Life Its Ownself Read Online Free
Author: Dan Jenkins
Tags: Fiction, General, Performing Arts, Texas, History & Criticism, Television, Football Stories, Television Broadcasting
ignored.
The Time critic wrote:
In The Grade-B Plot , First Novelist Marvin (Shake) Tiller, a former professional football player, devotes 279 pages to the question of inaccessibility. Exactly how far should the writer remove himself from his characters and story? Tiller would have us believe there is no limit.
"What'd I do wrong?" Shake asked his agent.
"You didn't take any risks," Sylvia Mercer said. "You didn't stretch yourself."
"I was too busy typing."
The commercial failure of Shake's novel drove him straight into non-fiction. He started to work on The Art of Taking Heat , a how-to book designed to help the average person cope with life its ownself, and he took up expose journalism. He started doing pieces for Esquire, Playboy, Rolling Stone, New York, Texas Monthly.
This in itself wasn't so bad. Who among us doesn't like to know that certain leading men in Hollywood are only five feet tall and stuff washrags into their elastic briefs? Or learn that certain United States Congressmen have fathered dozens of illegitimate children in Latin America who will now blow you up with homemade bombs?
I think it's fair to say that Shake's journalistic exploits in no small way added to the confusion in our lives after Dreamer Tatum busted my knee.
About that play.
We were down on Washington's 6-yard line in the third quarter, behind by 14 points. A touchdown could turn the momentum around. Fourth down came up and I expected us to throw the ball, so you can imagine my surprise when our quarterback called Student Body Left.
Student Body Left was a power sweep for me, Old 23. The play had been a moneymaker for us when I had Puddin Patterson to block for me. It was the play I'd scored on in the last four seconds to beat the dogass Jets 31-28 in the only Super Bowl that was ever worth a shit.
The situation wasn't the same, though.
For one thing, Puddin Patterson was no longer around. He was busily selling rabbit pates in San Francisco. He had been replaced on the left side of our offensive line by Alvin (Point Spread) Powell. Point Spread Powell's idea of a block was to assume the fetus position about one second after the ball was snapped.
And there was this other thing. Obert (Dreamer) Tatum, The Black Death, was across the line of scrimmage, which was where he had not been in that Super Bowl when we made our game-winning drive.
Any loyal fan of the Jets would be quick to remind you that Dreamer Tatum had sprained his ankle in the fourth quarter of that Super Bowl. Dreamer had been watching from the sideline when we punched it in.
Loyal Jets fans were easy to recognize in my day. You just looked for the little old lady being mugged, and there they were.
Well, Dreamer was not only out there wearing the braid of his five years as an all-pro cornerback, he had something else going for him. I had noticed earlier in the game that Dreamer had fortified himself with a handful of amphetamines.
Dreamer and I had known and respected each other a long time. We had traded enough licks to be married. And nobody knew better than me that you didn't spend a lot of time running the football at him when his eyes had a maniacal gaze and he chewed his gum so fast, the slobber ran down his chin.
Dreamer's condition prompted a minor rebellion in our huddle when the quarterback, Floyd (Dump) McKinney, called the running play.
"Are you crazy?" I said to Dump. " Dreamer's over there!"
"We'll hit at their strength. Cross 'em up," he said.
" Who will?"
"Let's go, Billy Clyde. We'll take his ass to the parking lot."
"Have you looked at him lately?" I said. "Put the ball in the air!"
"My hand hurts."
"Your hand hurts?" I blurted out. "Did you bet Washington?"
"Fuck, no," Dump said. "They went to ten and a half."
Now, then. I don't happen to be a person who goes through life looking for signs of impending doom. Even so, I hadn't come in contact with a cross-eyed Mexican that morning. I hadn't seen a red-headed spade, or a gray dog shit on
The Time critic wrote:
In The Grade-B Plot , First Novelist Marvin (Shake) Tiller, a former professional football player, devotes 279 pages to the question of inaccessibility. Exactly how far should the writer remove himself from his characters and story? Tiller would have us believe there is no limit.
"What'd I do wrong?" Shake asked his agent.
"You didn't take any risks," Sylvia Mercer said. "You didn't stretch yourself."
"I was too busy typing."
The commercial failure of Shake's novel drove him straight into non-fiction. He started to work on The Art of Taking Heat , a how-to book designed to help the average person cope with life its ownself, and he took up expose journalism. He started doing pieces for Esquire, Playboy, Rolling Stone, New York, Texas Monthly.
This in itself wasn't so bad. Who among us doesn't like to know that certain leading men in Hollywood are only five feet tall and stuff washrags into their elastic briefs? Or learn that certain United States Congressmen have fathered dozens of illegitimate children in Latin America who will now blow you up with homemade bombs?
I think it's fair to say that Shake's journalistic exploits in no small way added to the confusion in our lives after Dreamer Tatum busted my knee.
About that play.
We were down on Washington's 6-yard line in the third quarter, behind by 14 points. A touchdown could turn the momentum around. Fourth down came up and I expected us to throw the ball, so you can imagine my surprise when our quarterback called Student Body Left.
Student Body Left was a power sweep for me, Old 23. The play had been a moneymaker for us when I had Puddin Patterson to block for me. It was the play I'd scored on in the last four seconds to beat the dogass Jets 31-28 in the only Super Bowl that was ever worth a shit.
The situation wasn't the same, though.
For one thing, Puddin Patterson was no longer around. He was busily selling rabbit pates in San Francisco. He had been replaced on the left side of our offensive line by Alvin (Point Spread) Powell. Point Spread Powell's idea of a block was to assume the fetus position about one second after the ball was snapped.
And there was this other thing. Obert (Dreamer) Tatum, The Black Death, was across the line of scrimmage, which was where he had not been in that Super Bowl when we made our game-winning drive.
Any loyal fan of the Jets would be quick to remind you that Dreamer Tatum had sprained his ankle in the fourth quarter of that Super Bowl. Dreamer had been watching from the sideline when we punched it in.
Loyal Jets fans were easy to recognize in my day. You just looked for the little old lady being mugged, and there they were.
Well, Dreamer was not only out there wearing the braid of his five years as an all-pro cornerback, he had something else going for him. I had noticed earlier in the game that Dreamer had fortified himself with a handful of amphetamines.
Dreamer and I had known and respected each other a long time. We had traded enough licks to be married. And nobody knew better than me that you didn't spend a lot of time running the football at him when his eyes had a maniacal gaze and he chewed his gum so fast, the slobber ran down his chin.
Dreamer's condition prompted a minor rebellion in our huddle when the quarterback, Floyd (Dump) McKinney, called the running play.
"Are you crazy?" I said to Dump. " Dreamer's over there!"
"We'll hit at their strength. Cross 'em up," he said.
" Who will?"
"Let's go, Billy Clyde. We'll take his ass to the parking lot."
"Have you looked at him lately?" I said. "Put the ball in the air!"
"My hand hurts."
"Your hand hurts?" I blurted out. "Did you bet Washington?"
"Fuck, no," Dump said. "They went to ten and a half."
Now, then. I don't happen to be a person who goes through life looking for signs of impending doom. Even so, I hadn't come in contact with a cross-eyed Mexican that morning. I hadn't seen a red-headed spade, or a gray dog shit on
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