The Troubled Air by Irwin Shaw Page A

Archer was surprised. Herres played with cold recklessness, backing up the line on defense and throwing himself at charging blockers with insane disregard for what Archer, who was a sedentary man, would have felt were the most rudimentary rules of self-preservation. Archer used his glasses almost all the time and found himself following Herres rather than the game. Herres hurt people when he hit them, brushing through blockers with his hands swinging cruelly and tackling savagely, even when a ball carrier was stopped by other men or herded against the sidelines so that a mere push would have sufficed to throw him out of bounds. And when his team had the ball he blocked the same way, with that ferocious, cold tenacity, knifing into tacklers’ legs with long, lunging dives or driving them with his shoulders, his helmet bobbing up into their chins, hitting, it seemed, harder and harder as the game wore on. And when he carried the ball, he barely deigned to twist or dodge, but plunged disdainfully and with furious power into tacklers, knocking them over, trampling on them, carrying them on his back as he plowed on. Without knowing much about the game, Archer understood that Herres was an unpleasant and discouraging man to play against.
    There was something curious about the way he played, different from the rest of the boys on the field. He seemed to do everything impersonally. When the others would congratulate a man after a play or cheer each other on, he remained out of it. Between plays he stood by himself, his hands on his hips, not seeming to listen to the other players or notice them. And in the time outs he walked off by himself and got down on one knee to stare placidly at the crowd.
    “He shouldn’t do that,” Archer heard Nancy say during one time out, when Herres as usual, went off toward the sideline, and with his back half-turned from the men on his team grouped around the waterboy, knelt and played with a blade of grass at his feet.
    “Shouldn’t do what?” Archer asked.
    “Go off by himself like that all the time,” Nancy said. “The other boys don’t like it. They think he’s stuck-up.”
    Archer smiled at the childish phrase.
    “It’s not so funny,” Nancy said. “Sully’s come to me to ask him to change. They don’t like him, really. They think he’s making fun of them all the time. They won’t elect him captain for next year, Sully says, even though he’s the best player on the team.”
    “Did you tell him?”
    “No,” said Nancy.
    “Why not?”
    “Because nobody can tell him anything,” Nancy said soberly. “Especially not his girl. That’s the wonderful thing about him. Do you want another drink?”
    Archer looked at her gravely. There was a lot more here than just two children holding hands on the way to a history class. Archer had the feeling that if he asked if she were Herres’ mistress she would answer, surprised at the question, “Of course. Didn’t you know?”
    “Yes,” Archer said, “I’d love a drink.”
    “Don’t leave me out,” Kitty said, from the other side, her cheeks bright from the cold and the chrysanthemum shedding its petals in a yellow shower over her coat. “I’m numb.” She drank from the flask. “Oh, glory,” she said, “I’m going to become a sportswoman. You’re so lucky, Nancy, to have a man who gets you out into the open air every week.”
    I’m not so sure, Archer thought as he took the flask, I’m not sure at all how lucky she is.
    Just before the end of the game a fight broke out on the field. The visiting’ team was behind by three touchdowns and felt punished and humiliated. Their tempers were touchy and when one of the defending backs was knocked down after the play was over he got up swinging. In ten seconds there was a melee around the two players, with fists flailing among the helmets. Almost all the players, including the substitutes on both benches, rushed to the scene and joined in. Only Herres, who had not been in on