we were doing simple calisthenics, row upon row of us, bending, breathing and stretching, instructing our collective soul in the disciplines necessary to make us one body, a thing of ninety legs. Two of the coaches, George Owen and Brian Tweego, walked through the ranks, bestowing their shrill blessing on prince and dog alike. At Tweego's command we switched to squatjumps. Automatically my teammates groaned and just as automatically I became elated. My body surged and dropped; my mind repeated the process. The indifferent drift of time and all things filled me with affection for the universe. I squatted and jumped and jumped and squatted. Life was simplified by these afternoons of opposites and affinities. Eventually we headed toward the far goal posts for the first of two laps. I ran in a group that included Buddy Shock, Tim Flanders and Howard Lowry. When we were finished we watched the offensive linemen charge the blocking sled. These were Tweego's people and he screamed at them as he rode the sled, reviling Bloomberg and Onan Moley in particular. Creed himself stood about twenty yards off to the side, arms folded, eyes very busy beneath the peak of his black baseball cap.

"Coach is a man of destiny," Tim Flanders said. "They're a vanishing breed. My grandfather was a man of destiny. On my father's side. His whole identity was dominated by some tremendous vision."

"Identity," Buddy Shock said. "An equality satisfied by all possible values of the variables for which the standardized expressions involved in the equality are quantitatively determined."

"What happened to your grandfather?" I said.

"He was killed in an industrial accident," Flanders said. "He was burned beyond recognition. Selective ordnance. You know what that is, don't you?"

"You're not saying that was his destiny. To get burned beyond recognition."

"Of course not."

"Then what was his destiny?"

"He never attained it, Gary. It was the accident that prevented him from attaining it."

"Then how do you know he was a man of destiny?"

"Same way I know Coach is a man of destiny. He sits up nights. He has piercing eyes. You never see him in a phone booth."

Garland Hobbs strolled over to join us. He was tall and solidly constructed, about sixfour and 215, goodlooking in a blank way, faintly impressive, like a tall motel. He had a quarterback's gait, slack and expensive.

"What's your comment on the big move?" I said.

"What move is that?"

"Switching Taft Robinson to quarterback. We'd like your comment."

"Switching shit," he said.

"It's the truth, Hobbsie," I said. "Coach is going over to a whole new offense just for the Centrex game. He wants a quarterback who can run. Sprintouts, rollouts, options, bootlegs. You see, he wants a quarterback who can run."

"I'm the quarterback."

"It's just for one game."

"I'm the quarterback."

"But you can't run, Hobbsie. He wants a quarterback who can run."

"We're undefeated in three games," Hobbs said. "I've got sixtytwo percent completions. I've been intercepted just once and that's because Jessup broke the pattern and he'll tell you that himself. I've been concentrating. I've been taking command in the huddle. I've been reading the blitz just like Coach taught me."

"But you can't run."

"I can throw, damn it. Can he throw?"

"Sure he can throw. He can do anything. You know that as well as I do. Coach thinks with Taft at quarterback we'll be able to do a lot more with our offense. It's a total offense concept. It's a reordering of priorities."

"I don't understand it. We've been doing real well up to now."

"We've been playing leprosariums and barbers' colleges. Coach wants something special to spring on Centrex."

"He's putting you on," Buddy Shock said.

"Is that right, Gary?"

"That's right," I said.

"You son of a bitch," Hobbs said.

Vern Feck ran around blowing a whistle and each player reported to his respective coach. The six running backs formed a circle around Oscar Veech. He was trying to think of something to say. Finally he focused on me.

"Button up when you get hit, Harkness. You haven't been buttoning up. You lost the ball once against those people and you almost lost it two other times."

"I was running with reckless abandon."

"Run with reckless abandon until you're hit. When you're hit, button up."

"Right."

"Button up. Become fetal. Hug that ball. Hug it. Hug it."

"Yes sir."

"Lee Roy, what am I talking about, Lee Roy?"

"I wasn't listening, sir," Lee Roy Tyler said.

"Typical," Veech said. "That's typical of the whole attitude around here. You people are a bunch of feebleminded shit fanners. You're lazy, you're selfsatisfied, you're stupid. In my considered opinion, you're a bunch of feebs. If you can't concentrate, you can't play football for this team. Awright now. What was I talking about, Hopper?"

"Buttoning up."

"Lee Roy, what are you supposed to do when your quarterback calls trips right and you're parked out there in the slot ready to fly and suddenly it dawns on you that they're in a zone? What do you do, Lee Roy?"

"Sir?"

"Lee Roy, you're a dung beetle. Shit is your proper environment. You do nothing, that's what you do. You run your damn pattern."

"Yes sir."

"Let's get real basic here. Deering, who do you take out on a weakside sweep against a fourthree?"

"Sir, I take out the linebacker."

"You take out the end, feeb. Your wide receiver cracks back on the linebacker."

"It's coming back to me now," Jim Deering said.

"If you had half a brain you'd be dangerous," Veech said. "Come on, let's get out of here before I hemorrhage."

We went over for a joint conference with Tom Cook Clark and his three quarterbacks, Garland Hobbs, Terry Madden and Byrd Whiteside. Then Vern Feck brought his linebackers over and we got Randy King to center for............