Chapter 3
High up in the press box, above the frozen turf in Chicago, Jack Fisher sat hunched over the typewriter, pale, feverish sick. As usual, Sturday night had been a big one and had stretched into Sunday morning. Jack was more concerned with the condition of his stomach than with the game he was about to see and write about for his ailing newspaper, the Los Angeles Chronicle. In a way, Jack liked to be sick. It helped him relax, made him indifferent to the pressure of his job. He found his mind most nimble, his powers of observation most accurate, when, hangover-ridden, he didn't care if he lived or died.
Even though snow had fallen for some days, the stands were almost filled. A huge tarpaulin had covered the field before game time but now it was rolled back. It was remarkable how green the grass still was in mid-November, but the sod was frozen stiff. There will be the usual excuses by halfbacks and ends today, thought Jack. Ground so hard you couldn't cut right. Injuries too, might be a factor. He shuddered involuntarily at the thought of being on the bottom of one of those piles with about ten 250-pounders on his back. But that was pro football. The players got paid for it. When they couldn't take it any more, they could always go out and make an honest living-like he was doing. Jack laughed inwardly. An honest living! A goddamned paid publicist, that was what he was!
Down in the Pros' locker room beneath the giant stadium, the Los Angeles' team's head coach, Hank Collins, had his usual pre-game jitters. He had raced to the men's room half a dozen times with the dry heaves-and to take a nervous leak. He felt awful.
He had made a study of the two teams, both as a player and as a coach, and had come to some pretty definite conclusions as to the outcome. The power of positive thinking had been expounded by his assistant coach, Jess Henderson. And now he was putting it all to work-all to work for victory and for the retention of his job the following season.
"Men," he said, "we can beat these bastards if each one of us does his job and does it right. Hit 'em. And hit 'em hard! Even when you don't have to, hit 'em! Give 'em lumps. Make 'em afraid of you. Show 'em who's boss, show 'em right away. If you get a shot at that bastard, Curt Jablonski, for Christ's sake give him your elbows, shoulder pads and cleats. Get him any way you have to. You know who we have to stop today, so let's go-and do it!"
Collins' voice caught in his throat. He whipped out his huge handkerchief and cupped his mouth, his big head bent forward almost to the floor. But it was just another abortive effort. Nothing came out.
"All right," he shouted, "let's go get 'em."