The Man Game (70 page)

You got him, Campbell, said a supporter. Filet him like a bloody steak, Campbell.

Don't worry, he said. I named this the Cerebus.

What're you kykying aboot now, Campbell? said Hoss. And then he said: Weeaargh, and staggered backwards as Campbell was on him like a vampire's mandible, faster than poison, knees clenched against his ears, fingers in his nose, headbutting him. Six-seven-eight headbutts until Hoss collapsed on the ground, Campbell doing a three-sixty handstand on his chest before dismounting and immediately retreating four-legged as a canine to his post guarding Furry and Daggett, unmoved but alert to the tremendous and sustained applause, the likes of which the man game had yet to hear.

That was a decent enough move, said Pisk. The Cerebus, eh. I don't think so. Wishful Thinking more like.

And Wishful Thinking it was to be; a point for Campbell no less
{see
fig. 16.1
}
. Hoss was totally brained. Felt like he was rolling the losing numbers to the lottery around inside his head. Campbell skulled him eight times. After that hammering, all that was left for him to gaze at was glittering snowflakes swimming left and right. He didn't even remember to breathe.

Campbell looked a little muted himself. A purple veiny welt started to show up in the middle of his brow and his eyes kept fixating on the bridge of his nose until he squinted to unstick them. If Pisk had been a little closer he would have seen that Campbell wasn't humble so much as completely rocked. His eyeballs wouldn't steady inside their sockets. He'd headbutted Hoss eight times on the brain. He felt a ringing in his ears like he was standing inside a church bell at dusk. His head was making concentric circles around a queasy pivot in his lower gut. The knobby knees were wobbling and so were the bumpy ankles. Pretty soon he'd make two regurgitative belches, and soon after that regain his bearings, satisfied he'd won his first point.

How'd you like the Cerebus? he said out one side of his mouth to Litz once his mind had resettled.

Wishful Thinking.

FIGURE 16.1
Wishful Thinking

Calabi's commentary: You cannot allow your opponent to anticipate what a bloodthirsty parasite you really are, and however painful it might feel as you feed on his skull, keep in mind that you will be awarded the point.

Silas's commentary: Both feet must be above your opponent's waistline before you may begin the headbutts.

'The fuck?

Amateur move, said Pisk.

Unfazed by the patronizing way he'd been given the point, Campbell won his second with an impressive start, an extremely fast and concentratedly difficult solo dance routine that saw him cross-stepping through a heel toe heel toe hip knee hip chest hip chest shoulder shoulder neck spring arm swing, double jeté, head-first divebomb, and barrel roll, up into first position exactly in front of Hoss, grabbing his arms in falling balletic momentum, swooping like the weight on a metronome and dragging Hoss through what was suddenly the original move, the Pisk. Hoss ran with it until Campbell released him out of a pirouette and he toppled to an unspun halt against the shins of laundry-house Chinamen.

Dammit, said Hoss. He brushed the clods of street dirt from his back, thighs, and nostrils. Spat. From these brushing motions he began a subtle, musical shimmy, appreciated by man game veterans and unnoticed by newcomers. The transition then was quick but organic. His hands swept in front of his body as he sidestepped the circumference, backing everyone up a step or two, the dance getting quicker and quicker as he approached Campbell. By this time everyone had cottoned on. This was all of seven steps. Campbell didn't know where to move: back, to the side, or take Hoss face-to-face. On the strength of his two-point lead he decided to meet him head-on, and poised himself thus for a direct blow. Hoss anticipated it and darted left, bodychecked Campbell into the audience who caught him and threw him back into the ring where Hoss took him out of his running stumble, clasped him hand-to-hand, the pink clap of their cold chests colliding heard by one and all—; Hoss bent his knees and leaned back, leveraged Campbell up and over, tossing him into another sea of men who caught him on their hands and fell to the ground in excitement, wailing like children at the edge of a river. Campbell righted himself and strode nonchalantly back to his team while the applause achieved high decibels.

One for Hoss, snarled a gambler.

That's no move, said Campbell. I'm the one who did the mid-air somersault I didn't have to do.

Hoss spat. There was no way of knowing if the move could be duplicated, but no one argued when Hoss was given a point for what he'd done, sending Campbell into the crowd twice like that
{see
fig. 16.2
}
. So it was two-one for Campbell.

The gamblers way down Powell Street at the very back of the crowd only now got word that Campbell had scored his second point.

Meanwhile Hoss tried to duck and dodge Campbell's new tactic, high kicks. He could extend his leg straight out in front of him and put a heel in Hoss's eye if he got the chance. Kept kicking the left leg at him, and Hoss kept avoiding it by rotating up and down through a low crouch and trying to sweep in an ankle kick to get him off his feet. All the while Hoss was keeping his fists at eye level, looking for a strikepath to Campbell's weak jaw, missing each time they'd been fired so far. Eventually the sparring turned into an open telemark, Campbell leading in a foxtrot's natural turn, Hoss taking an outside swivel to a feather end, and Campbell doing a planche freeze and bouche fallaway with a weave ending. Where and how the transition occurred from dance to game point no man could say, but it did, and Campbell was up two. Three-one for Campbell.

An unsettled fever coursed through men in the crowd, a mob who felt alternately discouraged by the lack of blood and
elated by a brand-new move—some of the more ardent followers of the game even took to circling their hats above their heads—a halo spinning on its stick—as an additional way to applaud.

FIGURE 16.2
Flippin the Bird, aka the Hoss

Calabi's commentary: The Hoss is an excellent beginner's move, for it requires only that you properly time your positioning so that you're ready to send your opponent into the crowd.

What was tha
a
mazing move? squealed one adolescent boy with smelting smoke on his neck and hands and a spar in his mouth that smelled of red-haired hemp.

That's the Litz, eh, said the man next to him, a
foundational
move, eh. Pass that here.

That's a nice move, too
{see
fig. 16.3
}
, said the boy.

Hoss finally lost the match to another of Campbell's brand-new moves, a modern galliard in reverse and so even more baroque, even more abstract, the two men stepping in queue, Hoss behind Campbell, wrists bound in Campbell's grip. It looked as if any moment Hoss could undermine everything Campbell had planned. And each time the audience sensed Hoss had a window of opportunity, Campbell sensed it too, and the rhythm increased. It didn't allow either player much room for error, but still it was Hoss who stumbled to keep up. Campbell suddenly torqued Hoss over his back. With his arm behind his back, Campbell had Hoss in an upside-down headlock. Then he let go. It looked like Campbell just let Hoss fall on his ass. Hoss flailed and rolled until he was flat on his back, heezing and wheezing to catch his breath as a paff of dirt resettled around him, on him, in his eyes. He cried and spat and rubbed his chest and lay fetally squirming on the ground while
thousands of men cheered his defeat
{see
fig. 16.4
}

FIGURE 16.3
The Litz, alternative sketch

You'll get yours, said Litz as he came and dragged Hoss back to his side of the ring, and that was also humiliating on top of everything else. But the people loved it.

I'm sorry, Hoss said, finally able to sit up straight. He rubbed away the dirt stuck on his face by spit. There were skids down his chest, bulbs of blood on his elbows. Shit, I'm really fucking sorry.

Not a worry, said Litz. Major move he pulled on you. You played well.

Think so? I listened to what Molly said aboot the fact's not always aboot the fight, it's aboot the show. Guess I didn't learn how to—

Pisk was next to him as well now, and leaning down on his crutches, he said: You lost because you wanted to see what he was doing as much as the rest a us. Don't worry aboot it. Took me and Litz better part a four months to figure out how to do a Hatched Back. If Campbell's learning moves like that, he's practising every day. Who cares? Crowd was entertained, the chickamin is bagged up. Just wait and see how Moe Dee wins it back for us.

I walked out there feeling like I could flip a ship, said Hoss. Dejected and exhausted, he slouched low, and dragging
his knuckles between his legs, said: I did it for the looks in the audience.

FIGURE 16.4
The Hatched Back

Calabi's commentary: The reverse galliard is as difficult as scaling a mountain backwards, and the back-to-front under-arm headlock toss-around should make this move count for two points.

Yeah, said Litz. It's no problem for us. Moe Dee'll take him down.

Moe Dee was already naked. He smelled sourly of something no one could put their finger on, an odious smell, a skookum smell. His socks and drawers lay in a steaming apotropaic bundle next to the stable doors, a space unpopulated by mankind within a ten-foot radius; even the horses cowered at the back of their shelters. Dee clapped his hands together, licked his lips, was on his way. He shouldered to the front of the crowd and did not even bother to ask for pardon, whiplashing bohunks, startling dotards, smacking upside the heads of poltroons, salty dogs, navvies crying back: 'The heck are you—oh … Hey, watch yourself, buddy, eh, ah, oh … What the—,
ohhhh
… Someone's eyes drifted below the
belt
got Dee's elbow in the face. He made a swath through the crowd one elbow at a time. Campbell should have paid attention to those arms. They were the tablets of Moses. Dee fixed himself in the middle of the ring, only five-six feet away from Campbell. He stood with his legs far apart and his hands crossed in front of his chest above that huge waistline, his chin cocked high so that the flaring and dilating of his nostrils was appreciated by all. He said no words, didn't have to. He was here for one reason. Play the man game and win this time.