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8/11/2019 Hog's Heart_gordon Weaver
1/18
Hog's HeartAuthor(s): Gordon WeaverReviewed work(s):Source: The Antioch Review, Vol. 37, No. 1 (Winter, 1979), pp. 48-64Published by: Antioch Review, Inc.Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/4638143.
Accessed: 16/02/2013 09:53
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8/11/2019 Hog's Heart_gordon Weaver
2/18
h o g s
he r t
BY GORDON
WEAVER
Nor mouth had,
no
nor mind, expressed
WaWhat heart heard
of,
ghost guessed
t
is
everything
nd it
is
nothing. Hog says,
"Different
imes,
it's
different eeling.Sometimes
feel like
that
it
might
could
just
be a
feeling."
"Goddammit,Hog," saysDr. Odie Anderson.Hog, perched
on
the edge
of
the examination able,
feels ridiculous,
feet sus-
pended above the
floor like a
child's,
wearing
a
paper hospital
gown that, like a dress, barelycovershis
scarredknees. Though
the
air
conditioningsighs incessantly,
he exudes a
light sweat,
pasting he gown o
his
skin, thighs, and buttockscemented o the
table's
chill
metal
surface."Is it
chest
pain?"
the
doctor
says.
"Is
it painsinyourarmorshoulder? s it pain youfeel in yourneckor
your aw?"
SaysHog, "It mightcouldbe I just imagine t sometimes."Dr.
Odie
Anderson,team physician,sits
in his swivel
chair, shabby
coat thrown
open, crumpled
collar unbuttoned,
necktie
askew,
feet up and crossedon his littereddesk.
Hog sees the
holes
in
the
soles
of
the doctor's hoes.
Odie
Anderson's
head lolls
slightly.
His
eyes, bulging
and
glossy, like those of a
man with arrestedgoiter,
roll. His tongue probeshis cheeks and teeth as if he seeks a par-
ticle of his breakfast.He licks
his
lips,
moistens
he
rim of
scrag-
gly
beardaroundhis
open mouth.
"Damn," says
Dr.
Anderson, "is it
choking? Your breath
hard to get? Sick to your stomach a lot?" Hog closes his eyes,
wipessweat rom he lids withthumb and forefinger.
"All like
that. Sometimes."Hog turns
his head to the window
beforeopenitighis eyes. The rectangleof searing morning ight
dizzies him. He
grips
the
edge
of
the table
with both hands, feels
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8/11/2019 Hog's Heart_gordon Weaver
3/18
hog's heart 49
the trickle
of sweat
droplets
course downward rom the
tonsure
abovehis jug ears, fromthe folds of flesh at his throat,from the
sausagerolls of
fat
at
the
back of his
neck,
from his
armpits.
He
repressesmalarial
shuddersas the
air
conditioning
blows on
his
bareback where he papergowngaps.
"You-allwant
me
to
send
you to
Jackson o
the
hospital?
You
want
all
kind
of
tests, swallowing adioactivity
o's
they
can
take
movies of
your
veins?"
Almost
touching
the
window
pane,
the
leavesof a magnolia ree
shine
in
the brilliant
light
as
if
filmed
with clear grease. One visible blossom appearsmolded of dull
white wax,
which
will
surelymelt
and run
if
the
suns's
rays
reach
it.
A
swathof campus lawn shimmers
n
the heat
like
green
fire.
The
length
of sidewalk
Hog
can
see
is
empty.
The cobbled
street
beyond s empty,stonesbuckled.
"Not
now," Hog says.
"I
might
could
maybego
come
spring
f
I
can get off recruiting
while."
"Wellnow,"Dr. Anderson s saying,"you
are
fat as a damn
house, Hog, and yourblood pressure
s
high.
You
might
could be
a
classic case, except you don't
smoke and last
I
heard
your
old
daddy's till kickingup
there o
Soso."
"Daddy's ine. He's a little bitty man, though.
I
come by my
size
favoring
Mama's
people."
A
pulpcutter's ruck,
stacked
high
as a
hayrickwith pine logs, passes on the street,
headed
north
toward he LaurelMasonite
plant.
"You ustas leaveget dressed,Hog," the doctorsays. "I can't
find
nothing wrong
n
there. Hell, damn it to hell, you strong
as
stump whiskey
and mean
as
a
yarddog " Hog focuses
on
button-
ing his shirt, zipping his fly to evade Dr. Anderson's leering
cackle.
Sometimes t
is
everything.
t is
the sticky,
brittle
feel of
sweat
drying
on
his
skin,
the
drafty
breath of the air
conditioning hat
makeshim shudder n spasms, raises goose-bumpson his fore-
arms.
It is the late
Augustmorning'sheat
and
humidityhovering
like
a cloud outside, waiting to drop on him, clutch him. It is
baked streets and sidewalks, the witheringcampus and lawns,
everyone
n
Hattiesburg
driven
indoors until dusk brings relief
from
the glaring
un
of southMississippi.
"Say hey
for me
to Marice and them big chaps," says Odie
Anderson.It
is his
wife and four sons, the steamingcampus of
MississippiSouthernUniversity, he athletic dormitoryand sta-
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8/11/2019 Hog's Heart_gordon Weaver
4/18
50
the antioch review
dium,
the
office where his
senior assistants
wait to review
game
films, the approachof the season openerat home againstAla-
bama,
this fourth
year
of his
five-year
ontract,
two-a-day
work-
outs and
recruiting rips
across the
Deep
South
and
a
pending
NCAA
investigation.
It
is
all
things
now and
up
to
now-his
people
up at
Soso,
paying
his dues
coaching
high
school and
junior
college,
his
professionalcareer
cut
short
by
injury
in
Canada-all
things
seeming
to have come
together
to
shape
his
conviction f his
imminentdemise
rom
heart
ailure.
"Wegoingto whipup on'Bama, Hog?"
"We die
trying,"says
Hog.
They laugh. It
is
nothing.
Hog
decideshe is
not
dying,
not
about
to,
not
subject
o
be
dying.
It is
something hat
is
probably
nothing,
and because
he
cannotdefine
or
express
t,
it
is a
terror
here
s
no
point
in
fearing.
Fraternity and sorority pep club banners limply drape the
stadium
walls. Beat
Bama.
Roll Back
the Tide.
Go
Southern. We
Back
Hog's
Boys.
The
stadium
throws
heat
into
Hog's face
like
the coils of a kiln.
The
painted
letters swim
before
his
eyes,
air
pressinghim
likeleaden
mist.
He
consciously
begins o
reach,
pull
for
each
breath, fetid on
his
tongue.
Awash with
sweat, he
lurches, into the shade of
the
stadium
entrance to his
office.
Inside,
the dimness
of
the
hall
leaves him
lightblind,air
con-
ditioninga clammyshock,hisheavingechoingoff the glossytiles
and
paneling. Hog finds
himself,
eyes
adjusting,
before
the
Gallery
of
Greats,
a
wall-length
display
of
photos
and
newspaper
clippings,trophiesand
pennants,
ocked behind
glass. This pan-
theon
of
MississippiSouthern's
inest
athletes,
record-setters nd
semi-All
Americans s a
vanity
he
cannotresist.
His
breathing lows
and
softens,
sweat
drying n
his clothes
as
hestepscloser.Therehe is, thegreatHogHammond n the prime
of his
prowess
and renown.
Three
picturesof
Hog:a
senior,
nineteen
years
ago, posed
in
half-crouch,
helmet off
to show
his
bullet
head,
arms
raised
shoulder-high,ingers
curled
like
talons, vicious
animal snarl
on
his
glisteningface;
Hog,
nineteenyears
ago,
downin his
three-
point
stance, right arm
lifting to
whip
the shiver-pad
nto the
throat
of an
imaginary
ffensive
guard;
Hog, snapped n
action n
the legendaryAlabamagame nineteenyearsago, chargingfull-
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8/11/2019 Hog's Heart_gordon Weaver
5/18
hog's
heart 51
tilt, only
steps
away
rom
brutally
dumping
he confused
Alabama
quarterbackfor a loss. The Alabama quarterback s static,
doomed;Hog
is
motion,
power,
purpose.
The yellowed
newspaper
clippings
are
curled
at
the
edges.
Southern Shocks
Ole Miss.
Southern
Stalemates
Mighty Tide.
The
Hog Signs
for
Canada Pros.
Athletic
DirectorTub
Moorman s
upon
him
like an
assassin
with a
garrote,
he
only
warning he
quick
stink of the dead
cigar
he
chews,
laced
with the
candy
odor of his talc and
hair
oil.
Hog
feelsa catchin histhroat,a twinge n hissternum,salivates.
"Best
not
live on
old-timey aurels,
Hog,"says
AthleticDirec-
tor Tub
Moorman.
A
column
of nausea
rises
from
the
pit
of
Hog's
belly
to his
chest, tip
swaying nto
his
gullet
like
a
cottonmouth's
head.
He tenses
to hold his
windpipe
open. "Best
look
to this
season,"
Tub Moorman
ays.
Hog, pinned
against
the
cool
glass
of
the
Gallery
of
Greats,
gags,covers t with a
cough.
"I'mdirectly hisminutesubjectto reviewgamefilms," he is
able to
say. Tub
Moorman s
a
butterball,
head round as
a
cook-
pot,
dirty-grey
air
slicked
with
reeking
onic,
florid
face
gleam-
ing with
aftershave.
He
dresses like a
New
Orleans
pimp,
white
shoes, chartreuse
lacks,
loud
blazer,
gaudy ewel
in
his
wide
tie,
gold
digital
watch,
oversize
diamond
on his
fat
pinky, glossy
manicurednails. His
sour, ashy breath
cuts
through
the
carnival
of his
lotions.
He
limps
slightly
rom
chronic
gout.
"Thisyear four," Tub Moormansays. "Yearone we don't
care much
do
you win,
play
what
you
find when
you
come on
board.
Year
two, three,
your
business to
scout the
ridges
and
hollows
for
talent. Year
four, we
looking to see do
you
produce,
see
do
we
want
to
keep
you-all in
the
family
after year
five.
This
year
four.
Root
hog or
die,
hear?"
The
athletic
director
laughs
without
removinghis
unlit
cigarfrom
his
mouth.
Hog
can see the
slimy,chewedbutt of the cigar,Tub Moorman'swet tongueand
stained
eeth.
Hog
is
able to
say, "I'm
feeling
a
touchpuny
today,"
beforehe
must
clamp
his
lips.
"You
know
we-all
mighty
high
on you,
Hog," Tub
Moorman
says, "you one
of us
and all."
He flicks
his
lizard's
eyes at
the
Gallery's
picturesand
clippings."You
a
greatone.
Withoutenyou
got
injured so
soon in
Canada,you
might could
of
been truly
famousas a professional."
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8/11/2019 Hog's Heart_gordon Weaver
6/18
52 the antioch review
"I'm
subject o give t
all
I
got,"
Hog
gasps,
bile
in his
mouth.
"It'ssubject o takeit," saystheathleticdirector,"an-dmaybe
then
some,"
and, "Fact, you got
to
beat
Alabama
or Ole Miss
or
Georgia
Tech or
Florida,somebody
amous,
or
we
got
to be
find-
ing us the man will."
"I
might
could,"
Hog
is
able to
say
without
opening
his
jaws,
and,
"I
got
me a
nigger
place-kicker
an
be
the difference."
Tub
Moorman's
augh is a
gurgling, ike the
flush of a sewer.
"We-all
ain't
particular," ays
Tub
Moorman,
"but
the NCAA s.
Bestnotlet no investigatorsindoutyourCubaniggergota forged
transcript,
son."
Hog
hurried
to the
nearest
toilet,
the
athletic
director's
tench
clinging
o
him,
chest thick
with
sickness,
throat
charged
with acid,
head
swimming.
Wretching
nto the
closest
commode, Hog
blows and
bellows like a
teased
bull, purges
his
nostrils
of
the residueof Tub
Moorman's
mell.
On
the
portable
screen,
Alabama routs
Ole
Miss
before a
record
homecoming rowd
at
Oxford. Sliversof
the
sun
penetrate
the
room at the
edges
of
the
blackout
curtains,
casting
an
eery
illuminationon
the ceiling.
The
projector hatters,
the air
condi-
tioning
chugs.
Only Sonny
McCartney,Hog's
coordinator,
akes
notes, writing a
crabbedhand into
manila
folders,
calling for
freeze-framesand reruns.
Sonny
McCartney
reminds Hog fre-
quently hat nationalranking s only a matterof planning, mple-
mentationof
strategy, ime.
Wally
Everett,
offensive
assistant,mans
the
projector.
Once a
fleet wide
receiver or
the
Tarheelsof
North
Carolina,
he
wears a
prim and
superior
expression
on his
patricianface.
Because he
wears a jacket
and
necktie
in
even
the
warmestweather,
he is
sometimes
mistakenby
students or a professor.
Believing here
is
no excuse for vulgar or obscenelanguage, on or off the playing
field,
he is
a
frequent
peakerat
Fellowship
of Christian
Athletes
banquets.He
sits
up straight
n
his
chair, one leg
crossedover
the
other
at
the
knee, like
a woman,
hands,
when not operating
he
projector'seversand
buttons,
folded n his
lap.
The
defensive
assistant,GaryLee
Stringer,
louches n a
chair
at the back
of
the
room.
He
played
a rugged
nose-guard
or a
small
Baptist
college
in
Oklahoma,
ooks
like
an aging
ex-athlete
should, unkempt,moody,unintellectual.He shifts his weight in
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8/11/2019 Hog's Heart_gordon Weaver
7/18
hog's heart
53
his
chair, stamps
his
feet often
as Alabama's
hree-deep-at-every-
positionsquadshreds he Rebelsonthescreen.Hesnorts,says, "I
seen two countyfairs and a train, but I ain't never
seen nothing
like them
Them
sumbitches
ood, Hog "
"The problem," ays SonnyMcCartney,
"is
to
decidewhat we
can do best against hem."
"Theyexecute
o
perfection," ays Wally
Everett.
Wally
rewinds he film
for
one more
showing.
Sonny
rereads
his
notes. GaryLee Stringer pits
a
stream
of
juice
from his
Red
Man cud into the nearbywastebasket.The roomis darkerwith
the
projectorbulb off, the air conditioning
ouder
in
the
greater
silence. Hog
holds
tightly o the
armsof his
chair,
sensing
the for-
mationof an
awful
ormlessness
n his
chest.
It feels to him as if, at the very center
of his
heart,
a
hole,
a
spot
of
nothingness,appears.
He
braces
himself.
The hole
at
the
center
of
his heartdoubles
n
size, doublesagain;
his
vital, central
substance s disappearing, anishingwithouta trace left to rattle
against
his
ribs. He
tries to hear the movement
of his
blood,
but
there
is
only
the
perpetualchurning
of
the
air
conditioning,
he
click and
snap
of
the projector eing readied.
"Hog," says GaryLee Stringer,pausingto rise
an
inch
off
his
chair,
breakwind
with
a
hardvibrato,"Hog, they
goingto eat our
lunch
come
openingday."
"Every
ffense
has
a
defense,"Sonny
McCartney ays.
"There s little argumentwithbasic execution,"Wallysays.
It
will
grow, Hog believes,
this void
in
his
chest,
until
he re-
mains, sitting,
a hollow shell
with useless arms,
legs,
head.
At
whichpoint he
will
be dead. He waits n his chair o die.
"Alabama
don't
know
we haveCarabajal,"
onny ays.
"Neitherdoes
the NC double-A.
Yet," Wally
says. "But they
will if
we permit ust one personclose enough o
speakto him."
"Is that tutoringdone learnedhim some Englishyet?" Gary
Lee asks.
"Again?" ays Wally, inger
on
the projector's
tart-button.
"Ain't
this
a
shame?"
says Gary Lee,
"Our
best
offense
a
nigger romCubadon'ttalk hardlyno English."
"I
did
notforgehistranscript,"Wallysays.
"He
can
kick," says Sonny,and, "Hog?"
Hog, dying,
rises from his chair.
"You-all
discussthis without
me,"he saysand finds he cantake a step toward he door. "I got
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8/11/2019 Hog's Heart_gordon Weaver
8/18
54
the antioch
review
to
get me some fresh
air,
I am
feeling
puny,
boys," says
Hog,
reaches hedoor,opens t, leaves,walking lowly,carefully,afraid
to
bump
anything,
afraid
that
he
will break
like
a
man
made
of
blown
glass,
no
core
eft to
him
at
all,
no
heart.
There is
no
reason
Hog should wake in
the still-dark
hours of
early
morning,no
stomach
upset
or
troubling
dream.
At
first,
he
is
merely
awake,
Marice
beside
him;
then
his
eyes
focus,
show
him
the lighterdarkness,false dawn at the bedroomwindows;and
then he
sees
the
ceiling,
walls,
furniture, he
glow
of
the
nightlight
from
the
master
bedroom's ull
bath, the
light
blanket
covering
him
and
his
wife, Marice in
silhouette,
the back
of her
head
studded
with
curlers.He
hears
he
gentle
growl
of her
snoring.
He
hears
he
cooled air
cycling
hrough
he house on
which
the
mort-
gage runs
past the
year2000.
He lies verystill, in the king-sizebed, shutsout whathe can
see
and
hear
and the
rich
smell
of
Marice's
Shalimar
perfume,
closes
himself
away, henknows
whathas
awakened
im,
so
totally,
from
a
deep
sleep.Now
Hog
listens,
measures he
rhythms,
recog-
nizes
the subtle
reduction
n
pace,
tempo,
intensity
of
his
heart-
beat.
His heart is
slowing,
and
this
has awakened
him,
so
that he
can die
knowing
he is
dying.
There
comesa minuscule
hesitation,
a
near-catch,
stutter
before
he
muffled
hump
of each
beat.
He
lies
verystill, holds his breath, then inches his left hand free of the
cover,
moves
t into
position
o
press
he
decliningpulse
n
his
right
wristwithhis
forefinger.
His
heartwill
run
down
like a
flywheel
yieldingup
its
motion
to the
darkness
of
the
master
bedroom.
He
is
dying
here
and
now,
at
the
moment
of false
dawn
that
shows
him
the
shafts
of pine
trunks in
his
yard, the
wrinkled
extureof
his
new
lawn
of Ber-
mudagrass. He will die and be discoveredby Maricewhenshe
wakes
o
the
electric
buzz
of
the
alarm
on her
bedside
able.
"Marice,"
Hog
croaks.
"Marice."
His
voice
surprises
him;
how
long
can
a
man
speak,
live,
on the
momentum
of
his last
heartbeats?
"Marice."
She
groans,
turns
to
him, eyes
shut,
groping.
Her
arm
comes
across
his
chest,
takes
hold of
his
shoulder.
She
nuzzles
his
jaw,
kisses
him
clumsily
in
her
half-
sleep,
presses her
head
into
his
throat,
her
curlers
stabbing
the
soft flesh.
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8/11/2019 Hog's Heart_gordon Weaver
9/18
hog's heart
55
Hog
says,
"Marice,
I do loveyou
and
thank
you
for marrying
me, whenmy peopleis just redneckpulpcuttersandyouarefrom
fine
high-type
people
in
Biloxi. It
is
always
a
wonder
to
me
why
you
married
me when
I was just
a
football
player,
and
now
coach,
and you
was runnerup
Miss
Gulf
Coast
and
all.
They
s
mortgage
life insurance
on the
house,
Marice,
so's
you
will
have the
house
all
paid
for."
"Big
sweet hing,"
his
wife
mumbles
nto
his
collarbone.
"No,
Marice,"
he says.
"I
love
you
and
thank
you
for giving
me ourboys. I amdying,Marice,andit is just as goodI do now,
because
we will not beat
Alabama
or
Ole Miss
nor
nobody
big-
timey,
and
the
NCAA
will
likely
soonget
me
for
giving
a
scholar-
ship to
a
Cuba
nigger
has to
have
a interpreter
o
play
football,
and
we wouldlose
this house
and
all except
I am
dying
and
you
willget it
because
of
insurance."
"Lovey,you
want
me to
be sweet
for you?"
Maricesays,
kisses
his hairychest,strokeshis face, theslickbaldcrownof hishead.
"No,"
Hog
says.
"Listen,
Marice.
Tell
me
can
you
hear
my
heart
going."
She mutters
as
he turns
her headgently,
places
her
ear
against
his
breast,
then
resumes
her
light
growling
nore.
Dying,
Hog
lifts
her to
her
side
of the
bed,
throws
back
the
cover,
rises, pads
out
of the
master
bedroom.
Dying,
he
walks
downthe
hall
to
the
bedrooms
where
his four
sons sleep
the
per-
fect
sleep of
children.
He can standat the end of the hall, look into both bedrooms,
see
them
sleeping,
wo
to each
room,
and
he stands,
looking
upon
the future
of
his name
and line, stands
thinking
of his
wife
and
sons,
how
he lovesthem,
in his
wonderful
new home
with
a
mort-
gage
that
runs
beyond the
year
2000.
Hog thinks
it
cruel
to
die
when
he cansee
the
future
sleeping
n
the
two
bedrooms.
It
is
the
coming
of true
dawn,
flaring
in the
windows
of
his
sons' bedrooms,that grantshim a reprieve.True dawn comes,
lights
the trees
and
grass
and
shrubbery
utside,
stirs
a mocking-
bird
to
its first
notes
high
in
some pine
tree, primes
his flickering
heart to
fresh
rhythm.
He
feels
it kick
into vigor
like a refueled
engine,
then
goes
to
the hall
bathroom
and
sits,
grateful
and
weeping,
on the
edge
of
the
bathtub,
staring
at
his
blank-white
toes
and
toenails
and
his lavender-tinged
white
feet, his
heart
resuming peed
and
strength
or
another
day.
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8/11/2019 Hog's Heart_gordon Weaver
10/18
56 the antioch review
Marice
and
his
sons are somewhere
outside
with
Daddy
and
Brother-boy, eeing the newmachinery hed or feeding Brother-
boy's catfish.
Hog'smama serves
him
a
big square
of
cornbread
with a glass of cold
buttermilk.
The
golden
cornbread,
straight
from
the
oven,
radiates
heat
like a
small sun.
Hog
bites, chews,
swallows,
breaks
nto
a film of
sweatas he chills
his
mouthwith buttermilk.Not
hungry,
he
gives
himself over
to the
duty
of
eating
for
her-bite, chew,
swallow,
drink-his
mama's presence. He
sweats
more
freely
with the
effort,feels a liquid warmthemerge n his belly, grow.Hogfeigns
gusto, moans,
smacks
his
lips, slurps
for her.
A
viscous
heat
squirts
nto his chest,
warming t.
"No
more,"
he
says
as she reaches oward he
pan
with
a
knife
to
cut
him
another
helping. "Oh,
please, Mama,
no," says
Hog.
He tries
to smile.
"I
want to knowwhat
is the
matterwith my
biggest boy," she
says. "You say you are feelingsome puny, but I knowmy boy,
Euliss.
I
thinkyou
aretroubled n
your
spirit,
son."
"I
have
worries,
Mama,"
he
tells
her. "We
got
to
play
Ala-
bama."
"Is it
you
and
Marice?Is
it your
family, Euliss, my grand-
babies?"
"We
all fine,
Mama. Truly."
He averts
his eyes. She
does not
look
right, not his old
mama, in
this
modernkitchen,
chromeand
Formicaandplastic-coveredhairs,doubleovenset inthepolished
brick
wall, blender
built
into the counter
op,
bronze-tone efrig-
erator
large as two
football
lockers, automatic
icecube
maker,
frostless,
Masoniteveneer
on the
cupboards.Hog
remembersher
cooking
at
an iron
woodstove, hopping
wood
for
it
as
skillfullyas
she
took
the
head
off
a
chicken,
while he
clung
to her
longskirts,
sucking
a
sugar-tit.
He
remembers er
buying
fifty-poundblocks
of ice fromthe niggerwagondriver rom Laurel, aking his tongs
and
carrying t
into the house
herself(she
wouldn'tallow a
nigger
in
her
kitchen)until Hog was old
enough
to fetch and
carry
for
her,
his
daddy
out
in
the woods
cuttingpulp
timber
dawn
o dusk.
Hog
covers his
eyes
with his hand
to
hide
the start
of
tears,
hurt and
joy
mixing
in
him
like a gumbo
in
a
cauldron, hat
his
mama
has this
fine kitchen n
this fine new
brick
home
built
by
his
daddy
and
Brother-boy
n
a loan
secured
by Hog's signature
and
Hog'slife insurance, hathis mama is old andwillnot everagain
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8/11/2019 Hog's Heart_gordon Weaver
11/18
hog's
heart 57
be like he remembers
er,
that
she will
not
live
forever.
"Ido believemy boyis troubled nhis soul,"Mamasays.
"Not
my
soul,
Mama."
Hog
favorshis mama's
people,
comes
by
his
size
from her
daddy,
a
pulpcutter
who died before he
was
born.
Hog
remembersher
telling
how her
daddy
lacked four
and
one-half
fingers
from his
two
hands,
cutting pulpwood
for
Masonite
n Laurel
all his
life
until
a
falling
tree
killed him.
Hog
looks
at
her
fingers,at his own.
"Are
you
right
with
Jesus,
Euliss?"
she
says.
She leans
across
the table, hands clenched n prayernow. "I prayto Jesus," says
his
mama,
"for
my boy
Euliss.
I
pray
for
him
each
day
and
at
meeting particular."
It
is
as
if
a dam
bursts
somewhere
on
the
margins
of
Hog'sinterior,
a
deluge
of
tepidnessrushing
o drown
his
heart.
"We go to church
regular
n
Hattiesburg,
Mama,"
he is
able
to
say
before
this
spill deprives
him
of words and
will,
his
heart
nowa remoteness, ike the soundof childrenswimming n a far
pond.
"Praywith
me, Euliss,"
she
says.
"Oh,
pray
Jesus ease
your
trouble,
drive doubt and
Satan out
Oh,
I am
praying
to
You,
Jesus,
praying
up my biggest boy to You " Her
locked hands
shake
as if
she
triesto lift
a
weight oogreat
for
her
wiry
arms,
her
eyes
squeezed shut
to
see
only Blessed
Jesus, lips puckered as
though
she drew he
Holy
Spirit
nto her
lungs.Hog cannot
ook.
It is his old mama, old now,who attendsthe PrimitiveBaptist
Church
of Soso, whereshe
wrestlesSatan until
she
falls,
frothing,
to the floor
before
he
tiny
congregation,
where he
washes
he
feet
of
elders,
weeping."Jesus,Jesus,
speak to
my boy Euliss," she
prays
n
the
fine,
modern
kitchen
of
the modernbrick-ranch
uilt
on
land won
by
two
generations'driving
scrub cattle
and
cutting
pulpwood.
Nosecloggedwithsobbing,Hog'sheartmoves ike a wellhouse
pump lifting
a
thick,
hot
sweetness
nto
his
mouth.
This
death
is
filling,
filled
with Mama's
ove,
all he
feels of
his
memories
of her,
Daddy,
Brother-boy.
JesuspleaseJesusplease,"
he
chants.
"Mama,"
says Hog, standing
up, voice
breakingon his lips
like
a bubbleof
honey, "I
got to go find
Daddy and
Marice and
Brother-boy nd
those
chaps. Time flying,
Mama." He
flees, the
watersof her love
receding
n hiswake, her
prayer
choingdamply
inhisears.
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8/11/2019 Hog's Heart_gordon Weaver
12/18
58
the antioch
review
Hog and his
daddypause at the
electrified
trand
of
fencingto
admirethe glossyAngus at the saltlick, clustered n the narrow
shade
of
the
old mule-driven
mill where
Hog helped
his
daddy
crushcane for
syrup.Hog
sees
the
Angus
meldedwith the
scrubby
maverickshe
ran
in
the woods with razorbacks
or his
daddy,
hearsthe squeak and
crunch
of
the
mill
turning,
crackle
of cane
stalks. "Now
see
this, Euliss," says
his
daddy,
a small man
who
has aged by
shriveling,drying,
hardening.
"Don't it
beat
all for
raising a shoat
in
a
nigger-rigged
rib?" his
hardness glowing
redly n the terriblesunshine,burnishedwith pride over the new
cement
floor
of his
pigpen. Hog, gasping, clucks
appreciation
or
him.
"Waitand see
Brother-boy
eed
them
fish "his
daddysays.
"Daddy,"Hog
says,
"how
s it Mama so
much for
churching
and
you never
setting foot
in
it,
even for revivals?"
Hog's daddy
expertly
blows his nose
between
humb and
forefinger,
licks
snot
into the
grass
as
they pass the
row
of humming
beehives,
their
starkwhitenessconjuring he weathered tumps and gums Hog
helped
rob
in his
youth,wreathed
n
smoke,veiled.
"I
never
held
to it," his daddy
says,
and would
go
on
toward
the
pond, stoppedby Hog'sheavy
hand
on
his shoulder.
"You didn't never
believe
in
God? Ain't you
never been
so
scared of
dying
or even of
living
so's
you
wanted to
pray
like
Mama?"
His
voice
sounds
muffled,
as
if
cushioned
by
water.
"I
never aultedher
for
it,
Euliss,"says
his
daddy. And,
"And
nomandast fault me fornot. Son,a man don't get hardlyno show
in
life,
most of us.
Now,
not
you,
but
me
and
Brother-boy
nd
your
mama. Life
weariesa man. Them as needs
Jesus-ing
o die
quiet
in
bed or
wherever, say
fine, like for Mama.
Me
nor mine
never
got
no
show, exceptingyou, naturally,
Euliss, a famous
playerand coach and all.
I
guess
I
can
die withouten
I
screech
to
Jesus
o please et
me not haveto."
"Daddy,"saysHog. Blood fills his chest, a steady seeping, a
rich
lake about his
heart, pooling
in the pit of his belly, pressing
his
lungs. "Daddy,
was
I
a good
boy?"
"Now,
Euliss "His
daddy
embraces
him
there near
the
line of
beehives, the spread fingers of
his horny hands
clasping Hog's
heavingsides.
"Euliss, don't you
know I have bragged on you
since
you
was a
chap?"
"Are
you proud
of me still nowI'm groweda
man?"His daddy
laughs, releaseshim.
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8/11/2019 Hog's Heart_gordon Weaver
13/18
hog's
heart
59
"Oh,
I recollect
you then,
son
You was
a
pistol
for that
foot-
ball. I recollectyounot ten yearsold goingout to lift the newcalf
day by day to build muscles or
footballplaying "
"Daddy."He feels a
pleasantcleft
in his breast
widen,
a
tide
of blood.
"Recollect he
time
I
told
you
not to
be
blockingyourself
nto
the
gallerypost
for
football
practice?
had
to
frail
you
with a
stick
to
teach
you
not.
Oh, son, you
was
a
pure pistol
for
that
football-
ing Yourdaddybeen
bragging
on
you since,
Euliss "
"Find
Brother-boy, ee them fish," Hog chokes
with
his
last
breath, heart
and
lungs and
belly
a
sweet
sea of
blood,
this
death
almost desirableto
him.
He
staggers away,
suffocating
in
the
fluids of his
emotions.
"Brother,"says Hog,
"Brother-boy,are
you resentfulyou
stayed
and lived
your
ife here?
Ain't
you
never
wanted
a
wife
and
chaps
of
your
own?
Do youresent
I
went awayto school for
foot-
ballandto Canada ormyown ife whilesyoujuststayworking or
Daddy?"
Brother-boy ooks like Hog remembershimself
half a
dozen
years ago,
less
bald,
less
overweight.
From a
large
card-
board
drum,
he
scoopsmeal,
sows
it
over
the
dark
green
surface
of the
artificial
pond.
The
catfish
swim
o the
top, thrash,
feeding,
rile
the pond into
bubbles and
spray. "Was
I
a
good brotherto
you?
Is
it enough
I
signeda noteso's
you
can
start
a
fish
farm
and
all
this cattle
and
stock
of
Daddy's?"
Brother-boy,owing he mealin
wide arcs overthe
pond,says,
"I
never
grudged
you
all
the fine
thingsyou got,
Euliss. You was
a
special
person, famous
playing
football
in
college and
Canada,
now a
coach." His
brother'svoice dims, lost
in
the liquid whip
of
the
pond'ssurface,
the frenzied
feeding
of the catfish.
"I am
a
happy enough
man, Euliss," says
Brother-boy.
"Mama
and
Daddy
need me.
Theygetting
old,
Euliss.
I
don't
need
me
no
wife
norchaps, andI got a big brotherwas a famous playeronce and
now a coach,
and your sons is
my nephews."
Hog remembers
Brother-boy, babywearinga
shift, a chap
followingafter him
at
chores, comingto
see him
play for
Jones
Agricultural nstitute
&
Junior
College
n
Laurel,for Mississippi
Southern,
once
coming
by
train
and bus all
the way
up
to
Calgary,
there
to
see
Hog's
career
end.
Says
his
brother,
"It
is
my way
to
accept
what
is."
Hog lurchesaway,seekingan
anchor or
his
heart, tossed in a
waveof sweetblood.He wisheshe could wish to die hereandnow
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8/11/2019 Hog's Heart_gordon Weaver
14/18
60
the
antioch
review
if he
must
die.
But this
wish is like a
dry
windthat
evaporates
he
splashof love and memorywithinhim, turningthis nectarstale,
then
sour.
Seeking
an overview
of
the last full drill in
pads,
Hog
takes
to
a
stubby
knoll,
shaded
by
a
massive
ive oak
tree.
From
here,
the
practice ield
falls intoneat
divisions
of
labor.
At the far end of
the
field, parallel to
the
highway
running
toward
Laureland
Soso,
chimericbehind
the
rising
heat
waves,
FulgencioCarabajal lacekicksball afterball through erry-built
wooden
goalposts,
the
first-string
center
snapping,
third-team
quarterback
olding,
two
redshirts
o shag
balls
for
the Cuban,
who
takes
a
break
everydozen or
two
dozen balls to talk
with
his
interpreter.
Hog watches
Fulgencio's
occer-style pproach,hears
the
hollow
strikeof
the side of his
shoe on
the
ball,
the
pock
of this
sound ike
a
counterpointo the
beating
of
Hog's
heart.He
tries
to
followthe ball up between he uprights, oses it in the face of the
sun
that washes
out the
greenof the grass.
Closest o Hog's
shady
knoll,
the first-
and
second-team
quar-
terbacks
alternate
short
spot passes
with
long, lazy
bombs
to a
self-renewing
ine of
receivers
who
waittheir
turns
casually,
hands
on
hips.
Catching
balls
in
long fly
patterns,
receivers
rot
up
to the
base of
Hog's knoll,
show-boating or him. The
slap
of
ball
in
hands comes as if
deliberately imed to the
throb
of
his
heart,
adding ts emphasis o thetwistof itsconstrictions.
At the field's
center,
Sonny
McCartney
oordinates,wears a
gambler's
green
eyeshade,
clipboardand
ballpoint
n
hand.
Sonny
moves from
offense
to
defense
in
the
shimmerof the
heat
like a
man
wading against a
current.
Hog squints to find
Gary Lee
Stringer,
on
his
knees
to
demonstrate
iring
off
the snap
to his
noseguard,his
jersey
as
sweatedas
any player's.
Wally
Everett,as
immobile as Hog, stands among his offensive players,stopping
the drill
frequently
with
his
whistle,
calling
them close for
short
lectures,
as
unperturbed y the
temperature
nd
humidityas if he
chalkedon a
blackboard n
an
air-conditioned
lassroom.
Hog's heart
picks
up its
pace, the
intensityof
each convulsion
increasing o a
thud, a bang.
Now he
cannot
distinguish
he echo
of his
acceleratingheartbeat
rom
the
smack
of
pads
down
on
the
practice
ield, the slap of
balls
on
sweatypalms,
thumping
of the
tackling dummy, crash of shouldersagainst the blocking sled,
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8/11/2019 Hog's Heart_gordon Weaver
15/18
hog's
heart
61
squealing
springs,hollowpock of
FulgencioCarabajal's
icking.
Hog closes his eyes to die, digs with his cleats for a firmer
stance
on the
knoll, prepared
o
topple
into the
dusty grass.
He
tenses his
flesh,
wonders
why
this raucous
slamming
of his
heart
does
not
shake
him, why
he does not
explode
into shards of
flesh
and bone.
And
wonders
why
he is
not
yet dead,
still
holding
against
his chest's
vibrations,
when he hears
Sonny
McCartney
blow
the
final whistle o
end
the
drill. The
blood's
song
in
his ears
fades like
Sonny's
whistle
n
the
superheated
ir of
late afternoon.
It is light.
Light, falling
upon Hog,
his wife still
sleeping
as
he
rises.
Special, harder and
brighter ight, Hog
fixing
himself a
quick
breakfast
n
the
kitchen,
chrome
rimcatching
and
display-
ing early
morning's how
of light to
him
while Marice
s
dressing,
his
sons
stirring
n
their
bedrooms.
Light,the
morning ky
clearas
creek
water,
climbing sun
electric-white,
overwhelmingHog's
senseof trees, houses, streets, driving lowly hroughHattiesburg
to
the stadium. And
lighting
his
consciousness,
pinning
his
atten-
tion
in
the
gloom
of
the
squad's
ocker
room,
his talk
to his
players
before hey
emerge nto the
light of the stadium.
Hog tells
them,
"It is
not
just football.
It
is like
life.
It
is
mental
toughness.
I
do
not
know
if
you
are as
good
as
Alabama.
Newspapers
nd TV is
sayingnot, saying hey
will
whip our butts.
If
it is, they
is nothingany of us or
you-allcan do.
We-all have to
face that. It is Alabamawe are playing today. Maybe it is like
that
you-all
have
to go out and
play them
knowingyou
will
not
haveanyshow.
It might could be I am
saying
mentaltoughness s
just having
t
in
you to
face
up
knowing hey
will
whip yourbutt.
I
don't knowno
more o
say."
He leads
them
out
into
the light.
He sees, hears,
registers t all, but
all is a dependencyof
this
light. The
game flows
like impuremotes in
perfect light.
The
gameis exact, concrete,but stillonlya functionof this light. The
openinggameagainstAlabama s a
play of small shadows
within
the
mounting ntensity
of
light.
At theedgeof the
chalked
boundary,Hog notesthe
legendary
figureof the
opposingcoach across
the field, tall,
chain-smoking
cigarettes,houndstooth-checked
at,
coatless
in
the dense
heat
Hog
does
not
feel.
This
light
has no
temperatureor Hog, a
light
beyondheat
or
cold.
"They eating our damn lunch, Hog " Gary Lee Stringer
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8/11/2019 Hog's Heart_gordon Weaver
16/18
62 the antioch
review
screams
n
his ear when
Alabama, starting
on their
twenty
after
Fulgencio Carabajal sends the kickoff into the end-zone
bleachers, drives
in
classic
ground-game
fashion
for
the
first
touchdown.The kickfor
extra-point
s
wide,
the
snap
mishandled.
"I
do declarewe
can run wide
on them, Hog," says
Wally
Everett
as
Southernmoves he
ball in
uneven
spurts
to
the
Crim-
son
Tide
thirty-seven,where,stalled
by
a
broken
play,
Fulgencio
Carabajal
ffortlessly
kicks the
three-pointer.
"I
have seen
teams
field-goaled
o death,"
Wallysays.
Late in the second quarter, Southerntrails only 13-9 after
Fulgencio
plitsthe
uprights rom fifty-six
yards
out. "Wegot the
momentum,
Hog,"
says Sonny
McCartney, arphones
lamped
on
to
maintaincontactwiththe
press-box
potters.
"We can run
wide
and
prayFulgencio
don'tbreakhis
leg."
GaryLee
Stringer,
dancing, hugging he
necks of his
tackles,
spits,screams,
"I
seen
a train and a
fair,
but
I
ain't
never
see
this
daybefore "
"Notice
the
Bear's
acting
nervous
over there?"
Wally says,
points to the excited
assistants
clustering
n
quick
conferenceon
the houndstoothhat across
he field.
SaysHog,
"Youcan't
never ell
a
thing
about
nothing
how
it's
goingto
be."
His death
comes as
light,
as clarity,
comprehensive
nd per-
vasive.There s
nothingHog does
not see, hear, know.
Everything
is here, in this light, and not here. It is a momentobliterating
moments,
ime, place.
He
knows
a
possible
great
legend
is
unfolding
on
the
playing
field,
an
astounding
upset
of
Alabama's Crimson Tide.
Hog
knows
he has
come to
this
possible wonderby
clear
chronology,
sequenceof
accidentand
design,
peopledsince the
beginningwith
his
many
selves
and those who
have
markedand made
him who
and whathe is in this instant of his death. Light draws him in,
draws
everythingogether n
him, Hog, the
contextof his
death.
Dr.
Odie
Andersonsits on a
campstool
behind the players'
bench,
feet
up
on
the
bench,
scratching his
beard
with both
hands,rollinghis
bulgedeyes
at the scoreboard.
Athletic
Director
Tub Moorman's
face
is
wine-red
with
excitement, unlit
cigar
chewed o
pulpyrags.
GaryLeeStringer
drools
obacco uice when
he
shouts out
encouragement
o his
stiffening defense.
Wally
Everett mirksas he counselshis quarterback.SonnyMcCartney
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8/11/2019 Hog's Heart_gordon Weaver
17/18
hog's
heart
63
relays nformation
rom
up
in
the
press
box,
whereMarice
and
the
four sons of Hog watch the game throughbinoculars,drinking
complimentaryCoca-Colas.On the bench next to his
chattering
interpreter,
Fulgencio
Carabajal
waits
indifferently
or
his
next
field
goal
attempt.
In
the new
modern
kitchen
n
Soso,
Mississippi,
Hog's
people,
Mama,
Daddy,
Brother-boy,
isten
to the
radio
broadcast,
proud
and
praying.
Folded
into
Hog's
memory
ike
pecans
in
pralines
are
the
many
Hogs
that
make
him
Hog:
a
boy
in
Soso
lifting
new
calves o buildmuscle,football indat Jones
Agriculturalnstitute
&
Junior
College,
bona fide
gridiron
egendary
Little
All-American
on this
field,
sure-fire
prospectwith
Calgary's
Stampeders
n
the
Canadian
Football
League, career cut
short
by
knee
and
ankle
injuries,high
school
coach,
defensive
assistant,
coordinator,
Hog
hereand
now,
head
coach
at
MississippiSouthern
University-all
these
in
the marvel
of
his
death's
ight.
Dying,Hog looksinto the glareof the sun, finds his death is
not
pain or
sweetness,but
totality
and
transcendence,
dies
as
they
rush
to
wherehe
lies on
the
turf,
dying,
accepting
his
lightthat is
the
heart
of him
joining
all
light, Hog
and
not-Hog,
past
knowing
and
feeling
or
need
and
desire
to
say it is
onlylight.
He
dies hear-
ing
Fulgencio
Carabajal ay,
"Es muerte?"
gone into such
lightas
makes
ight
and
darkness
one.
AFTERWORD
y Gordon
Weaver
I
wrote
"Hog's
Heart"
because
I
wantedto
write a
crediblestory
abouta
man
who
becomes
consciousof his
humanity, .e.,
a
story
about
a
man
who
realizes his
humanity in
and out
of
the
awarenesshat he is mortal.Which is to say that he comes to a
deeplyfelt
realization,
however
mperfectly
rticulated,
hat he
is
human
because he
is
mortal.
This
theme is a
commonplace n
literature,but
no
less pro-
foundfor
all
that.
The
problem or
me
withthis
storywas to
create
a
viable
character
n
a
milieuthat
might
overcome he
inherent
familiarity
f
the
larger
ntention-to
keepthe
story
from
being
so
pat
as
to be
boring,
and,
I
hoped, to
go
beyond
that to
make
the
insight"fresh" or the literatereader.
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8/11/2019 Hog's Heart_gordon Weaver
18/18
64 the antioch
review
Hog is a
kind of
burlesque,but his like
can
be observed
being
interviewed
on national
television on
most any
Saturday
in
autumn n
any region
n
America.The
reality
hat
he is an
imita-
tion
of
is
itself
a
burlesque
of
what human
reality
can
or
probably
shouldbe.
If
the
story
rendershim
with
enough
effective
particu-
larityto makethat
"stereotype" redible, then
the
story can,
at
least
in
theory,becomean
ironic
comment
of
some worthon
that
"reality."
Something
of
the same
can
be
said
of the story's
milieu, the
fictionalworld
Hog
livesand
dies in, the other
characters,
and the
idiom
in
which
theyspeak.At the
same
time,
I
intend
something
of
a
purely
iterary eferentwith
this
story,
since it evokes
a
highly
respected
radition, hat of the
regional
iction
of our
Deep South.
If
Hog
and
his
worldare
comic, this is
perhapsnecessary f one is
goingto attempt o make a thematiccommonplace perational.
"Hog'sHeart" s a
short
storybecausethat
world,
rendered n
the terms and with
the tone I
attempt,simply acks the
substance
to
support
a
longer
treatment,
the novella or
the
novel.
Quite
apart
from
that,
the
short
story
is
still
the most
exciting
fictional
genreavailable
o me;
its tradition, ts
possible
ormalproperties,
are
still
being discovered.
Talk
of
"traditional" nd
"experimen-
tal"
story
ormsor
types
s
laughablypremature
n
light
of
the fact
thatmost discussionsof itsaestheticsrangenofurtherbackin our
history
han
Poe
and
Hawthorne.
Short fictions are
"harder" o
write han
long ones,
simply
because he
"shortness"of
the form
makes
selectivechoicemorecrucial
or
anyauthor.