"You dropped him like a bad habit," said Bert. "But I think the rest of 'em saw you and spooked off. Why don't you get littler, George?"
"You better watch it, Jonesy," said Kunz, "or I'll let one of them mean old defensive tackles in on you next Sunday."
Within the hour the party had killed its limit of three geese apiece, with Bert dropping a nifty double on the last pass. Clearly his eye was as good with a shotgun as it is with a football. What was it his favorite receiver, Roger Carr, had said? "Hey, this guy can unload one 70 yards anytime he likes and hit a dime." It was no exaggeration.
Walking back to the farmhouse, and a breakfast of sausage, biscuits, citron preserves and hot, welcome coffee (except for Bert, who drinks iced tea summer and winter), Kunz let Jones get ahead and then said, "Just look at him go. He was so sick last night that I thought he'd fall down if an Oiler so much as breathed on him. But he played another great game. He's heady, he's tough, he's wild. It kind of rubs off on the rest of us."
Kunz smiled and shook his head. "And you know what? I've been around this league for eight years, six with Atlanta and then here, and I've never met a nicer guy at any position. That's why we take care of him."
Up ahead, romping through the frosty stubble with a goose over each shoulder and Jumbo the Lab leaping at his heels, Bert Jones gave forth a wild, yodeling rebel yell. It was a paean to life—the calculus of victory.