He sighed, loving her little kisses, and caresses, continuing to stroke her face. It was a catastrophic shame. Statistics had let him down. One in ten thousand, yes—he had been prepared for that. But now. It would have shattered another man. Sorrowfully, he had to act. Bizarrely, the rhyme came back. It flitted in and out—an instant, and gone. And then he thought: What was Sawyersville coming to? Could it be true? Incredible. He knew. The tears barely could be restrained. He kissed her, so she couldn’t see. He stroked and caressed her, the warm, young lovely—
“Tonight,” He had to say, sealing her lips with a kiss, the tenderest kiss, as his hands slid away from her face, and found her neck, pausing there, caressing it. Her head fell back.
“Tiger—” She said, with a sigh, all set to fly, “Darling —” She said, as he kissed her white throat, exquisitely lovely, beyond any doubt. Lovingly, he caressed her neck, both his hands now doing so. She loved it so.
“1 love it—Oh—” She told him so. Her voice let him know she was ready for more. Her warm form. Her heart pounding hard in that form. He gazed on her. Too lovely. That’s all.
“Nice—you're paradise—” He murmured to her, a million years, more, of sorrow in the tone. . . . His loving hands continued their caress. . . .
“Darling—” She gasped, near a divine state.. . .
Ponce, in the locker room with most of the team, walked around to each of the boys, checking them out. They were all getting their gear on, jazzing around, as they always did before going out on the field, though a little less than usual tonight, of course, in fact, not much at all, to tell the truth. Though things weren’t funereal. Of course. Out of respect for the late Head Cheerleader, things were subdued, though the fire burned. She was missed and mourned, by one and all. Without exception. Ponce knew. They were getting ready and Ponce was glad to see that only a handful of the third team was missing, three or four at most, he noted. There was even a chance they might still show up. He hoped. He had just about stopped hoping for Jim Green though. Well, it would be tomorrow night then. Certainly not later than then. Tiger was a little late getting here tonight, as a matter of fact, but that was understandable, Ponce mused. Was he tied up with Surcher—right now? Ponce was still a little scared about the whole thing, though Tiger had absolutely assured him there was nothing to worry about. He hoped not. He didn’t want to be in the center of all Hell breaking loose— over him. As far as he was concerned, the world never would have been told, no one would have known, the guy could have continued teaching here the rest of his life, as far as he was concerned—if the thing hadn’t happened— that way. And Jim—taken away—What else could he do? Tiger had agreed, totally. He had no choice. . . .
“How’s that shoulder pad, Beep?” Ponce asked a square, monolithic lad, Ralph (Beep) Satchell, that granite lad, their most formidable linesman, a Tackle, and the very best.
“Uh—O.K., Ponce—** the lad replied, in that always surprising high tiny voice, like a little boy’s, “I think.” He said.
“Let’s have a look at it.”
The lad leaned over a foot or so at least to reach Ponce’s level, and that lad checked over the massive shoulder armor carefully. It looked alright.
“Looks alright,” He said, “They did a good job on it.”
“Yeh!” Beep grinned.
Ponce grinned, and slipped on, after slapping him on the elbow, encouragingly. He stopped at the next locker, where another linesman, a massive youth named A1 Bartholomew, Right Guard, though on occasion Left, was making progress.
“Show me your helmet, Saint,” Ponce asked the lad, who fished it out of his locker without a word and tossed it over to that lad. He examined it.
“Aw—I think you better have another one—” Ponce said —“See that crack?”
Saint took a look at it. “Yeh—guess so.” And then he said, “Hey—how’d you know about it?’x
“I noticed you were having trouble with it last practice, Saint,” The boy said.
“Geez, I was!” Saint grinned.
“I’ll get you another one,” Ponce grinned, heading for the Equipment Room, where that young Freshman, Billy King, Ponce’s first assistant, was sorting out a pile of stuff.
“Helmet, Bill,” Ponce said to him.
“Another one?”
“Yeh, Saint cracked it. Same size, of course.”
The youngster found what he needed and handed it over to Ponce. He took the old one from him and threw it in the corner.
“Hey, Ponce—” Then he said.
“Yeh?” the lad said, examining the new helmet, carefully.
“Jim gonna be here?”
“Search me,” Ponce said, “Don’t think so though,” And he was off.
“Where’s Tiger?” The youngster called after him.
“He’ll be here soon,” Ponce assured him.
He handed the new helmet to Saint and resumed his tour. He was thinking of Mona Drake, strangely enough, just at the moment. He had spoken to her about his Trigonometry problem, having cornered her, finally. And she had been real nice to him, agreeing to help him. Tomorrow in the Library they would start, first Study period they got. He was grateful to her, for now, he knew, he would make it. Even if Mummer wasn’t faded. He grinned warmly, within, thinking of Mona Drake. She certainly had been nice to him. It was real nice of her. She was warm and nice.
“Get that shoe fixed, FeefT’ Ponce asked A1 “Fifi” Gaudi, that ramjet of a Fullback, who could carry half the defense on his back, third-highest scorer on the team, no less. He would get Notre Dame, Ponce knew. Tiger had told him.
“Yeh, Ponce—” said the dark-haired, powerful lad, “Billy took care of it—before you came.”
That was alright.
“OK. then,” Ponce responded, “Let’s see it.”
Grinning, Fifi handed it to him. Ponce checked it over. He handed it back to him.
“You could have killed somebody,” Ponce told him.
“Yeh. I know it,” the lad said.
“How’s your brother?” Ponce asked.
“Aw, he’s getting along o.k. O.K.." the Fullback said, “He'll be back in there next week, you’ll see.”
Ponce grinned again, glad to hear it. Fifi’s brother was a Senior at State and not doing too badly. He had hurt his arm last game though. Ponce moved on and checked Slim Elkins. He was alright, anyway. Ponce moved around, checking everybody. “Pope” Poker, that classy left half, was o.k. Ponce checked them all. It was something Tiger had taught him to do, long ago. It was the first thing he asked when he arrived, “Check everybody?” Ponce grinned, moving around, he’d sure hate to ever say “No!” He never would, of course. He loved the game, and the squad. Even the two real solid dumbheads on the squad, no names mentioned of course, good only for plugging a hole once in a while, or warming the bench most of the while. He checked everybody, except Jim Green of course, whom he thought about sadly now as he passed his closed locker. Jerry Konski dressed forlornly near it. His was the last locker.
Pretty Maids All in a Row 259 “What about Jim?” That ace inquired, after Ponce had checked him over. He had a loose hip pad.
“Wish I knew,” Ponce told him, “Maybe Tiger’ll know.” “Geez, I hope so.”
“Better get a new hip pad,” Ponce told him, moving on. Tiger hadn’t arrived yet. Ponce walked back to the Coach’s room just a little bit concerned. Some of the boys were already starting to file out of the locker room on their way to the field. Dink, just pulling his sweatshirt on, stuck his head in the room.
“Tiger here?”
“He’ll be here soon.”
Tiger, walking along the hallway, reflected on the innumerable and indecipherable, not to mention inescapable, paradoxes of life, in particular human life, ironical to the nth degree, all of them. He couldn’t get over it. What exactly kept them from utterly annihilating all life, once their full propensities were realized? Was it love, that divinely mitigating force, only? It must be. For every human being, Tiger mused, every single solitary human being with any kind of mentality at all beyond an idiot came to realize, sooner or later, somewhere within himself, the power and presence of these stark, awful paradoxes, propensities and all. Even Cornpone. For example, Tiger mused, he loved Looby Loo not a jot less than the most happily hitched-up man could ever hope to, in fact he adored her. He was madly in love with her, had always been and very likely always would be, till death did them part, without a doubt. He remembered that line from their marriage ceremony in her own church, that sweetest church in all of Sawyersville, a dozen or so years ago. It had a special flavor about it, that church, being in the colonial style, which Tiger was especially fond of. In fact, it was his favorite style. And yet, Tiger mused, and yet, madly in love as he was with that dream, and, with the possible exception of that exceptional girl, Rochelle, utterly inseparable from her, he had to contend with a thoroughly bizarre dream he had just recalled from the other night. It was the other night. He was holding their pet cat up before her beloved face, that ever-loving face, he was holding it in such a way that its hind end was directly in front of her face. Clearly, an unloving act. Further, as if that weren’t enough, he was asking her, in a most unloving tone, “What the hell's this?" Waving it right in front of her face. But possibly, now that he reflected on it, her answer was the most bizarre part of the dream. It was, “The cat’s ass." Loud, clear, delivered in an extremely unloving way, in fact, a coarse way. Definitely. And that was that. The dream had faded, or certainly he couldn’t recall any more of it. He mused over it, heading for the climax of his full day, Football Practice. The nearer he got to it the more everything else began to slip back into a valley of ever-deepening shadows, no matter how hard he mused. By the time he got there, the shadows had enveloped everything, in fact, the valley itself had disappeared. There was only Football, his mind solely and singularly concentrated on it. As always. It always happened. Whatever the circumstances. Just before he got to the locker rooms he passed that Captain of the Majorettes, Marjorie Evanmore, of course, on her way out to the field with a few of her entourage, and he barely noticed her, returning her greeting automatically, almost. She understood, of course. When he reached the locker room, he was Tiger truly, Sawyersville’s renowned one and only, fabulous Head Football Coach, intensely, singularly. Nothing other. They all knew it, and that was it, in a nutshell, the true secret of his phenomenal success. He knew it. Not now though. Right now he was strictly a walking concentration of power, strategy, and tactics—and more. Possessed and blessed with that rare ability to project this concentration into every single member of his outstanding football squad, down to the dimmest block, including Beep Satchell, that irreplaceable tackle. How much did he weigh now? Tiger wondered, entering the locker room. . . .