“Honest?” He seemed pleased and I was glad I’d said the right thing. “Well, sometimes I think it’s atmosphere that does it.”
“Does what?” I asked, puzzled.
“Why, makes me play so dog-gone punk on the first,” he explained gravely. “I’ll tell you, Morris,” he dropped his knees and thrust his big hands into his trousers pockets, “when I’m playing on the second I—I kind of feel like I was doing something that wanted to be done. I feel like the fellows around me wanted to win the scrimmage. But when they put me over in the other line I don’t get that—that feeling at all. I suppose that sounds like silly stuff to you, but——”
“Hold on!” I said. “It doesn’t, Talmadge. I believe you’ve found the answer. I believe you’ve put your thumb right on the—the tack! That’s just what you would feel on the first, I’ll bet. Those chumps have been licked so often they don’t believe in themselves any more.”
“That it? Well, that’s the way I feel, and I don’t seem to be able to get rid of it. I guess that coach thinks I’m an awful dub, but I can’t help it. I try hard enough, but the—whatdoyoucallit—incentive isn’t there. Or something. Atmosphere I’ve called it. Or feeling. Something.”
We talked it over quite a bit. I thought he was right about the trouble, and I still think so. I got him finally to promise to make a good hard bid the next time. “Just try your best to forget the atmosphere,” said I. “Play your own game, Talmadge. Make up your mind that, no matter whether the rest of the team want to win or get licked, you yourself are dead set on winning. Will you do it?”
“Sure! Much obliged. It’s good of you to—to bother.” He insisted on shaking hands. “If he lets me in Saturday I’ll do the best I can. Maybe it won’t be much, though. After all, I don’t know an awful lot about football. Just the rudiments. But I’ll see if I can’t—” he hesitated, smiled and went on—“can’t create my own atmosphere.”
I had planned to go home Saturday after dinner, but I stayed around and saw the game and took the five-twelve instead. I wish I hadn’t, for we got most unmercifully beaten by Wooster. To be sure, Wooster had every bit of luck there was, but even taking that into consideration our fellows played a pretty punk game. The big disappointment to me was Joe. Morgan put him in at the start and let him finish the quarter, but he didn’t put up any sort of a fight. And I could see that he was trying, too. Wooster broke up our center time and again, and the only reason Morgan let Joe stay in was because the play was all in mid-field and I guess he kept on hoping that Joe would find himself. I came across him between the halves. He had dressed and was looking on from the side line. When he saw me he smiled wryly and shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But it wasn’t any use, Morris. I’m kiboshed, I guess. They smeared me for fair, didn’t they?”
I nodded. “But what was the trouble?” I asked.