taft robinson was the first black student to be enrolled1 at Logos College in west Texas. They got him for his speed.
By the end of that first season he was easily one of the best running backs in the history of the Southwest. In time he might have turned up on television screens across the land, endorsing2 eightthousanddollar automobiles3 or avocadoflavored instant shave. His name on a chain of fastfood outlets4. His life story on the back of cereal boxes. A drowsy5 monograph6 might be written on just that subject, the modern athlete as commercial myth, with footnotes. But this doesn't happen to be it. There were other intonations7 to that year, for me at least, the phenomenon of antiapplause—words broken into brute8 sound, a consequent silence of metallic9 texture10. And so Taft Robinson, rightly or wrongly, no more than haunts this book. I think it's fitting in a way. The mansion11 has long been haunted (double metaphor12 coming up) by the invisible man.
But let's keep things simple. Football players are simple folk. Whatever complexities13, whatever dark politics of the human mind, the heart—these are noted14 only within the chalked borders of the playing field. At times strange visions ripple15 across that turf; madness leaks out. But wherever else he goes, the football player travels the straightest of lines. His thoughts are wholesomely16 commonplace, his actions uncomplicated by history, enigma17, holocaust18 or dream.
A passion for simplicity19, for the true old things, as of boys on bicycles delivering newspapers, filled our days and nights that fierce summer. We practiced in the undulating heat with nothing to sustain us but the conviction that things here were simple. Hit and get hit: key the pulling guard; run over people; suck some ice and reassume the threepoint stance. We were a lean and dedicated20 squad21 run by a hungry coach and his seven oppressive assistants. Some of us were more simple than others; a few might be called outcasts or exiles; three or four, as on every football team, were crazy. But we were all— even myself—we were all dedicated.
We did grass drills at a hundred and six in the sun. We attacked the blocking sleds and strutted22 through the intersecting ropes. We stood in what was called the chute (a narrow strip of ground bordered on two sides by blocking dummies) and we went one on one, blocker and passrusher, and handfought each other to the earth. We butted23, clawed and kicked. There were any number of fistfights. There was one sprawling24 freeforall, which the coaches allowed to continue for about five minutes, standing25 on the sidelines looking pleasantly bored as we kicked each other in the shins and threw dumb rights and lefts at caged faces, the more impulsive26 taking off their helmets and swinging them at anything that moved. In the evenings we prayed.
I was one of the exiles. There were many tunes27, believe it, when I wondered what I was doing in that remote and unfed place, that summer tundra28, being hit high and low by a foaming29 pair of 240pound Texans. Being so tired and sore at night that I could not raise an arm to brush my teeth. Being made to obey the savage30 commands of unreasonable31 men. Being set apart from all styles of civilization as I had known or studied them. Being led in prayer every evening, with the rest of the squad, by our coach, warlock and avenging32 patriarch. Being made to lead a simple life.
Then they told us that Taft Robinson was coming to school. I looked forward to his arrival—an event, finally, in a time of incidents and small despairs. But my teammates seemed sullen33 at the news. It was a break with simplicity, the haunted corner of a dream, some piece of forest magic to scare them in the night.
Taft was a transfer student from Columbia. The word on him was good all the way. (1) He ran the hundred in 9.3 seconds. (2) He had good moves and good hands. (3) He was strong and rarely fumbled34. (4) He broke tackles like a man pushing through a turnstile. (5) He could passblock—when in the mood.
But mostly he could fly—a 9.3 clocking for the hundred. Speed. He had sprinter's speed. Speed is the last excitement left, the one thing we haven't used up, still naked in its potential, the mysterious black gift that thrills the millions.
1 enrolled | |
adj.入学登记了的v.[亦作enrol]( enroll的过去式和过去分词 );登记,招收,使入伍(或入会、入学等),参加,成为成员;记入名册;卷起,包起 | |
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2 endorsing | |
v.赞同( endorse的现在分词 );在(尤指支票的)背面签字;在(文件的)背面写评论;在广告上说本人使用并赞同某产品 | |
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3 automobiles | |
n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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4 outlets | |
n.出口( outlet的名词复数 );经销店;插座;廉价经销店 | |
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5 drowsy | |
adj.昏昏欲睡的,令人发困的 | |
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6 monograph | |
n.专题文章,专题著作 | |
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7 intonations | |
n.语调,说话的抑扬顿挫( intonation的名词复数 );(演奏或唱歌中的)音准 | |
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8 brute | |
n.野兽,兽性 | |
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9 metallic | |
adj.金属的;金属制的;含金属的;产金属的;像金属的 | |
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10 texture | |
n.(织物)质地;(材料)构造;结构;肌理 | |
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11 mansion | |
n.大厦,大楼;宅第 | |
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12 metaphor | |
n.隐喻,暗喻 | |
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13 complexities | |
复杂性(complexity的名词复数); 复杂的事物 | |
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14 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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15 ripple | |
n.涟波,涟漪,波纹,粗钢梳;vt.使...起涟漪,使起波纹; vi.呈波浪状,起伏前进 | |
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16 wholesomely | |
卫生地,有益健康地 | |
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17 enigma | |
n.谜,谜一样的人或事 | |
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18 holocaust | |
n.大破坏;大屠杀 | |
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19 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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20 dedicated | |
adj.一心一意的;献身的;热诚的 | |
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21 squad | |
n.班,小队,小团体;vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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22 strutted | |
趾高气扬地走,高视阔步( strut的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23 butted | |
对接的 | |
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24 sprawling | |
adj.蔓生的,不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 );蔓延;杂乱无序地拓展;四肢伸展坐着(或躺着) | |
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25 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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26 impulsive | |
adj.冲动的,刺激的;有推动力的 | |
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27 tunes | |
n.曲调,曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 );调整;(给收音机、电视等)调谐;使协调 | |
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28 tundra | |
n.苔原,冻土地带 | |
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29 foaming | |
adj.布满泡沫的;发泡 | |
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30 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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31 unreasonable | |
adj.不讲道理的,不合情理的,过度的 | |
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32 avenging | |
adj.报仇的,复仇的v.为…复仇,报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 );为…报复 | |
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33 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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34 fumbled | |
(笨拙地)摸索或处理(某事物)( fumble的过去式和过去分词 ); 乱摸,笨拙地弄; 使落下 | |
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