“Chris Hanson?” Sandy repeated it thoughtfully. “There used to be an All-American tackle by that name.”
Stern grinned. “That’s our boy. He’s an athletic coach at the university.”
“Say, that’s great!” Jerry exclaimed. “Chris was the best.” Self-importantly, he added, “As a matter of fact we have a lot in common. I expect to make All-American tackle myself some day.”
Sandy smirked and dug his fist playfully into Jerry’s midsection. “You get any fatter, you won’t be able to bend down to flip the ball.”
Chris Hanson was a brawny man who made even a six-footer like Sandy Steele feel like a little boy. He reminded Sandy of the paintings of fierce Vikings he had seen in grade-school history books, though his blond hair was a bit thin on top. His wife was a small, thin woman who sat as close to the fire as possible, despite the fact that she was bundled up in sweaters. The Hansons were just finishing a game of Scrabble when the boys arrived.
“I’m a Georgia girl, you know,” Mrs. Hanson said in a marked Southern accent. “And I don’t believe I’ll ever get used to this climate.”
“We have a friend who would sympathize with you,” Sandy told her. “Lou Mayer, my father’s assistant.”
Chris grinned devilishly. “Oh sure, we met Lou when your dad came up to Fairbanks. Took him skiing once. I don’t think he likes me very much.”
While they waited for supper to be served, the boys coaxed Chris to reminisce about some of his big gridiron games. Hungry as they were, it was an unwelcome interruption when Mrs. Stern announced: “Chow’s on the table.”
There were seven people at the table—including Russ Parker, who arrived just as they were sitting down—and among them they picked an eight-pound sirloin bear steak clean.