"Seats 8,000," said Blenheim. "But we could boost that to 12,000 with bleachers at either end. So far, the need for that has not arisen. Our biggest crowd last season was just under 4,000. That was for the homecoming game." He chuckled. "That stadium hasn't been touched or improved since it was built in 1920." He turned and looked at Bob Wyczk and his smile faded as he saw the young man's troubled countenance.
"Something eating you, boy?" said Blenheim.
"Well, sir—" Bob Wyczk began.
"All right, Boogey!" cried Bob Wyczk, "I've got to tell you something. I don't know if I want to be a coach after all."
"What!" exclaimed Blenheim, aghast.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to raise my voice," said Bob Wyczk. "But really, Boogey, I didn't know big-time coaching was like that. I didn't know you had to do all those things."
"What things," demanded Blenheim, his face hardening. "You sound like I did something wrong!"
Well, does it seem right, Boogey?" said Bob Wyzck. "Making it such a cold-blooded business? Cultivating high school coaches you really don't care about? Making all those phony speeches? Posing as a well-read man when all you've read is Elbert Hubbard's Scrap Book? Turning football into a kind of Hollywood production with press agents and camera men and television and radio programs? And deceiving people, passing your dentist friend off as a clergyman? Promising to marry a woman just to recruit her son and then—then jilting her?"
"The boy had lost his potential!" roared Blenheim. "Didn't I make that clear?"