The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [129]
“Hello, Flannel Mouth! How’s the brother?” asked Studs, as Young Fat Malloy showed up.
“He’ll be there, and he was saying that if you guys lose your first game of the season, he was going to kick your tails around the block to hell and gone. And don’t think he can’t! He may be a little runt, but let me tell you, Hugo was one of the toughest sergeants they ever had in the army.”
“I know it,” Studs said, thinking that it was another case of a good little man.
“Look at Klein, that crazy hebe! He’s liable to break his neck trying to catch that football!” Fat said.
“Yeah, he’s that way because he got gassed in the war.”
“But he has guts. You know, Studs, you guys ought to have a crack team this year. And with a good coach like Hugo, you oughtn’t to lose a game.”
Studs nodded. He thought that maybe, this year, they would all get to working together like a well-oiled machine, and then, next season they could join the Mid-West League. He saw himself flashing through that semi-pro circuit like a comet, and getting himself signed up to play in the backfield with Paddy Driscoll on the Chicago Cardinals.
There was excitement; a wild fling of Nate’s nearly hit a baby being wheeled along. The father crabbed like hell, but finally pushed his buggy on. Nate told Studs that wise guys like that bird needed to be punched full of holes.
More players came around, and a gang of them started over to the football field in Washington Park.
II
Wearing a large white sweater, and his old army breeches, bow-legged Coach Hugo Zip Malloy stood with arms folded, his tough mug intent, as he watched the Fifty-eighth Street Cardinals clown through signal practice.
“Come on over here, you birds, and sit on your cans a minute. That’s what they’re for,” he yelled, regally waving his short right arm.
The players dragged over and planked themselves down, facing him. Strangers collected to gape at them. He glared at the strangers.
“Everybody not associated with the team, please fade!” he commanded; some obeyed; others dropped backwards a few feet, and then commenced to inch forwards again. Courageous gawkers stood in their tracks.
Kenny Kilarney suddenly appeared, and did a take-off on a college cheer leader:
We ain’t rough!
We ain’t tough!
But oh!... are we determined?
“Say, Monkey Face!” Coach Hugo said to Kenny.
“No hope for ‘im,” Bill Donoghue said.
“Now I want you birds to listen to what I tell you!”
“But say, Hugo?” Bill Donoghue called.
“That’s my name.”
“Would you mind taking the cigar out of your mouth so we can see you.”
“Sonnyboy, the playground is on the other side of the drive, in back of me,” Coach Hugo replied.
“Another thing, coach? Don’t you think we ought to give Klein a rising vote? He hasn’t been hurt yet this season?”
“Jesus, wouldn’t the squirrels make mince-pie out of you?” Coach Hugo said, darting a no-hope look at Bill.
“Now, when the clowns get finished pulling the whiskers off their jokes, I’ll talk... And by the way, can’t you guys leave the cigarettes alone for a minute. It takes wind to win a football game, and you don’t get wind eating them coffin nails!”
“You tell ‘em, coach, I stutter,” said Shrimp Haggerty, lurching drunkenly into their midst; he was thin and sallow, and dogged out in classy clothes. He wore a black band on his top-coat sleeve.
“Haggerty! The other team needs a couple of mudguards. Go on over there,” Coach Hugo said.
“Now that the children have finished throwing spitballs around, teacher will talk... Haggerty, get the hell out of here before I have to throw your pieces away!”
Haggerty saw that Coach Hugo was really sore. He staggered away, singing.
“All right, you birds, keep your dirty ears open! I ain’t gonna repeat myself! You’re goin’ out there now for your first crack of the season, and you’re gonna play a man’s game. There’s only one way to play it. Play hard! Hard! Get the other guy, before he gets you! Knock him down! Let them drag him out! If you don’t, you might be the unlucky chump that’s dragged out. And if any of you birds are carried off that gridiron, cold, don