This is a story of America in the year 2020: Fractured socially and politically, its enemies are gaining ground and its civil liberties are threatened like never before. Jayesh Blackstone, a professional football player, finds himself at the focal point of an historic experiment: a woman is going to play in a football game, and it will happen in the Super Bowl. It turns out that this is just a foretaste of the metamorphosis that is taking shape. The very same event is the venue for an announcement by world leaders of a new order, one that defines humanity exclusively in terms of race and gender. The new reality steadily encroaches on Blackstone's world; he is compelled to choose his allies, declare his identity, and determine the price he is willing to pay to live the life of a free individual. Embracing controversy from its very first pages, The Kicker of St. John's Wood is a rampage through the pantheon of contemporary idols, and a literary journey into the American national psyche of the twenty-first century.
The Kicker of St. John's Wood
By Gary WolfiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2009 Gary Wolf
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4401-2509-6Chapter One
What was simply extraordinary about that field goal with two seconds left on the clock was not the distance, as one might have expected. I had kicked several shots that season from over fifty yards, clearing the uprights with room to spare. No, it was rather a mental image, clear as the light of day. It was my grandfather's face; his kind, serene countenance, almost as vivid as if he were there in person. "Jayesh, my boy," I recalled him saying, "to accomplish anything in life, you must realize that success depends greatly on relaxation and concentration, and the two go hand in hand." Years of similar enlightenment from his lips had prepared me for that stressful moment, enabling me to maintain total calm despite the roar of seventy thousand fans and the fact that the outcome of the game now depended on the angle and thrust of five toes connecting with a piece of leather.
My arms dangling loosely at my sides, my back arched forward, I awaited the snap of the ball. Gonzales the holder barked the count, enunciating several decoy words before uttering the decisive hut that brought the pigskin flying toward him. I launched myself into the two-step that resulted in my right leg pounding away with full force, lifting me briefly off the ground. It was not necessary to see the ball's flight, for my eyes merely confirmed an inner sense that the kick was perfect, gloriously splitting the uprights from fifty-six yards out.
What happened next came so fast that all I remember is seeing the tight end Barton shrieking from behind his face mask as he leaped in the air, and then it seemed that in the same moment I was on the ground covered by a pile of bodies, writhing every which way like worms released from a can. It would be egotistical of me to claim that such an outburst of joy could result from my having broken the record for most consecutive field goals. It certainly boosted the celebratory energy, but the primary cause was that we had just won the last game of the regular season and had clinched the division.
Much as I shared the common sentiment of the moment, I was soon having trouble breathing, which somewhat dampened my enthusiasm. Luckily, Hubbard, one of our big offensive tackles, sensed the danger and began pulling bodies from the pile. The second I saw the sky, I was being hoisted in the air, and found myself perched on Hubbard's huge shoulders. I'm no midget, six foot one, a hundred and ninety pounds, but next to this man-mountain I always felt like a toddler accidentally running into someone's leg. I inclined forward and said thank you, though I doubt if he heard it, what with the noise of the crowd, compounded by fireworks and electronic explosions emanating from the stadium loudspeakers.
A pulsating human throng, with me at its center, gravitated toward the tunnel at the corner of the end zone. Prominent in my memory is one woman, with green and orange war paint on her face, leaning over the railing just above us, hollering to the point of pain, her upper lip curled back to her nose. Maybe I just imagined it that way, but maybe not; the excitement of the occasion produced some remarkable contortions. It makes more sense when you consider that this was the first time that our team, the New Mexico Coyotes, had made it into the playoff s. After five long and miserable years, the young NFL franchise finally pulled itself together. During that season, 2019, everything functioned like clockwork.
Not that we didn't have some quality players from the outset. When the team was established, agents scoured the country looking for talent. They brought in some good material, including several players who were still with the Coyotes: the starting quarterback, Burt Stanwell; Thomas Hubbard, whom you already met; wide receiver Bill Harrison; and Thelonius Brown, the strong safety.
Brown had many laudable character traits, but he was drastically extroverted, at times quite over the top. He was proving it once again in the showers after the game. "Hey, Ja-hesh," he said, deliberately mispronouncing my name. "What's your secret? Do you pour curry oil all over your foot before you go out on the field?"
What good would it do to explain to him one more time that my only connection to India, aside from my first name, is that it happens to be my mother's native land. I never lived there, I don't speak any of the dialects, I'm not a Hindu, and we never ate curry at my house while I was growing up (my father hated it). But Brown was on a roll, his bravado exacerbated by the interception he returned for a touchdown in the third quarter.
Hubbard stepped into the shower between Brown and myself, effectively shielding me from further aggravation. This was a typical move on his part. From that very first season we played together six years previously, he had appointed himself my guardian angel. For all his three hundred and forty pounds, he was one of the gentlest human beings I have ever known. On the field, he hurled himself into the opposing players with a force that could damage a pickup truck. On the street, he would feel remorse for accidentally stepping on an ant.
I soaped and rinsed with great haste, grabbed a towel, and dried myself en route to my locker. This was one of my least favorite moments of football life. The sight of enormous, sweaty naked men, together with a stench that defies description, left me with a morose, sinking feeling, a sort of emotional claustrophobia. I hurriedly dressed myself and flew out of that malodorous swamp.
Upon exiting the locker room my path was blocked by the special teams coach, Joe Gramercy, who had an attractive young lady at his side. "Jayesh," he said, "I'd like you to meet Marcy Huddlewell, senior correspondent for the women's sports magazine Breast of Iron. Marcy, this is Jayesh Blackstone, our champion field-goal kicker."
"Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you."
"Could you spend a couple of minutes with Marcy in the press lounge?" asked Gramercy, knowing that I could hardly refuse.
Long experience had taught me that a couple of minutes with a reporter means at least half an hour. Well, I thought, at least it might save me from the crowd of autograph-seekers that inevitably congregated around the players' exit after a game. Gramercy escorted the two of us up to the lounge, located on the middle level of the stadium, next to the press boxes. We took the elevator, which deposited us a few steps from our destination. The coach opened the door and led us inside. The place was empty, aside from the bartender and two or three cleaning personnel.
I marveled at the swanky decor, so out of tune with the rest of the rather threadbare facility. Above our heads were huge, crystal-laden chandeliers; spread across the floor was a plush carpet. The seats in the booths were covered with a soft, luxurious leather, and the table-tops were a highly shellacked, golden-colored oak in which the rings of the tree were visible. Huddlewell and I parked ourselves in one of those booths. Gramercy went to the bar to order drinks for myself and the lady, and then quietly slipped out the door.
I was all alone with the Breast of Iron writer. She had fluffy blond hair, about shoulder length, and a nicely shaped figure. Despite the cool temperature, she was wearing a tank top, exposing her thin but muscular arms. Her left bicep featured a tattoo of a woman curling a barbell. As Huddlewell spread her papers and...
