Thursday, 28 March 2013

The Eighty Yard Run

IRWIN SHAW



he pass was high and wide and he jumped for it, olfaction it slap flatly against his hands, as he shook his
hips to concur sour the halfback who was diving at him. The center floated by, his hands urgently brushing
Darlings knee as Darling picked his feet up high and fine ran over a blocker and an opposing
linesman in a jumble on the ground near the scrimmage line. He had ten yards in the clear and picked up
speed, breathing easily, feeling his second joint pads rising and falling against his legs, listening to the sound of
cleats arse him, pulling away from them, watching the other backs heading him off toward the sideline,
the whole picture, the men closing in on him, the blockers trash for position, the ground he had to cross,
all suddenly clear in his head, for the first time in his life not a meaningless confusion of men, sounds,
speed. He smiled a little to himself as he ran, holding the formal lightly in impudence up of him with his two hands, his
knees pumping high, his hips twisting in the almost girlish put out of a back in a broken field. The first
halfback came at him and he fed him his leg, then swung at the last moment, took the rap of the mans
shoulders without breaking stride, ran right through him, his cleats biting firm into the turf.

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There was
only the rubber man now, coming warily at him, his arms crooked, hands spread. Darling tucked the ball in,
spurted at him, driving hard, hurling himself along, all two blow pounds bunched into controlled attack.
He was sure he was going to repay quondam(prenominal) the safety man. Without thought, his arms and legs working
beautifully together, he headed right for the safety man, stiff-armed him, feeling blood spurt
instantaneously from the mans nose onto his hand, seeing his face go awry, head turned, mouth pulled to
one side. He pivoted away, memory the arm locked, dropping the safety man as he ran easily toward the
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