"Sir," the young man began, "Dad is—"
"Let's drop that 'sir' right now," interrupted Blenheim. "Makes me feel old. Call me Boogey, son."
"O.K., Boogey," young Wyczk laughed nervously. "I was going to say Dad went on the police force, and he was up for lieutenant when the Democrats got in and shook up the department. Today, Dad is chief of house detectives for one of the largest hotel chains in the Northwest."
"Is that a fact?" said Blenheim, sitting down at the desk. "Stayed right in police work, did he? Good, I always like to see a boy follow through on a college major." He motioned to the chair. "Sit down, Bob."
Bob Wyczk sat down, glancing in fleeting wonder at the cement floor and the walls which were bare except for a few framed team photographs that hung over the desk.
The coach studied the young man. "Bob Wyczk," he said. "I can recall the day you were born. It was unusual for us to have married men on the team in those days. We were playing Pitt, I believe. It was all I could do to keep your Daddy from going to the hospital. Shucks, there was nothing he could do."
Bob Wyczk nodded.
The coach looked him up and down.
"Guard or tackle?"