| OCR Text |
Show 33, Jeffries, Islamorada [Section 4] came muscling over to cuff him savagely across the head and the boy went spinning down. A couple of coaches looked over, shrugged. Thirty yards, the managers went marching with the yard markers. On paper, the character shouldn't have been able to do that. "You'll move with your shoulders parallel to the line of scrimmage to that five-hole!" Dory yelled at his baby-faced linemen. And he ran out with the trainer. They looked down into the boy's eyes. Just the slightest crossing, a concussion--well Coach Silva, his CO. , can have the unpleasant task of notifying the mother. Maybe knock some sense into him. As they say. And Mincer on his knees in the grass, in his ever-languorous mode relating too richly to the stirred motes of lime dust, and to the wide green lawn. Like some gentle Ferdinand Bull. As suddenly Clayton found himself tugging and shaking at the lad. "Get up damn you get up." A little gooseneck lamp against the dark in the passionflower and the seagrape outside. Up at Kissimmee, at the power plant, they were burning the midnight oil for him. A football playbook lay off in a corner, and he was trying to remember something he'd seen in the |
