Charlie Scruggs asked me to read this poem, which
is called "The Huckster," which I wrote several years ago.
And it was about when I was a graduate student at a Big Ten
school and which football was a big deal.
They had a huge stadium in Iowa and filled it,
even in a losing season, as I remember.
And I got to sell pennants, and souvenirs, and flowers,
carnations, and cushions, and cowbells to the people.
And at the time I was a--
I guess I was just real nervous about a lot of--
about being in a crowd of people and didn't
know how to comport myself or--
I was just very self-conscious.
So two things are going on in the poem, which
were going on in my mind at the time,
was I just had a desire to be a part of the crowd,
to be one of them, mostly because I saw fathers
with their little sons holding hands coming to the game.
And that appealed to me in a family sort of way.
And the other thing I was thinking about was what--
this is kind of obvious, I guess,
is why people go to football games
or boxing matches to see, I guess, vicarious violence
and to get out their home frustrations publicly,
someone get them out for them.
"The Huckster.
They're coming at me, the people, and I like them all.
I yell at them.
They thrust coins in my face.
I return cowbells, cushions to protect their fine women,
buttons, pennants to put above their heads declaring,
this is where I stand.
Well, I say to myself, this is where I stand.
Somewhere a gun goes off.
The armored men on the field grind against each other.
The man in the fifth row is yelling,
who stole my lawnmower?
Who gave my kid a bloody nose?
Who hustles my wife when I'm away?
The man on the field goes down.
I did it.
Thousands of fans love him up.
Another gun goes off.
Dogs and little kids bunch around my feet.
I am dizzy, stripped of my wares, my Saturday afternoons.
I run naked through the crowds.
I pile into their cars.
They feed me cold hot dogs and beer.
We are going home, so many fathers and sons."