The Game Player

By Rafael Yglesias

This critically acclaimed novel from a master of contemporary American fiction is a story of genius, performance, and the psychological forces that drive the competitive spirit

Brian Stoppard is blessed with prodigious natural talents. Howard Cohen, less so. Starting in middle school in New York, Howard watches Brian effortlessly win at everything he tries: He’s a natural chess champion, a perfect athlete, a brilliant student. As the two move through life as friends and competitors, Brian’s easy success is a constant source of envy, awe, and inspiration for the ambitious but less-gifted Howard. Told with great humor and style, The Game Player is a story of those born to greatness and those who must strive for it. This ebook features a new illustrated biography of Rafael Yglesias, including rare photos and never-before-seen documents from the author’s personal collection.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Dec 14, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453210352

Rafael Yglesias

  Rafael Yglesias (b. 1954) is a master American storyteller whose career began with the publication of his first novel, Hide Fox, and All After, at seventeen. Through four decades Yglesias has produced numerous highly acclaimed novels, including Fearless, which was adapted into the film starring Jeff Bridges and Rosie Perez. He lives on New York City’s Upper East Side.  

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Yglesias

1

… you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot:

—William Shakespeare

IN THE EARLY nineteen sixties I joined one of the most gratuitous and contemptible migrations in history: the middle class deserting the cities for the suburbs. I was not a willing traveler. Indeed, I thought my life (the loyal and charming affections I had won from my twelve-year-old city friends) was forever lost. And the most bitter part of this destruction of my social life was that my parents explained it as being for my benefit.

I thought they were lying, but as I stood on our lawn in front of the cumbersome, dreary house my mother described as cute, and looked at the athletic types who had paused in their play to observe the movement of our furniture inside, I couldn’t imagine what good this would do for them. Dad would have to commute to work and Mom was separated from her friends and her sister—with whom she was neurotically close. It’s thirteen years since this brutal act of theirs, and despite the fact that I eventually loved my new home, I’m still furious about it.

I’ve remained angry because they casually accepted the acute terror I suffered for the first week. I stared at the kids who watched me coyly and thought of them as aliens. The girls, of whom I was generally frightened anyway, seemed more boyish than their city counterparts; there also seemed to be a higher percentage of blondes—and, because of movies, I thought of blondes as being wanton and critical. The boys were bigger, in love with their physiques; while I was short, uncoordinated, without even a sense of humor or reverse snobbishness about my lack of athletic talent. I was embarrassed by their appraising looks and I retreated into the house, but I found little comfort there because its bareness was relieved only by the bright yellow boxes packed with our astounding number of possessions.

As soon as they unloaded it, I plugged the television into the one outlet, soon to be wildly overused, in the room my folks had picked out for me. As I looked around, its noise soothed my oppressed feelings. The house was an A-frame and my room was on the top floor, a converted attic, so the ceiling slanted downward. Its shape seemed so unwieldy that I allowed my mother to decorate the room. She covered the only window with a delicate white lace curtain that I secretly loved but otherwise would have forbidden on a stand of masculinity. The bed had to go where the A reached its lowest point. For the next six years I banged my elbow or my head in various gestures of exuberance while getting in or out of bed. The desk, again too small and delicate for a young man’s taste, went under the window. She found a lovely throw rug somewhere; a small, old rocking chair; and, the one piece of furniture I chose, the swivel chair my father got for ten dollars when his office was redone. My folks built bookcases around the walls of the room and, after a month, I was foolishly in love with the cozy old-fashioned bookishness of the cockeyed room.

It’s lucky I learned to enjoy my room, because I was incapable of leaving it. I peered out my window at the lawns of other houses and tried to get used to these strange versions of children, but if my mother hadn’t gotten one of our neighbors to bring her son over to meet me I might have spent all summer as a voyeur.

Mom told me, years later, that Mrs. Caro, whose son Frank was brought to befriend me, thought it was an odd request and she told the other mothers so, a fact that explains many of the looks the parents of my childhood friends gave me those first months. Frank was only an inch taller than I, an appealing quality, but he was fat, bumbling, and—I was sure—dumb. I greeted him cautiously but he was to the point: There’s a football game starting up the street. Wanna come?

I followed him on the narrow sidewalk, up the hill split in two by a deeply impressed road; the houses, raised above, were surrounded by even lawns whose sudden cliff-like declines glowered angrily at the intrusive strips of cement on which we walked. Large trees had been planted every twenty feet or so on the edge of the lawns and viewing them from below made them seem even more enormous. They excited me. Their huge grandeur and stately isolation meant something to me.

I wanted to be one, I suddenly realized, but it was not a thought to share with Frankie. He plodded on ahead, his shirt hanging out in back, appearing the way I imagined I looked at my worst.

He turned onto one of the steepest driveways and, as we walked past the house, I heard the voices of kids discussing rules. On the other side of the house, away from the road, was a stretch of cleared land bordered by trees and there a group of ten were arguing. Actually, only two of them were talking. One was a red-haired boy who, though not tall, was powerfully built; and the other boy was very tall, thin, dark, and apparently the master.

The red-haired boy, Danny, spoke rapidly, with an excited energy that had him spitting his words. He ignored our arrival but the tall dark boy turned his head and deliberately investigated me from head to toe.

Danny continued his rundown of the ground rules despite his tall friend’s distraction, and Frankie also ignored Danny’s chatter by saying, Brian, this is the new kid—Howard.

Hello, Brian said.

Are you listening? Danny demanded of him. For Christ’s sake!

Brian’s large, exotic, cold black eyes moved from my direction and glanced at Danny contemptuously. Calm down, Dan. We all know about this shit. His voice was a mix of boredom and anger. It was quiet, but compelling. Everybody, this is Howard.

I said hello to them and Frank told me their names but I couldn’t retain them, especially since none of the remaining eight boys were as strong as Danny or as tall as Brian.

They told me the rules and I was worried by their unusual roughness. Touch football in the city was just that: a tackle of the ball carrier consisted of slapping both hands on the player, and no blocking or other physical contact was permitted. Tackling was the same but a chuck was allowed to replace the blocking of tackle football. A chuck, they explained, was a shove, hard and fast enough to bowl one over, delivered only with the hands. Just one per player was legal and body blocking or tripping was not. There were other details—such as how they measured the distance required for a first down—but only the last one, which team I would play on, interested me. Frank began the process by asking, Which team do we play on?

You’re on my team, Dan said to me.

That’s unfair, one of the boys on Brian’s team said. We should choose for Howard.

I felt Frank’s pain at this remark as if it were my own. Shut up, Brian said in his controlled voice. Dan, you’ve got Howard. Let’s play.

It was exciting to trot in unison with my group to our end of the field. We lined up to receive the kickoff—another difference from city football, where it is thrown—since this was a real kick. The ball jumped off the kicker’s foot with a loud, hollow thud and my glee evaporated at the sight of their team charging us while we waited nervously for Dan to catch it. Our team was not permitted to move until he did and the ball had been kicked so high that they were past us and surrounding Dan before it landed. Dan screamed, Fair catch, fair catch, and caught the ball with a loud smack in his folded arms, as if it were a baby, dropping to his knees and clutching it to his belly. An opponent put two hands on his back lightly, briefly, though it being a fair catch made that unnecessary.

Great kick, baby, someone on the opposition yelled, while my teammates crowed, Beautiful catch. This was for real. We huddled quickly, expectantly, and I found myself next to Danny. He put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. Can you catch? he asked.

I don’t know.

My teammates made sounds of disapproval. Well, you’ve played before, haven’t you? Dan released his grip on my shoulder and put out his hands in front of me, saying, "Watch the ball and guide it into here with both hands. He put his hands, palms up, next to each other and drew them towards the crook of his armpit. You have played before?" he insisted.

Oh, yeah.

Okay. They won’t expect this, see? You run about ten steps out—straight—and then turn to face me and go sideways to the trees. I’ll hit you right there in the hands. He looked at the others. Jay, you go deep. Bill, turn out on the other side and, Jim, you go up the middle, short. Snap it on three. He clapped his hands and we broke up the huddle, trotting to where our opponents had lined up.

Frank watched my movements and placed himself opposite me. We rush on five Mississippi, a foe said, and I heard Dan’s voice yelling, "Hut-one, hut-two, hut-three!"

As I began to run and saw Frankie’s apprehensive eyes I realized how frightening my assignment was—he was definitely going to throw to me. I felt awkward and the particulars of Dan’s instructions seemed unbearable. It was unnatural to count silently while trying to lose Frankie and I feared that when I reached the tenth step, he would still be in my way, blocking my move to the left. I heard the loud calling of the Mississippis and they became confused with my private numbers. So when I heard the yell of the pass rush I cut left immediately, turning my head and taking long floppy steps towards the trees. I saw Danny’s intent, harassed face and then the professional, hard snap of his arm releasing the ball.

It was well thrown, rotating like a bullet, but that was what made it so difficult to catch. It tore through my hands and its point rammed into my chest, emptying my lungs of air. The ball bounced away and I fell to the ground.

I lay there feeling the novel sensation of a sharp pain in my breast bone, wondering if it could break, and listening to the voices of my teammates to gauge their disappointment. Frankie extended a hand to help me up and I took it gratefully. He asked if I was okay and I said, yes, bravely.

Come on, Dan yelled to me from the huddle my team had already formed. I ran to them and Dan said, Just do the same thing.

It’s not gonna work, I thought, and wearily returned to the line of scrimmage. I assumed we would go on hut-three again, but instead everybody moved on two. Frankie rushed past me and I rejoiced at the thought that this would guarantee my catching the pass, until I heard yelling and movement to the right of me. Danny was running the ball around the other end and I was amazed by how brutal the chuck was in practice. Dan ran behind two blockers who knocked over the men immediately in front of them; but then I saw Brian rush between them, his long arms waving, so that he looked like a strange bird, and I held my breath when it seemed that he and Dan would collide. Suddenly Brian stepped to one side of Dan and slapped him hard on the back as he passed. The sound echoed in the trees and all movement seemed to stop instantly.

The play had achieved half of what we needed for a first down so Dan called it again, advising one boy he called Tom to get Brian. We went up to the line but our opponents were still talking in their huddle. I noticed that actually only Brian was speaking—in a low, intent whisper that one could hear but not distinguish.

We snapped the ball on three when they were ready and I decided to let Frankie go past me unmolested since that action took him out of the play. I watched Dan’s Mockers move ahead to protect him, but our opponents, instead of rushing up to the blockers, just stayed in front of them. They didn’t try to get past to reach Dan, they simply obstructed. Dan looked bewildered at the clogged mass facing him and then broke back toward the middle of the field and I watched in horror as I saw Frank, waddling violently, run up and tag him.

Aw shit! Dan screamed and he slammed the football on the ground. Where the fuck were you? he demanded of me.

Sorry, I said in a humiliated whisper.

Jesus Christ!

Are you gonna punt or start praying? Brian asked.

We kicked the ball to them and I was surprised that Brian wasn’t quarterbacking the team. He seemed to be calling the plays in the huddle but their quarterback was a blond boy, not much taller than I, with large, wondering blue eyes. They ran two running plays, first around their left side and then their right side—and had enough for a first down. They stayed on the ground for two more plays, the last one up the middle (which didn’t do as well), so that they needed three or four yards on third down. They threw their first pass—a high, slow lob that wobbled awkwardly in the air—to Brian, who was only five yards up the field, closely covered by Dan. Only Brian’s astonishing reach, his thin arms aloft, made it a successful pass and a first down.

They moved three quarters of the way up the field in this fashion: short passes, all of them to Brian, and modest running plays. One had the feeling that they could be stopped at any moment—indeed, if Brian had dropped any of the four third down passes thrown to him, we would have stopped them. But he caught them casually without any gestures of triumph and none of my teammates seemed surprised, either, at the leaping grabs it took to catch them.

I was covering Frankie, of course, and though both of us were totally uninvolved by the plays, he hustled on all of them. He ran his pass patterns studiously and did his best to shove me to the ground on running plays, even if the action was taking place on the other end of the field. By the time they had reached deep into our territory I was worn out by him and by their boring offense. I was convinced that they were unstoppable and I was really past caring.

They snapped the ball after one of Brian’s miracle catches for a first down and I halfheartedly ran after Frankie, who rushed at top speed to our end zone. I stopped following him when I heard a commotion and turned to see Brian running with the ball. Two of my teammates, one on each side, were right behind him and he was coming directly at me. There was nothing between him and a touchdown but me and my two hands. The sight of me standing in his way had no effect on his speed or determination. His dark face was flushed with effort and anger. I put my hands out, expecting that he would try to dodge them, and he did take a step, just before reaching me, to his left. I leaned in that direction instinctively and had no time to react when he cut back and bore straight at me. I moved aside, twisted my body, but left my two hands out there, at the ends of my rigidly locked arms. He banged into them and went past me.

I can still hear it. Snap. Just like breaking a stick in two. I dropped to my knees and held my left arm by the wrist across my stomach. I felt nauseated and the world, its sound and lights, were compressed into a small circle in front of me. Everything suddenly seemed slower and more frightening. I was very far away from the kids who quickly gathered around me; and my hurt at hearing Danny’s remark that I was a punk for falling to my knees was something very distant from my center. I suddenly felt weaker and more real, so I stood up to say, It’s broken. Call somebody. I realized I was almost crying.

It’s not broken, Danny said.

Brian was at my side and he looked warmly into my eyes. What happened?

I heard it crack. I know it’s broken. I can feel the bone move. I said that as I felt it for the first time. I had lifted my left wrist with my right hand only a fraction of an inch and I felt the immediate pain and strange movement of something sharp in my arm.

Brian nodded and said to the blond boy, Adam, get my first-aid kit and tell my mother to call his house. Is somebody there? he asked me.

I think so.

The other boys were watching me with a mixture of curiosity and terror, except for Dan, who said, It can’t be broken.

Dan, please be quiet, Brian said firmly. He pointed to a bench at the edge of the trees. Let’s move there so I can put a splint on it, he said to me. We moved slowly towards the bench, Brian supporting me by putting his arm across my shoulders. He motioned Adam, returning with a red cross-emblazoned kit, to the bench. While he removed a splint from the kit and a cloth to be used as a sling, I watched a woman approach us from the house.

Brian was carefully adjusting the splint when she arrived. How are you feeling? she asked me sweetly. I called your mother. She’ll be right over and I gave her the name of a good doctor.

Brian put the sling under the splint and around my neck, saying, Try not to move it, okay?

Can I give you something? his mother asked.

No, Mom, he’s probably nauseous. Brian looked at me for confirmation and I nodded.

I’m all right, I said weakly.

You’re very brave, she said so simply that I was not embarrassed.

They slowly walked me to the house. I would feel faint for a moment and then suddenly exhilarated. The variations made the walk long and oddly beautiful. Brian seemed to know exactly how I felt. He would stop just when I couldn’t go on and start just as I felt better. By the time we reached the driveway my mother’s car pulled in wildly and she rushed out, obviously hysterical. She kissed me much too possessively and then settled down to watch Brian help me into the car while she got instructions from Brian’s mother about how to get to the doctor, turning down her offer of driving us there.

It took a while to have the arm X-rayed and to go to the specialist who fitted me for the cast. I had discussed how it happened several times but it was only when we were home having tea and cookies and I felt very protected and happy that I mentioned what bothered me. After another telling of how Brian’s movements got me into such an awkward position, Mom said, So it was a freak accident.

They way he came at me, Mom, it was unnecessary. It wasn’t exactly—I searched for the word—premeditated. But, somehow, he meant to hurt me.

2

The rent of land is established through the struggle between tenant and landlord. Throughout political economy we find that the hostile opposition of interests, struggle, and war are acknowledged as the basis of social organization.

—Karl Marx

I DIDN’T MIND having the cast except when I had to sleep. The only comfortable way to lie down was on my back and I had never slept in that position. Even that had its pleasures: I was not harassed about being awake late at night and I enjoyed sitting up until two or three in the morning, drinking tea and reading after the late movie on television. The broken arm also excused me from playing athletic games and that was a relief.

My only concern was how far back this would set me in terms of making friends in the neighborhood. And the unpleasantness of the football game made me wonder if I cared to fit in, though I don’t think my rejecting the suburb kids was a luxury I thought I could afford. After a few days, whatever pain the arm would occasionally give me disappeared and I was left with the constant itch the cast caused. I was shifting back and forth, somehow thinking this would relieve the irritation, while reading a particularly exciting passage in a mystery, when I heard our doorbell ring; and shortly after, the sound of Brian’s voice asking if he could see me.

I quickly put away the mystery (a literary snob even then) and looked around the room hurriedly to see if there were any other embarrassing items. Mom had cleaned it up, luckily, so I tried to look casual. Mom and he appeared at the door. Hello, he said.

I’ll leave you two to your own devices, my mother said. Unless you’d like a snack or something.

Nothing for me, Mrs. Cohen.

I nearly forgot to answer my mother because I was so astonished by Brian’s competent refusal of her offer. I’m okay, Ma.

How’s the arm? Brian asked.

I listened for my mother’s steps on the staircase before I answered. It’s fine except that the cast makes my skin itch.

He nodded and slowly walked around the room, looking carefully at the books. It’s a nice room.

I waited respectfully while Brian methodically checked the items in my room, picking up one of the books from my father’s Dickens set, and unselfconsciously reading a page. I was amazed by the concentration he brought to every act; and by his lack of worry about speaking to me. At last he settled on my bed and looked at me pleasantly. You seem kind of happy to have a cast and be sitting reading.

How did you know I was reading?

He laughed. Don’t tell me you’ve been sitting in that chair doing nothing.

"No. But how did you know what I was doing?"

The TV is unplugged and tucked away under the bookshelves and there are a lot of books here. I figure that’s what you’d be doing.

I was.

Were you reading him? He pointed toward the Dickens set.

I nodded yes, unable to speak the lie.

Which one?

Great Expectations.

He smiled and said without any pause, I’m sorry I broke your arm, but at least you’re getting an education out of it.

It wasn’t an apology in any real sense but his tone was appealing and I wasn’t offended. Not your fault.

I didn’t intend it, but it was my fault. Brian seemed almost annoyed at having to point out