Fight, Scrub, Fight!

Начало книги

Anthony Strega stood tall and straight at the edge of the practice field, where the grass was autumn tarnished and torn with cleats. Sunrise, behind him, cast a long and brooding shadow that bisected the faded white lines.

In the end it all came down to a question of mathematics and dimension. Take eleven men and train them so that each would act as an extension of his own body, then place them on a rigidly defined area, carefully instructed in a series of maneuvers that would inexorably carry the ball the length of the field.

It was the welling red line made by the surgeon’s scalpel, the dividers against the navigator’s chart — it was real and understandable, and thus a satisfying occupation, uncomplicated by emotional perplexities, by sloppy thinking.

He stood and felt the power that was in him, the determination and the coldness, and at last he turned and walked with long strides back to the small frame house they had given him at the far end of faculty row.

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