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The pleyers sit on the bench. As if trying to re-discover some primal source of the game, the team uses basic footbal. vocabulary in a third call. Reference to the potency of its myth (signals, numbers, school, and state names) invites a sense of regeneration. At the same time, the chant is a total parody. Numbers are called down the line, then are reversed and turned back on themselves in a »weave« of voicesl Names of football powers (Texas) are mixed with those of the inept (Navy) and the nonexistent (Pensacola). The entire call is punctuated throughout with » down, ready, hut« but the team never moves or changes its motionless, somewhat deflated attitude. The incongruous union of energy and loss of direction, of precise teamwork and ridiculous task that is inherent in the sport, becomes clear in a humorous way. This is restated by two players who walk to the center of the field and face each other; crashnig thrusts alternate with gentle leans as they enact a strangely comical exercise. The rest of the team slowly falls forward off the bench, kneels, then stretches out to perform pushups en masse. These simple, ritualistic moves demonstrate the unity and physical capability that remains at the heart of football, yet the players appear in a somewhat different, essentially quixotic relation to the game. The purpose of it all seems to shift: a transition is working its way out. Spread for a kickoff, the team’s realization of this warp becomes apparent. They perform another call, shouting to each other across the entire space with vigor and increasing tension. Simultaneously, a referee struggles to place a deflated ball in the proper position for a kickoff. The contrast is again ridiculously funny. At a whistle the referee abandons the ball and runs off the field. The two units run together, one moving at real speed, the other advancing very slowly toward the ball. Ball and kicking tee are kicked awaay, completely out of the playing area. The two lines collide, linking arms to form one bowed line of players facing alternate directions. On signals, they get into a stance and shift inside the bent line so that everyone faces one direction, across the stage. Suddenly, their formation is recognizable as an ancient football device, the flying wedge (a V shape). The entire team makes a quick movement in this formation a hop backwards. An outrageous visual pun follows. Referees unroll the tape of dashes through the point of the formation, indicating the possible path of motion and power. An enormous fan is rolled out and brought to the inside of the Vformation. The wind causes ripples in the plastic tape ; they stream sequentially out from the formation toward a three-hundred-pound block of ice which sits at the far end of the dashes. Light fades as the formation »flys« : the Saint made visible. The piece reveals itself. As in the poem, participants have moved through a realistic sport and a » spiritual « attitude. The ground base, football, changes. (John Howell, Arts magazine, IX-X, 1973)

_цц у Lee Brener’s т Т Ё'Ъ £) Mabou Mines luí theater company transfixed us with experimental piece, an \ adaptation of The players s/i on the bench. As if trying to re-discover of Samuel Beckett’s » The Lost Ones,« mostly a monologue, now running at the Public Theater. The company’s » The Saint and the Football Players ,« which had its New York premiere with one perfomance Saturday at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, promised to be the opposite a cross between »a Roman spectacle« and the Super Bowl. This was called a »Sports I Arts« event, a » War-Dance ,« with a 100-member cast, a football team, a marching band, a car ballet and a snowstorm. Football players in shapeless white uniforms appear, followed by shapely lineswomen, leaping straightgaited across the gym. »Hup, one, two, three, four ,five, six, seven .. .« intone the athletes. At first, the game is all signals (signals and band music by the composer Philip Glass) a rhythmic incantation. A gun is shot to indicate the end (or the beginning?) of play, and the athletes all fall dead. Alive again, each slaps the football. The players hold hands in a huddle and then in unison pat one another on the behind. A water boy runs out, wearing six towels as scarves, with two sievelike pails twined around his neck, spraying water in every direction. He gracefully whirls; he is a whirling dervish. Halftime. Instead of a car ballet, there is a fork-lift ballet. Five minitrucks glide out, with actors draped in sculptural poses. The vehicles cavort a nice dance suitable for parking garages, traffic rotaries and shopping centers. The choreography for vehicles is by John Holmes. The game starts again. One man gets the ball and runs not for a touchdown, but in concentric circles. Round and round he races until he is tackled, head over heels in a slow motion pas de deux. Confetti falls from a cloth strung high over the action. The » snow « slowly dribbles down for the rest of the game. The choreography for dancers is by Mary Overlie. »I saw the football players,« says my 9-year-old son, »but where was the saint?« I have no answer. »It was a good idea,« he says, »but it needs more work.« And, although it was fun, I might add, it needs more play. (Mel Gussow, The New York Times, 9. 2. 1976)