His sour breath makes it unpleasing to talk to him.

He went slowly to his tent and stretched himself on a blanket by the side of the snoring tall soldier. In the darkness he saw visions of a thousand-tongued fear that would babble at his back and cause him to flee, while others were going coolly about their country's business. He admitted that he would not be able to cope with this monster. He felt that every nerve in his body would be an ear to hear the voices, while other men would remain stolid and deaf.

[…] he heard the right-hand goal post crack as a pony cannoned into it—crack, splinter, and fall like a mast.

But the pinch of the game had not arrived yet.