In situations like this, my football experience can come in handy.

I tucked my warm, empty plate securely under my arm, extended my other arm in front of me—locked at the elbow for ramming strength—put my head down, and rushed forward into the assembly.

The first person I hit was Raymond. He was turned away from me, and I took full advantage with a stiff-arm blow to the rib cage. This knocked the wind from his lungs and Raymond’s plate from his hands. The crashing plate drew attention and I was able to sidestep quickly between Topper and Vince. I had to go low and almost sacrificed my balance but fortunately came up against Paul and used him as a backstop. Paul held on to his plate but fell away against Dennis, and that left a clear path with no visible obstructions except Albert and Mongo. It is my feeling that you can’t tackle a blind man. And Mongo is too big for me to hit effectively, though he is slow. I ran toward him, a straight-on course, like open-field running, then at the last second feinted hard to the left, dodging him. It felt good, very good, to give Mongo the fake. I believed at this point that I was unimpeded. I hadn’t counted on Richard. Richard stepped out from behind Michael and Abraham. He got directly between me and the food. His head was shaking, up and down, up and down, the way it does. I wanted to hit him. If I did, I might be chastised for running over a person who has nerve damage. I ran in place while considering what to do. I could smell the pork chops and their aroma was superb. I decided that Richard was, after all, a man, and could weather blows. I inhaled a deep breath and charged in hard with an elbow aimed low at his kidneys. However, I lost my balance and this time saw no alternative but to take the dive. I was less than five yards short of the table. It had been a good forward rush and I felt all right.

“Doug.”

It was the voice from over near the sideboard. It was Seamus’s voice. He was awake. He said, “Nicely run, Doug. You took a nasty spill but you kept possession of your plate. That’s the kind of spirit that wins games.” He offered me his large hand. “It’s good to see you getting in some practice for Sunday’s game against the Episcopal Ministers.”

“We can beat those guys,” I said. Seamus observed, “That’s one serious carpet burn you’ve got there, Doug. I hope that’s not your throwing arm.”

He was right. My forearm was red from my fall. This wasn’t, luckily, my throwing arm. As soon as I became aware of its redness, I felt pain.

“How did you hurt your face, Doug? You look like you’re going to have a shiner around that eye. You didn’t smack a chair, did you?”

“I got kicked.”