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Show 32, Jeffries, Islamorada [Section 4] called them, then he gave them a couple of articles of Nietzsche's will to power. And always the scrimmaging. Condemned to repeat it. Up and back for the real estate. Such an old game as traced back to the men kicking the skull between the villages. And silently outlining to himself a case that can be made that war is the sublimation of football. The way an assistant coach had jested at the boy in the locker room, "Mincer, you put on the girdle there, them hip pads, as if you were stepping into lingerie." And Dory grinned and read the boy's lips muttering well you don't have to look. And marching out under the hot sun to run, the fat boy comes late, he's dripping with sweat and a lap behind, tugging at his undersized jersey, "It takes a lot of mashed potatoes to play this game, hey?" Dory yells as he comes round. "It takes. . .a lot of shortcake," the boy responds, "and. . .a can of Reddi-Whip. • •" The freshmen were finally lining up crisply. Mouthpieces in, enforced silence. On the ignition count Mincer faded right and pulled in a pass in the flood formation, cut inside with sudden, promising speed-- "On Prancer!" a coach screamed-but he was fast, hadn't they seen that he kept that florist ad, that picture of Mercury on his notebook, but a safety had an angle on him and just as he peeked upfield the deepback |
