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Overview
New in paperback.
In this ribald comic novel, a young rabbi becomes quarterback for the New York Giants and within months all the world (or most of it) seems to be converting to Judaism. Anyone who feels even one shred of affection for the traditions of Judaism, who understands the power of professional sports to mold public opinion-and anyone who loves a good laugh-will be enthralled and delighted by The Pigskin Rabbi.
Ezekiel "Ziggy" Cantor becomes (by a very strange sequence of events) the superstar quarterback of the New York Giants, drilling passes with godlike accuracy, kicking miraculous field goals, playing out of pure love of the game, and catapulting the team toward invincibility. Ziggy's Judaism, formerly a burden in gentile society, now becomes the apparent source of all good. His teammates-convinced of the luck of the Jewish-start eating kosher food during games, prepared by Ziggy's kindly grandmother. They call plays in Yiddish.
Ziggymania hits town. Fans chant lustily in Yiddish. Gucci-made Giants yarmelkehs are all the rage. New York takes Ziggy to its heart-he is a homegrown hero. Even his grandmother becomes a celebrity. Judaism is hip, it's in, and is all-empowering.
An over-the-top farce full of unforgettable characters, an irreverent sports novel with a theological underpinning-The Pigskin Rabbi will have people of all faiths convulsed with laughter.
"A vastly entertaining fable. . . . Anyone who doesn't fall for Manus's spirit and sly jokes has a hard heart indeed."-San Francisco Chronicle
Willard Manus is the author of Mott the Hoople, among other books. His plays have been produced in London, Paris, Vienna, Berlin, Los Angeles, Washington, and New Orleans. He is a member of the American Theater Critics Association, and writes on blues and jazz for several magazines. He lives in Los Angeles.
"How does a rabbi convert the entire U.S. to Judaism? The answer, of course, is by becoming a football hero. A wild tale . . . Hilarious . . . Manus has a wonderful sense of humor."-Publishers Weekly
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781891369230 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Breakaway Books |
| Publication date: | 10/01/2000 |
| Edition description: | REPRINT |
| Pages: | 304 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.90(d) |
Read an Excerpt
The lead seesawed back and forth. When it came down to the last minute of play, the Rams were ahead by two and trying to hold the home team off. Everyone in Giants Stadium had long ago gone berserk. People were standing and screaming hoarsely and desperately for a score, photographers were firing off flashbulbs like strobe lights in a disco, the TV commentators' booth was a miniature Tower of Babel, reporters were pounding away at their computers as if they were creaky old Underwood uprights. And from on high in the plush-lined duplex skybox perched atop the stadium, Russell Hogarth, collar opened, bow tie cast aside, was shouting into a transatlantic telephone as he described the game's finish in pidgin German to the Gnomes of Zurich:
" . . . der Juden is dropping back . . . er warft der ball . . . it goes gannz weit down the fielt to the Italiener, Hook . . . who catches it undt er ist knocked down bei un grosse shvartzer of der Rams!"
The Giants got to their own forty, where, with everyone thinking pass, Ziggy ran a quarterback draw, right up the center of the field to the Rams' twenty-five, only to have the whole thing called back because Siffie was caught holding. "I'll have you sent to the stockade in the morning!" Schimpf screamed at his deeply chagrined and remorseful center.
Ziggy, face bloodied from the hits he'd taken from the Rams' linemen, mouth sucking wind, uniform covered with dirt and snot and soaked through with sweat, dropped back and fired a quick bullet to the equally soiled Hook, who juked and jostled his way to the Rams' forty.
Four seconds left. Schimpf, collar ripped open, eyes bulging, frenziedly signaled for a timeout. Over the tumultuous roar of the crowd, he screamed at Ziggy, "Kick it, go for three!"
"Hold on now," Homer shouted, pushing between them on the sideline. "The goddamn wind's come up!" They looked up at the flags on the roof of the stadium, all of which were blowing hard-and the wrong way.
"Fuck the wind! Keek, keek, you fucking Albino," the demented head coach shrieked.
"Here, chukkeleh." It was Bubbe again, pressing a hot cup of soup into Ziggy's hand. He gulped it down quickly, feeling, as before, the strength and warmth spreading through him.
He turned and walked back slowly to the huddle. The wind-almost gale force now-had brought new smells to the field, smells that went back to the days when the land around here was occupied by pig farmers. He could also detect the odor of the old Secaucus marshes. The Mafia used to dump the bodies of their victims here. Somebody was trying to tell him something. If not the ghosts of murdered Mafia victims, if not the wind itself, then his own football instinct, his heart of hearts. He had to go with it, had to believe in what he believed, or else he wasn't a man but a robot. And robots didn't win football games, men did.
Ziggy didn't let on in the huddle, didn't say anything special other than: "Field goal try, on three. Hold 'em, guys."
This way nobody could tip the play, if only because they didn't know it was coming. And it was only now that he looked at The Hook and whispered, "Let's go with our old trick play, the one we used against the Fordham Guineas that time. Remember it?"
"Are you crazy?" The Hook asked.
"No, I'm not crazy. Just do it!"
The Hook knelt on one knee, ready to take Siffie's snap. But when it came he turned and flipped his backpedaling buddy the ball and took off, fighting through the onrushing Rams and slipping past the startled safety and racing straight down the center of the field. The only thing close to him when he finally turned to look back was the ball itself, which Ziggy had laid up there for him, so perfectly that The Hook caught it without breaking stride and was able to continue at full speed into the end zone.
The press could not remember the last time the team had been so happy. From the way the Giants celebrated, you'd think they had just won the Super Bowl, prancing around in their jockstraps and spraying everyone with soda pop and Gatorade. The high jinks were attributed to the dick-daring victory, but that was only superficially correct. It wasn't just that the team had won, it was the way they had done it -- with a Mickey Mouse play that connected them by sweet nostalgia to their own sandlot days, when they were kids and had no coaches, game films, or game plans to worry about. It was the last time any of them had played football just for the sheer hell of it.
Although they themselves didn't realize it and certainly couldn't articulate it, Ziggy had allowed them to be young again. Long ago the adults had grabbed hold of them because of their natural abilities and had pushed them into the system: Pop Warner, high school, college, and now pro ball. They'd been highly trained and disciplined, taught to be aggressive and violent, made to pump iron, ordered to play with pain and endure injuries, filled with painkillers and steroids.
The system had rewarded them handsomely, made them rich and famous, but it had taken the fun out of the game and turned it into a business instead -- until Ziggy showed up and worked his crazy magic. The whole thing just tickled them to death, made them want to laugh and shout and grab ass and spit water all over each other.
What they loved even more was hearing about Bubbe from Homer, how she'd snuck down out of the stands with this soup and fish for Ziggy, and what a great little old lady she was. Ziggy brought her to the locker room, where she was cheered and hugged and carried around on shoulders. She was everybody's grandmother, not just Ziggy's -- a repository of overflowing maternal love, warmth, and homeyness. They thanked her for reviving Ziggy and for bringing them luck, begged her for a cup of that chicken soup and gerfluckter fish or whatever the fuck it was called.