That evening, just before nine, the team was gathered in the back room of the Blue Moon for a last look at unusual plays and a cheering word from the coach.
“Football is a game of war.” The coach spoke earnestly. “Back there in those hard days of 1918 when some of us paid a long visit to France, we practiced long weeks before we were sent into the trenches. That practice was real, the realest thing any of us had ever known. It had to be. When, in bayonet practice, we went after a dummy—a gunny-sack stuffed with straw—that was, to us, not a sack but a man. It must be a man, for tomorrow, next day, the day after, we would go over the top. Then it WOULD be a man. Everything must be real.
“Football is like that, you must go after things hard. You must buck the line in scrimmage as you do in a real game.
“Football is like war in other ways. If a battalion cannot go through the enemy’s line, it attempts to go around him. If an army is too light for ground fighting, it takes to the air. You do the same thing in football.
“In war, practice is not enough. When the zero hour arrives, a soldier must have a clear head, his body must be fit, he must have his nerves under control. Only so can he win and live.
“You boys have practiced hard. You have given the best there is in you. You are prepared. Tomorrow you must be at your best. Keep your heads. Get a good grip on your nerves. Don’t let the other fellows get your goat. Go in to win!”
“Yea! Yea! Hear! Hear! Hear!” came in a roar from the team.
“Thanks,” the coach smiled. “And now—” he broke off to stand at attention for a period of seconds. Had his keen ears caught some unusual sound? Johnny, who sat in a corner close to a half open window, would have sworn he caught a faint rustle from the outside. “But who’d be around this time of night?” he asked himself. “And after all, what does it matter? All Hillcrest is loyal to our team.”
“Now,” the coach went on at last, “we’ll go through two or three plays rather rapidly.” Picking up a bit of chalk, he stepped to the blackboard. “This play,” he drew circles rapidly, “is one of balanced formation. You’ll likely try it after a couple of long, and probably unsuccessful passes. In the play—”
Again he paused to listen. This time Johnny did hear some sound from without, he was sure of it. “Might be Panther Eye’s black giant!” he told himself with a shudder. “But then,” he asked himself, “is there a black giant?” He rather doubted it. He had come to think of that giant as a black ghost. Panther Eye too might be a ghost for all he knew.