Steve Cowan looked up. Isola. He had been wondering whose shoulder his head was lying on.
“Then,” he said, still looking at her, “I guess everything is under control.”
The naval officer straightened. He smiled. The Navy knows something of women.
“Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “I’d say it was.”
Backfield Battering Ram
* * *
LEANING ON THE back of the players’ bench, “Socks” Barnaby stared cynically at the squad of husky young men going through their paces on the playing field.
“You’ve got plenty of beef, Coach,” he drawled, “but have you got any brains out there?”
Horace Temple, head coach at Eastern, directed a poisonous glare at the lean, broad-shouldered Barnaby, editor of the campus newspaper.
“What d’you care, Socks?” he said. “Aren’t you one of these guys who thinks football is overemphasized?”
“Me? I only think you’ve placed too much emphasis on sheer bulk. You need some smarts out there, that’s all.”
“Yeah?” The coach laughed. “Why don’t you come out then? You were good enough at track and field last year.”
“I haven’t got the time.”
“Crabapples!” Temple scoffed. “You’ve got time for more activities and fewer classes than any man on the campus. Editor of that scurvy sheet, president of the Drama Club, Poetry society…Writing that thesis on something or other is the only thing that keeps you from graduating!”
Coach Temple glanced back at the football field, and instantly he sprang to his feet.
“Kulowski!” he called. “What’s the matter with you? Can’t you even hold a football?” He glared at the lumbering bulk of “Muggs” Kulowski. “Of all the dumb clucks! Kulowski, get off the field. When you aren’t fumbling, you’re falling over one of my best men and crippling him. Go on, beat it!”
Muggs Kulowski looked up, his eyes pleading, but there was no mercy in Temple now. Slowly, his head hanging, Muggs turned toward the field house.
“That guy!” Coach Temple stared after him. “The biggest man I’ve got. Strong as an ox, an’ twice as dumb. We’re going to get killed this year!”
* * *
THOUGHTFULLY, BARNABY STARED after Kulowski. The man was big. He weighed at least forty pounds over two hundred, and was inches taller than Socks himself. But despite his size there was a certain unconscious rhythm in his movements. Still, in three weeks he hadn’t learned to do anything right. For all his great size, Kulowski went into a line as if he was afraid he’d break something, and his fingers were all thumbs.
“You cut us a break, Barnaby. All you do is use that sheet of yours to needle everybody who tries to do anything. A lot you’ve done for Eastern.”
Socks grinned. “Wait until after the Hanover game,” he said. “I’m just trying to save you from yourself, Coach. If you get by Hanover, we’ll say something nice. I’d like to be optimistic but I’ve got to call it as I see it.”
* * *
BARNABY WALKED OFF the field, heading for the quad. Kulowski was shambling along ahead of him, and something in the disconsolate appearance of the huge Pole touched a sympathetic chord in him. More, he was curious. It seemed impossible that any man with all his fingers could be as clumsy as this one. Stretching his long legs, Socks Barnaby quickened his pace to catch up with Kulowski.
“Hey, Kulowski, rough going today?” he asked, walking up beside the big fellow.
“Yeah.” Muggs looked at him, surprised. “Didn’t know you knew me.”
“Sure,” Socks replied. “Don’t let this get you down. Tomorrow you’ll do better.”
“No,” Muggs said bitterly. “He told me yesterday that if I messed up one more time I was through.”
“Can’t you get the hang of it?”
“No.” The guy’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“Well, football isn’t everything.”
“For me it is,” Kulowski said bitterly. “If I lose my scholarship, I’m finished. And I want a degree.”
“That’s something,” Barnaby agreed. “Most football players don’t care much about finishing. They just want to play ball. But if you lose the scholarship you can always get a job.”
“I’ve got a job, but the money has to go home.” He glanced at Socks. “I’ve got a mother, two sisters, and a kid brother.”
* * *
BARNABY LEFT KULOWSKI at the field house and started across the campus to the Lantern office in the Press Building. He was turning up the walk when he saw Professor Hazelton, and he stopped. The two were old friends, and Barnaby had corrected papers for him a few times, and written reviews for a book page the professor edited.
“Prof, don’t you have Muggs Kulowski in a couple of classes?”
“Yes, of course. Why do you ask?” Hazelton was a slim, erect man of thirty-five and had been a crack basketballer.
“An idea I’ve got. Tell me about him.”
“Well,” Hazelton thought for a moment. “He always gets passing grades. He’s not brilliant, mostly a successful plodder.”
“How about recitations?” Barnaby asked.
“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 the Lantern. 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.”