Marty stopped in the middle of the room. I composed myself for another roaring session. When he spoke softly I nearly fell off the folding chair. “All you guys know what’s going on, just like I do. Frankly, I don’t think I give a damn whether you win this game or not. But if any of you got any sense, you’re learning something from what’s been going on. I am.”
At that point, Sven propped himself up on one elbow. He grinned and said, “They’re teaching me some stuff, too.” He dropped back down and shut his eyes. The room was very silent.
Sleegal got up and walked over to Stockwitz. He said, “Hey, you!” Sven opened his eyes again. Sleegal stuck out his fat hand and Sven took it. “In the last half, boy, I give you all the cover I can.”
“Let the yellow son of a gun make his own cover,” Kelly snarled.
Sven rolled off the bench and stood up. He winced as he stepped on the bad ankle. He limped over to Kelly. Kelly jumped up, tense and ready.
Sven stopped in front of him and said gently, “This is kid stuff, Kelly. A game I used to play long ago, but I want you to try it with me. Now. See, I’ll keep my hands down at my sides and you take a slug at me. Hit me anywhere and just as hard as you want to. The only thing is, after I get up off the floor, and I’m going to get up, I get one bang at you. Okay?”
Kelly looked uncertain. Sven stood quietly in front of him. Kelly closed his big fist slowly, and then opened it up again. Sven smiled at him. “What’s the matter, Kelly? Come on! Let me have it! I’m the guy with no guts, remember?”
Kelly looked down at the cement floor. He shuffled his big feet. “Nuts, Stockwitz. That’s kid stuff.” He sat down on the bench without looking up. Sven walked back to the table and stretched out so that Moe could continue working on him.
Marty walked to the door. He put his hand on the knob and turned his head so that he faced the room. “Bowen goes in for Kelly after the half.” He walked out. I stuck around. As the minutes went by, the atmosphere gradually changed. All of the strain was gone. When the time was short, the boys climbed back into the suits, laughing and kidding. All but Kelly. Nobody missed the chance to cuff Sven or beat on his shoulder or stick an elbow lightly into his ribs. He was in.
I stood at the door and watched them go back out onto the field. They didn’t look like a team that had played thirty minutes of rough ball. They ran out on their toes — all but Sven. He was saving it. He ran as if his legs were canvas tubes stuffed with putty.
Worker kicked off and Negreno, the quarter, took it back about twenty-two yards to the Chemung thirty. The backfield pranced and the line boys bounced up and down until the last three seconds before the ball snapped back. Negreno took it, faked to the left wing and slipped it to the fullback who slammed in between left guard and tackle for a fat seven.
It was a setup for a couple of solid yard and a half bucks to carry it to a first down. I could see the Worker backfield pull in. Negreno did the smart thing. He called one of the few razzle jobs. The right wing took it and faded back, giving the left end time to run wide and then cut sharply back into the flat. The left guard bulled through in time to wham a beautiful block into the Worker left wing. The Chemung left wing circled wide and delayed so that he was pounding along a little behind and to the left of the end. The pass was a beauty. When the safety man came in on the left end, he lateraled back to the left wing. He did it a little too soon. He should have waited until he felt the hands on his legs. The safety man kept his feet and took off after the left wing. He nailed him on the Worker nine.
I suddenly realized that I had been holding my breath until my ears were buzzing. The crowd sounded like a hundred fire engines in the middle of a thunder storm. I looked down at Marty’s hands. His fingers were knotted together. I couldn’t see a scrap of expression on Marty’s face.
The Worker gang missed their chance to hold the line because they half expected a play or two to be run over Stockwitz. They were still handing him the business. Negreno called three wicked smashes into the left side of the line... one inside tackle, one outside tackle, one inside tackle. The boys with the poles ran out part way and then ran back. You don’t need the poles when you started less than ten yards from the payoff line. Guess they got excited — linesmen are human too.
Once again Negreno handed it to the full, so I thought. It would have been a good idea because he banged two yards across the line with six men hanging onto him. But his arms were empty. Negreno slanted across with it himself, banging diagonally across the huge hole that had been torn in the line. It was a play that wasn’t in the books. I heard Marty gasp. But it had been smart ball. Negreno figured that if the full had been stopped cold, he still had a chance of sliding down left end. If the full went through, then he could too.
The point was missed and it stood six all. The two teams settled down to hard, brutal ball. Worker Tech had wised up, and they played it close to the vest. I began to wonder why Marty didn’t haul Sven out of there. There were a few short passes that didn’t connect. They’d kick to us and we’d battle our way from our twenty-five down to around our forty and then kick back. They’d do the same. The boys were tiring, but neither coach ran in many substitutions.
When they shifted at the quarter, Worker had the ball on their own thirty-eight, fourth down and four to go. The kick was good and we battled it up to our own forty-five before we kicked out. Neither team could get the edge. When Chemung would take it beyond the fifty before kicking, the kick would be a fearful wabbling thing. When we kept them bottled up behind their own thirty, their kick would soar like a rocket. The breaks of the game were coming out even.
The last quarter ticked slowly on and at last the hand of the big clock touched the black line that said three minutes to play. Chemung had the ball on our own forty. Negreno faked a buck and wiggled loose around left end for eleven yards. It was the biggest gain in twenty minutes of ball. The crowd yelled like it had been a touchdown.
I felt Marty jump when the next play started. “Watch Stockwitz,” he hissed.
Sven had picked up his tired bones and flashed off like a spooked horse. He ran with his head down, and I knew that the smooth muscles of those thick calves were paying off. I glanced back toward the back-field. Our left end had the ball, and he was dancing back, in serious danger of being trapped. Our blocking was bad. He waited a long time. Finally he wiggled loose and ran back a few more yards. He wound up and put his heart, his back and his prayers into a high spiral pass.
I glanced toward Sven. He had his head up, his eyes on the ball, and he was running along the goal line. He stopped and stood perfectly still, his knees flexed. The safety man was coming in on him fast. Swen went high in the air and the ball thumped against his chest.
Accomplishment can wear a false face, the idiot grin of a clown. In front of thirty thousand people, Stockwitz jumped high in the air, forcing himself backward. His legs went out from in under him and he made the most spectacular pratt-fall in the history of organized sport. He hit with a thud that jarred every set of teeth in the cramped stadium. But he hung onto the ball and he landed in pay dirt. Several grown men with burbling briars and blue stubble on their chins had respectable cases of hysteria. Marty sent Carson in for Stockwitz. We made the point and two plays later the game ended thirteen to six.
Marty shared the headlines with Stockwitz and the rest of the team. “Dorrence Shows New Sportsmanship.” “New Ethics on Substitutions.” “May be New Unwritten Law of Football.”
I’m due to go back to Chemung tomorrow as a house guest. It’s probably the last chance I’ll get to visit Sven and Mary Anne before they become a family of three.