from the Listening Hills (Ss) (2004) (10 page)

"Very inferior. If it wasn't for his paper work he wouldn't get by. He's almost incoherent, although I must say he's shown some improvement lately."

After a few minutes, Socks Barnaby walked on into the office. He sat down at the typewriter and banged away on a story for theLantern . It was several hours later, as he was finishing a letter to a girl in Cedar Rapids, when he remembered that Kulowski was working at the freight docks. On an inspiration, he got up and went out.

He liked Coach Temple. He and the coach had an old-time feud, but underneath there was a good deal of respect. Knowing a good many of the faculty and alumni, Barnaby had heard the gossip about the coach being on his last legs at Eastern. He had to turn out a team this year or lose his contract.

The fault wasn't wholly Temple's. Other schools had more money to spend, and were spending it. Yet, here at Eastern, they expected Temple to turn out teams as good as the bigger, better financed schools.

Temple had a strategy. Digging around in the coal mines and lumber camps he had found a lot of huskies who liked the game, and many of them had played in high school and the Army. He recruited all he could but the teams he fielded were often uneven. This time it was his backfield where the weakness lay. They lacked a hard-hitting offensive combination. Kuttner was a good steady man, strong on the defense, and a fair passer and kicker. Ryan and DeVries were both fast, and fair backs, but neither of them was good enough to buck the big fast men that Hanover and State would have.

THE FREIGHT DOCK was dimly lit and smelled of fresh lumber, tar, and onions. Socks walked out on the dock and looked around. Then he saw Kulowski.

The big fellow hadn't noticed him. In overalls and without a shirt, with shoulders and arms that looked like a heavyweight wrestler's, he trundled his truck up to a huge barrel, tipped the barrel and slid the truck underneath, dipped the truck deftly, and started off toward the dim end of the dock.

Socks walked after him, watching. There was no uncertainty in Muggs Kulowski now. Alone here in the half-light of the freight dock, doing something he had done for months, he was deft, sure, and capable.

"Hi, Muggs," Socks said. "Looks like you're working hard." Kulowski turned, showing his surprise.

"Gosh, how did you happen to come down here?" he asked.

"Came to see you," Socks said casually. "I think we should get together on this football business."

Kulowski flushed. "Aw, I'm just no good. Can't get it through my head. Anyway, Coach is dead set against me."

"D'you play any other games?" Socks asked.

"Not exactly." Kulowski stopped, wiping the sweat from his face. "I used to play a little golf. Never played with anybody, just by myself."

"Why not?"

"I guess I wasn't good enough. I could do all right alone, but whenever anybody got around, I just couldn't hit the ball. I couldn't do anything."

Socks sat around the dock, strolled after Kulowski as he worked, and talked with the big fellow. Mostly, he watched him. The big guy was doing a job he knew. He was not conscious of being observed, and as he worked swiftly and surely, there wasn't a clumsy or awkward thing about him.

"I had trouble with games ever since I was a kid," Muggs Kulowski admitted finally. "My old man used to say I was too big and too awkward, and he made fun of me. I guess I was clumsy, growing fast and all."

"Muggs." Socks stood up suddenly. "We need you out there on that field this year. We need you badly. You know where Springer's barn is?"

"You mean that old red barn out there by the creek?"

"That's it. You meet me out there tomorrow. Bring your football suit, and don't tell anybody where you're going. We're going to work out a little."

They settled the time, and then Socks walked back to his room. He knew what it meant to grow fast and be awkward. His own father had been understanding, and had helped him get by that awkward period. But he knew how shy he had been himself, how it embarrassed him so terribly when anyone had laughed.

SOCKS, IN A faded green sweater and slacks, walked out on the field the next afternoon. He paced off a hundred yards, and then walked back to the cottonwoods that divided the field from the edge of the campus. In a few minutes he saw Muggs, big as a house, coming up, grinning.

"Hi, Coach!" Muggs said. "What do I do first?"

"First we try you for speed," Socks said. "No use fooling with you if you're slow." He pointed. "See that stake down there? That's an even hundred yards. You go down there, and when I give you the word, shag it up here as fast as you can."

Muggs shambled down the field, turned and crouched in a starting position. At the barked command, he lunged forward.

Socks clicked the stopwatch as Muggs thundered past him, and looked thoughtful. Thirteen seconds, and there was a lot Kulowski didn't know about starting.

Barnaby dug out the football from his bag of gear.

He walked over to his pupil.

"You've got big hands," he said, "and long fingers, which is all to the good. But when you take hold of the ball, grip the thing, don't just let it lay in your hand. Take it between the thumb and fingers, with the fingers along the laces, just back of the middle. Press it well down into your hand with your left. When you pass, throw it overhand, right off the ear. You know all this, but we're going to work on it until it's automatic...until you can do it whether you're self-conscious or not."

IT WAS ALMOST dark when they left the field. For two hours Kulowski had practiced passing and receiving passes, and he had fallen on the ball until he seemed to have flattened every bit of grass on the field. They walked back toward the field house together, weary but cheerful.

"You'll do," Socks said quietly. "Don't let anything Coach said bother you. You're big and you're fast. We'll have you faster. All you need is confidence, and to get over being afraid of other people looking on."

Muggs looked at him curiously.

"How come you aren't playing football?" he asked. "You seem to know plenty about it."

"Too many other things, I guess." Socks shrugged. "A man can't do everything."

THE HANOVER GAME was three weeks away. Sitting beside Muggs in the stands, Socks saw Eastern outplayed by Pentland, a smaller and inferior team.

It had been pretty bad. Socks glanced at Temple's face as the big coach lumbered off the field, and he didn't have the heart to rib him. Kuttner, battered from sixty minutes of play, looked pale and drawn.

One thing was sure, Socks decided. Hanover or State would ruin them. Hanover had an aerial game that was good, and as strong a line as Eastern's. Unless something happened to develop a behind-the-line combination for Eastern, an awful drubbing was in the cards.

DAY AFTER DAY, Barnaby met Kulowski in the field by the red barn, and worked the big guy and himself to exhaustion. Kulowski grinned when he got on the scales. His big brown face was drawn hard. He had lost almost twenty pounds in three weeks of work.

"Well, the Hanover game is tomorrow," Socks said, watching Kulowski curiously.

"What d'you think? Want to try it if the coach says yes?"

Kulowski's tongue touched his lips. "Yeah, I'll try," he said. "I can't do any more than mess it up."

"You won't mess it up. You're plenty fast now. You've cut two seconds off that hundred. And you know how to use your hands and your feet. If you get out there, just forget about that crowd. Just remember what we've been doing here, and do the same things."

Kulowski hesitated, staring at Barnaby, one of the most popular men in school. In those three weeks of bitter work, he had come to know him, to like him, and to respect him. He had seen that lean body lash out in a tackle that jarred every bone in his huge body. He had seen passes rifle down the field like bullets, right into his waiting arms.

Time and again Kulowski had missed those passes. They had slipped away, or dropped from his clumsy fingers, yet Socks had never been angry. He had kidded about it in friendly fashion, and encouraged him, flattered him.

Now, Kulowski wasn't missing the passes. He was taking kicks and coming down the field, and fast. Socks had shown him how to get to full speed at once, how to get the drive into his powerful legs. He had shown him how to tackle. He had taught him to use his feet and his hands.

For the first time, Kulowski felt that somebody believed in him, that somebody really thought he could do something without making a mess of it. Taunted and tormented so long for his size and awkwardness, Muggs had never known what it meant to be encouraged.

On his end, Socks knew that he had actually done little. Kulowski was a natural. All he had ever lacked was confidence. He liked doing things. He was big, and he was rough. Once confidence came to him, he threw himself into the practice with a will, his movements, day by day, became more sharp, more sure.

SOCKS STOPPED COACH Temple outside the field house. "Hi, Coach," he said grinning. "Why so glum?"

Temple scowled. "You trying to irritate me? How would you feel going into that Hanover game without anything good in the backfield but Kuttner? They'll beat our ears off!"

"Can I quote you on that?"

"No!"

Socks dodged playfully backward as Temple rounded on him. "Are you willing to take a chance, Coach?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Put Kulowski in there, at half."

"Kulowski?" Temple exploded. "Are you crazy? Why, that big ox--"

"I said it was a chance," Socks interrupted. "But I've been working with him, and that boy is good."

"You'vebeen working with him? What do you know about football?" Temple sneered, yet in the back of his eyes there was a hopeful, calculating expression.

"I read a book once." Socks grinned. "Anyway, what have you got to lose?"

Temple shrugged. "You got something there," he said wryly. "What?"

THE STADIUM WAS jammed when the team trotted out on the field. Sitting on the bench beside Muggs Kulowski, Socks Barnaby talked to him quietly.

"This crowd is so big, it's impersonal. You just go out there and play a careful, steady game. You'll have your chance, and if you make good, you're back in."

Barnaby knew the huge crowd of fans hadn't come to see Eastern. There was little hope after the Pentland game that Eastern could win, and playing in Hanover backfield was Pete Tarbell, two hundred pounds of dynamite and twice an All-American. Besides that, in the Hanover line were two tackles said to be likely prospects for the All-American this year, and there was Speed Burtson, at right half, a former high school flash, and one of the most talked-of players in the college game.

Hanover was a star-studded team. Looking at them thoughtfully, Socks found himself wondering if they weren't a little too star-studded. And he found his eyes going again and again to Tarbell in his red jersey. He had known Pete Tarbell and didn't like him.

Kuttner kicked off to Hanover and Burtson took the ball on his own twenty yard line and ran it back to the forty yard line before he was downed by DeVries. Then Hanover began to roll.

They came through Hunk Warren, big Eastern tackle, for two first downs. Then Tarbell came over guard for six. Tarbell tried Hunk again, but Kuttner came down fast and Tarbell was stopped dead. They passed on the third down.

The pass was good, plenty good. Speed Burtson, living up to his name, went down the field fast, evaded Kuttner, and took the pass over his shoulder. He went over into the end zone standing up for the first score. Tarbell kicked, and Hanover had a lead of seven to nothing.

The rest of the first quarter was murder. Eastern could hold their opponents in the line, but the Hanover aerial attack was beyond them. Twice Burtson got away for long gains, and Tarbell came around the left end and crashed into DeVries, taking him over into the end zone with him. Hanover missed the kick, but when the play was over, DeVries was on the ground. He got up and limped off the field.

Coach Temple paled and he swore under his breath. He looked at Kulowski, then at Socks. "All right, Muggs," he said grimly. "You go in at full."

Ryan was at quarterback for Eastern, Kulowski at full, Kuttner at left halfback and Hansen at right half.

Socks glanced up at the stands. President Crandall was there, and the short, fat-jowled man beside him would be Erich P. Wells, head of the Alumni Association. Socks glanced at Temple and saw the big coach was kicking his toe into the turf, his face drawn. Temple had expected defeat, but this was going to be slaughter.

The tension was getting to him. Socks wanted Kulowski to do well but he didn't have a good feeling about this game. He slid off the bench and took a walk around the stands, he had another thought but it was crazy...the coach would laugh at him....

When he got back, Temple glowered at Socks.

"Kulowski's fumbled once already," the coach growled. "Kuttner made a recovery."

Socks' heart sank. Eastern was lining up again. He could see the uncertainty in the big Pole. The ball was snapped and Kuttner started around the end. Kulowski came in, hurled himself halfheartedly at Tarbell's feet as the big back lunged through. Tarbell merely sidestepped neatly, then launched himself in a tackle that brought Kuttner down with a thud they could hear on the sidelines.