manager and
Director of Player Personnel
    Five blacks, in jocks and T-shirts, sat on the blue-carpeted locker room floor. They were playing cards, as they did almost every day. No money changed hands but, slapping palms and laughing a lot, they seemed to have great fun. The blacks always seemed to have more fun.
    I had to walk through their circle to reach my locker.
    “Hey, man, whatcha doin’?”
    “Sorry,” I apologized for disrupting their game.
    “That’s okay, man, you can stomp them hearts and clubs, but don’t you lay your sole on no spades.” Their howling and laughing was punctuated by the fleshy slap of palm against palm. They sure had a good time. Natural rhythm, and all that.
    I sat down in front of my locker and undressed, picking at ingrown hairs and scratching my testicles. I stared into the bottom of my locker at the pile of soiled and damp equipment, several discarded game plans and a few pieces of old fan mail. I had lived in front of this locker for years. I grabbed a clean supporter and T-shirt, pulled them on, and walked out the opposite end of the locker room into the training room.
    The dull roar of the whirlpools, the crackling blare of the trainer’s radio, the voices straining to be heard, and the constant motion of people gave the room a surreal quality. It was a room that starved some senses and overloaded others. It was a violent, tactile room full of carnal feelings. The physical body was distracted by analgesics, soothed by narcotics, and emotions seeped out through pores opened by warmth and massage. The air literally surged with unrestrained energy.
    Both whirlpools were full. I waited my turn, reading the wall signs.
    WHAT YOU HEAR IN HERE
    WHAT YOU SEE IN HERE
    LET IT STAY HERE
    WHEN YOU LEAVE HERE
    Nothing, except an occasional case of clap, or crabs, seemed worth mentioning.
    REQUIRED TRAINING ROOM DRESS:
    CLEAN JOCK AND T-SHIRT
    THIS MEANS YOU!
    I walked to the medicine cabinet. The pill drawer was locked.
    “Hey, Eddie,” I called to the head trainer, Eddie Rand.
    “Yeah?” Rand looked up from a half-taped ankle.
    “I need some pills,” I said. “Codeine Number Four.”
    “Just a minute.” He turned back and quickly finished the ankle.
    “You can just throw me the keys,” I offered.
    “I did that last week and had to have all the prescriptions refilled.”
    “Oh.” I smiled sheepishly and began dancing to a static-filled Loretta Lynn coming from the radio.
    “Great artist,” I said, still dancing as Rand approached.
    “Who?” Rand had his keys out, fumbling for the right