'Then what was his destiny?'
'He never attained it, Gary. It was the accident that prevented him from attaining it.'
'Then how do you know he was a man of destiny?'
'Same way I know Coach is a man of destiny. He sits up nights. He has piercing eyes. You never see him in a phone booth.'
Garland Hobbs strolled over to join us. He was tall and solidly constructed, about sixfour and 215, goodlooking in a blank way, faintly impressive, like a tall motel. He had a quarterback's gait, slack and expensive.
'What's your comment on the big move?' I said.
'What move is that?'
'Switching Taft Robinson to quarterback. We'd like your comment.'
'Switching shit,' he said.
'It's the truth, Hobbsie,' I said. 'Coach is going over to a whole new offense just for the Centrex game. He wants a quarterback who can run. Sprintouts, rollouts, options, bootlegs. You see, he wants a quarterback who can run.'
'I'm the quarterback.'
'It's just for one game.'
'I'm the quarterback.'
'But you can't run, Hobbsie. He wants a quarterback who can run.'
'We're undefeated in three games,' Hobbs said. 'I've got sixtytwo percent completions. I've been intercepted just once and that's because Jessup broke the pattern and he'll tell you that himself. I've been concentrating. I've been taking command in the huddle. I've been reading the blitz just like Coach taught me.'
'But you can't run.'
'I can throw, damn it. Can he throw?'
'Sure he can throw. He can do anything. You know that as well as I do. Coach thinks with Taft at quarterback we'll be able to do a lot more with our offense. It's a total offense concept. It's a reordering of priorities.'
'I don't understand it. We've been doing real well up to now.'
'We've been playing leprosariums and barbers' colleges. Coach wants something special to spring on Centrex.'
'He's putting you on,' Buddy Shock said.
'Is that right, Gary?'
'That's right,' I said.
'You son of a bitch,' Hobbs said.
Vern Feck ran around blowing a whistle and each player reported to his respective coach. The six running backs formed a circle around Oscar Veech. He was trying to think of something to say. Finally he focused on me.
'Button up when you get hit, Harkness. You haven't been buttoning up. You lost the ball once against those people and you almost lost it two other times.'
'I was running with reckless abandon.'
'Run with reckless abandon until you're hit. When you're hit, button up.'
'Right.'
'Button up. Become fetal. Hug that ball. Hug it. Hug it.'
'Yes sir.'
'Lee Roy, what am I talking about, Lee Roy?'
'I wasn't listening, sir,' Lee Roy Tyler said.
'Typical,' Veech said. 'That's typical of the whole attitude around here. You people are a bunch of feebleminded shit fanners. You're lazy, you're selfsatisfied, you're stupid. In my considered opinion, you're a bunch of feebs. If you can't concentrate, you can't play football for this team. Awright now. What was I talking about, Hopper?'
'Buttoning up.'
'Lee Roy, what are you supposed to do when your quarterback calls trips right and you're parked out there in the slot ready to fly and suddenly it dawns on you that they're in a zone? What do you do, Lee Roy?'
'Sir?'
'Lee Roy, you're a dung beetle. Shit is your proper environment. You do nothing, that's what you do. You run your damn pattern.'
'Yes sir.'
'Let's get real basic here. Deering, who do you take out on a weakside sweep against a fourthree?'
'Sir, I take out the linebacker.'
'You take out the end, feeb. Your wide receiver cracks back on the linebacker.'
'It's coming back to me now,' Jim Deering said.
'If you had half a brain you'd be dangerous,' Veech said. 'Come on, let's get out of here before I hemorrhage.'
We went over for a joint conference with Tom Cook Clark and his three quarterbacks, Garland Hobbs, Terry Madden and Byrd Whiteside. Then Vern Feck brought his linebackers over and we got Randy King to center for us so we could practice defending against the blitz, two setbacks and the center against blitz variations by the three linebackers. It was a timing drill really; we were wearing pads and headgear but there wasn't supposed to be any real contact. Madden was at quarterback. Bobby Hopper and I were behind him. On the first snapback, Champ Conway slipped and fell before he even reached me. Vern Feck was all over him in a second.
'Shitbird!' he screamed. 'Shit, shit, shitbird. You got dumb feet, Conway. Messages from your brain must get clogged up somewhere around your kneecap. We got people ready to take your place, shitbird. Now you remember that.'
'Audibilize,' Tom Cook Clark was saying to Madden. 'When you see them leaning like that, get ready to audibilize.'
'Awright, awright, awright,' Oscar Veech shouted, clapping his hands for no apparent reason.
'What are you, Conway?'
'Shitbird, sir.'
Later a fight broke out between Randy King and a reserve linebacker, John Butler. King got Butler in a headlock and tried to spin him quickly to the ground. He ended his spin holding Butler's helmet. He caught a forearm from behind, then got spun around himself 'and kicked in the leg. He went down, grunting, and Butler jumped on him and they wrestled for a while, making dust. King, on the bottom, tried to pull Butler's jersey over his head. Finally the coaches stopped it and we got going again. Several plays later the blocking got sloppy, and Hobbs, at quarterback now, ran out of the pocket a bit prematurely. A whistle blew, rather softly, as if reluctant to call attention to itself, and we watched Creed come walking across the field. Hobbs put his hands on his hips and looked at the grass. Creed, taking his time, began speaking while he was still ten yards away, very quietly though, with forbearance.
'You've got to stay in the pocket, son.'
'Yes sir, I know.'
'You bailed out too early. You've got to stand firm even with all that meat coming in at you. If you can't do that, you can't play for me. Now that's a fact.'
'Yes sir.'
'Gary, that blocking was dreadful.'
'Yes sir,' I said.
King and Butler were fighting again. Creed heard the noise and turned slowly to watch. Since both of them wore linemen's facemasks, it was extremely difficult to draw blood, the unannounced purpose and only real satisfaction of such a fight. So they started kicking and wrestling again, pulling at each other's equipment, not tactically but in frustration, the pads, the faceguard, the helmet itself. King down now, John Butler kicked him in the stomach. Somebody pushed Butler away. King was through for the afternoon. They had to help him off. Butler stood alone near the sideline. Creed walked slowly across the field toward the offensive linemen, who were running wind sprints. I watched Bloomberg for a moment. Then we went back to our blitz drill. Everybody ignored Butler. He stood off to one side, watching. Five minutes later (you could feel it), we forgave him.
Sam Trammel, who coached the receivers, called the starting offensive and defensive units together for a dummy scrimmage. Vern Feck jumped in and out of the defensive huddle, checking on his boys, little pink face
