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Howard Jones gets $12,000. He earns one-third as much again from such activities as newspaper writing, which he does himself, cinema shorts, of which he made a series last spring, and sales of his two books: How to Coach and Play Football, Football for the Fan. In the football season he goes to the U. S. C. campus at noon, in an automobile presented to him after the Tulane game last year. He lunches with his assistant coaches at the students' union, considers the reports of their scoutings on Mondays and Tuesdays. After lunch, he goes to his office and attends to his mail. He gets about 40 letters when U. S. C. wins a game, 80 when U. S. C. loses. He reads them all carefully, dictates answers.
At 3 p. m. he goes to training quarters, chats with reporters while he dresses for practice. Practice starts officially at about 4, lasts till 5:45. Unlike many Eastern colleges, U. S. C. has no floodlights. Coach Jones never holds "skull practice" at night. Sometimes he takes his quarterback home to dinner. After dinner, a pile of poker chips appears on the table. Amazingly dextrous from long practice, Jones moves them to diagram plays, red chips for the line, blue for the backfield, white for opponents.
In his coaching, Howard Jones has certain peculiarities. He never curses and will not permit his players to do so. Instead of a trainer, he has a physician, Dr. Walter R. Fieseler, to take care of the players, blow the whistle at practice scrimmage, decide on treatment for injured players and when they are fit to play again. Before important games he makes no emotional orations. In a soothing voice he reviews what he wants the team to remember, reminds them what their opponents are likely to do and how to retaliate. He insists, to an almost eccentric degree, upon "clean" football, even in a game like the one against Washington last year. He dislikes football players who dramatize injuries on the field. When a man is hurt Jones seldom expresses sympathy till after the game.