The Coach

Bob Wyczk flushed. "I guess, Boogey, I'd like to be like you. Dad said you were the greatest leader and the greatest builder of character that football has ever seen."

Coach Blenheim snorted. "That was nice of the ol' Wildcat, but, son, if you're mainly interested in building character maybe you'd better get into YMCA or church work." He shook his head and reached out a hand to touch the young man's shoulder. "No," he said, "forget I said that. It's an old man's cynicism. You'll build character, son, in spite of yourself."

He stood up. "Let's see, where will I begin?"

Bob Wyczk took a ball-point pen and a small notebook from his shirt pocket. "I thought I might ask about formations. What kind of offense would you suggest I use? I mean, sir, do you think the T or the single wing or the split-T—"

Coach Blenheim waved both hands at him. "Put away the notebook, boy. Forget about formations. It doesn't make much difference if you get the right boys." He turned as the office door opened. A short, chunky young man, his arms loaded with books, looked in.

"Oh, excuse me, sir," said the boy. "You're busy."

Coach Blenheim hurried forward and put an arm around the boy's shoulders. "No, no, no," he said. "Just visiting. Come in, come in, Edgar, and shake hands with the son of one of my old players. Ever hear of Wildcat Wally Wyczk?"

The student blinked and said, "No, sir, I don't think so."

"Well, this is his son, Bob—a big star in Utah."

"Glad to know you, sir," said the student, shifting an armload of books to put out his hand. He turned to the coach. "Sir, I just wanted to see you for a minute."