Chapter 4: The Immaculate Jagoffs of Pittsburgh

Back to Dec. 23, 1972...

While the HARK Valley Press comic novel is available to purchase (hard cover, paperback or digital edition) on Amazon (click here), as a subscriber you are receiving chapters of The Immaculate Jagoffs of Pittsburgh. We are now up to Chapter 4, after a Foreword explaining how a linguist came into a tattered manuscript, and the first three chapters set before and early during the now-famous Immaculate Reception game, Dec. 23, 1972. Clay is still reveling in a pre-game jag at the expense of a star player, then a vengeful act over hated parking lot manager Gliddy. Chapter 4 picks up as Scan is trying to focus on the end of a stressful playoff game that will take a historic twist. (As this book is written in "aggressive Pittsburghese," a guttural language mixing German, Hungarian and localisms, we are including the translation guide.)

MISST CATCH

Every single jagawff in tha place wuz standin tha whole fourt quarter. Scan wuz tryna focus awn the game–owl they neededt wuz ta holdt awn the lead–but aht tha corner iz eye kep seein Clay owl twitchy, even fer him. Fidgetin like a Market Square pidgen. Zippin an unzippin iz big black leather jacket, stampin iz high topz like he wuz in Alaska, runnin iz hanz through iz feather haircut even though it wuz stupid, his sandy-brahn hair wif a lil bit a red–keller a a wornt aht football–wuz never messed up an ahwayz fell back in place no matter what he did. 

Stillerz up six, gamez ahmos over, Raiderz r drivin but no way r they gonna get a TD! Scan startedt hyper ventilatin, hiz heart racin faster wif every Oaklan first dahn. Turrible call, then a lucky pass–but theyz only at tha thirty. That QB wutzizname dropz back–Hamz closin in!

“Get im ya dam Polak!’

“Tackle that son a bitch!”

Frickin skinny lil lef-handedt Raiderz quarterback runnin arahn like a chicken wif iz head cut awff…Scanz kneez wobblt seein tha QB dovedt acrosst tha goal lahn an tha refz hanz went up... Then that ninety year oldt Blanda kickt tha point. They blew tha lead!

Even still, Stillerz jus needt a fieldt goal ta win. They gaht tha ball, sumfin like a minute ten lef–plenty a tahm. Couple dinky passes ta Franco an Frenchy gaht em up tha forty yardt lahn.

“Redd up, Gerela!” someone yellt.

Bradshaw droppt back, the crowd shut up–then screamt when he throwt a bullet ta McMackin who was pretty open at tha fity… hen fity thahsan pissed awf groanz when it bouncedt aht tha big tight endz fingerz. “Ahrn Handz!” someone nexta Scan screamt; “Why the frick is he throwin ta that Ahrish clutz?” a three hunred-pahnder, belly bulgin aht iz Mean Joe Greene jersey, demandedt ta tha section as he turnt arahn.

Scan felt iz Lebo varsity jacket bein pullt. “Le’z go cmon cmon le’z get awt here,” Clay barkt like a dawg at im.

“Serious?” Scan shawt back, pullin iz arm awayz. “Therez a minute left!”

“They’re jus gonna lose that hick coun’t hit a lake if he trahd ta piss in it,” Clay hisst in a loud whisper, wary a affendin tha drunk truckerz and pig iron blasterz and tha resta tha union boyz up air section. “Cmon cmon I’m freezin my nutz awff lez miss traffic.”

Hearin a roar, Scan shook Clay awff–an seen Bradshaw miss Shanklin.

“Innerference!” a buncha them screamt.

“Tole ya! He coun’t hit tha side a barn–Ah’m leavin,” Clay said, awready turnt ta go. “Walk if yinz want.”

Shit. 

Scan started shiverin, thinkin a tha long walk masht up wif tha crahd acrosst tha river an then thru dahntahn. He curst izself fer not wearing a hat, scarf, glovez; “Cmon! Le’z win this so I can get aht this Frigidaire!” someone behint Scan yellt. “No shit Sherlawk itz colder n a gravediggerz ass,” someone else agreet.

It want owl that colt, temprature wahse–but that dam wind awff tha Ahia wuz hahlin.

Scan turnt an seen Clay break inta his stiff-leggt jog, makin a right at tha end a tha aisle an headin fer tha gate. Scan took awff after Clay, hearin “Time out, Steelerz!” over tha speaker.

Scan was jus catchin up ta Clay ahtside tha gate when Clay accelerated inta a dead sprint; Scan did tha same, knowin how fast Clay wuz he’d have ta hustle. At tha lil street what ringz arahn tha stadium, Scan started leanin left–but Clay turnt right; wut tha hell, Scan thought–their laht wuz up tha left. Then Scan seen tha black Nova a hunred yardz up tha street illegally parkt. By the tahm Scan gaht air Clay had turnt tha ignition an wuz pullin away; Scan bangt awn tha passenger winda, yellin “CLAY!” as he tried ta pull tha door handle open. Clay slowed ta a crawl but din’t stop as he reached over ta pull tha handle and kick tha dam sticky door open, laughin. 

Fumblin ta get in tha movin car, Scanz head jerkt over iz right shoulder–he heardt a loud crack.

“Hear that?” he said ta Clay.

“Yeah,” Clay said, wif that annoyin high-pitcht cackle laugh. “Tatum prolly took Shanklinz head awff!”

Everything owl a sudden went silent; Scan thought he wuz in a vacuum; then the Nova belcht lahdly az Clay threw it inta gear an peelt aht, throwin Scan back in iz seat–he barely gaht iz right foot in afore tha door slammt shut. Tha Nova paused an backfahrt; Clay wuz used ta it, revved tha engine an shifted durin tha hesitation, easin awff then slammin dahn tha gas. 

Scan heard tha engine–but another roar awn top it, lahder, deeper. “You hear that?” Scan screamt, tryna roll down tha winda–it went 2 inchez an gaht stuck. Everythin awn Scanz side wuz broke; everythin on Clayz side workt fine.

“Great now yer lettin tha colt in,” Clay grumblt, wif a pause-shift-accelerate, agin throwin Scan back in iz seat.

“At least put tha game awn,” Scan beggt.

“Radiaz bustedt,” Clay yellt back, slammin in a 8-track as he turnt hard lef dahn NorShore Drive, startin ta fishtail before lettin up fer a half-secondt ta correct.

Not a soul ta be seen, everyone in tha world inside tha stadium, Scan complaint ta izself.

“Ya put tha wine in tha cocoa-nut,” Clay hahlt, as Scan winct at that stupid song an Clay never gettin tha wordz right in iz life.

“Yer headz thick as a coconut,” Scan grumblt, lookin aht tha winda at tha black river, jus abaht azakly tha keller a tha smoke pourin aht tha stackz dahn the SouSide.

“Wut?” Clay yellt over tha stupidt song.

“Shouldn’t a lef,” Scan said, aht tha side a iz mahf, not lookin at Clay an not really talkin ta him anywayz.

Clay was doin abaht sevenny dahn tha dividet ave, blew by a 18-wheeler just as tha lanez cut from two dahn ta one; as tha trucker blew iz air horn, Clay dahnshiftedt wifaht hittin tha brake, pulled tha wheel wif his right hand, shootin tha trucker tha finger wif his lef han as he fishtailt awn tha bridge, pausin ta correct again an screech-singin “Doc-ter! Is there sumfin I can fake ta believe this sumfin sumfin” as he hit tha gas, shootin acrost tha Sixt Street Bridge.

Scan din’t even flinch; he’s seen worse–far worse from Clayz crazy drivin.

“Gregorious?” Scan axed, almost involuntarily, earz ringin from tha music an Clayz yowlin.

Clay nodded, blowin through tha Bullavard a tha Alliez big wide innersection.

“Red,” Scan critiqued, when they wuz safely over tha other side. 

“Naw,” Clay snappt. “Mebbe pink.”

Catching owl tha lightz jus as they wuz flippin, Clay sped through Penn then Liberty, bankt right awn Market an wuz in tha Square, pullin tha wheel hard ta get a space right in front tha joint an stompin tha brake ta a skid-stop.

It wan’t no big deal; there wuz plenty empty spacez; tha whole world was still at tha dam game, Scan tole hizself agin.