John D. MacDonald

Last Chance Cleats

I knelt on the sidelines. I had given the boys a little talk. The man in motion came in, slow and easy. He cut fast when the ball was snapped. The timing was just right. The take came off well, and the hand-off was clean. It made nine yards right through the middle, with the safety coming in fast to help smear the play.

I was proud of the boys. Weston Walker, the new head coach, was standing just behind me. I half-turned and grinned up at him. “How about that, Wes?” He had insisted that with each other we should be “Wes” and “Mike.”

I had met him eight years before, and hadn’t seen him since. The occasion of our first meeting was the annual fracas between my Philadelphia alma mater and his outfit, the national champs that year. Wes was a senior and I was a sophomore. I was line backer-up behind the shaky side of our line. He was the hardest charging back I have ever seen, before or since. I stopped him almost all afternoon. Each time I got up slower. It was like stopping a runaway milk horse.

After the game they came up to me in the shower and politely informed me that it was customary to take off the uniform before taking the shower.

Weston Walker hadn’t changed much in the intervening years. He was still horse-size with a cold, still face and colder eyes.

It was his first look at the teams — offensive and defensive. As backfield coach it would be nice if I could say that I had built that team. All I could say was that I had helped. Rooney Mulligan, the grand old man that Wes replaced, had fitted the Harbour College team together, bit by bit.

Naturally, we were sorry about Rooney leaving. But the pro offer was so large that in three years Rooney could retire in the style he deserved. He had stuck around for spring practice, and Wes had showed up for the fall session.

Harbour isn’t a big place. But we get our share of the bowl bids, and the alumni groups keep the hopefuls drifting in— high school captains, and All-State kids.

I was trying hard to be nice to Wes. When Rooney left, he recommended to the Athletic Board that I be made head coach. But Rooney made one small mistake. He didn’t suggest it soon enough. Negotiations with Weston Walker had already gotten under way. I got a bump in pay, kind words and I agreed to stick around and help.

Wes told them that he didn’t contemplate bringing in anyone except a couple of spotters and he could think of no one he would rather have as backfield coach than Mike Burk. Probably he didn’t want to change the dice. We had eighteen wins in a row.

I grinned up at him and asked him how he liked it. He was frowning. He said, “Offensively, Mike, it was swell. I can’t say as much for it defensively.”

I remembered one of Rooney’s theories and decided that it wouldn’t be smart to quote one of Rooney’s theories to Wes Walker. Rooney always said, “Mike, lad, you’ve got to remember that offensive football is intellectual. It can function anywhere. It is cold, hard, smart timing that counts. Practice and precision. Defense is another animal, lad. It’s emotional. The defensive team has to have the spark to get in there and dump them on their tails. The smack-em-down spirit. Defense won’t ever function right in practice unless there’s a grudge operating. And you don’t want any grudges on the squad. They’re poison.”

I knew that old Rooney Mulligan had the proper analysis. The whole business is like two different games. In a game you have the crowd noises, the will to win. In practice all you can hear is the bite of cleats on the turf, the thud of running feet, the smack and grunt as a man is stopped. It’s hard and dirty business, and there’s no will to win.

While I was thinking of Rooney, Wes interrupted my line of thought to give me a short lecture on football.

He said, “Mike, offensive football has the edge these days. Any T team with timing can score. The balance of power is in defense.”

Scotty Shannon was calling the defensive shifts. On the next play, Scotty moved Tug Ober, the full, over a few feet, along with “Slipper” Angeline, the right half who was backing up the line. Dusty Lane, right guard, backed up the right half. Red Rollins, left half, was a few feet behind Dusty and toward the outside.

This time the 6-2-2-1 clicked nicely and Dusty and Slipper converged to help Bill Krozak, defensive center, drop the ball carrier for no gain.

I looked up. Wes was smiling. “That’s what I like to see, Mike,” he said. “A sharp defense.”

But a moment later, on the next play, Red Rollins was sucked out of position and the ball carrier smacked through for eleven yards. Rollins had pulled a bone-head play.

Wes was frowning again. “Mike, who’s that kid? Number thirty-five?”

“Red Rollins. Nice boy.”

“I don’t care if he wins personality contests. How well does he work in there?”

I concealed the groan. “Red does okay,” I said calmly.

“That gives me enough to go on,” Wes said. “Break ’em up. You take the offensive backfield boys over across the field and polish them for a while on that faking.” He turned to Tiny Lauder-house, the line coach. “Tiny, take all the linemen down to the far end and get those fannies down a little further. They’re going in too high. I’ll work the defensive backfield for a while. In an hour we’ll give them three times around the field and call it a day.”

That was exactly what I was afraid was going to happen. And though Wes was acting as though he had an open mind, I knew no reason why he should feel duty bound to listen to any of my theories — second-hand theories from Rooney — when Wes had already piled up a nice record at a good eastern school.

We had three weeks before the first game. It was our usual curtain raiser with Malloy Tech. The following Saturday we would be traveling to do battle with the Michigan Raiders, and on the third Saturday the Gray Wave from Ohio was coming in to pummel us a little. We could walk all over Malloy, and we had a good chance of smacking down a weakened Raider team, but the Gray Wave meant trouble. We had given them their only loss of the season before, and they were stronger, if anything.

The original division of labor that Wes Walker had set up remained in force for ten days. Our squad was big enough to put three offensive teams and two defensive teams on the field.

The kids were eager and they took pride in the win record that had been hung up. I could see that they were keeping the beady eye on Walker, wondering how he’d react when the going got rugged. Walker had none of the warmth that Rooney Mulligan had had. But he was straight and fair. He didn’t play favorites and he knew his football. It was equally obvious that he was as hot to keep that record untarnished as was the squad.

Also, Walker had an eagle eye on the gold-brickers, and a few of them left us rather suddenly. Another kid left, too. He was a fair, third-string end, but he ran to Walker with some sort of snitch on another guy on the squad.

I was feeling pretty good myself. I was afraid that Walker was going to be one of those characters who can’t delegate responsibility. But he gave me my head and showed no signs of tightening up on the reins.

He said, “Mike, the offensive backfield is yours. I’ve watched you. If I step in, I’ll just foul it up. We’ll cook up the plays together, with you having final word, because you know what the kids can do and what they’ll fluff. Is that okay?”

I couldn’t have asked for a better deal.

And at the end of ten days, Wes leaned over my shoulder and snatched away my second-string left half, a smart, rugged junior named Rick Denatti.

He explained by saying that Denatti had the speed, the build and the disposition to become a fine defensive back. He had a bad hole to fill on the first squad.

“Bad hole?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I can’t understand how Mulligan left that red-headed clown, Rollins, in a first-team slot. The harder he tries, the more he turns into a tanglefoot. I’m bustin’ him down to a third-string sub and I may toss him off the squad entirely.”

“He’s a nice boy,” I said.

“Burk, we can’t give free rides to nice boys. We’ve got a record to protect.”

It was the first time he had called me by my last name. I knew he was annoyed. Maybe I had picked the wrong word for Rollins.

Walker made a wise choice in Rick Denatti. Rick was a chunky boy, but as quick as a cat, with a mind that clicked every minute. He had that indefinable sense of smelling out a play and getting to the trouble spot just as it exploded.

With the defensive backfield of Ober, Shannon, Denatti and Angeline, running a play through their back yard became as easy as carrying a bass fiddle through a subway turnstile.

Every day Rollins was at the swampy end of the practice field, working out with the other misfits who wore the old-style uniforms.

Scotty Shannon was Red Rollins’ roommate. Scotty, just like every other man on the defensive team, was a workman. A hard, solid, fast workman with a fine warm feeling toward physical contact. Scotty’s eyebrows and eyelashes were so pale as to be almost invisible.

I waylaid Scotty after the final practice before the Malloy game, just as he came out of the showers to walk over to the training table. I fell into step beside him.

He gave me a quick glance and said, “Hi, Mike.”

“How’s the kid taking it?” I asked.

He knew who I meant. “It’s kind of a jolt from being the fair-haired boy with Rooney to getting the dirty end of the stick from Walker. He’s pretty moody.”

“Tell him to keep his tail up, Scotty.”

Scotty stopped and stared at me. “What can you do for him? Pardon me for putting it that way.”

“You don’t have to step gently with me, Scotty. I’ll think of something — maybe.”

Scotty was looking behind me and his face changed. Red shambled up to us. Red is the only player I ever met who could manage to knock himself out on a locker bench. He was out cold for fifteen minutes one time, with a lump on his head as big as a lemon.

Physically he was strictly for laughs. A big, shambling guy with oversize hands and feet, a shock of red unruly hair, a lean neck with a huge Adam’s apple, and a pair of bright blue eyes.

They call that particular type, accident prone. I would like a dollar for every broken bone he had in his lifetime.

He came up to us and his usually bright eyes had a dull and woebegone look. “It could have happened to anybody,” he said helplessly.

“What was it, Red?” Scotty asked.

“Oh, that last scrimmage. Mr. Walker was watching us. Gilly calls those shifts and he mumbles, I think. Anyway, I shift right and Joey shifts left and we knock each other down and the play comes right through where we should have been.”

“No harm done,” Scotty said.

“Mr. Walker told me that I was through. Just a minute ago,” Red said bleakly.

“He can’t do that!” Scotty flared.

Red shambled away into the night, his head down. We heard him say, “Brother, he went and did it.”

“Now what?” Scotty demanded of me.

“I got to think,” I said.

But I tried talking instead of thinking. I tried talking that same night. I said to Wes, “I understand Rollins is through.”

Wes lifted a careful eyebrow. “Oh, did he come whining to you?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“I got rid of him first because he was awkward, an impossible clown, with no more football sense than a fish peddler. Second, getting rid of him is a hell of a good warning to the others with any tendency to clown up the game.”

“But Wes, I really think that maybe you should have waited and—”

“Subject closed, Burk. Closed tight. Apparently Rollins was some sort of mascot for the squad when Mulligan was in charge. We don’t need mascots and luck pieces, Mike. We will win with a better brand of ball, played by guys in top condition.”

I shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

He turned on the charm, clapping me on the shoulder. “Don’t sulk, Mike. I’m not the boss. We’re partners in this deal, doing the best we know how.”

Even though part of the act was phoney, there was enough sincerity behind it so that you couldn’t help liking the guy.

And on the next day we walked all over Malloy, 42-6. They got the single touchdown on a fluke. The score could have been run up to an astronomical figure, but Wes was anxious to get everybody in there, to see how they’d react in the press of an actual game.

We had two minor injuries that could be well baked out and taped for the next game with no risk of further damage to the boys.

It was a thrill to see Harbour, in pale green and gold, take to the field. There was a professional snap and precision about the boys. Tiny Lauderhouse had worked with the big linemen until they charged low, hard, and deep.

I had worked on every ball carrier’s style until I had him doing what he did best on each play that used him. The aerial attack clicked, even when we tried stuff that Wes and I had been leary of as being too complicated for the college level.

Statistically, Michigan was weak. The Raiders had lost seven of their top men, and the blanks were filled with green sophomores. Yet, they came out with fire and spirit, and made up, in pepper, what they lacked in statistics.

In the first ten minutes of play they punched over two touchdowns and made two conversions to leave us trailing by fourteen points. The crowd thought they were seeing a 19-game win streak chopped off. They were pulling for the Raiders.

Wes sat, lean, hard and composed, on the bench and directed replacements with a cool and masterly hand.

Harbour played uninspired ball, and very competent ball. Our boys didn’t make any mistakes. The plays clicked. Nobody extended themselves to make that extra half-yard, but competence began to pile up the yardage. The steady hammering culminated in a seventy yard march for a touchdown in the closing moments of the first half.

Between halves, Wes was cold and matter of fact. He said, “They blew all their stuff early in the game, men. You’re playing the kind of ball I want you to play. Watch for the breaks, and don’t hand them any favors. I expect three more touchdowns in the second half. The first one might be tough to get. The other two should be easy.”

It was a good guess. The first one was tough. We slammed down to their seven and, in four more plays got it no further than the three.

They kicked out and on the first play Messna, our big fullback, took it down to their five. We gained two yards to the three on first down, lost one back to the four on second, gained down to the one on third, and on fourth down they stopped the surge on the six-inch line.

They kicked out. But the sawdust had run out of Raggedy Andy. We punched it over, converted, kicked off, stopped them dead, took the ball and marched it over again.

For a time I thought Wes was going to be wrong about the third touchdown, but with two minutes to go, the Raiders tried a long pass. Our offensive right end gathered it in, reversed the field to give interference a chance to form, and galloped the whole distance. The conversion was bad, but the final score was Harbour, 27, Raiders, 14.

Twenty-one wins in a row!

But on the following Saturday the Gray Wave from Ohio was coming to town. Rough boys, coached by an expert. And loaded with a big urge for revenge for the upset of last year. I watched during the week while Wes tried to inject a little spirit into our lethargic squad.

On Thursday night I went to Scotty’s room. He was wearing a green eyeshade, cracking the books. Red was on his bed, his big fingers locked behind his head, staring without expression at the ceiling.

Scotty was cordial. Red just glanced at me and went back to his inspection of the ceiling.

“We’re pretty sad out there, aren’t we, Mike?” Scotty asked.

“Sad, lazy, and dull as dirt.”

Red came up on one elbow. His eyes were suddenly bright. “Saturday we win, Mike?”

“Saturday, Red, we win just like the Maginot Line held off the Germans.”

The look faded. He sank back. “Oh,” he said. If anybody had told him he had three days to live, he would have said, “Oh,” with about the same tone.

Scotty frowned at me as I cut the string. “What’s in the box, Mike.”

I showed them what I had in the box and I made each of them swear three times that he’d keep his mouth shut.

“Suppose it doesn’t work, Mike?” Scotty asked.

“Then I find myself a nice bread truck to drive around some nice quiet city.”

Weston Walker’s analysis of what might happen when the Gray Wave hit us was pretty close to being right on the button.

It was one of those days. Clear and cool, with no wind. The field was springy and right. Forty thousand people jammed the stadium.

Our locker room was tense and sour. Wes threw a few half-humorous remarks into the air. They floated over like marble airplanes.

When we ran out, the Gray Wave was already on the field. At first glance it looked as if they had twenty teams around, running through the plays. I made a count, was faintly surprised to find they only had nine teams warming up on the field.

It was our first top-flight opponent of the season, and they looked better than top-flight. They looked better than any squad has a right to look.

I thought I detected a bit of pallor among our boys, a bit of licking of dry lips. I went around spreading words of confidence and cheer.

Jerry Bascoe, Harbour captain and offensive right-half won the toss, elected to receive. I checked the wires from the spotters, saw that they were placed, relayed Walker’s last minute instructions and picked a soft spot on the bench right next to Wes.

The ball came down, high enough to give the Wave ample time to get down the field. Messna, Harbour offensive fullback, spun out of the arms of one of the big gray men on our nine, bulled his way up to the fourteen before he lost his legs.

The big Gray Wave offensive backfield of Grunnert, Halliday, Raygo and Zapparti went out taking a hunk of the line with them and eight defensive men came in.

Lined up against the Wave, our boys didn’t look so feeble. They had snap and precision. Smart little Dandy Thomas called our signals.

On a half-spin and fake to Jerry Bascoe, he fed the ball to Messna who crashed off right tackle for three yards. The next play was a double fake, opening the same way, but faking the hand-off to Messna, making another half-spin and handing it to Kriefeldt, the left half who swept wide around end, Messna cutting sharply back to chop the legs from under the defensive right end.

Kriefeldt cut in very nicely, fooling the secondary, making it all the way up to the twenty-six for a first down.

Ohio was off balance and, as we had taught the boys, they lined up fast, cracked the center for two yards. There was a whistle on the play and Jerry elected to take the offside penalty, making it first and five on our own thirty-one.

The next play was one of those things that sometimes happens in football. Notre Dame has done it oftener than any other team in the business. Every play in a game is a touchdown play. Particularly off the T, where timing takes the place of double blocking and releases men to play almost a man to man offense.

The play was one of my pets. Kriefeldt was the man in motion. He came jogging in. The ball was snapped to Dandy Thomas. As it was snapped, Jerry Bascoe came across fast. Bascoe and Kriefeldt were passing each other just behind Dandy. We had practiced it a hundred times, with Dandy flipping the ball across Kriefeldt’s bows into Jerry’s hands.

Kriefeldt ran back as though to pass. Jerry went wide in what looked to be a naked reverse. But he picked up men as he got to the line. Kriefeldt had sucked the secondary off in the wrong direction. As they reversed rapidly, they were chopped down. Our end got down and took care of the safety man. Jerry went across standing up. We were all on our feet, yelling.

It reminded me of the shock when, in 1947, the Army fullback carried the mail right through Navy on what had started as a routine thrust through the line.

One of the big Grays came through fast and tipped the ball off line for a conversion miss.

Ober, Shannon, Denatti and Angeline went into our backfield to stop the Gray Wave. Ohio brought the kick back to the thirty. They made a first down on their forty-two, another on our forty-five, and missed the third by inches.

Their kick rolled out on our fifteen. When we had possession of the ball, I realized that I had been gnawing on my underlip. The Gray Wave had pulled a surprise on us. We had them figured for purely a T outfit. But they had shifted to both a single and double wing to shove their punishing power plays across. It was disheartening to note that in addition to Halliday, their All-American fullback, the two halves, Zapparti and Raygo, ran just as hard as Halliday.

It was the day for line play. Probably to the uneducated spectators, it was a dull game. But there was drama in the way Tiny’s men plugged the holes, smelled the plays, fought and struggled. But they couldn’t help letting those big men into the Harbour backfield.

When they lined up unbalanced to the right in a single wing, Scotty couldn’t gamble on defensive power where the threat was aimed. He tried it once and only a beautiful tackle saved the play when a naked reverse seemed headed for paydirt.

They lined up in the T, and made the sad mistake of trying to mousetrap Dusty Lane. He merely outran the man who was supposed to block him out of the play, cut back and blundered into some fancy hand-offs. The ball skittered out to the side and when the pile was untangled, Jamie Lee, our left end, had it cradled under his chin.

We took our time on three running plays, and then got off a nice kick. The ends were down to smother Raygo and the half ended after they tried two passes, one good for eleven yards and the second one batted down by Rick Denatti.

The locker room between halves was like a hospital ward. The defensive boys were stifling groans with every breath they took. They lay where they dropped. Scotty had a purplish bruise that covered half his face. Tug Ober had two sprained fingers.

Wes came in and stood with his hands deep in the slash pockets of his topcoat. Except for his size, he looked like a prosperous young broker.

He walked through the room, talking quietly with man after man.

Then he stopped in the middle of the room and raised his voice. “You know the score as well as I do. We’ll plan on not pushing another one over. If they push one over, they’ll convert. It looks rugged out there. We’ve had a break on injuries. Lane saved our goose once. Play heads-up ball and see if you can do as Lane did.”

There was no emotion there. I wasn’t asking for corn, but I did feel that something a little more personal than a profit and loss statement was in order.

In the second half, the Gray Wave started their march from their own five. Grunnert, Halliday, Raygo and Zapparti seemed to be running faster and harder than before. Maybe it was the contrast.

Our defense was grim, workmanlike, sober — and ineffectual!

In my position on the bench, I could feel a certain pair of eyes boring into the back of my neck.

Where they had made four yards before, they made six this half. Their march was faster and rougher, and the downs were piled up one after the other.

At the midfield marker, Lane had to come out with a leg injury. On the next play, Stan Frayle, right tackle, was knocked out. When he came around during the time out, he didn’t know what team we were playing. He had to come out. Tiny, analyzing the line play, recommended the replacements.

On our fifteen, on an end sweep, Raygo, almost in the clear, stumbled and fell hard. Little Scotty Shannon recovered the fumble. Out of their self-disgust, the Gray Wave drew fifteen yards for unnecessary roughness on the very next play.

Dandy, after two gains of two yards each, surprised them with a quick kick that lofted over the safety man’s head, rolled and bounded on down to the six yard line before it went dead.

We were back in business. But not for long. They made first down twice and then it was the last quarter of the game.

I could see that the boys had taken all they could take. Denatti missed an easy shot at the runner, handing them fifteen yards as a gift before Tug Ober brought the runner down. Our line and our back-field, on defense, were men of lead.

When they got down to our thirty, I couldn’t avoid taking the chance any longer. The very next play might be it. The Gray Wave smelled the score coming up and lined up with all the snap of a fresh team.

I turned on the bench and gave Red the signal. He came down out of the second row, cramming the felt hat in the pocket of the topcoat, unbuttoning the topcoat.

Wes didn’t see him. I grabbed Wes Walker’s shoulder and said, “Take a chance with me. Let me send a man into the backfield. They’re going to score.”

The quick opening play of the Gray Wave took them down to our twenty-two. Ober and Angeline were a long time getting up.

“Send in anybody you think will do us some good,” he said thickly. His knuckles were white and his nostrils had a pinched look.

“Rollins for Denatti!” I yelled.

Wes turned and glared at me. “Have you gone crazy, Mike? Rollins isn’t around to go in—”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the crazy redhead galloping out onto the field hand raised.

“Come back here!” Wes yelled.

Red stopped, confused. When Wes tried to yell again, I clamped a hand over his mouth and yelled, “Get in there, Rollins!”

Wes slapped my arm down and doubled up a mean-looking fist.

“You said I could send in anybody.”

“I didn’t know you’d cross me like this, Mike. He comes out after one play. How the hell did he get a uniform?”

“I took one to him. He was up in the stands with a coat on over the uniform.”

Walker’s eyes were blazing and knots of muscle stood out on the corner of his jaw.

The play was delayed as Red Rollins reported. The stands, seeing that familiar shock of scarlet hair, roared the welcome.

Above the roar, I could hear Red’s familiar crazy yelp, his battle cry. Denatti came out, looking back over his shoulder. As usual, Rollins refused to wear a helmet.

He pranced up and down behind the line, slapping the taut seats of the linemen, crowing and dancing like some crude marionette animated by an amateur.

The Gray Wave opened up their play. It was a thrust at the right side of the line, between guard and tackle. The hole didn’t open right for them. Zapparti came through what hole there was and Tug Ober, traveling at terminal velocity, hit him so hard that he bounced him back onto his pants in his own backfield. The ball went down for a half-yard loss.

Wes had called Denatti over to him, but he was ignoring Denatti who squatted in front of him. He was looking over Denatti’s shoulder, an odd frown on his face. Red was making a burlesque of spitting on his hands and rolling up his sleeves.

Our defensive backfield lined up with a lot of snap, and the line suddenly looked tight and hard. The play was another of those brutal end sweeps by four bunched men, the ball carrier, and three smart boys running interference.

Red came loping in from out of nowhere in particular and threw an absurd rolling block into the bunched men. He spilled two of them. The other man running interference tried to block Slipper Angeline out of the play, but Slipper was moving so fast that the blocker bounced back into the runner, tilting him off balance, setting him up for a crushing tackle by Bill Krozak, the center, who had somehow managed to get into the play. The Gray Wave took a two yard loss.

Red galloped over and helped the ball carrier up, pantomining brushing the dirt off the ball carrier’s pants. Once again that crazy yelp split the air and the stands roared their approval.

Weston Walker waved Denatti away. He was leaning forward and the odd frown had changed to the beginning of what promised to be a wide grin.

The next play wiped out that grin. The Gray Wave end got around in back of Rollins. The pass caught Red flat-footed, but Scotty came over fast to drop the receiver on the five.

I groaned inwardly. “Let him stay in.”

Our boys lined up and Red charged up and down in our backfield. Something he said gave our boys wide grins.

Halliday tried a straight line plunge. The center of our line rose up and smacked him down for no gain.

They ran the next one off the T, with some pretty faking, which turned into a delayed line buck after the left half had gone out to the right. Red had been confused by the faking. But when the delayed buck came, Red turned into a lean projectile and buried his shoulder in Raygo’s middle.

They called time so that Raygo could pull himself together.

The ball still rested on the five. Third and goal to go.

On the next play, Grunnert faded back and dropped a line-of-scrimmage pass right over Zapparti’s shoulder into his hands as he hit a big hole in the right side of our line.

With Zapparti’s speed, he should have carried it all the way over. But little Scotty hit him from the side just as Red, coming from the other direction, somehow managed to grab a handful of Zapparti’s pants. Red went down with Zapparti without losing that hold on the back of his pants. For a split second Zapparti was running hard in one spot. The ball came to rest on the two.

They depended on Halliday. They ran it off the T, with Halliday coming through to take the hand-off on a hard run.

Rollins, Ober and Angeline hit him as he came through. The smack set my back teeth to aching and I could imagine that I felt the shock wave.

We took the ball on the one-foot line.

The Gray Wave got the ball again before the game ended, but the heart was out of them. They had come too far, too many times. When the spirit faded, the legs in the offensive backfield turned to so much putty.

When the game ended, we were on their twenty-two, and knocking hard on the door.

The dressing room was a shambles. When Wes and I walked in, Red was on a chair giving a speech. He was saying, “...and I want all you men to know that next Saturday we got that tough game with Vassar coming up and—”

He saw us come in. He stopped, swallowed hard and got down from the chair. The grins faded and the men got busy stripping off uniforms.

Weston Walker didn’t say a word. He walked through the room for a few moments, a faraway expression on his face.

Then he spoke.

“Okay, okay, so I can make a mistake! What an outfit! Brains and guts and muscles aren’t enough. Mike said something just before I came in here. Something about defensive football being emotional. What did you do out there, Rollins?”

Red gulped again, “Coach, I just— Well, I— You see—”

Scotty spoke for him. “Red came out and said that we were doing it the hard way, trying to get the ball carrier. He said that maybe we ought to knock everybody down who was wearing gray. It just made us— Well, it made me feel better and I wasn’t so tired.”

Walker, his face like a stone mask, stood over Rollins. In a low tone he said, “Rollins, I want you out of here in five minutes.”

“Yes sir,” Red said sadly.

“I want you out of here in five minutes. I want you to go back to your room and get some sleep. I’ve got to have you in shape for the Vassar game.”

The roar of laughter didn’t catch us until the door had almost shut behind us.

Wes grinned at me. “What are you going to teach me next, coach?” he asked.

Content

John D. MacDonald
Last Chance Cleats