“Yeh, I heard—”
“You’ll hear about that kid—”
“Geez, he’s in all the papers now, Coach—” The Chief said.
“So here we go, Jump Pass T-Twenty-one Jump and Run Decoy Right On Three—” Tiger’s hand flew this way and that, over the paper. The Chief tried hard to follow. Tiger talked rapidly, engrossed in it, totally. He explained all the dazzling intricacies, pausing to check with the Chief once in a while—“And what about that?” At last he said.
“That’s some Jump Pass!” John said, more baffled than ever. He stared at that paper.
“Sure,” Tiger said, “And only Dink can do it—but notice Joe Moran? Notice?” Poldaski nodded, “He’ll go for yardage—big yardage—maybe all the way—after picking that up. Hell, he’s not slow! He could go."
“I’d like to see that—■"
“You will. Don’t worry—”
“He just lives a couple houses down the road—”
“That kid’s got it, I’m telling you.”
“I’ll bring his old man. Know him?”
“Sure I know him. O.K. Look now, John—Here’s the *1’—” He paused, starting on a new sheet and sketching rapidly, flashing all over that paper. The lines went everywhere, crisscrossing here, there. Poldaski stared hard. At them.
“Christ!” He said. “Holy Christ!" He also said. "How do those kids do it?”
Tiger chuckled, “They do it.”
“I’d never do it. No kiddin', Tiger—”
Tiger nodded, still chuckling. Then he spent ten minutes at least outlining that one.
“Boy!” The Chief said, only.
“See that?” Tiger said, enthusiastically.
“Oh Man!”
Tiger chuckled.
“Wait till the game.” He said quietly.
“You’ll clobber them!”
“Now this one—”
And Tiger sketched that one, and two other ones, and then it was over. A little more chitchat, about this and that, and they got up from the bench and started walking, still talking. Tiger gave the Chief back his notepad—and pencil. The Chief said he would be at next Practice, come hell or high water, tomorrow night—wasn’t it?—to see the action. He wanted to see those plays in action. That’s all. They walked past Tiger’s car. Tiger thought about the maid inside. They walked on, still talking, until they got quite a way from the car.
“Where’s your car, John?” Tiger asked him.
“Aw, just up there—” The Chief said, pointing toward the general direction of the school. In the moonlight, which had just emerged and probably wouldn’t last too long. Tiger mused, he just saw the vehicle. Was it John’s? He wondered. Could just be. Couldn't it? They were about halfway up there, no doubt of it, Tiger mused, glancing at the night sky, noting all those clouds, the moon getting set to dive once more into them. He was growing sad again, thinking about John Poldaski, one of the best Police Chiefs the town had ever known, without a doubt of it, in many ways, he knew it. He wondered, growing even sadder, thinking about his wife now, who wasn’t at all bad-looking, what was her name, Mary, a good wife for him, he knew, even though she had that temper, he grinned a little bit, through his sadness, he had heard about it, even heard it, once, somewhere, here or there. Somewhere. He hoped Jeannie was alright He had told her he wouldn’t be too long, and he was pretty sure she’d still be there. She should be. She was that kind of girl. But he couldn’t stop thinking about John Poldaski. It was so painful he wished he could stop thinking about it. But the forces that govern all destinies, he mused, in the depths of himself, sometimes worked out this way, converging at just a certain, unbearably unfortunate point, as only too well he knew, so well he knew. That’s how it went. It was a process alright, and nothing could stop it, no matter how much you knew about it. And who knew more? Tiger knew it didn’t count, not in the crunch, the confrontation, with that convergence of tragic forces, whenever that might be, and who knew that, no one, that was true, until face to face with them, facing them, or running head first into them. He knew. It was tough. And John had seen plenty of action too. The Legion didn't have a better man on its rolls. They’d turn out in force.
“What’s with that little gal?” The Chief suddenly asked, in a low tone, indicating a genuine concern, and that he wouldn’t turn down a turn.
Tiger almost shook his head at that, from side to side, as sometimes was his way, slowly, so much was he affected by it. It was a fact. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so sad, not just now, anyhow, though in time, he knew, reflecting Over everything, things, he knew he probably would. It went that way. Remorselessly. He was in the depths.
But he said, quietly, “She’s got a few little problems, John.”
“Yeh?” The Chief said, curiously.
“Yeh,” Tiger only said, gravely.
He didn’t know what else he could have said. For the process now was irreversible. It put words into his mouth, no doubt of it. There was absolutely nothing he could do about it. For the years had come. And gone. They were gone. He thought of John’s wife again. Insurance. The concept of insurance fascinated him, revolving as it did around the darkest corners of the processes, irreversible as they were, and had always been. Complexes. For it could be said, certainly, well he knew, that it all consisted of innumerable factors, processes, interacting, interweaving, clustering to form these complexes. Life was such a complex. The process a combination of complexes. Death another. The other side of it. He knew. And where they touched—He sighed, almost. Life was an organized affair. There was nothing random about it. That was probably, in fact without a doubt, the saddest part of all. He knew. The interaction of human beings—He thought of Looby Loo. From the first time, so long ago, that he had really noticed her, he had been drawn to her. He loved her. He had always loved her, and so far as he knew always would. She loved him. He knew Lheir lives touched at just the right point and intermingled—perfectly. That’s what it all meant, what it was all about, man and wife. John. Mary. John loved Mary. She loved him. He knew. It must be. Despite her hot temper, which after all was just one of those innumerable factors. It too found ils part in the process. The com-
Pretty Maids A U in a Row 357 pi ex. For the other side was darkness. Emptiness. Nothingness. That was it alright. This was the only reality we would ever know. We hung on to it. Clung to it. Fought tooth and nail for it. What else could we do? Tiger pondered, touching depths of sadness he had rarely known, in fact had he known—aware at the same time that with the passing of time he would touch still further, deeper, and more frequently, and descend in fact, who knew, the depths were immensely profound there—He thought of Jeannie. He sighed, within himself. That wonderful girl. He saw her at the football games, in her majorette outfit. He saw her in Health Ed class, without doubt the healthiest in the class. In his office. She had done pretty well on the Stummper, much better than he had anticipated. He thought of her parents. Without a doubt the moon would disappear soon, diving head first into those clouds. Lost for a while. It was a matter of normal distribution, who disputed that was in peril, for the entire spectrum of human activities, attributes, acts, what have you, fell in that pattern. In fact, anything, so far as he knew, did just that. And where the lines converged—where they dared not diverge—Where did John Poldaski at just this moment lie on the curve? Tiger wondered. Did he know it? How many knew it? He himself, he knew, didn’t know it. What was it—all fantasy? What did it mean—in terms of fantasy? He thought of teaching machines. There was the matter of teaching machines. He was aware of himself on the Practice Field. He saw his eternally triumphant football teams. He saw John Poldaski. Was he at all aware of where he stood? Had he ever heard of the curve? Tiger groped in the depths, as he stopped, and said to the Chief.