Offside Play, F. Scott Fitzgerald

I

The sun shone bright on Kiki, a brisk November sun, blue in the drifting cigarettes of the crowd. It rendered her full justice as a lovely person radiantly happy, but she assured herself such a state of things couldn’t last.

“—because at present I’m one of those dreadful people who have everything.”

She exaggerated, of course—other heads grew the same golden thatch to brighten northern winters, other eyes had been steeped in the same blue smoke of enchantment. And hers was by no means the only rakish mouth in the Yale Bowl. Also there were doubtlessly other hearts around that had stopped being like hotels. But here at the beginning picture Kiki as the happiest girl on earth.

And as the moment endured, glittered, then slipped into eternity—the man beside her, the infinitely desired, the infinitely admirable Considine, said something which disturbed her balance on the pinnacle.

“I want to talk to you very seriously after the game,” was what he said. But he did not press her hand or look at her as he said it—he simply gazed straight ahead at the teams on the field, yet not staring at something, only staring away.

“What is it?” she demanded. “Tell me now.”

“Not now.” A scrimmage came to earth and his eyes dropped to the program. “Number 16 again—that little guard Van Kamp. Weighs a hundred and fifty-nine and he’s stopping every line play by himself.”

“Is he on our side?” she asked absently.

“No, he’s on the Yale team, and he ought not to be,” he said indignantly. “They bought him, by Heavens! They purchased him body and soul.”

“That’s too bad,” she said politely. “Why didn’t Harvard make an offer for just the body?”

“We don’t do things like that, but these people haven’t any conscience. Here they go—look! See him jump over that play—heads up, never gets buried.”

Kiki was not paying much attention—she had guessed that there was trouble on the sunny air. But if things were wrong there was nothing she wouldn’t do to right them. Alex Considine “had everything,” he had been the Man of Promise at Cambridge the year before—also she adored him.

Between the halves big drums beat and the sun went out and people pushed past them, shouting from row to row.

“I’ve never seen a lineman dominate a game like this Van Kamp,” said Considine. “If he had on a crimson jersey he’d be beautiful.”

In the third quarter the paragon blocked a punt and recovered it himself—within a few plays his team scored, and the rest of the game was a breathless flight of long passes through a stratosphere of frantic sound. Suddenly it was over; Kiki and Alex moved with the hushed defeated half of the crowd out of the stadium, met friends for a hurried half hour and rushed to the train. They should be alone now, but they found only a single place and Considine sat half on the arm, half in the crowded aisle.

“I’ve got to know what’s on your mind,” she said.

“Wait till we get to New York.”

“Oh, what is it?” she demanded, “you’ve got to tell me—is it about us?”

“Well—yes.”

“What about us—aren’t we all right? Aren’t we on the crest? I simply won’t wait two hours to find out.” Lightly she added, “I know what it is—you’re throwing me over and you don’t want to do it in public.”

“Please, Kiki.”

“Well, then let me ask you questions. First question—do you love me? No, I won’t ask that—I’m a little afraid to. I’ll tell you something instead—I love you, no matter if it’s something awful you’re going to tell me.”

She saw him sigh without a sound.

“Then it is awful,” she said. “Then maybe it is what I thought—” She broke off; there was no gaiety left in the suspense. Close to tears she had to change the subject.

“See the man across the aisle,” she whispered, “the people behind me say it’s Van Kamp, the Yale player.”

He glanced around.

“I don’t think so—he wouldn’t be going to New York so soon. Still it looks like him.”

“It must be, with those awful scratches—if it wasn’t for that he’d be beautiful.”

“That’s because he plays heads up.”

“He’s beautiful anyhow—really one of the handsomest men I’ve ever seen. You might introduce me.”

“I don’t know him. Anyhow he doesn’t understand any words—just signals.”

It was the first light remark he had made all afternoon and she had a flash of hope but immediately the gravity came back into his face, as though he had laughed at a funeral.

“Maybe he’s a great mathematician and thinks in numbers,” she rambled on unhappily. “Maybe Einstein teaches him—but he’s at Princeton.”

“I’ll bet he had a full time tutor to get him through.”

“I had one myself when young. You can’t convince me that man’s stupid.”

He looked at her quizzically.

“You like all kinds, don’t you?”

She gave up trying to talk and borrowing his program turned to the players’ statistics.

Left Guard — Eubert G. Van Kamp—Newton H.S.—5’11—159—Age 21

He was Considine’s age but only a sophomore in college. At twenty-one men had written masterpieces, commanded armies.

—at eighteen girls had killed themselves for unrequited love—or gotten over it or pretended that it had never been love in the first place.

At the next station people debarked and Considine could at last drop into the seat beside her.

“Now can you talk?” she said.

“Yes, and it’s going to be very frank. Kiki, I’m fonder of you than of any girl I know. Last summer when we—”

“Did you see him play last summer?”

“See who play?”

“That man Van Kamp. I mean if you saw him play last summer why didn’t you just offer him more money than they did?”

He looked her unsmilingly.

“Seriously, this is something that has to be faced—”

“Oh, shut up.”

“What do you mean, Kiki?”

“Go and face it yourself. I’ve known what you were going to say for two hours.”

“I—”

“—and I’m very particular about the way I’m thrown over. Here’s your ring—put it in your archeological collection—put it in your pocket. The man over the way is looking at us—this is a picture that tells a story.”

“Kiki, I—”

“Shut up—up—up—up!”

“All right,” he said grimly.

“Write me a letter instead and I’ll give it to my husband. I may marry Van Kamp. As a matter of fact I’m glad you spoke, or didn’t speak, just when you did—or didn’t. I’m stepping out with a new number tonight, and I want to feel free. And here’s the station—”

The second they were on their feet she left him, threading her way up the aisle swiftly, desperately, running against people, finally with a passionate intention of eluding him at any cost, catching at the arm of a swiftly moving passenger who seemed to have the right of way, and being borne with his momentum out the door and on to the station quay.

“I’m sorry,” she panted, “I beg—”

It was Van Kamp. Confused she ran along beside him, returning his smile.

“Really you played the most gorgeous game,” she panted, “and there’s someone after me, the most frightening person. Will you walk with me to a taxi? I really haven’t been drinking but he’s broken my heart and all that and the symptoms are much the same effect.”

They hurried up the runway into the hushed marbled tomb of the Grand Central.

“Can’t you win him back?” His question was half serious but Kiki disregarded it.

“Your poor face!” she exclaimed. “Really you were wonderful. I was with a Harvard man and he was simply overwhelmed. No, I’m not going to try to win him back. I thought at first I would, but at the last minute I decided not to.”

They reached the taxi stand. He was going uptown—could he take her?

“Oh, please do!”

In the cab they looked at each other by the exciting first lights that twinkled in the window. Van Kamp was blue of eye, made of wrought iron and painted ash gold. He was shy and in that sense awkward but he had most certainly never made a clumsy movement in his life.

And seeing this, Kiki, who had been plunged into a sudden vacuum, made herself over suddenly into his kind of girl. She was alone with him with no plan except such plans as they would make together. He had a date but after a few minutes there seemed to be no hurry about it—she was calling him Rip before they ordered dinner.

“I almost went to Harvard,” he told her. “For a while I thought I’d play pro football, but I decided to get an education.”

“How much do they pay you?”

“Pay me? They don’t pay me anything.”

“I thought that was the idea.”

“I wish it was. Some boys get a hundred a month at a college out West. All I got was a loan. And of course I eat at training table, but I have to work too—I’ve got half a dozen jobs around the campus.”

“That isn’t right,” she said, “they ought to pay you; you draw people to the games to watch you. You have something valuable to sell, just like—like—”

“Just like brains. Go on, say it. Sometimes I wonder why I went to college.”

“Anyhow they should pay you for staying there.”

“Would you mind telling them that?”

Every few minutes Kiki thought of Alex Considine with a start, wondering if he were sorry now, wondering what it was that made him not love her, something she had done or some way she was, or if there was another girl. But each time she looked very hard at Eubert G. (“Rip”) Van Kamp, weight 159, height 5’11”, and thought that no one had ever been so beautiful.

They went dancing and when the orchestra played “Gone” or “Lost” she felt empty and frightened inside, for