The Leather Man by Mel Reisner

Author:Mel Reisner [Reisner, Mel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781480806948
Publisher: ArchwayPublishing
Published: 2014-06-10T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 25

Half an hour after the spirited scrimmage that featured a sixty-yard scoring run by Quintus LeClaire, the coaches were ready to analyze film. There was one more week of practice, and then a week to prepare for Northern Oregon. Steinbrecher went back through the players’ dressing room and saw Talty, who held up three cleanly wrapped fingers, showy with antiseptic newness.

“Ship says just a couple of days, coach,” Talty said. “He bound the fingers so I wouldn’t move them too much, but I can still run calisthenics and the shadow drills.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Steinbrecher said. “Just don’t try to do too much too soon. We’re not going to auction off your position.”

He lowered his voice, mock-seriously sharing a secret, and said, “Knocking you out was about the best thing the offense did this afternoon. LeClaire had one fantastic run, but that was it.”

“Good hit, no score again this year?”

“Maybe not. LeClaire is a stud, and the offensive line is better; some of them just don’t know it yet. If the line gets it together, our defense won’t have to spend so much time on the field.”

“I like it out there,” Talty said impishly, his reddish hair and fresh-cream complexion making Steinbrecher grin. He often observed that coaching a Banning was work; coaching a Talty was the bonus.

“You’ll have lots of playing time,” he said. “Just make sure you get plenty of rest this weekend and show up Monday in gym shorts, no pads.”

“Thanks, coach. See you Monday.”

Steinbrecher was struck, watching Talty’s exit, by the ability of the young to heal. He was in his thirties, and already pain had branded him, leaving a huge scar on his right knee. The coaches rarely discussed whatever ended their playing careers, and yet they all felt it, especially in the company of young men enjoying such Olympian health.

Or is it just imagination? Steinbrecher’s sinews were still supple, his muscles a repository of power almost beyond human imagination. And yet, something had lapsed, like rose petals after their peak. It occurred to Steinbrecher, with hours left to study film, that the difference might be a simple matter of sleep. He’d told Talty to rest, forgetting that the young always sleep well.

In a corner of the room he saw offensive line coach Arlo Pepper engrossed in a conversation with Herb Briscoe, the left guard. Briscoe, showered and wrapped from the waist down in a white towel, was listening as his coach explained the art of aggressive pass-blocking.

“Jam your hands under his pads,” Pepper said. “Push ’em up around his mouth. He wants to do the same thing, but you know the snap count, so get there first. Run-block, same thing, except you can’t grab his jersey. Stay low and drive, that’s key.”

Pepper demonstrated the action, throwing his elbows in repetitive arcs, sweating in the humid room.

Most of the players had dressed and left, anxious to release the energy stored up during ten two-a-day practice sessions and a full scrimmage, but Preston Jones was still at his locker.

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