Jake hadn’t seen football in years, and now, unexpectedly, the sounds on the field took him back to sunny afternoons when nothing mattered except the next ten yards and who you might be seeing after the game. America, where all the houses were intact. But it was the homesickness of an exile-what you missed was your own youth, not a place. He’d been back only once since he’d first sat in this stadium, a Week between assignments, and after that all he’d known was the overseas America of the war, the field mess parties and USO shows that Weren’t really home but a movie of home. He’d be a stranger there now.
But wouldn’t everybody? They’d all been gone too long, were all different, even the MP at the house, maybe a football player, who now thought a dead woman was one less German to worry about. He shifted in his seat, embarrassed by his own nostalgia. Leave the amber waves to Quent Reynolds, making his mother queen for a day at Toots Shor’s. He knew better. The America he’d left, the late editions and cops on the take, was the same unholy mix as anywhere else. And yet there it was, the unexpected longing, triggered by a football game. Who he was, as inescapable and permanent as a birthmark.
A touchdown. The crowd jumped up around him, yelling and slapping backs. Someone passed him a beer. From the corner of his eye he saw Ron leave the cameras to greet Congressman Breimer. He introduced him to a small group of soldiers, presumably Utica boys, who shook hands and posed for army photographers. Souvenirs for the folks. Then he led Breimer over to the newsreel crew, positioning him in front of the play and testing a microphone. Jake left his seat and walked down to the sidelines. Breimer had already begun speaking.
“In this stadium, where that great American Jesse Owens exposed the Nazi lie of racial superiority, we’re seeing today proof of another victory. This great Allied coalition that won the war is now winning the peace, still side by side, still determined to show the world we can work together. And play some pretty good football.” A pause here as the soldiers around him laughed. “Our task here is not easy. But can anyone doubt, looking at these fine boys, that we’re going to succeed? We’re going to help this country up out of the ashes, extend our hands to the good Germans who’ve prayed for democracy during all these dark years, and make a world where war will never happen again. That’s what they’re fighting for now. Today these men are playing, but tomorrow they’ll be back at work. Hard work. Building our future. If you could see them here in Berlin, as I can, you’d know they’re going to win that one too.”
Impromptu, without notes, the sort of thing he could rattle off without even thinking. Huffing and puffing. Another piece of home. Jake looked at him, wondering what he’d been like before-probably the kid waving his hand in class, volunteering to clap erasers and deliver the milk bottles, destined even then for better things.
“And now, I’m told, the Eighty-second Airborne has a little half-time entertainment for us.”
Ron gave a stage manager’s signal, and the cameras swerved to an opening beneath the tiers of seats. A row of white helmets came trooping out, playing a Sousa march. The soldiers cheered. The cameras tracked the band onto the scrubby playing field, brass horns shin-ins as they lined up in formation. The noise was deafening.
“Where are the pompom girls?” Jake said to Ron.
“Very funny,” Ron said. He pointed to the seats. “They love it.”
And they did. Jake looked up at the crowd, stamping and whistling, winning the peace for Movietone News. Then he saw Brian Stanley a few tiers farther up, leaning back on his elbows in a patch of sun, eyes closed, the only still thing in the stands. The band started in on another march. Jake climbed back up the stairs.
“Enjoying the game?”
Brian opened his eyes for a second, then closed them again. “I was. Until The Honorable started in.”
Jake sat down next to him, watching the band below. The music boomed through the stadium.
“My god,” Brian said, “do you think they could turn it down a little?”
“Late night?”
Brian managed a small grunt, then slowly pulled himself up, wiping his forehead. “You know, I’m worried about Winston. He’s been blathering on about the Polish borders. Why?”
“Why not?” Jake said, looking back from the field. The conference, almost forgotten, while he’d been taking coffee with Gunther.
“Because they were decided the minute Uncle Joe crossed them. All this carrying on. It’s not like him.”
“Maybe he’s playing for time.”
“No, he’s distracted. The election, I expect. Pity, coming right during the conference. I think it’s put him off his game. Not like your Honorable.” He nodded toward Breimer, who was applauding the band coming off the field, still blaring. “Lovely piece of work, isn’t he? Extending his hand,” he said, doing a passable imitation.
“That’s what he’s usually doing. As long as you’ve got something to put in it.”
