Runt of the Litter

BALL OR NOTHING Eason plays for keeps.

Photograph: Joan Marcus

In a semiautobiograpical solo about fathers and sons, you can be pretty sure that emotional scars will be on the menu. During the course of football-pro-turned-actor Bo Eason’s Runt of the Litter, you’ll see physical ones too: four red ghosts of surgical incisions filleting Eason’s knees as he stretches and bounces around the stage. The body of this performer is a grim text about a boy trying to please his distant dad through a very violent game.

There are many ways for sons and fathers to bond, but none so problematic as sports—a stew of logic, physical discipline and concentrated violence. “Wherever that space is in your body where you hold your humanity, you put this on, that space is empty,” Eason says as he suits up in the locker room before a momentous match. “This uniform is a permission slip to indulge in your darkest side.”

Eason bases his script on experience: He was a safety for the Houston Oilers from 1984 to ’89, playing in the shadow of his famous brother, quarterback Tony. We can only hope that Eason exaggerated the more depressing plot points, such as his own bloodlust on the field and the blue-collar dad’s emotional reticence. As his tale reaches its violent climax, melodramatic flourishes beat out plausibility, but Eason’s earthy, fast-paced writing and dynamic physical performance—well served in Larry Moss’s sensitive staging—land the story squarely in the end zone.—David Cote