The Wildcats' first two plays were line-bucks that got nowhere. On the next the Wildcat ball-carrier got through the Wolves' line, ran towards Ethelbert — who remembering his instructions, did no more than make an ineffectual grab at him — skittered wildly around to the side, and made his ten yards.
At that, the look of blank despair on the Wildcats' faces relaxed a little. However, their next two plays were smothered line plays that got them only three yards. Then they tried a pass. Ethelbert lumbered towards the receiver, stretching out hairy-backed hands, showing his immense teeth, and going "Woo!" This sight kept the receiver so busy backing away from Ethelbert that he did not even try to catch the ball. The same thing happened on the next play. Then the Wildcats kicked, and the Wolves downed the ball on their own twenty-seven-yard line.
Szymczak told Ethelbert: "Okay, big boy, here we go."
On the play, Szymczak took the ball and handed it to Ethelbert, who tried to step over the scrimmage line. The mass of bodies was a little too big, however, and Ethelbert came down with a crunch on something; then continued on his way. A rash Wildcat wrapped his arms around Ethelbert's leg, but Ethelbert shook his leg and sent the player spinning twenty feet away. When another dove at him he caught the man in his free hand and threw him away. Then he trotted on down the field for a touchdown.
The stands roared; men in white carried off in a stretcher the Wildcat Ethelbert had stepped on; and the Wolves made their place-kick good. Seven to nothing, Wolves' favor.
On the Wolves' next kick-off, the Wildcats were so demoralized that they fumbled the ball all over the place until a Wolf ran down and fell on it. On the first play, the Wildcats actually lost ground, which completed their breakdown. They kicked.
By luck the kick came down near Ethelbert, who scooped it out of the air like an elephant catching a peanut, and lumbered down the field again. There seemed plenty of opponents in front of him, but when he braced himself to meet them they all seemed somehow to be not quite able to reach him. Over the racket from the stands he heard the Wildcats' captain yelling: "Grab him! Grab him!"
But that, nobody seemed anxious to do. Another touchdown.
At this point, however, the game failed to go on. Ethelbert saw the Wildcats gathered around their coach, waving arms and shouting. Presently Martin told him:
"They say they won't play any more. You busted that guy's leg you stepped on, George."
"Aw, gee, I'm sorry," said Ethelbert.
Now Grogan was arguing with the Wildcat coach and the Wildcat manager, arms flying.
"They say they won't," yelled the Wildcat manager.
"What is this, a strike?" shouted Grogan. "Thought you had arbitration clauses in your contracts."
"How you gonna arbitrate a thing like this in the middle of a game? Unless you take out this gorilla they just don't play no more, period. And I don't blame 'em. They say they'd have to have a Brahma bull on their side to make it even."
"You mean you concede the game?"
"I don't give a care what you call it —"
Here the referee joined in: "But you can't do that! The customers'll riot if you quit now. We'll have to give 'em back their dough. You'll lose your bond —"
"And I said," yelled Grogan, "that I won't take Ethelbert out! I'm not quitting; I'm just standing on my rights."
The dispute became too general for Ethelbert to hear what was going on. With his teammates he retired to the benches and sat grinning until the knot broke up and Grogan rejoined them. "Okay, boys," he said. "Off to the showers. We get our dough without even having to play for it."
"Can I go to the Art Institute now to sign up?" Ethelbert asked him.
"Sure, sure, I'll make a date for tomorrow afternoon."
"Swell. Look Mr. Grogan, do I have to ride around inside that smelly old moving van any more? If I sort of hang out the side I can sit up with the driver, and since folks know about me now —"
"Sure, only just don't bother me now."
Ethelbert found the dressing room full of newspaper reporters and photographers. "Mr. Ethelbert, how do you get along with human beings?"
"Mr. Ethelbert, will you turn your head so I can get your profile? I want to show that receding forehead — "
"Say, George, how do you manage with telephone booths?"
When they asked him what he was interested in besides football, he was tempted to tell them about his art course. However, he decided that they might have fun with the story and kept his mouth shut. You had to watch yourself every minute in dealing with shrimps.
Ethelbert enjoyed his ride out to Cicero through a light drizzle in the front seat of the van, although he had to sit scrunched up with his knees under his chin. The truck listed to starboard. Once, when they were stuck in a jam and an impatient hack driver began slanging Szymczak for getting in his way, Ethelbert unfolded his length and oozed out around the windshield to where the hackie could see him. The man subsided and sped away.
When they got to Szymczak's little house, Ethelbert insisted upon calling up the hospital whither the injured Wildcat had been taken, to learn that his fracture was not too serious. He even wanted to pay the wounded player a visit. But Szymczak said:
"No, George, just think: if you was to walk in on him and he was to look up and see you, he'd have a galloping relapse."
"Oh, heck," grumbled Ethelbert. "All you shrimps think that because I'm bigger than you, I don't have no human feelings."
He retired to the backyard to wait for them to bring him his ten-pound dinner, wondering how much longer he'd have to put up with this tent. Although he was used to hard living, he had in his few weeks in Chicago acquired a yearning for the niceties of civilization. Maybe some day he could have a house built special for him with furniture to match
Next morning, he made a telephone call to Grogan's office on Szymczak's line. To do this, he stood outside Szymczak's window. Szymczak dialed the number, since Ethelbert's fingers would not fit the holes in the dial. When the office answered, Szymczak handed the instrument out the window.
Grogan's secretary said: "No, George, Mr. Grogan isn't in now. He was, but he rushed out to see his lawyer. I think it's about that meeting this afternoon."
"What meeting?" said Ethelbert, holding the receiver between thumb and forefinger.
"Oh, didn't you know? The executive committee of the National Football League is meeting right after lunch. It's about that game yesterday."
"Huh?" said Ethelbert, and repeated her words to Szymczak.
Szymczak whistled. "Ask her if that ain't kind of fast work."
The secretary said: "Yeah, it sure is. A couple of them flew in from California this morning. That game made headlines all over."
"Didn't he say nothing about his date with me, to go to the Art Institute today?"
"No, nothing. And, just after he went out, a process server came in looking for him."
"What for?"
"How should I know? Maybe one of his wives has got on his trail again."
Szymczak, when told, looked grim. "Looks as though everything sure ganged up on him at once. He had some big debts, and now if the exec committee says no to you, it'll clean him out."
Ethelbert growled: "Why don't people tell me these things before I get tangled up with a guy like that? What'll he do? Run away?"
"Might. Ready to go to practice? I'll get the truck."
George Ethelbert practiced that day with only half his mind, while with the other half he worried about Grogan's course of action. In the middle of the afternoon the coach suddenly called from the sidelines: