The ball there in Trent’s hand, held above his head. The quiet of the room. That chintzy projector, projecting far more than the board. Well, and of course the angry black man would select the frightening black man. And now look, the entire group of men would be made uncomfortably aware of the racial dynamics of reenactment, which was good because white people needed to be far more aware of the subtext of race. Which was terrible, because they were all here to have fun. Derek, too. This was one of his favorite events of the year, even if the other men tended to come on a bit strong. He liked being part of the group, studying film, wearing the uniform. He liked the collective pursuit, each man doing his job so that that play could be successfully catastrophic. So why was he doing this? What was his problem? Why did he insist on turning something fun into a grave American ordeal? What kind of pathology seeks to diminish pleasure and play? Oh, and Derek just knew how it would look if he chose Taylor. Here he had been, playing along for years, lying in wait, biding his time patiently, yearning for his opportunity to play Taylor, to (re)enact, symbolically, racial vengeance not just upon Theismann and the Redskins — good Lord, they were named the Redskins — but upon the man playing Theismann, and upon the whole group of men, and really upon all white people everywhere. It was so obvious that Derek would choose Taylor, for at heart he was just an angry black man. Which he wasn’t, because he would not be reduced like that. Which he was, because who wouldn’t be? Selecting Taylor — it was so clear — would not be an opportunity for racial healing and gentle instruction, but an outright act of hostility and aggression. He, Derek, would not control the meaning and significance of Lawrence Taylor’s sack. Centuries of American history would control the meaning and significance of Taylor’s sack. It was the worst kind of soft, sentimental thinking to imagine that an individual by force of will and conviction might provide. . Plus, Jesus, he detested the thought that such a vexed decision would be regarded as such an obvious decision. And never mind the profound rhetorical challenge of actually uttering his selection of Taylor, of speaking it to the group in a hotel room. If he said it forthrightly, confidently, he would create discomfort and fear. If he shucked and jived to comfort his peers, he would activate his dormant self-hatred. And there were other variations — should he pause, appear to be uncertain — each of them fundamentally dishonest. So okay, over the years it had become pretty clear to Derek that he could not choose Lawrence Taylor, lest he convert the Throwback Special forevermore into a charged racial allegory (which it really already was!), and convert himself from one of the guys to type and ambassador (which he really already was!). But Derek knew that not choosing Taylor was also a decision laden with significance. If he selected another player, he would not be primarily choosing that player; he would first and foremost be
not choosing Taylor. He would in essence be renouncing Taylor and all that Taylor represents. It would be an evasion, a denial. A betrayal? The not-choice would resound as a choice, and quite possibly as deficiency or fear. And whom would he choose instead? He had worked it out many times. He could be black Giants safety Kenny Hill. Yes, he could station himself as far as possible from ball and bones, could in fact move away from the collapsing pocket, far beyond the camera’s eye. He could excise himself from the historical record. That would be a forceful racial statement indeed. Or he could be black Giants linebacker Harry Carson. He could charge with Taylor, swell the progress. He could get to Theismann first, make him step up in the pocket, prepare him for comminution. But that would look to all like Derek wanted to be involved, but could not handle the heavy symbolic burden of Taylor. Or hell, he could go white! This was his way out of the conundrum. This was the escape hatch. He could be Didier! He could be the Redskins second tight end, a beefy Caucasian named Clint. That would show them all! It was devastatingly clever. It was Derek as trickster, subverting the group and the performance through ironic appropriation. Or something. But Derek was not convinced that choosing Clint Didier or any of the other seven white Redskins would actually expose or undermine the system in any meaningful way. It would probably just look odd, and perhaps even cowardly. It might look like he was trying to pass. It might arouse pity. It might appear to be another instance of racial self-loathing. Or it might after all actually be another instance of racial self-loathing. With the first pick — there was no way around this — you were either Lawrence Taylor or you were not Lawrence Taylor, and both choices were fraught. There was no other option. Derek wanted to take a large drink from his beer, but he worried his hand would shake. He was relatively certain that none of the other men, not even Charles, had ever considered the racial dimensions of the lottery, and he knew they would not unless and until the year that Derek’s name was called first. No, not even then. It would not be until Derek spoke, until he chose, at which point Derek would be guilty of introducing an ugly topic into a fun and friendly tradition. He was desperate for the ball in Trent’s raised hand to be his ball, and also for the ball not to be his ball.