He could see the defensive back in front of him, he was crouching readying for the tackle to come. He saw him and he also saw the yawning space to his left, open and waiting for his run with the ball. There was nothing between him and the goal line and his first carry and glory in his first game of a university football match on a beautiful fall day in Montreal. And yet he was running right into the crouching waiting arms of this defender for no apparent reason.
He’d run how many of these off-tackle sweeps, run through gaping holes like this one and then cut his path sharply to his left and headed for the sidelines and as much yardage as his short quick legs could cover? Why was he headed toward this small, waiting back? Why was he running right into him? Why was he making this tackle easy? That wasn’t the way he played. If a hit was coming, whoever was waiting would know he’d collided with someone heavier than he appeared.
But there wasn’t any reason to collide. The field was wide open. He knew, for he’d run this pattern many times, that gains like the one waiting for him here would follow, if he changed his tact and made for the open field and the end zone. Why was he heading toward this man as though drawn to a magnet? What was it that was forcing him to run straight for this short, expectant man, who, he knew he could outrun any time any where, at least for fifty yards? Perhaps the whole distance to the trees swaying in the distance lining the field, where the ball he carried would be worth six points? Where he’d be mobbed by his teammates, slapped and banged for what was a simple run to daylight, something just about anyone could do who’d made the team.
Did this crouching man weave a spell on him the moment he fumbled the play before? He’d been given another chance, for he “the truck” didn’t reach the hole provided. He’d dropped the ball in the exchange, or he wasn’t given it cleanly, well enough. But he didn’t want to share the blame. The ball was for him and he didn’t take it. Was that part of the problem with this hypnotic flight to this defender’s arms, the crouching runt he could run over with ease?
When he saw his fumble on film the following practice he winced, watched in disbelief, wanted to blurt out “Who’s the goof?” or something like that to let those who’d made the hole for a truck that he owed them one. So, on the very next play that day he was called upon again, same play, same side, he was to get the ball once more. And this time he’d better do something with it.
Was he afraid he might not perform, do what he trained for, had repeated many many times before? Did he fumble from fright, from the weight of the ball, from what he would face when he did take the ball? Did he in fact not take that first try, was this what others generously called a fumble? And was this his fright of what he might expect from this little man who seemed so harmless? Was he running toward him for protection, knowing he’d there be safe in his arms, tackled and done with another play wherein he was called on and expected to perform, to take steps to win the game?
He started to wonder whether he should be on the team at all. Was he running to this man instead of sideline and goal line for safety? Was that why he didn’t veer to the open field and romp to accolade and respect? Did he shy away from celebration and pedestals that much, that he would refuse to take the pigskin handed deliberately to him, and then for the safest place on the field, the arms of a small defensive back on the very next play?
He did gain eight yards, then was relieved by another. He resigned after the third game, telling his coach he’d have a better team without him, and he was right. They defeated the best in the league game four.
He often thought of that Montreal game, what happened to his tackler, and he often saw the yawning open field to his left and the trees fifty yards away.
October 9, 2008