I dropped back onto the pillow and said, “Purple heart kid, hey?”
“Yeah. The medal for not ducking.” That’s all I ever heard him say about the scars or about the war.
The next day, while I signed up for classes, I did a little thinking about the probable football history of Chemung — the golden future — and wondered where I could fit Tom Western into the picture. During the afternoon I went into town and had a long talk with a soft old gentleman who was full of quiet sarcasm and contempt for his own job — managing editor of the daily paper, the Chemung Message. I haggled him out of thirty bucks a month for detailed coverage of all football games. I wasn’t worth it. I figure that he felt sorry for me.
Then I went to see Marty. It was a bit tense when he recognized my name. I told him that it had happened a long time ago and that I was plugging for him. I told him about the sports writing. Then I listened while he told of the football deeds, past and future, of the great Dorrence. After a half hour he loved me as only a thorough bore can love an eager listener. I knew that I could sit with my fingers on the great man’s pulse for the rest of the season.
In a couple of weeks my routine was set and I liked it. Classes, food, sleep and games. I located a little wench named Hilda with a blue Buick which matched her eyes. She didn’t insist on dancing, she didn’t talk much and she could make a big evening out of one cup of coffee. A good gal.
Every day I’d be at the practice field watching wise old Marty shape the boys up. He had it down to a hundred by the time scrimmages started. He made the line coach and the backfield coach tell the eager but inept characters when to stop coming out to play. After two afternoons of practice plays, I could see what he wanted. Pure power. He had simple plays that picked up all the power of the backfield and sent it crashing through holes dug the hard way by the guards and tackles. No razzle-dazzle. Just plain brute power with enough impact at the point of contact to bash in the front end of a truck. It was the smart way with the material he had. And it was the kind of football the big coach knew best. I personally counted twenty boys that were over six-two and over two-ten. They were ex-paratroopers, combat engineers, infantry, Seabees — in fact, almost every tough, dirty branch of the service. It isn’t necessary to say that there were a sprinkling of Marines — big Marines.
Every day I would go down and file some stuff with the Message, and every day they printed it. Marty thought I was a wonderful guy. Sven and I got along wonderfully. I never had a roommate I liked better — but of course he kept wishing out loud that he could trade me in for Mary Anne. I got so I felt that I knew her. He kept four pictures of her in the room. He was gay and happy and working hard at his two trades— learning to be an engineer and playing end for Marty.
The other slots filled up quicker than the end slots. There was some fine, stiff competition for the end positions. I watched them all work out, and I guessed that Sven was one of the two best. He was fast and had a good eye. He could climb higher in the air than many a lad several inches taller. He just about had the right end position cinched when another one of the lads, a boy named Carson, made a beautiful play in a scrimmage. He was playing defense against a power play around his end. Three men running interference. The ball carrier was too close to his interference. They were bunched. Carson spread out and floated through the air, parallel to the ground and about six inches above it. He clipped the whole four at ankle level and piled them up in a heap. That night Marty posted the first string team. Sven wasn’t on it. The two ends were Carson and a slim kid named Pogoni who was as good as they come— maybe better than Sven. Maybe.
Sven didn’t seem to care. He wanted to be number one man, but as long as he got his dough, he was content to play good ball and try to work his way up in there. I knew that he’d be able to do it.
It was about three days later that I found out that there was a little group on the first team who were friendlier than they should have been. It’s always nice to have the boys work together, but when you get three guys who are working for three guys instead of for the team, you have trouble. By coincidence, it turned out that the three dear, dear friends were all on the right side of the line. Carson, the swarthy end who had lucked into a first-team position, Sleegal, a stolid beefy right guard, and Kelly, a red-faced, sullen Irish tackle. I heard them talking in the locker room.
The only important thing I heard was Kelly saying softly, “Now, if you guys stay on your toes and we work together, we can break off any bum who tries to take the first-team job away from any one of the three of us.”
I didn’t like the sound of it and I wanted to tell Marty, but I didn’t want to be a stooge. Besides, I figured that he probably would think I was trying to teach him his business. If he did, I could kiss thirty bucks a month good-bye.
That night I told Sven about it. He fingered his square chin and said, “Well, I’ll be damned! So they got a club. Now I got to get Carson’s job. Besides, if I stay second string, they may cut my pay and then I can’t buy Mary Anne so many pork chops.”
The worst threats to Carson’s peace of mind as the training went further along were Sven and a smiling kid named Billy Jenner, who, strangely enough, was the only non-service kid left within shooting distance of the big time. Sven had it over Jenner like a tent, but I figured that with Jenner’s natural ability, he might be able to crowd Sven a little by next season.
It happened on a Thursday practice session. Jenner was playing right end on the substitute team. He was on offense. He had managed to cut inside of Carson and block him out of a couple of plays that started wide and then cut in. He was making Car-son look bad, and I knew that Marty knew it. I was grinning and pulling for Jenner. There was something about Carson that I didn’t like.
So I was watching Jenner on the next play. I couldn’t figure the play out. Evidently Jenner was supposed to cut inside of Carson and run back through flat center as a decoy. He didn’t get far. I saw Sleegal hit him gently and stop him without knocking him down. I thought I saw Sleegal’s elbow hooked around Jenner’s knee. Then Carson came over and blocked Jenner high and hard, knocking him over the crouching Sleegal. There was a ringing crack that you could hear all over the field. Everybody ran over and stood in a tight circle around Jenner. Marty bulled his way through the circle and I followed him. The play had snapped Jenner’s thigh midway between his knee and his hip. The big muscles of the thigh had contracted and pulled his knee halfway up to his hip. He lay on his back, his eyes shut, his face gray. Knots of muscle stood out on his jaw. He had guts but he was through for the season.
The docs came out and stuck field splints on him. Before they lifted him into the ambulance, he looked up at Carson and said, “When I’m back in shape, I’m going to bust your face in.” Carson was still grinning when the ambulance was out of sight.
Marty called the two teams together and said, “You guys are making trouble for me. Somebody’s going to holler about that. Save that kind of play for the opposition. I like to see you guys play good hard ball, but leave me with some ball players. Now get back in there and run through the same series again. I’ll send Stockwitz in for Jenner. Don’t sissy up on me, but don’t make it too tough, either.”