Scotty was cordial. Red just glanced at me and went back to his inspection of the ceiling.
“We’re pretty sad out there, aren’t we, Mike?” Scotty asked.
“Sad, lazy, and dull as dirt.”
Red came up on one elbow. His eyes were suddenly bright. “Saturday we win, Mike?”
“Saturday, Red, we win just like the Maginot Line held off the Germans.”
The look faded. He sank back. “Oh,” he said. If anybody had told him he had three days to live, he would have said, “Oh,” with about the same tone.
Scotty frowned at me as I cut the string. “What’s in the box, Mike.”
I showed them what I had in the box and I made each of them swear three times that he’d keep his mouth shut.
“Suppose it doesn’t work, Mike?” Scotty asked.
“Then I find myself a nice bread truck to drive around some nice quiet city.”
Weston Walker’s analysis of what might happen when the Gray Wave hit us was pretty close to being right on the button.
It was one of those days. Clear and cool, with no wind. The field was springy and right. Forty thousand people jammed the stadium.
Our locker room was tense and sour. Wes threw a few half-humorous remarks into the air. They floated over like marble airplanes.
When we ran out, the Gray Wave was already on the field. At first glance it looked as if they had twenty teams around, running through the plays. I made a count, was faintly surprised to find they only had nine teams warming up on the field.
It was our first top-flight opponent of the season, and they looked better than top-flight. They looked better than any squad has a right to look.
I thought I detected a bit of pallor among our boys, a bit of licking of dry lips. I went around spreading words of confidence and cheer.
Jerry Bascoe, Harbour captain and offensive right-half won the toss, elected to receive. I checked the wires from the spotters, saw that they were placed, relayed Walker’s last minute instructions and picked a soft spot on the bench right next to Wes.
The ball came down, high enough to give the Wave ample time to get down the field. Messna, Harbour offensive fullback, spun out of the arms of one of the big gray men on our nine, bulled his way up to the fourteen before he lost his legs.
The big Gray Wave offensive backfield of Grunnert, Halliday, Raygo and Zapparti went out taking a hunk of the line with them and eight defensive men came in.
Lined up against the Wave, our boys didn’t look so feeble. They had snap and precision. Smart little Dandy Thomas called our signals.
On a half-spin and fake to Jerry Bascoe, he fed the ball to Messna who crashed off right tackle for three yards. The next play was a double fake, opening the same way, but faking the hand-off to Messna, making another half-spin and handing it to Kriefeldt, the left half who swept wide around end, Messna cutting sharply back to chop the legs from under the defensive right end.
Kriefeldt cut in very nicely, fooling the secondary, making it all the way up to the twenty-six for a first down.
Ohio was off balance and, as we had taught the boys, they lined up fast, cracked the center for two yards. There was a whistle on the play and Jerry elected to take the offside penalty, making it first and five on our own thirty-one.
The next play was one of those things that sometimes happens in football. Notre Dame has done it oftener than any other team in the business. Every play in a game is a touchdown play. Particularly off the T, where timing takes the place of double blocking and releases men to play almost a man to man offense.
The play was one of my pets. Kriefeldt was the man in motion. He came jogging in. The ball was snapped to Dandy Thomas. As it was snapped, Jerry Bascoe came across fast. Bascoe and Kriefeldt were passing each other just behind Dandy. We had practiced it a hundred times, with Dandy flipping the ball across Kriefeldt’s bows into Jerry’s hands.
Kriefeldt ran back as though to pass. Jerry went wide in what looked to be a naked reverse. But he picked up men as he got to the line. Kriefeldt had sucked the secondary off in the wrong direction. As they reversed rapidly, they were chopped down. Our end got down and took care of the safety man. Jerry went across standing up. We were all on our feet, yelling.
It reminded me of the shock when, in 1947, the Army fullback carried the mail right through Navy on what had started as a routine thrust through the line.
One of the big Grays came through fast and tipped the ball off line for a conversion miss.
Ober, Shannon, Denatti and Angeline went into our backfield to stop the Gray Wave. Ohio brought the kick back to the thirty. They made a first down on their forty-two, another on our forty-five, and missed the third by inches.
Their kick rolled out on our fifteen. When we had possession of the ball, I realized that I had been gnawing on my underlip. The Gray Wave had pulled a surprise on us. We had them figured for purely a T outfit. But they had shifted to both a single and double wing to shove their punishing power plays across. It was disheartening to note that in addition to Halliday, their All-American fullback, the two halves, Zapparti and Raygo, ran just as hard as Halliday.
It was the day for line play. Probably to the uneducated spectators, it was a dull game. But there was drama in the way Tiny’s men plugged the holes, smelled the plays, fought and struggled. But they couldn’t help letting those big men into the Harbour backfield.
When they lined up unbalanced to the right in a single wing, Scotty couldn’t gamble on defensive power where the threat was aimed. He tried it once and only a beautiful tackle saved the play when a naked reverse seemed headed for paydirt.
They lined up in the T, and made the sad mistake of trying to mousetrap Dusty Lane. He merely outran the man who was supposed to block him out of the play, cut back and blundered into some fancy hand-offs. The ball skittered out to the side and when the pile was untangled, Jamie Lee, our left end, had it cradled under his chin.
We took our time on three running plays, and then got off a nice kick. The ends were down to smother Raygo and the half ended after they tried two passes, one good for eleven yards and the second one batted down by Rick Denatti.
The locker room between halves was like a hospital ward. The defensive boys were stifling groans with every breath they took. They lay where they dropped. Scotty had a purplish bruise that covered half his face. Tug Ober had two sprained fingers.
Wes came in and stood with his hands deep in the slash pockets of his topcoat. Except for his size, he looked like a prosperous young broker.
He walked through the room, talking quietly with man after man.
Then he stopped in the middle of the room and raised his voice. “You know the score as well as I do. We’ll plan on not pushing another one over. If they push one over, they’ll convert. It looks rugged out there. We’ve had a break on injuries. Lane saved our goose once. Play heads-up ball and see if you can do as Lane did.”
There was no emotion there. I wasn’t asking for corn, but I did feel that something a little more personal than a profit and loss statement was in order.
In the second half, the Gray Wave started their march from their own five. Grunnert, Halliday, Raygo and Zapparti seemed to be running faster and harder than before. Maybe it was the contrast.
Our defense was grim, workmanlike, sober — and ineffectual!
In my position on the bench, I could feel a certain pair of eyes boring into the back of my neck.
Where they had made four yards before, they made six this half. Their march was faster and rougher, and the downs were piled up one after the other.
At the midfield marker, Lane had to come out with a leg injury. On the next play, Stan Frayle, right tackle, was knocked out. When he came around during the time out, he didn’t know what team we were playing. He had to come out. Tiny, analyzing the line play, recommended the replacements.