had other ideas about her life? In college he had envisioned himself a media person, and for a brief moment he was—even if he was only writing sports and advertising copy for a series of limited-market television stations in the Midwest and Northeast. Précising local news, matching text to visuals, boiling down the details of games for a nation of games-watchers—not players, watchers. He was a voyeur then and a voyeur now, only then he was helping people to avoid reality. Now, he thought, he was trying to lead them toward it. For three years he had never missed a big game on TV, his Sundays were constructed around football, telling Lin as he sprawled in front of the screen that on this one day of rest he wasn’t just wasting time puttering around, he was acquiring proficiency in his chosen profession. She didn’t understand. She wanted children, he didn’t. He didn’t understand anymore. He still watched football for relaxation, but he couldn’t believe it was the same person who inhabited his body, a smaller body, the same person Lin had walked out on in the middle of Rose Bowl, 1964. She had kids now, her husband, who was a computer analyst, seemed like a nice guy, he had had dinner with them once, a suburban ranch house in Reading, Massachusetts. The kids had thought his beard was funny. Lin asked him, when her husband went out of the room for a moment, if he was happy. “I’d feel better if I knew you were happy.” He nodded. “I’m happy.” “We were just too young—you know?” “Sure,” he said. He supposed that was it. “I’m happy for you,” she said. “The life you lead seems so—different.”
Different? Different? He supposed she couldn’t think of any other word. Sometimes he imagined himself Howard Cosell at the Super Bowl—there wasn’t any Super Bowl then, nothing was super as far as he remembered it, super had come in with the Beatles, hadn’t it, around that time, when John F. Kennedy was murdered. A super-tragedy. Another spectator sport, another media event, tragedy for the masses. Maybe. Sometimes he wished he could wish it all away, television, satellite broadcasts, telephones, go back to an age of local heroes, neighborhood celebrities like when you were a kid. Someone who, when he walked down the street, could elicit admiration for the way he carried himself, for the way he hit a baseball, for the way he had stood up to old Mr. Murphy, the principal. That was what Hawk had been when he first met him, a local legend, not an international celebrity, not even someone who made the newspapers, just someone who was recognized for what he was, what he did, a man who sprang from his surroundings and could blend back into them if need be, someone who knew who he was. That nobody could ever take away from Hawk, but, Jerry reflected, if anyone could be said to have tried, it was he, who, in calling attention to the very qualities which made Hawk what he was, had taken Hawk out of that self-same environment in which he was comfortable and made him into another Sunday-afternoon hero.
In a gloomy frame of mind he dialed the first number Lori had given him and was surprised when she actually answered. “Oh, I’m really glad you called,” she said in that breathless, fresh tone of voice which promised so much and was as indiscriminately dispensed as her sexual favors. “How’s Hawk?”
“Oh, he’s all right,” said Jerry. “Guess who was in to see him today.”
“I don’t know. Who?”
“Bertha Johnson,” said Jerry flatly.
“Bertha Johnson? Oh wow, you’ve got to be kidding. Cool Mama Johnson? Oh shit, what was she like? I’ll bet she was just smashing, this funky old lady, I mean this fantastically bawdy person who’s really alive and upfront about things. What’d she look like? She was really a beautiful lady when she was younger, you can just tell. Wow, I’d really like to meet her. Oh shit, Jerry, I wish I was there with you. I just can’t get away right now.
Different? Different? He supposed she couldn’t think of any other word. Sometimes he imagined himself Howard Cosell at the Super Bowl—there wasn’t any Super Bowl then, nothing was super as far as he remembered it, super had come in with the Beatles, hadn’t it, around that time, when John F. Kennedy was murdered. A super-tragedy. Another spectator sport, another media event, tragedy for the masses. Maybe. Sometimes he wished he could wish it all away, television, satellite broadcasts, telephones, go back to an age of local heroes, neighborhood celebrities like when you were a kid. Someone who, when he walked down the street, could elicit admiration for the way he carried himself, for the way he hit a baseball, for the way he had stood up to old Mr. Murphy, the principal. That was what Hawk had been when he first met him, a local legend, not an international celebrity, not even someone who made the newspapers, just someone who was recognized for what he was, what he did, a man who sprang from his surroundings and could blend back into them if need be, someone who knew who he was. That nobody could ever take away from Hawk, but, Jerry reflected, if anyone could be said to have tried, it was he, who, in calling attention to the very qualities which made Hawk what he was, had taken Hawk out of that self-same environment in which he was comfortable and made him into another Sunday-afternoon hero.
In a gloomy frame of mind he dialed the first number Lori had given him and was surprised when she actually answered. “Oh, I’m really glad you called,” she said in that breathless, fresh tone of voice which promised so much and was as indiscriminately dispensed as her sexual favors. “How’s Hawk?”
“Oh, he’s all right,” said Jerry. “Guess who was in to see him today.”
“I don’t know. Who?”
“Bertha Johnson,” said Jerry flatly.
“Bertha Johnson? Oh wow, you’ve got to be kidding. Cool Mama Johnson? Oh shit, what was she like? I’ll bet she was just smashing, this funky old lady, I mean this fantastically bawdy person who’s really alive and upfront about things. What’d she look like? She was really a beautiful lady when she was younger, you can just tell. Wow, I’d really like to meet her. Oh shit, Jerry, I wish I was there with you. I just can’t get away right now.
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