The Fumbling Phantom

V

Bill slouched on the back of his spine, arm over the back of the folding chair. He was bored stiff. This was the third of these Monday afternoon skull sessions in the gym; he was fed up to here with Snub Garret’s weekly de-pep talks.

The head coach was going into his act now, standing between the portable picture-screen and the blackboard with the orange chalk lettering: You Can’t Beat Washington With Press Clippings!

“So now you’ve all spent the weekend reading how good you are, we can come down to earth and face it. We won a game last Saturday that we might have lost a dozen times if the Trojans had taken advantage of our weaknesses. Next Saturday it’ll be different.” Snub got a hand signal from ‘Jersey’ Joslin, his keg-chested, bull-necked line coach, standing at the table behind the rows of chairs; the first reel was ready on the projector.

“Those Huskies are going to be hep to our weaknesses. Get that right. They’ve been scouting us. They’ll have studied the prints of this same film we’re going to look at now. They’ll be tougher to whip than a pan of skim milk.

“Now, we’ve an attack to polish up; defense formations to patch up. We can’t afford time to fidoodle around with men who muff fundamentals. So we’re going to freeze the film here when we spot something that has to be corrected. After that, it’ll be up to each man to drill himself on sloppy blocking or lousy timing or whatever it is he’s been doing wrong. Spin her, Jersey.”

Joslin switched off the overheads, cut in the projector.

A figure raced across the screen, the lens following its swift movement with a sweeping pan shot.

Bill recognized O’Doul, streaking down-field with that opening kickoff.

The camera picked up a Stallion tackle making a half-hearted block.

“Hardin,” the head coach commented acidly, “blocks as if he’s shoving a baby buggy. If you want to practice that, Sam, do it on your own time.”

The squad sniggered.

Bill pulled up one corner of his mouth, scornfully. These caustic comments were a lot of mahaha, anyhow, a chance for the coach to demonstrate his superior football savvy, prove he was worth the big salary voted him by the Athletic Council.

But there wouldn’t be much opportunity for Snub to exercise his talent for sarcasm at Bill’s expense on the basis of what he’d done in those last two periods, that was a cinch!

And it was just as well, considering the black mood Bill was in. He was in no frame of mind to take any verbal dressing-down, not after those aggravating phone calls yesterday and today.

Not that Lou Ann had told him off, exactly. She just hadn’t told him anything, when he’d asked her for the usual Sunday date. But for the first time since he’d met her, she hadn’t agreed to spend the afternoon with him.

She hadn’t explained why she wouldn’t; hadn’t in point of fact, explained anything.

He’d tried again today, calling her at the store right after she’d come back from lunch. No, she couldn’t see him tonight. She was terribly sorry... and quite uncommunicative about what she did intend to do, tonight.

Would she see him later in the week? Oh, she supposed maybe. She hoped so. But it was difficult to make plans ahead...

He’d kept his temper, at any rate. All he’d said was that it was okay with him, if that was the way she wanted it... but he did tell her it seemed like sort of a crummy trick to put the chill on him that way without giving some reason.

Lou Ann had answered there wasn’t any reason, because there wasn’t any chill. She just had something else to do. After all, she was a working gal, with her own career to think about, he’d have to realize that.

The film whirred on. The head coach’s rapier thrusts pierced at Bill’s consciousness hardly at all until he heard Snub saying:

“Any pass attack depends on deception. If you tip your opponents off to the eventual receiver, it cuts your chances of completion down by about seventy-five percent.

“Now Cady must be rehearsing to be an emcee on one of these giveaway programs, because he gives himself away three times on this next play.”

Ah! cut that bull! Bill retorted silently. You don’t have to work on me, to keep me from getting the fat head. I’m not getting overconfident just because we shot the moon and got away with it!

“First tipoff,” Snub touched his pointer to the screen where Bill was crouching at right flank, “he cleans his cleats off, to make sure they aren’t clogged with grass, every time his signal’s been called.”

All right, a-l-l- right! Bill glowered in the semi-darkness. I wanted to make sure I wouldn’t slip. If that told the Trojans anything, still they didn’t stop me, did they?

“Second,” Snub went on, “he rubs his right hand on the leg of his pants, to wipe off the sweat. But Cady doesn’t do it on every play, only when he knows the ball’s going to come downfield to him.

“Third, he looks around to spot blockers coming through to clean up the secondary. If Washington gets wise to that habit of yours, Cady, we’re liable to have a flock of interceptions Saturday.”

“What you want me to do?” Bill blurted, “go down with my eyes shut?!” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, — it came without any premeditation whatever, and in the ten seconds of stony silence which followed, he swore savagely at himself for popping off like that.

“No,” came Snub’s frosty answer, “all we want you to do is get rid of those reflex habits that label you as the receiver, that notify the defense to forget about the decoys and concentrate on you.”

The film flickered on. But the satisfaction Bill anticipated out of watching himself in action, had vanished.

He’d boobed it up, no doubt about it. Probably Snub would retaliate by sticking him back in the second squad, — running Loftis in the A team.

He was wrong.

When they trooped out on the field, Jersey read off his name at right flank in the first string as unceremoniously as if Bill had kept his mouth clam-tight back there in the gym.

Nobody mentioned his having spoken out of turn, — or acted as if he had. By the time they’d run through deep reverses and off-tackle spinners a score of times and taken two around the track, Bill was convinced he’d built up his crackback at the coach to needless proportions; apparently it was just one of those dopey remarks to which nobody paid any serious attention.

But when they were getting dressed in the locker-room, Zomby brought it up. The big halfback watched Bill climb into a pair of sand-tone slacks.

“You want to sell those, keed? Or you givin’ ’em away?”

Bill looked at Zomby’s pants; crisp tweed and very doggy indeed. Then he caught on. “I get it. Think I’m getting too big for my britches?”

“You’re a smart hombre. Too smart to chatter back to the coaching staff. You’re off to one hell of a start with this team, an’ let me be the first to predict you’ll go a hell of a long way. But don’t slow yourself down by letting well-meant advice get under your skin.”

“Check, chum.” Bill made light of it, with an effort. His first instinct had been to tell Zomby to stuff his own moose-heads, but the flamboyant new sport shirt the halfback was tucking into the top of the tweeds reminded Bill of the matter that really was getting under his skin. “Speakin’ of britches, what are you getting so flossied up for? Big deal tonight?”

Zomby slipped on a checkerboard sports coat without looking at Bill. “Sort of... yeah.”

“Who’s the lucky mouse? Anybody I know?” Bill wondered whether the collar of the new sports shirt was a trifle too tight, or whether the halfback had another reason for getting red-necked as a turkey.

“Any time I have to get your okay on a babe before I take her out to dinner!” Zomby waved.

He ducked, Bill thought. He wouldn’t have, unless it was Lou Arm. That’s why she wouldn’t see me tonight! She’s seeing him! “Well, give her a slight snuggle for me.” He managed a phoney grin.

“Yeah,” Zomby stalked along the row of lockers without looking back. “I’ll remember to do that.”