“Matter?” echoed Russell. “What is the matter?”
“You tell me,” answered the coach. “I’ve seen fellows who could play and fellows who couldn’t play—a lot more of the last kind than the first, you bet!—but it’s sort of out of the ordinary to find a fellow who can play and doesn’t. Must be a reason, of course, so I thought I’d ask you.”
Russell looked every bit as puzzled as he felt. “But I don’t get you, Gaston. Are you—do you mean me?”
Gaston nodded. “Of course. You’re the man. If it’s a private matter, Emerson, and you’d rather not let me in on it—”
“But I am playing, Gaston! I don’t understand what you mean!”
“Yes, you’re playing, and I guess that’s the trouble. Maybe some one’s clipped your claws, eh?”
Russell couldn’t have said whether Gaston’s tone had been sneering or not, but he flushed as he answered warmly: “If you mean that I’m not trying my hardest and doing my best—”
“Uh-huh, that’s it,” replied the coach easily. “Why don’t you?”
“But I tell you I am!”
Gaston smiled gently and shook his head. “No, you’re not, Emerson. Maybe you think you are, but you’re not. You go through the motions very nicely. You follow the ball as closely as any of the fellows, you sense plays well and you handle yourself finely. But you always hold something back, son. I’ve seen it time and again. To-day, for instance, you let Crocker get around you twice, and you tackled Austen on one play there as though you thought he was made of glass and might break in the middle.”