All the King's Men - Robert Penn Warren [223]
The Boss’s eyes came to rest on Jimmy Hardwich, who was sitting on a bench. Jimmy was a second-string end. He had been put in at the second quarter because the regular at left end had been performing like a constipated dowager. It was going to be Jimmy’s big chance. The chance came. It was a pass. And he dropped it. So now when the Boss’s eyes fixed on Jimmy, Jimmy stared sullenly back. Then, when the Boss’s eyes lingered a moment, Jimmy burst our, “God damn it–God damn it–go on and say it!”
But the Boss didn’t say it. He didn’t say anything. He just moved slowly over to stand in front of Jimmy. Then, very deliberately, he reached out and laid his right hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. He didn’t pat the shoulder. He jus laid it there, the way some men can do to gentle a nervous horse.
He wasn’t looking at Jimmy now, but swept his glance around over all the others. “Boys,” he said, “I just came down to tell you I know you did your best.”
He stood there, with his hand still lying on Jimmy’s shoulder, and let that sink in. Jimmy began to cry.
Then he said, “And I know you will do your best. For I know the stuff you got in you.”
He waited again. Then he took his hand off Jimmy’s shoulder, and turned slowly and moved toward the door. There he paused, and again swept his glance over the room. “I want to tell you I won’t forget you,” he said, and walked out of the door.
Jimmy was really crying now.
I followed the Boss back outside, where the band was now playing some brassy march.
When the second half opened up, the boys came out for blood. They made a touchdown early in the third quarter, and kick the point. The Boss felt pretty good, in a grim way, about that. In the fourth quarter Georgia drove down to the danger zone, was held, then kicked a field goal. That was the way it ended, ten to seven.
But we still had a shot at the Conference. If we took everything else in the season. The next Saturday Tom Stark was back out. He was out because the Boss had put the heat on Billie Martin. That was why, all right, for the Boss told me so himself.
“How did Martin take it?” I asked.
“He didn’t, the Boss said. “I crammed it down his throat.”
I didn’t say anything to that, and didn’t even know I was looking anything. But the Boss thrust his head at me and said, “Now look here, I wasn’t going to let him throw it away. We got a chance for the Conference, and the bastard would throw it away.”
I still didn’t say anything.
“It’s not Tom, it’s the championship, by God,” he said. “It’s not Tom. If it weren’t anything but Tom, I wouldn’t say a word. And if he breaks training again, I’ll pound his head on the floor. I’ll beat him with my own hands. I swear it.”
“He’s a pretty good-sized boy,” I remarked.
He swore again he would do it.
So the next Saturday Tom Stark was back out, and he carried the ball, and he was a cross between a ballerina and a locomotive, and the stands cheered, Yea, Tom, Tom, Tom, for he was their darling, and the score was twenty to nothing, and State had the sights back on the championship. There were two more games. There was an easy one with Tech, and then the Thanksgiving pay-off.
Tech was easy. In the third quarter, when State already had a lead, the coach sent Tom in just to give him a canter. Tom put on a little show for the stands. It was casual and beautiful and insolent. There was nothing to it, the way he did his stuff, it looked so easy. But once after he had knifed through for seven yards and had been nailed by the secondary, he didn’t get up right away.
“Just got the breath knocked out,