The players themselves were concerned about my well-being. A group of them took me out that night, a long, tearing night through the Dearborn dance halls, celebrating, all of them shouting, "Fawty-fowah, fawty-tew!" from time to time, fussing, and making me feel as though I had really done something more than play the fool, until I began to say, "No, no, it was nothing at all, really."
I lost my car somewhere, and by the time I'd recovered it and got back to Cranbrook the sun was up. It was going to be a hot day. I knew the heat would begin to build up in my room, but the bed looked inviting. I hadn't been asleep for more than what seemed a minute when I heard a voice sing out: "Up you get there, rook'. No time for lying around."
I looked, and it was Harley Sewell standing in the door, one of the finest offensive guards. He had been 11 years in the National Football League. He had pale, thinning hair, a rolling gait like a sailor's, and was small in stature for a lineman (his weight was in the record books as 230, though he looked much lighter), but when he put his mind to something he was very insistent, and this determination was obviously a major part of his equipment. A Texan, born in a place called St. Jo, he kept after me to come down to his part of the world in the off season and try my hand at riding broncos. He was absolutely determined about it.
He'd say, "Now, when you coming down to ride them broncos?"
"Well, Harley, I don't know...."
"I'd sure like for you to have that experience."
"No trouble 'tall to set it up for you."
"When you think you can come?"