From Richard Ford's The Sportswriter, 1986:
"We didn't talk much about football," Herb says thoughtfully. He is now as sane and reflective as an old sextant..."It really seems insignificant now, Frank. It's really a pretty crummy preparation for life, I've come to believe."
. . .
"I don't know what happens sometimes, Frank." Herb's sad blue eyes suddenly fill with hot tears, and he shakes his big head to dash them away. It is the sadness of elusive life glimpsed and unfairly lost, and the following, lifelong contest with bitter facts. Pity, in other words, for himself, and as justly earned as a game ball. Only I do not want to feel it and won't. It is too close to regret to play fast and loose with. And the only thing worse than terrible regret is unearned terrible regret.
. . .
What Herb needs, of course, and can't have, is to strap on a set of pads and beat the daylights out of somebody and quit worrying about theories of art. He is a man without a sport, when a sport is exactly what he needs. With better luck we might've summoned up a vivider memory of his playing days, seen the game films. Herb could get back within himself, shake off alienation and dreary doubt, and play through pain---be the inspiration he was put on earth to be.
Tags: Richard Ford, The Sportswriter
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