Fight, Scrub, Fight!

Chapter Two Diagram for Glory

At the beginning of the afternoon session he instructed Chug Davis, the line coach, in what he wanted done with the fourteen linemen, and he took the ten backfield men down to the far end of the field.

An intense believer in demonstration, Tony Strega trotted along with them in uniform. He looked over the ten men and wished he had more depth.

In Forsi, the alert quarterback, and Stanisk, the fleet left half, he knew that he had two top men. Jabella, fullback, and Maroney, right half, were almost as good.

He had leaned hard on the squad, whipping them with sarcasm when they fluffed, giving them quiet words of praise when they worked well. He had instilled in them the professional spirit, the feeling that they were men doing men’s work capably and well, without foolishness, without wildness.

They gathered round. “Forsi, Jabella, Stanisk and Maroney. I’ll center. I want the sixty-series run, Stanisk the man in motion. Greely ends are playing wide. So, Maroney, in the sixty-series you play a yard deeper and a few feet wider. Got it?”

Maroney nodded.

“The rest of you watch close.”

The backfield lined up with snap and, at the call, Strega rifled the ball back. Forsi faked a hand-off to Stanisk, faded back. Stanisk ran straight out, cut back sharply toward the line, turned and gathered in the jump pass that Forsi fed him. Maroney had come in just beyond Stanisk.

“That should do it,” Strega said. “If the end is wide you can block him off quicker from the deeper position. Run it twice more, and we’ll work our way up the series.”

When he was satisfied with performance, he gave the four men a break, put in Newcomb, Laddis, Sharma and Brankoff. He said, “We haven’t got enough men to make a clean split on offensive and defensive. So you boys have to know this just as well as Forsi and his mob does. Take it away, Newcomb.”

It took longer to polish the second group. Then, sighing inwardly, he gave Laddis, the second-string fullback, a rest and put in Mercer. Mercer was a rugged looking boy who betrayed his lack of confidence by the way he kept licking his lips and wiping sweaty palms on his thighs.

Strega hauled Forsi in to act as center, and said, “Okay, Mercer. Your assignment is to give the quarter protection as he fades. This play I’m a lineman coming through into your lap.”

The ball was snapped. Strega pounded in, headed directly for Newcomb who had faded back. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Frank Mercer start a reluctant block. With his hand on Mercer’s helmet, he drove the block down into the ground, levering himself around the prostrate fullback, leaping high to smack the pass off into the flat.

Mercer got up, flushing. “Boy, you didn’t want to block me. You wanted to flinch off that block. When you flinch you could do better throwing feathers at me. I come in hard and your flinch slows you down, gives me a chance. This time you play the lineman coming through.”

Mercer came in hard and fast. Strega drove at his thighs, sensing that Mercer went limp a split second before impact.

He got up, said, “You should be trying to run right through me, boy, not trying to ease the shock. Oh, skip it. Take a rest. Jabella come in. White, you come in for Brankoff.”

On the sixty-series, White, as right half, had to block out the opposition end as the left half cut back toward the line to take the jump pass.

As they lined up, Julius White’s thin face was eager, his eyes bright. “Damn it, White. Don’t prance like that. You just waste energy. Get in position fast and get ready to move, but don’t bounce around.”

White nodded and tried to steady down, but his body was still filled with restless motion.

“Stanisk, you play the opposition end. And play wide. See if you can nail Sharma who’s playing your position as the receiver?”

They lined up. Sharma came jogging over and Newcomb’s fake was well done. Newcomb faded back with Jabella protecting him. Sharma cut back toward the line with White running outside him. Stanisk came in. White, too eager, outran Sharma, saw his error, slowed and tried to fall back against Stanisk. Stanisk, moving fast, bumped White eight feet away, got his hands on Sharma and pulled him down.

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.”

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.

Tony Strega muttered curses deep in his throat.

Greely, taking advantage of their gift from nowhere, bucked, plunged and elbowed their way into two first downs that carried them just over the mid-field stripe before they were forced to kick. The kick, angled toward the sidelines, went out at the fourteen.

Forsi took over again, sharp mind clicking, using the judgment that Tony Strega had beaten into him.

Maroney around left end for three. Jabella off tackle for four. A pass into the flat for five. A sneak for three more. End around for six. Jump pass to the end in the flat for seven. Jabella through the middle for two, then three, then eight

A precision march. And the deeper the march went, the tougher it got. Tony watched the ends, and he knew that Forsi watched them also.

Down to the Greely forty-eight. Forty-four. Thirty-eight. Thirty-seven. Thirty-one. Twenty-six.

Each thrust forward into the heart of Greely-land enabled the defense to concentrate their forces.

On a long-delayed buck where a hole opened, was closed, and opened again in the nick of time, Maroney carried it on down to the twenty.

Forsi fed a jump pass to the left end at the line of scrimmage. The end flipped it laterally out to Stanisk who, with Jabella running interference, plunged it on down to the twelve as the quarter ended.

First and ten on the twelve. With some beautiful faking, Forsi shook Stanisk loose again. Stanisk was downed on the three, but the horn had blown on the play. Adams had drawn the offside penalty and it was first and fifteen.

First and fifteen. A pass into the end zone was incomplete. A second try at the end around was nailed at the line of scrimmage. Third and fifteen. Tony Strega tensed as he saw the left end wide.

Once again the same play. The end was swept out of the play, the guard was blocked in toward the center of the line and Stanisk was dropped on the two.

Jabella, crashing into the entire center of the Greely line, made it a first down by inches.

Jabella tried twice more for no gain. Third and goal to go. Forsi faded back, evaded a tackier, ducked away from another, moved on back to the ten, the fifteen. There he was nearly trapped. Maroney was running at full speed laterally along the end zone. He moved in front of the man covering him. Forsi got the pass off. It was too far ahead of Maroney. Maroney made a flat dive, gathered in the ball at shoe-top level and the big six was racked up. The kick was good and the Adams band blared the touchdown march as the tired team drifted back into position to kick.

Greely took the ball on the ten and, in four successive downs, brought it up beyond mid-field before a fumble lost them twelve yards and they were forced then to kick.

Forsi gnawed out two first downs before kicking. Greely had it back up to mid-field and the half ended as a long, towering pass was knocked down by Brankoff in the end zone.

Andy Fels, the trainer, was prodding Stanisk’s shoulder as Tony came into the locker room. Men were stretched out on the benches, chests heaving.

“Anybody hurt?” Tony asked.

“Nothing serious, Mr. Strega,” Andy said.

Tony walked slowly through the long low room. He cuffed Forsi on the chest and winked at him. They seemed m fair shape. Weary, but still confident.