Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

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that. Why I know you better'n you know yourself. 'N you a settin' there a tryin' to tell old jeff Miller there ain't nuthin' a troublin' you . . . Crnon now, son. Tell y'r old Uncle all about it. He talked to the gray-haired coach as if he were a child. Oh, I don't know, jeff, Wilson hesitated. The truth is I need some money-a hundred dollars. I've saved fifty of it, but I need a hundred, now. Tomorrow night at the latest. jeff exhaled clouds of acrid smoke. No way of gettin' any, eh P Wilson shook his head mutely and Jeff continued to puff his briar. Then: Let you have et m'self, Don, but I jist ain't got et. My pension ain't hardly enough to live on as 'tis, 'thout savin' none. The two men sat silent for a moment. Then jeff opened his mouth to speak and thought better of it. He knocked the ashes out of his pipe decisively and pointed the stem at Wilson. Now you listen 't me, Don. You ain't agoin' to like this suggestion, but a far as I kin see, it's the only way out. This here new football team of yours, fr'm what I hear, ain't got a chance ag'in Woodcliff tomorrow. Great Day, son, give me a chance! as Don was about to protest. Why don't you bet that fifty ag'in 'em? Now wait! I kin git old man Bartlett to take the bet. That ol' fool'll take any side of an arg'ment if'n I take t'other. What say, Don? Great Guns, jeff, I can't do that! Bet against my boys in there? He jerked a thumb toward the locker room. He shook his head determinedly. Not while I had anything to say about it. Jeff shrugged slowly and stuffed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. He heaved himself out of his chair and moved toward the door, his rheumatic joints cracking audibly. Then Don called to him. Just a minute, jeff. He lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. Tell you what I'll do. Maybe your idea wasn't so bad after all. Iill give you the money to bet for me tonight, but bet it on my boys. You're makin' a mistake, Don. That crew of yours ain't won but two games all season, 'n' them agin easy teams, but-if y' want it like that- he shrugged. That's how I want it, jefff' And Woodcliff was one of the chief contenders for the State Charn- pionship. III. It had started to snow, and the brisk November wind whipped the flakes into the faces of the crowds in the stands. The air literally vibrated with excitement. The stands were noisy and the confidence of the Woodcliif supporters was matched only by the desperate bravado of the Lincoln rooters. In the dressing room Coach Wilson leaned against the concrete wall and fingered the change in his pocket, trying not to show his nervousness. The REFLEICTOR It - 18

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unclothed condition. Well, it was only a question of time, now, philosophized Terry. They had to open the door sometime. As he had his choice between exercise and pneumonia, he began to trot up and down the hall with water dripping at every step and his bare feet making odd little slapping noises as he ran. All would have ended well had not the principal decided to go through that corridor at that particular time. At any rate, the principal gasped, and Terry gulped, and the situation was brought to a sudden denouement by someone's opening the locker room door. Terry didn't make any apologies but actually dove into the room. Someone was telling the well-known story about another humorous incident that had taken place the previous year, when someone had imitated an assistant coach's pep talk to Little johnny and then turned around to find the coach in question standing directly behind him. Coach Wilson came through the doorway quietly and stood silent, watching his boys . He was a coach such as you might find in any school in the country, hard as nails on the outside, but underneath a human being in the finest sense of the word. He was the sort of fellow who would batter to a pulp a man who tried to steal his watch, and when he found out that the fellow was half starved would pawn that same watch to buy him food. His eyes and his hair were gray. He loved this gang of his, these boys with men's bodies. Fine fellows everyone, these bronzed, homely gridders who had graduated from the dust and dead-grass smell of the sand-lot to the alcohol and wintergreen odor of the locker room. He tried to think of something to say to the squad. This was the last time they would be together before the Turkey Day game and he ought to say something to them. People were beginning to blame him because they hadn't won more games. He tried to think about tomorrow's contest, but always that other thought crept in like some insidious demon to torment him. It was money that was preying on his mind. He didn't need such an awful lot, either, a hundred would stem the tide. Yes, he had .rome money. Perhaps he could scrape together fifty or so, but that was not enough. It must be a hundred. There was his salary but he needed every cent of that. He had a family to support. He must think. He turned and left the hot, steam-filled room and went to his own quarters to light a cigarette. He was sitting there lost in a cloud of smoke and staring at the blank wall when jeff Miller stamped in, a little breathless from the exertion of climbing up the hill to the club house. He eased himself into a chair, but not until he had lit the ancient briar which he always followed around did he speak. Somethin' on your mind, 'seems if', he started. What's a matter, Don ? Nothing much, jeff, Don lied in a voice that was almost a shout, for jeff was almost as ancient as his pipe, and his hearing wasn't what it used to be in the old days . Why, Great Tophers, Don, y' ought to know I know you better'n The REFLECTOR - 17

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The squad was seated on the unpainted benches or against the wall, their faces expressionless and with that ungodly gone feeling in the pits of their stomachs which every football man knows. Student managers moved quietly among them, wide rolls of tape in their hands. Little johnny johnson pulled at the elastic strap on his helmet. He was praying silently for a chance to get into this game. He had, by some Act of Providence, gotten into three games this season and a fourth meant a letter. He stared unseeingly at his toes. Terry Ackerman's hands trembled ever so slightly as he pulled the laces of his shoes even tighter. Buck Serrini sat a little apart from the others and chewed leisurely on an enormous wad of gum. A white-garbed official stuck his head in the door and said in a voice that sounded oddly loud in the quiet room. Three minutes, Coach. Wilson moved slowly away from the wall and into the center of the room. All movement ceased. He achieved a calm voice. No pep talk today, boys. Only--that bunch in the stands have stuck even after all these beatings. For their sake, give everything you've got, gang! That's all. All right, now get out there! The three Lincoln teams took the field, their cleats spewing little pieces of sod, and their ears virtually deaf to the roaring stands. Fifteen minutes later, with both bands blaring and the stands on their feet, a whistle sounded faintly through the great concrete stadium. Suddenly a little leather ovoid was in the air and the green, white-slashed gridiron was covered with milling, squirming, rocketing bodies. IV. They were back in the dressing room between the halves and the air was filled with the stench of rub-down fluid and steaming bodies. Coach Wilson again stood in their midst. He pushed his felt hat onto the back of his head. He addressed them in a voice none too gentle. Get your chins up, you bunch of punks! All right, they have you 6-0! So what? According to the papers it should be 60-0 by this time. You can still win this ball game! You, Serrini! What do you think this is? A ping-pong tournament? Get in there and fight!-Ackerman! What are you, anyway, a football player or a white-livered sissy? What are you trying to do, save yourself for the Prom? Get the lead out of your feet and stop playing Tiddledy-Winks!-Starrett! Don't you think it's about time you decided to start playing footlmll? Hit that line with your head down! You've been standing up in there.-Smitty!- Little Johnny listened absently to the drone of Wilson's voice. Why didn't Coach put him in place of Serrini? He'd show him some fight! He had to get into this game, somehow! Wilson was still talking. All right, now, you sissies, go on out there and try to look a little more like a football team! Go out there and FIGHT! Do you hear? Y0u'1fe got to will flair game! FIGHT, DAMMIT, FIGHT! The REFLECTOR --l 19