Mercer smiled. “I had a hunch you’d be just like this, Strega.”
His tone was mild but Tony was unaccountably reminded of Loren’s criticism of his attitude.
“And if you see White’s father, tell him the same thing.”
Mercer stood up. “That’s not very likely. White’s father commanded an infantry regiment in the Pacific. A sniper got him.” The coldness faded out of his voice. He said, “Tony, I’m sure you’ll have a successful career as a coach. I just hope that you won’t be too lonesome.”
He tossed a bill on the table and left. Tony sat for several moments, sipping his drink, feeling the warm tide of anger slowly recede.
The dregs of his anger were still with him when he arrived home. Loren kissed him lightly, said, “Stop scowling, hon. Who brought on the mad?”
He considered. He didn’t want to reopen the old argument. He forced a smile. “I just had a drink with an old alumnus. The usual guff. I’m not mad. Just a little weary.”
Greely’s band halted in the middle of the field, made a right face, finished their march, broke for their position across the field. The Greely team, looking big in pale-blue striped with white, broke out onto the field.
Strega smiled happily as he saw that they were running too fast, trying to be too impressive. He turned to Jackson and said, “Okay, you know what to look for.” Jackson, injured early in the season, grinned and walked off, equipped with pad, paper, field glasses and small boy to carry the spotting notes. He was posted high in the end zone.
Tony turned and walked back toward the bench just as the Adams team came out. True to his instruction they ran easily, lifting knees just high enough to take out the kinks, faces impassive.
He liked the looks of his squad, but there was an uneasiness in the back of his mind. Partly because he hadn’t slept well; partly because Loren wasn’t in the stands behind him.
She had said calmly, “Run along and be boss-man, hon. I hope you’ll hatchet the opposition as usual for the sake of the shining record.”
“There wouldn’t be a touch of sarcasm there, Loren?”
Her eyes had widened. “My goodness, no! Sarcastic? Wouldn’t I be wasting it?”
The two squads walked through a few plays, flipped the ball around and all but the two starting line-ups came off the field.
Jabella went over to match with Loots, the agile right half and captain of the Greely outfit. Strega thought, With that Loots kid I could have had a perfect season. Next year I’ll have one like him. Greely wastes him.
Jabella won, elected to receive, and Loots picked the south goal to defend, taking advantage of a slight breeze. The day was clear and cold, but the ground was not frozen. All morning the cars had been arriving at Adams. The stands, built to hold twenty thousand, were packed for the first time that season.
Tony Strega sat on the bench, his hat brim low. Stanisk kicked. The ball went high, end over end. It was taken by Sheed, the Greely left half, on the six, barely caught before the Adams’ ends, down fast under the kick, had him hemmed. Sheed started up the middle, flipped the ball back to Loots, but Maroney refused to be fooled, evaded Sheed’s block, nailed Loots on the eleven.
Tony yanked the whole backfield, sent in Newcomb, Laddis, Sharma and Brankoff, along with two defensive linemen, a guard and an end.
Newcomb shifted Laddis well back to guard against a quick kick, shifted the defense to a six-three-one-one, guessed that Greely, pinned so close, would stay on the ground. Greely shifted to a single wing, unbalanced line to the right, and tried to bull their way out of the box with a power sweep around right end.
Loots was knocked out of bounds on the far side of the field on the twelve.
Again they lined up in a single wing and Jeffer, the big fullback, cracked off tackle for four yards before Sharma and Brankoff stopped him.
Third and five. With a little more breathing space Greely moved into a T with Sheed as the man in motion. Garan, the tall thin quarterback took the pass from center, gave it on a hand-off to Sheed who in turn fed it to the big Jeffer on a shovel pass as Jeffer came booming down. Both Newcomb and Sharma had moved too far to the side when they saw Sheed take the hand-off, and when the hole was opened in the line and Jeffer came through, Newcomb spun and dived, but he was late and slow. A Greely end came around fast to take Laddis out of the play, but Laddis feinted him into taking his block too early, cut back and dropped Jeffer on the forty.
Across the field someone thumped the bass drum and the Greely fans went wild.
Tony Strega hunched his shoulders, smiled sourly and decided not to send in anybody to yelp at Newcomb. Newcomb was bright enough to see his own mistake.
On the next play Newcomb spread a wide six-two-two-one, smelled the play, cut back into the flat and batted the short pass out of the arms of the tail end who had climbed up after it.
Greely shifted back into single wing, unbalanced line to the left, and sent Loots around right end on a naked reverse. But the Greely guard missed the block on the Adams end and Loots was dropped before he got to the line of scrimmage. Third and eleven.
The next play started as a combination basketball game and backfield ballet. Maybe it would have gone somewhere. But Blessing, a tough defensive guard, submarined through, emerged in the Greely backfield and slapped Garan, the quarterback, down in the middle of a fake.
Greely kicked and Sharma, taking Laddis’ place as safety, picked it out of the air on a dead run and brought it all the way up to the twenty-eight before he was downed.
Tony sent Forsi, Jabella, Stanisk and Maroney back in, saying to Forsi, “Stay clear of the sixty series until I send you the word.”
Forsi nodded tightly. The impressive results of a full season of intensive effort and training went onto the field in the form of the four backs.
Tony forced himself to draw a deep breath. Each man was an extension of himself. In a sense, the backfield was made up of four Tony Stregas.
There was no waste energy, no rushing around aimlessly, no fumbling or hesitation. Forsi called for a quick-opening play, stabbed at the left side of the line with Maroney. Maroney bucked through into the secondary, was trapped and downed as he tried to cut back.
Second and four. Tony knew what he would have called for. Get the first down. Al Forsi called it, giving a three-quarter spin and a hand-off to “Big Joe” Jabella, who carried the mail for a little over two yards, taking with him the whole center of the Greely line.
Third and less than two.
Forsi called the same play again, only Jabella plunged into the line without the ball, Forsi diving laterally through the hole that Jabella had made. The sticks were called out and the down was racked up. First and ten.
The boy shoved a folded piece of paper into Tony’s hand. He opened it. “Still wide” it said.
“Farmer,” he snapped. The lineman came over and crouched in front of him. “Go in for Blessing. Signal Forsi to run any sixty play.”
First and ten. The ball was snapped. Forsi spun, faked a hand-off to Stanisk, faded back. Jabella slapped down a tackle who had oozed through the line. Stanisk made his cutback and the opposition end, seeing his danger, tried to close in fast. Maroney cut his legs out from under him as the rifled pass thudded snugly against Stanisk’s chest. In the secondary, he cut wide, picked up the interference, pounded down the sidelines, cut back, was dumped on the Greely thirty. The ball squirted out of his arms and a Greely player fell on it. There was shocked silence from the Adams stands, a yell of glee from the Greely side of the field.