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He
had
been
a
fine
player
,
making
All
-
Conference
in
his
junior
and
senior
years
,
and
he
knew
perfectly
well
that
he
had
his
own
bad
temper
to
thank
…
or
to
blame
.
He
had
not
enjoyed
football
.
Every
game
was
a
grudge
match
.
And
yet
,
through
it
all
,
he
hadn
’
t
felt
like
a
son
of
a
bitch
.
He
hadn
’
t
felt
mean
.
He
had
always
regarded
himself
as
Jack
Torrance
,
a
really
nice
guy
who
was
just
going
to
have
to
learn
how
to
cope
with
his
temper
someday
before
it
got
him
in
trouble
.
The
same
way
he
was
going
to
have
to
learn
how
to
cope
with
his
drinking
.
But
he
had
been
an
emotional
alcoholic
just
as
surely
as
he
had
been
a
physical
one
-
the
two
of
them
were
no
doubt
tied
together
somewhere
deep
inside
him
,
where
you
’
d
just
as
soon
not
look
.
But
it
didn
’
t
much
matter
to
him
if
the
root
causes
were
interrelated
or
separate
,
sociological
or
psychological
or
physiological
.
He
had
had
to
deal
with
the
results
:
the
spankings
,
the
beatings
from
his
old
man
,
the
suspensions
,
with
trying
to
explain
the
school
clothes
torn
in
playground
brawls
,
and
later
the
hangovers
,
the
slowly
dissolving
glue
of
his
marriage
,
the
single
bicycle
wheel
with
its
bent
spokes
pointing
into
the
sky
,
Danny
’
s
broken
arm
.
And
George
Hatfield
,
of
course
.
He
felt
that
he
had
unwittingly
stuck
his
hand
into
The
Great
Wasps
’
Nest
of
Life
.
As
an
image
it
stank
.
As
a
cameo
of
reality
,
he
felt
it
was
serviceable
.
He
had
stuck
his
hand
through
some
rotted
flashing
in
high
summer
and
that
hand
and
his
whole
arm
had
been
consumed
in
holy
,
righteous
fire
,
destroying
conscious
thought
,
making
the
concept
of
civilized
behavior
obsolete
.
Could
you
be
expected
to
behave
as
a
thinking
human
being
when
your
hand
was
being
impaled
on
red
-
hot
darning
needles
?
Could
you
be
expected
to
live
in
the
love
of
your
nearest
and
dearest
when
the
brown
,
furious
cloud
rose
out
of
the
hole
in
the
fabric
of
things
(
the
fabric
you
thought
was
so
innocent
)
and
arrowed
straight
at
you
?
Could
you
be
held
responsible
for
your
own
actions
as
you
ran
crazily
about
on
the
sloping
roof
seventy
feet
above
the
ground
,
not
knowing
where
you
were
going
,
not
remembering
that
your
panicky
,
stumbling
feet
could
lead
you
crashing
and
blundering
right
over
the
rain
gutter
and
down
to
your
death
on
the
concrete
seventy
feet
below
?
Jack
didn
’
t
think
you
could
.
When
you
unwittingly
stuck
your
hand
into
the
wasps
’
nest
,
you
hadn
’
t
made
a
covenant
with
the
devil
to
give
up
your
civilized
self
with
its
trappings
of
love
and
respect
and
honor
.
It
just
happened
to
you
.
Passively
,
with
no
say
,
you
ceased
to
be
a
creature
of
the
mind
and
became
a
creature
of
the
nerve
endings
;
from
college
-
educated
man
to
wailing
ape
in
five
easy
seconds
.
He
thought
about
George
Hatfield
.
Tall
and
shaggily
blond
,
George
had
been
an
almost
insolently
beautiful
boy
.
In
his
tight
faded
jeans
and
Stovington
sweatshirt
with
the
sleeves
carelessly
pushed
up
to
the
elbows
to
disclose
his
tanned
forearms
,
he
had
reminded
Jack
of
a
young
Robert
Redford
,
and
he
doubted
that
George
had
much
trouble
scoring
-
no
more
than
that
young
footballplaying
devil
Jack
Torrance
had
ten
years
earlier
.
He
could
say
that
he
honestly
didn
’
t
feel
jealous
of
George
,
or
envy
him
his
good
looks
;
in
fact
,
he
had
almost
unconsciously
begun
to
visualize
George
as
the
physical
incarnation
of
his
play
hero
,
Gary
Benson
-
the
perfect
foil
for
the
dark
,
slumped
,
and
aging
Denker
,
who
grew
to
hate
Gary
so
much
.
But
he
,
Jack
Torrance
,
had
never
felt
that
way
about
George
.
If
he
had
,
he
would
have
known
it
.
He
was
quite
sure
of
that
.
George
had
floated
through
his
classes
at
Stovington
.
A
soccer
and
baseball
star
,
his
academic
program
had
been
fairly
undemanding
and
he
had
been
content
with
C
’
s
and
an
occasional
B
in
history
or
botany
.
He
was
a
fierce
field
contender
but
a
lackadaisical
,
amused
sort
of
student
in
the
classrooms
Jack
was
familiar
with
the
type
,
more
from
his
own
days
as
a
high
school
and
college
student
than
from
his
teaching
experience
,
which
was
at
second
hand
.
George
Hatfield
was
a
jock
.
He
could
be
a
calm
,
undemanding
figure
in
the
classroom
,
but
when
the
right
set
of
competitive
stimuli
was
applied
(
like
electrodes
to
the
temples
of
Frankenstein
’
s
monster
,
Jack
thought
wryly
)
,
he
could
become
a
juggernaut
.
In
January
,
George
had
tried
out
with
two
dozen
others
for
the
debate
team
.
He
had
been
quite
frank
with
Jack
.
His
father
was
a
corporation
lawyer
,
and
he
wanted
his
son
to
follow
in
his
footsteps
.
George
,
who
felt
no
burning
call
to
do
anything
else
,
was
willing
.
His
grades
were
not
top
end
,
but
this
was
,
after
all
,
only
prep
school
and
it
was
still
early
times
.
If
should
be
came
to
must
be
,
his
father
could
pull
some
strings
.
George
’
s
own
athletic
ability
would
open
still
other
doors
.
But
Brian
Hatfield
thought
his
son
should
get
on
the
debate
team
.
It
was
good
practice
,
and
it
was
something
that
law
-
school
admissions
boards
always
looked
for
.
So
George
went
out
for
debate
,
and
in
late
March
Jack
cut
him
from
the
team
.
