Freak Show

The game. WELL.

The game. HMMMM.

Uh . . . yeah . . . well, ABOUT THAT . . .

You’re probably expecting me to tell you what happened, huh?

That’s not going to happen.

And I’ll tell you why.

I don’t know what happened.

In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a bit of a sissy. It’s true.

I know football like a frog knows bedsheets.

In other words: I’m no FRANK GIFFORD. Hell, I’m not even Kathie Lee.

I mean, I’d love to be able to tell you that in the third quarter, on the fourth down, at the fifty-yard line, Bib did a dropkick and Flip drove it past the line of scrimmage to the end zone to complete the pass and win the game.

But no. I can’t. I’m sorry: I don’t speak heterosexual.

And don’t forget: I had just scored a major social coup. I was delirious. So happy, in fact, that my spirit had left the planet altogether and was tumbling through constellations. I had absolutely no intention of ever coming back to earth, let alone coming back to watch a football game! So my eyes were on the game, sure, but my brain was off swimming through the star clouds of Alpha Centauri!

And if it were up to ME, I’d just end the story back at the float competition. Go out on a high note, you know? THANK YOU AND GOOD NIGHT! Why take chances when you’re as happy as that? That was just the HIGH POINT OF MY LIFE back there. Nothing, ever again, can come as close. So why even try?

But (sigh) that isn’t an option, is it? Life did not just come to a happy halt after my moment in the sun.

No, no, it kept marching right along. And now there’s still the big game, still the dance, then the coronation and the happily-ever-after to get to.

So, okay, damnit.

Okay, I’ll do my ding-dong Billy-best to relay to you the events of the big game.

Because it’s sort of important.

Well, it’s actually PIVOTAL to our story.

So let me close my eyes.

And go back . . . back . . .

REALLY CONCENTRATE. . . .

What do I see?

Tight ends in a big huddle.

I see the Okeechobee Beefsteaks—like battering rams. Like charging bulls.

I see the Beefsteaks ALL OVER our boys. Taking them down.

Tackling. Toppling.

On top of Flip. ON TOP OF FLIP?

I see worried faces . . .

. . . frantic cheerleaders . . . .

I hear the groans from the fans growing louder, more desperate. . . .

I see Dottie Babcock and the God Squad on their knees in the bleachers; I hear them singing “Onward Christian Soldiers” and praying to Jesus to “please protect our boys and give the evil Beefsteaks a pox, a plague of boils, preferably by the next quarter, and please let Flip be Your humble servant and, through him, guide the Manatees to a victory, in Your name. Amen.”

And here’s where I wish most of all that I could tell you exactly what happened.

Because there were only a few seconds left on the clock.

Fifteen seconds (that lasted twenty minutes, but don’t get me started . . .).

We were behind by three points.

In the bleachers everybody was standing. Leaning forward. Mouths open.

Tense. Tenser. Tensest.

Something that could save the game?

Hup! Hup! Here we go!

Manatees and Beefsteaks took their places near the finish line.

Heads down, asses UP.

Flip and Bib exchanged serious, knowing looks.

Bib touched his nose and right cheek. Flip nodded.

The referee guy waved his arms and blew his whistle.

And the clock started counting down again . . .

Something happened.

A BIG something.

A complete and utter Manatee massacre, that’s what happened.

My God, it looked like a Civil War battlefield out there. All our guys were down. Buried.

The Beefsteaks pulled off a collective stomp-down on their sorry, pretty-boy asses.

And every single one of our boys disappeared under an avalanche of beefcake. Beefsteak. Whatever.

I couldn’t see Flip. I couldn’t see Bib.

Gone. Gone. They were all gone.

There was a hush.

Thirteen . . . twelve . . .

Nothing. Not a sound.

Not a whisper of a whimper.

Not a hint of sniffle.

Time slowed down, of course, to the melancholy drip, drip, drip that exists between two spaces when all hope has been lost. . . .

I wish I could tell you about that moment, that eternal moment when there’s no good reason to continue on.

I wish I could explain to you how it happened; why it happened; what we all felt.

But even if I COULD tell you the details of that once-upon-a-time between thirteen and twelve seconds . . .

And even if it was a full-on, balls-to-the-wall, moment-to-moment, play-by-play account of what went down . . .

It wouldn’t really matter.

Because I could NEVER—

NEVER, EVER! . . . POSSIBLY . . .

Tell you about what happened NEXT!

I could NEVER do justice to this part of the story. If SHAKESPEARE, himself, came down from heaven with HOWARD COSELL at his side . . . and TOGETHER, they entered my body and took control of my mouth to tell the rest of the story . . . well, it still wouldn’t do it justice.

You could never know the thrill that was felt when at twelve seconds . . .

There was a GRUNT!

And great movement from the bottom of a Beefsteak pile . . .

UP! CAME! FLIP!

He’s UP and OUT, and SOARING toward heaven!

And we are now at ten seconds. . . .

See how bad I am?

Because here I’ve forgotten to mention that the ball was STILL IN THE AIR, still in play. Like a UFO or genie’s head, it seemed to be hovering in place, hanging in a state of suspension. . . . Huh? I know . . . I know. . . . So clumsy. . . .

I’m not worthy.

My tongue isn’t worthy of your noble ears.

But yes, the ball is still in the air, still soaring.

Still in play . . .

Nine seconds . . .

Eight and a half . . .

And Flip leaps, lightning quick, UP from the pile, OUT from under. He reaches UP, UP, and grabs for the ball . . .

THE BALL OF DESTINY . . .

That has been waiting for him, waiting for him to recapture after all these years. . . .

And here is where Time did a nutty little twist on itself. It circled ’round and doubled back, and . . .

SUDDENLY, we were back to that first moment of Flip’s first glory.

We were there and we were here.

It was all rolled up together.

We were existing outside the laws of reason. . . .

Flip was, once again and forever, a hero, our hero. ’Twas ever thus. He’s always been there saving the day, and now so are we. He did it then, and he’s doing it now.

Now and then and again.

One Flip. Forever and ever.

Look at him soar! See the light in his eyes!

The flame of greatness burns so brightly in him!

He’s soaring into the air again, OUR HERO!

YES. He reaches for the ball.

HE REACHES OUT TO GRAB THE BALL.

AND HE ALMOST HAS IT! YES!

I can’t tell you.

I can’t say it.

No, and this time I really mean it.

Oh. Oh. Oh, dear. Oh no. Oh my, oh my.

The horror! The shock!

See here! See now!

Flip trips, flops, and drops back to the ground.

Yes. That’s right: Flip flopped.

Flip fell to the ground.

He hit the field, and there was the very loud CRACK! of something important being broken. Was that the shattering of a kneecap? The snapping of a femur? The hobbling of a foot? Whatever. He hit the ground, and his whole life burst into a million little pieces.

Funny, how life will do that.

Funny, that it did that to Flip. Of all people.

Now. Just when we needed him most.

OH! OH! BUT NOW!

THERE’S MORE!

We were all so focused on Flip, poor Flip and his doomed leap for the ball . . .

We never even noticed that BIB . . .

Bib, TOO, had come up out of his own pile of Beefsteaks, just a few steps away.

And maybe it was because we failed Plane Geometry or were too intent on making Flip our hero once again, but it seems perfectly obvious NOW that the ball’s trajectory was always out of Flip’s reach, that he never even had a chance. BUT if you actually followed the ball’s arc and did all the proper calculations, you would see that it WAS about to fall DIRECTLY INTO BIB’S HANDS!

And nobody noticed this!

Not one person!

Even as it was happening!

Why, even BIB looked at the ball that SUDDENLY, MAGICALLY, landed in his hands with all the shock of a man suddenly brought back to life.

He was given another chance.

With six and a half seconds left—

He didn’t think, he didn’t plan.

He just reacted.

And he was OFF!

Six seconds left! Just six seconds!

He was like a flood, a flash flood, racing, crashing, pushing forward.

Sweeping faster and faster across the field.

A force of nature.

Half running, half tumbling, half leaping, leaping . . .

Five . . . four . . . three . . .

Leaping, flying . . .

And as he slid into . . .

The crowd went NUTS!

The ball was in the zone, or behind the line, or past the marker, or he had slid into home plate, OR WHATEVER!

Apparently, he did it! He made it! He SAVED THE GAME!

And lo, there were great WHOOPS of joy, and savage WOOT WOOTs, and thrilling ULULATIONS that rang through the night air.

The dam burst. The crowd surged from the bleachers onto the field, past Flip, poor Flip, hobbled and humbled, alone and in need of emergency care—they ran onto the field and lifted Bib up and carried him on their shoulders.

Once again God had seen fit to bestow upon our school another miracle.

Bib was up. Flip was flat.

So, tell me: For a sissy-faggot who wasn’t paying attention, how’d I do? Do I have a career in sportscasting?