Notre Dame 52, Iowa 10
GOD MAY BE dead, for all I know, but Our Lady's Eleven seemed to have some twelfth and ominous player on the field, making things fall their way. I could sense some Holy Power believing in them, even before the game. I sold two Notre Dame Pennants to every Iowa one - a sure sign that some faith was abroad in the land. Or else some pessimism, a defensiveness on the part of the home town rooters; fearing the worst, they were not going to be further humiliated by being seen with an Iowa pennant. They filed empty-handed into the stadium, a subtle green tie here and green socks there: if Iowa lost, they could always claim to be Irish, and there would be no Hawkeye button or cowbell to incriminate them.
Oh yes, you could tell by the concession sales: The Fighting Irish - Mary's Team, the Pontiff's Maulers - had something special going for them.
But I missed the game; I was spared that pain. I had a disaster of my own.
With my awkward plywood board (a weak hasp holds an easel stand behind it, but the whole thing is too unsteady to resist the wind), I am hawking my wares by the end-zone gate. And since only students and last-minute ticket-buyers get end-zone seats, it is not the concession stand available to the upper-crust of pennant, button and cowbell buyers.
I am selling my sixth Notre Dame pennant when I see little Lydia Kindle, swaying along with an utter Glork of a boyfriend. I swear the fierce wind died for a second, heavy with the scent of her hair! And I stop my insane clamoring with a cowbell; I cease chanting, 'Pennants! Buttons! Cowbells! Satisfying stadium cushions! Rain hats! Say it for Iowa or Notre Dame!'
I watch Lydia flutter along; her boyfriend scuffs beside her; the wind buffets her against him, and they're laughing. It would be more than I could stand if she should see me blue-cold and huddled by my garish showboard, hawking junk in loutish English, without a lilting trace of Old Low Norse on my tongue.
I dart behind my showboard, crouched with my back against the thing; the wind performs alarming unbalancing feats. Just in case, I unpin my hideous Hawkeye Enterprise button, No. 501, and cram it, with my yellow change apron, into the side-pouch of my parka. Then I lurk quietly behind the board. As her Glork announces, 'Hey, whattaya know, Lid? Nobody watching the old board here. Have a button.' And I hear her giggle.
But Glork doesn't quite have the knack for removing a pin from the cloth strips that swaddle the board, and he must be anxious to do his deed and run, for I can feel him tugging and wrenching so hard that I have to hug the easel stand to keep the whole apparatus from falling. Then I hear one of the cloth strips rip, and out the corner of my eye I
see a string of Iowa buttons flap in the wind. Yes, the wind, or the combination of the wind and Lydia Kindle's boyfriend's last hard yank: I feel my balance lost, my dignity in motion. The showboard is falling.
'Look out!' cries my bright-voiced Lydia. 'It's coming over on you!' But the Glork doesn't quite step back in time, not before he's trapped by the descending, seven-foot rectangle of what he suspects is only light plywood. He puts up a casual hand to catch it; he doesn't know I'm riding it down on him, like a 180-pound raft. And when it pins him to the cement, he lets out a terrible yell; the board, I feel, is splitting along my spine; I can feel him weakly scratching through the wood under me. But paying him no mind, I simply look up to Lydia.
'Klegwoerum,' I tell her. 'Vroognaven okthelm abthur, awf?'
She gawks while the board struggles under me. I change my language and garble German up to her: 'Wie gehts dir heute? Hoffentlich gut.'
A muffled grunt under the board. I sit up slowly, with a lofty air about me, and say a little over seriously, as if rudely awakened, 'What's going on here, Lydia?'
Immediately defensive, she says, 'The board fell over.' As if I didn't know. I stand up, and the Glork scuttles out from under my fallen wares looking like a little crushed crab.
'What in hell are you doing there?' I ask him, just to put him on the defensive.
'Suffering shit!' he cries. 'I was just taking one mucking pin!'
Fatherly, almost, I take Lydia's arm, pronouncing over the kneeling Glork, 'Watch your language, kid ...'
'What?' he hoots. 'Is this your board?'
'Mr Trumper runs my language lab,' Lydia tells him icily - as if this makes impossible any connection I might have with these cheap wares.
But the Glork isn't convinced. He straightens up, visibly in pain, and says, 'Well, what were you doing behind this damn board?'
'Why ... the vender ...' I say, 'the vender had to leave it here a moment. Passing by, I offered to watch it for him while he was gone.' And attempting to divert this conversation from scrutiny, I point out to the Glork that this vender would surely be upset at the condition of his board. Didn't the Glork think he should make amends?
A momentous moment. Worshipful Lydia Kindle, adoring me - a man of my talents and tastes, big and unsnobbish enough to stoop to help the most lowly vender. A humanist comes into young Lydia's life! At this peak of glory, I am even not above lifting the showboard upright while the Glork fumes beside it, fumbling the button out of his pocket, murmuring 'Come on, Lid, we'll miss the game.'
Then I see Fred Paff, hawkish concession sales head for Hawkeye Enterprises, cruising the end-zone gate. Seeing how things are selling, no doubt. And he spots me and my mauled board. And I'm not wearing my proper identification pin, and I am not girdled in my stunning yellow change apron.
'I say, your boy's right, you know,' I tell Lydia quickly. 'Better get going or you'll miss the kickoff.'
But her adoration is too great; she just gapes at me.
'Go on!' I beg them, and the Glork takes Lydia's elbow.
But it's too late; Fred Paff is upon us. I smell his approaching tweeds nearby; I hear his jowls flapping in the wind; he is athletically deodorized and powdered, sucking big-winded breaths beside me, robust, on the prowl.
He booms, 'Trumper! So where's your Hawkeye pin, boy? Where's your change apron? And what in filthy hell has happened to your board?' I can't look at him as he flicks at the string of buttons trailing on the ground. He draws in his scented breath at the sight of that fine cloth strip that's been ripped. I simply can't talk. Fred Paff clomps on my shoulder. 'Trumper?' he says, almost brotherly. It's more than I can bear; he's fondling me like a wounded dog. He gropes in my parka pouch, pulls out the awful evidence - my yellow change apron and my ID badge, No. 501. 'Fred?' he says gently. 'Fred, what's wrong with you, boy?'
'Ha?' cries the Glork. 'He's the vender!'