Paper Lion: Confessions of a Last-String Quarterback by George Plimpton

Author:George Plimpton [Plimpton, George]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Recreation / Football, Sports &#38, Autobiography / Sports, Recreation / General, BIOGRAPHY &#38
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Published: 2016-04-25T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 19

George Wilson addressed us one evening at the start of the eight p.m. class. “Next Saturday night,” he said, “that’s only four days away—we’ve got the big intra-squad game coming up in Pontiac. That’s about half an hour down the main road. We’ll dress in game uniforms here and drive down there by bus. They’ve got a fine stadium, good lights, and there’ll be a big crowd there. They make quite a ceremony of it—a Queen of the Day on hand, fireworks, bands, and all of it. Before the game there’ll be some contests—punting, sprints, field-goal kicking, passing accuracy—there’ll be a number of them, cash prizes, and those of you who want to enter, sign up with the Hawk.”

One of the players wanted to know how the scoring for the intra-squad game worked.

Wilson explained that for the offensive unit, the scoring was regular. The defensive unit would get one point for stopping the offense from making a first down in a series; it would get two points for a fumble recovery, an interception, or a blocked field goal.

“The game’s the big chance for you rookies,” he said. “We want to see how you do. We’re going to take a look at the third-string quarterback”—my heart jumped—“to see what sort of reserve strength we got.” He looked to where I was sitting.

“Whitlow,” he said to the big center. “How’s the kid coming along receiving the snap from center?”

“Well,” said Whitlow. “He’s… ah… coming along.”

“Whitlow,” he said, “you’d better stay down after practice a little longer and work with him on his plays. And you too, ends—Gibbons and Cogdill—and Pietrosante and Lewis. Right?”

The big men nodded.

Terry Barr leaned across from his seat. “Learn everything you can,” he said. “One of those crazy rookie linemen is going to try to make his reputation off you.” He nodded gravely. “If one of them snaps you in two—I mean, literally—the club’s not going to think about letting him go. He’ll fill Tiger Stadium with people in to see the killer.”

“I’ve got four days to beat those rookies to it,” I said. “To develop some crippling ache or other.”

As if reading my mind, Wilson said, “Now you guys, don’t go and get yourself hurt before the game. We want to see what you can do—and if you’re sitting on the bench with a muscle pull, you’re not worth anything to us. You can think about packing your suitcase.”

A prime topic with the Lions—not of conversation but of concern—was the question of physical condition. George Wilson mentioned it almost every evening at the team meetings. “Don’t drink nil,” he said. “Don’t let food run you out of the league. Don’t go swimming too much. If you think a muscle is going to pull, take it easy and pull up, particularly you receivers and halfbacks.”

The training room at one end of the gym was the most popular of the hangouts. Millard Kelly was the trainer in charge—“Mallard” or “the Duck” the players called him—with two assistants who

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