MEET THE WHITTIER STONEWALLS . . .
Nuke Outlaw
500 pounds of offensive penetration.
Pete Gorgonzola
a wide receiver as rough as he is far out.
Bubba Weaver
the weak safety with strong, gay forward motions.
Freck Foley
a thrusting linebacker who can't resist a pretty mouth
Plowboy Palmer
the offensive left guard with sheepish ways.
Hans Brinker
middle linebacker; he always plugs the wrong hole.
Grinder Meade
who tackles integration—and women —head on.
Horseshoe Cohen
the kicker who can't find the slot.
Craig Cramp
the up-tight end.
Ambrose Pierce
why is he always offside in the erogenous zone?
They’re in the pro football cellar with
a record of 0 (points) for 36 until Man from O.R.G.Y
Steve Victor joins the team
with the hottest new quarterback to ever
swing her way to the Superbowl!
THE TIGHT END
TED MARK
1981
AUTHOR ’S NOTE
There is no such team in either professional football conference as the Whittier Stonewalls. While the Pittsburgh Steelers and the Philadelphia Eagles are of course actual and renowned professional football teams, and the names of real players on both teams are mentioned in this work, this is to certify that no such games as those described here in actually took place and the participation of those mentioned by their real names is completely a matter of the author’s imagination. The games described are meant solely as entertainment and in no way to reflect on the considerable abilities of those Steelers and Eagles mentioned by name. It is the author’s hope that all those involved in professional football will get some of the enjoyment back through reading this book that the author has received over the years as a spectator of the sport.
Ted Mark
CHAPTER ONE
Ahhhh! Superbowl Sunday!
At the foot of the bed the color TV was on, the rabbit-ears finely tuned. I’d cracked open the six-pack and the first beer was already flowing down my gullet. On the screen the players stood at attention as the national anthem was sung. Beside me, under the sheets, Stephanie Greenwillow squeezed my penis.
The beer cooled my belly. Stephanie warmed my erection in her hands. Oakland kicked off. Superbowl XV was under way. God bless America!
All was right with my world.
Almost . . .
“Why do they all jump on that one man with the ball so brutally?” Stephanie inquired indignantly.
“It’s their job to stop him.”
“But they’re so big!”
“They’re defensive linemen. They’re supposed to be big.”
“They’re doing it again! It’s not fair! He’s already on the ground and they’re piling on top of him!”
“Stephanie! Don’t sit up like that! You’re blocking the screen!”
“But look! That’s vicious! Look what they’re doing!”
“How can I look if you’re blocking the screen?”
“I don’t care! It’s sheer brutality! It’s a clear illustration of football as metaphor for man’s inhumanity to man, wars, exploitation, inhumane—”
“Interception! Interception!” I couldn’t tell whether it was Engberg or Olsen announcing the pick-off from the set behind Stephanie. “Martin gets back to the Eagles’ thirty from the forty-six and he’s brought down there.”
“Stephanie,” I begged. “Get out of the way so I can see the instant replay.”
“The what?”
“The instant replay.”
“What’s that?”
I explained.
“You mean they show the same thing over again? What’s the point?”
“The point is that if a naked woman pops up in front of the screen so you miss the play the first time, you get a second shot at seeing it.”
“My goodness! They do think of everything, don’t they?”
“Lie down, Stephanie!” Too late! The replay was over. I’d missed it.
“Don’t be grumpy.” Stephanie’s red hair fanned out over my face, tickling my cheeks as she kissed me. Her large, round, naked breasts, the red nipples stiff, pressed against my bare chest. The swollen purple lips of her vagina nipped at my aroused phallus.
It worked. My grumpiness subsided. It's hard to stay mad when a young woman like Stephanie lays out the feast of her voluptuous body for you.
I licked her nipples. She bit my ear. I stroked her clitoris. She fondled my balls. I moaned. She moaned. And then—
“TOUCHDOWN! TOUCHDOWN!” The crowd was roaring. “Branch has the scoring pass and Oakland’s on the board!”
“Damn!” I shot up in the bed, almost shoving Stephanie to the floor. “Godammit to hell!”
“What’s the matter?”
“The matter? The matter? I bet Philly and I gave three! That’s the matter! And I didn’t even get to see the goddam touchdown!”
“You mean you’d rather watch these Neanderthals pulverize each other than—than—”
Stephanie was sitting up again, blocking the TV set, hands indignantly on hips.
“Christ! Now I missed the conversion!”
It was my own fault. I’d been listening to Stephanie Greenwillow putting down football since the pre-season games back in early September. Stephanie was a dedicated feminist, author of The Moving Needle, a definitive work on rape and seduction from the victim’s point of view. Her antipathy to gridiron mayhem came with the territory. I should have known better that night a week before the Superbowl than to challenge her attitude.
“You run off at the mouth about ‘macho’ and ‘violence’ and ‘brutality’ and ‘the battered wife syndrome’ and ‘frontier mentality’ and all sorts of other disconnected-—not to say remote—items, and you lump them all in with football, and the truth is you don’t really know the first goddam thing about the game!” I’d accused her. “Why, I’ll bet you’ve never even seen a pro football game.”
“I’ve never seen a war either. I don’t have to see one to know I’m opposed to it.”
“Football isn’t war.”
“It’s all part of the same sick manly syndrome.”
“Bull! There’s no connection! Football isn’t just physical. It’s intellectual and esthetic too. It can be like a game of chess. A well executed play can be like a perfectly choreographed ballet.”
Yeah, I know. It was a bit much. But what do you expect? She had me on the defensive.
“It’s a primary symptom of what’s wrong with our society!”
“There you go again! You’re just parroting the liberated woman’s party line. At least watch a game, so you know what you’re talking about.”