The Coach

"Any good?"

"I made our conference All-Star in Utah, Coach."

"You got any eligibility left?"

"Oh, no, sir, I graduated last June."

The coach's eyes narrowed. "How come the ol' Wildcat didn't send you to me?"

Bob stared at his hands.

"Well, sir," he said, "I didn't get out of high school until the year you quit the big time and came here to Greeley. You don't give scholarships here, do you? I mean, isn't this what they call de-emphasized?"

The old coach closed his eyes and nodded. He said wearily: "What did you want to see me about, son?"

Bob Wyczk leaned forward. "Boogey, sir," he said, "I've just been appointed football coach at my old high school back in Utah. I majored in physical education, and I intend to make coaching my career. Dad said the best way for me to get off on the right foot was to come here and ask for your advice."

Coach Blenheim took a long, deep breath. "Well," he said, exhaling, "so you want to be a coach, eh, boy? What kind of coach? The nice, clean-cut refined young man like Terry Brennan at Notre Dame, Dan Devine at Missouri, Pete Elliott at California? The aloof, austere, dignified type—like Leahy, Crisler, Blaik? An old smoothie like Bud Wilkinson at Oklahoma? Or rough and tough like Forest Evashevski at Iowa, Bear Bryant at Alabama, Jim Tatum at North Carolina, Woody Hayes at Ohio State? Or do you want to spread a few laughs like Duffy Daugherty at Michigan State or ol' Cactus Jack Curtice at Stanford? What's your pleasure, boy?"