SI Dialogues: QB Killer

A tribute to Dutch Meyer--by a Sports Ignoramus

© Kevin Jairaj-USA TODAY Sports

I was in my office when The Barry Lewis interrupted a perfectly fine cigarette.  

"News from the KillerFrog Fan Forum Literary Review Board."  

"And how are the bottom feeders doing today?" 

"They're a little unhappy that you called the Wildcats pussies." 

"Cats are pussies, Barry," I said, inhaling my Camel, which trod roughshod over my lungs.  I coughed.  "Pussies are cats.  It's the Number 1 synonym in Roget, were you to look up 'pussy' or 'cat' . . . anyhow we both know the bottom feeders can't read.  What'd you tell them?" 

"I didn't tell them anything.  Maybe Daniel did.  Or Thanet.  Who knows?  But I doubt they'll appreciate you calling them bottom feeders."  

"You think any of them will be able to infer the suggestion?" I asked, stuffing my cigarette into its death.  

Barry shrugged.  "One or two might."  

"Anyhow," I said, facing him.  "At least I didn't call them pussies."  

"I'm going to get a drink.  We have business to discuss." 

"Grab yourself a Guinness.  Grab me one as well.  On your tab." 

"Mighty generous of you."  

"Think nothing of it."  

A few minutes later he had returned with one Guinness and a half-pint.  And he handed me the half-pint. 

"What the hell is this?" 

"I requested the bartender . . . Bruce?" 

"Boss, yes."  

"That he give us drinks on our own respective tabs.  He said you owe fifty bucks already and would pour nothing more than a half-pint." 

"That's what you're here for."  

"Well, I'm here for a little more than that." 

"Let's hear it." 

"I'll reason with you.  You're doing an amazing job.  Though only four on our team of eleven have accurately predicted TCU winning all eight games . . ." 

"Nine." 

"Eight."  

"BYE." 

"Shut up." 

"For a whole Guinness I will." 

"Shut up." 

"Do continue." 

" . . . though only four on our team accurately predicted TCU winning all eight games, you are the only one who has prophesied an undefeated season, and did from the beginning.  And though we didn't have the shutouts you promised . . ." 

"We did, Barry.  The scoreboard was wrong."  

". . . nevertheless you were the only one who saw that we would beat OU easily." 

"So I'll take your praise, and a free Guinness, and we'll call it a day." 

"Well . . ." 

"What?" 

"It seems you're doing your job too well." 

"Never had that complaint in my life.  What?" 

"Well, on October 11, of this year, we published an article that you wrote entitled The Killer (Of Opposing Quarterbacks) Frogs in which you openly advocated the targeting of other teams' quarterbacks.  You said specifically:  'Defense.  Take out the quarterbacks.  And, as the Kansas State game proved, even the second string quarterbacks if necessary.'" 

"That it?" 

"No, you have a tendency to go on.  In this case, you said:  'this is football we're talking about and as far as I'm concerned, worrying about such tedious pedantries as sportsmanlike whatever is counterproductive to the real purpose that, after all, unites us:  to watch our guys kick the other team's ass.'  Your exact words.  Surprised we published that."  

"That it?"

"'Further, football means hitting and hitting means getting hurt.'" 

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Barry, I was quoting Shelby Foote.  And he's dead.  Blame him.  That it?"  

" . . . 'And while I am perfectly willing to allow certain restrictions, within reason--bombing is messy and the use of fire arms a little extreme--hitting, with all your might, however it happens, surely passes any expectation of decency that isn't hypocritical, nor beg the question of the whole point of the sport of American football altogether.'"  

"That it?" 

"That's it." 

"Seems rather well-worded to me.  What's the problem?" 

"The problem is it seems the TCU defense has taken your advice to heart." 

"You're putting me on."  

"I'm not.  Far from it.  It's a matter of some concern.  They've taken out the OU quarterback, the Kansas starting quarterback, the Kansas State starting quarterback, and the Kansas State backup quarterback . . ." 

"And with these results, what's the problem?" 

"The problem is that some of the people we beat are sore losers.  And they're making excuses for our victories.  That we're not good, just dirty." 

"Who cares?  We're winning, aren't we?" 

"Yes.  But it's a bad look.  And I'm beginning to worry that our piece will amount to incitement."  

"Insight what?!" 

"Hey, it's 2022.  You never know."  

"Barry, do you mean to tell me that I, a Sports Ignoramus, who begins, ends, and expounds everywhere in between that I don't know anything about sports whatsoever, you mean to tell me, SI bloody SI, that I wrote a piece giving an idiot's advice and they took me seriously?"

"Not seriously necessarily.  Just literally." 

"Well that's the whole problem with the world isn't it, Barry?  People take other people literally.  And often the last people they should.  I'm a poet, for one thing, Barry.  A satirist for another.  And an ignoramus on top of that.  I'm the last person in the world people should be taking literally.  Only literarily, and I'll be lucky at that."  

"You finished?"  

"Well what?" 

"I think you should make a statement to our guys just to cover our bases.  I've got my phone here.  I want to record a sworn statement from you.  And I want you to tell them to play . . . a little less dirty."  

He put the phone on the table and hit the record button. 

I began:  

"Gentlemen of the 2022 TCU Football Squadron, these are the times that try men's souls.  The summer safety and sunshine quarterback will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their school . . ." 

"You can cut ahead to the play dirty part."  

"Thank you, Barry Lewis.  Guys.  If you could try to hit the opposing team players at 80 percent your current velocity, managing to avoid the helmet, as well as the legs, we don't want any broken limbs, if you could, perhaps, daintily, grasp them by the middle and perhaps, not too harshly now, pull them to the ground . . ."  

"You're not being serious." 

"Well, this is what you wanted wasn't it!  Screw it!  Hit 'em hard, boys, and then hit 'em harder!  They whine, kick 'em in the teeth!  This is football, not golf, not ballet.  They get up, you throw down.  They stand, you make them never stand again.  Fight them.  Fight them in Austin and Waco.  Fight them on the seas and oceans.  Fight them in the air.  Fight them on the beaches.  Fight them on the landing grounds.  Fight them in the fields and the streets.  Kick the ever living crap out of them!"  

"Finished?"  

"I need a cigarette." 

"Rousing speech.  Not exactly what I had in mind." 

"It's Churchill.  Dead too.  Blame him." 

"You know, we Horned Frogs prefer 'Fight 'em until Hell freezes over.  Then fight 'em on the ice."  

"Hm.  Don Henley?"  

"Dutch Meyer.  You know who he is?" 

"Sure.  He's the guy that owns Dutch's, right?"  

At which point Barry Lewis poured the remainder of his perfectly fine Guinness on his head.  

"Jesus, Barry, if you were going to abuse a perfectly fine Guinness you could have used this one."  

He lay catatonic in his chair, but still breathing, occasionally blinking.  I took his phone and pushed play: 

"Fight 'em till Hell freezes over!  Then fight 'em on the ice!"  

"Yeah, I don't think this guy had a problem with hard hitting, Barry," I said, pouring what little remained of his Guinness into my own.  "But the good news is, your phone's still working."  

Meanwhile, the phrase repeated:  "Fight 'em till Hell freezes over then fight 'em on the ice fight 'em till Hell freezes over then fight 'em on the ice fight 'em till hell freezes over then fight 'em on the ice fight 'em till Hell freezes over then fight 'em on the ice fight 'em till Hell freezes over then fight 'em on the ice fight 'em . . ."   

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