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Kramer, with his alert deference, makes a good Boswell to Lombardi (Lombardi's own book, Run to Daylight, was more like Caesar's Gallic Wars in its nit-picking dullness). The coach seems to be a Method actor lost in his part. He psychs himself that he may psych others. His tears are real because he wills them so. "He's really gotten himself ready for a game," writes Kramer. "I wish we could suit him up."
In this case, the Boswell is the more interesting of the two. Kramer knows that football is a ridiculous way of life—but then, what isn't? He discusses his business ventures (archery supplies, a TV syndicated talk show) and they sound a lot more pointless than his football. At least when he is playing right guard, he is defending his territorial imperative against the other warrior apes. Between times, Kramer likes to hunt with a bow and arrow. He can be a grownup when he has to, but doesn't see much fun in it. Which is presumably what sports are all about. Kramer may be the first of the philosopher-football players. Along with Dick Schaap, who edited the tapes, he has produced the best book yet written on the subject.