Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [142]
He saw Tubby Connell and Nate Klein flinging passes in the street in front of the poolroom. Nate muffed one, and Studs told him to get a bushel basket. He lit a cigarette and laughed at Nate’s scenery; an old-fashioned square black helmet that must have come down from Walter Eckersall’s day; tight green jersey with holes in the sleeves; pants so big that he swam in them; shoes turned up at the toes because of their size. He looked more closely at the shoes; they were spiked baseball ones. He told Nate they’d never let him play in those, because he might cut somebody to ribbons. Tubby said that Klein was wearing them to show that he had the Fifty-eighth Street fighting spirit.
“This ain’t tiddledy-winks; the guy I cut up will be a Monitor, and that’s his tough tiddy,” Nate said, hard-boiled.
He and Tubby disregarded Studs’ advice to save themselves, and went on fooling around with the ball. Studs turned his back to them, and let his hands fall on his hips; his helmet was over his right elbow, and his blond hair was a trifle curly. His broad face revealed absorption. A middle-aged guy with a paunch doped along; Studs hoped that the guy had noticed him, wished he was young like he was, and able to go out and play a game of football, still full of the vim and vitality of youth. A quick feeling of contrition came over him. Suppose he should get hurt? Suppose he should never come back alive? His mother would always remember how he had slammed the door in her face. But damn it, couldn’t they be reasonable?
“Hell, 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, bowlegged 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?
But oh! . . . are we determined?
“Say, Monkey Face!” Coach Hugo said to Kenny.
“No hope for him,” Bill Donoghue said.
“Now I want you birds to listen to what I tell you!”
“But say,