White got up, slightly groggy, shook his head a few times and grinned ruefully.
Strega said, “White, a little man’s timing has to be perfect. Otherwise he takes a hell of a beating. You were off balance then. You’re too tight. Try again.”
The second time White moved well, slammed his body across Stanisk’s knees and brought him down. Stanisk, wearing a mildly amused expression, got off White, helped him up.
Strega yelled across the field to Chug. Chug brought the linemen over and from then on the practice was on a scrimmage basis, limited to the sixty-series, designed to make Greely sorry that Jackson had gotten a look at their ends.
When Tony Strega went home that evening Loren was amiable, polite and faintly distant. No mention was made of the morning argument. He beat her at three straight games of cribbage and then they went to bed. Somehow there was a tiny wall between them. He could neither define it nor understand it. And it made him feel ineffectual.
Thursday he made the squad walk through every play in the book, not wishing to risk any minor injuries in scrimmage because of his lack of depth at all positions.
At dusk he called a halt and said, “Okay. Tomorrow we flip the ball around for an hour and call it a day.”
He showered and dressed slowly. As he was lacing his shoes, the last few members of the squad left the dressing room. He was alone in the silence, in the glare of a naked bulb, in the smell of sweat and leather and alcohol. He wondered idly how much of his life had been spent in locker rooms. When the contract with the big school came along, he’d have a complete staff. There’d be no more climbing in and out of uniform. He’d wear tweeds and a topcoat and he’d stand with his hands in his topcoat pockets and watch four or five complete teams work out on a vast field.
When he saw something wrong there’d be a P.A. system with the mike handy so that he could holler out what he’d seen that he didn’t like. The sports reporters would hang around for interviews and he’d always be pessimistic about his chances. That was good psychology.
He and Loren would have a big house and a bankroll and when he was interviewed on the radio or on television, she’d be waiting when he got home.
All the breaks. Every one. And gotten the hard way. Gotten by a tough little kid who had once been kicked in the face by a well-dressed drunk who didn’t like the way his shoes had been shined. He remembered how he’d taken the shine box by the strap and slung it low, cracking the man’s kneecap, leaving him yelling on the sidewalk while the police whistle shrilled and the cop came running.
“Pardon me,” the voice broke into his thoughts.
He glanced up quickly. He hadn’t seen the man come in. The man was big, thick through the shoulders, wide through the middle. He stood with his legs braced and looked around the locker room.
“Better layout than we used to have,” he said. He stuck out his hand. “I recognized you from your pictures, son. I’m Frank Mercer.”
Tony stood up and took the man’s hand. “Nice to meet you, sir,” he said. He forced himself to smile amiably. The old squeeze play. Confidential request. Let the boy play, son. Give him a chance, son.
Frank Mercer exuded an air of confidence, money, security. He had heavy jowls, and a small gold football hung from his watch chain.
“Can I buy you a drink?” Mr. Mercer asked.
It was pointless to refuse. There was no need to antagonize the man any further than he’d be antagonized if he ferreted out the truth about his son.
“Sure thing. Let me phone first.”
Mercer’s long black sedan was outside. They went down into town, to the small men’s bar in the basement of the big frame hotel.
They got their drinks at the bar and took them over to a table. As Tony was about to sit down, Mercer said, “Want to show you something. Over here.”
The uniforms in the old pictures were laughable, as was the look of fearless determination on the faces. Mercer pointed to a mustached youth in the second row. “My father,” he said. “And over here is his roommate. Julius White. About as big as a button. Practically the days of the flying wedge. There was a play where my dad picked up Julius and threw him bodily over the line. That was a great ground gainer.”
Tony evidenced polite interest. Mercer led the way over to another picture, a much more modem picture.
“Me here,” he said pointing. “Julius over there. The general procedure was for me to put my head down and slam the line. Julius used the holes I made — when I made ’em.”
“It’s still a good idea,” Tony said, smiling.
They went back to the table. “Those two pictures are on the wall in my boy’s room at home. He grew up on those pictures. Like a damn fool, I crammed them down his throat.”
Strega looked up in surprise. There had been an elusive bitterness in Frank Mercer’s tone.
Mercer said, “Tony — I hope you don’t mind if I call you by your first name — I came here today to ask a funny favor. I stayed out of sight until my boy went back to the dorm. I don’t want him to know that I’ve seen you.”
Here it comes, Tony thought. The old pressure play.
“Tony, I don’t know what your plans are, but I know you’re a smart coach. I want Frank kept out of the Greely game.”
Tony’s mouth sagged open. “Huh?”
“I know you’re surprised. I guess you thought that I was going to put the bee on you to have him play. I imagine they’ve been putting the arm on you about the old tradition. Maybe they’ve convinced you that you owe it to tradition to have Mercer and White in there for the Greely game. It won’t work, Tony.”
“Mr. Mercer, I don’t quite get it.”
Mercer sighed, waved for another drink. He said, “When he was born I had the stupid idea that he’d be the football flash. You know. Heredity. He was going to be the kind of star I wanted to be. When he was seven I had him out on the grounds running and passing and kicking the ball. He used to hate it. He wanted to be up in his room with his books. He was that kind of a kid.
“Maybe if he resented me, it would be okay. But he likes me and he wants to please me. Like a fool, I twisted his life around so that now he’s doing all this to please me. Tony, he hasn’t got it. He just hasn’t got the temperament for it. But he’s been heading for next Saturday for the past twelve years. He’s a quiet lad, a nice lad. But he’s a scholar. He put meat and muscle on that frame of his through the bitterest kind of labor. And he feels that my respect for him depends on his showing Saturday.”
Mercer leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Tony, it’s this simple. If you don’t put him in, he can’t blame himself. But I’m afraid of what will happen to the boy if you put him in and he flubs it, as I’m sure he will. I’m afraid of the guilt he’ll feel.”
Tony knew that some answer was expected of him. He lit a cigarette, inspected the glowing end for a few moments.
He said, “Mr. Mercer, I’m just a coach. I’m not a psychologist. I get a certain squad to work with. To tell you the truth, I’m hoping that I don’t have to use your boy. I agree with you. He’s got everything but the right mental attitude. I’m only three deep in his position. Jabella is first-string fullback. Laddis is next. Your boy is third. Jabella is in good shape. Laddis had an injury early in the season. He seems to be okay. He may not be. If Jabella is injured and if Laddis can’t stand the pace, Mercer goes in. I can’t help that. I can’t go around knocking myself out over a lot of emotional stuff. Sure, they’ve been needling me about tradition. And I’ve been ignoring them. I have a squad and I’m expected to win games with it. So I’ll use the squad any way I see fit. I’m not running a soul-saving organization. I’m just winning ball games.”