So why does he call John Spagnola "88" and why does he call Mike Reichenbach "Rock-em-back" or "55" if he's unhappy with him?

"Numbers are important," Ryan said. "You use numbers on your depth chart. You use numbers when you're talking about the other team's lineup. You speak in numbers a lot.

"Actually, when I first went to Chicago, first game I coached, we had a guy named [Brian] Baschnagel and a guy named [Lenny] Walterscheid, both special-teamers.

"Baschnagel played offense, Walterscheid played defense. I wanted Walterscheid in the game, only I'm hollering, 'Baschnagel!' The twins were ballboys and they knew who I wanted.

"Came up to me and said, 'Dad, you want Walterscheid.' I said, 'Yeah, yeah, 23.' And that's when I started calling 'em by their numbers.

"Plus, in Chicago, everybody had a nickname...I hope we get the same rapport in Philadelphia. But I'll start out calling 'em by their numbers. Cheap satire, I guess you'd call it.

"Most of 'em call me Buddy. If they start calling me 'coach,' I call them 'player.' Some guys you can't be that nice to, or they'll take advantage of you.

"Gary Fencik, if I was too nice to him, he'd be in my office sitting in my lap. Some people, you can never cross the line with. You don't socialize with 'em. Before long, you end up with a buddy-buddy deal and you've gotta be the boss."

He is the boss at Ryan Farm, tough, demanding, untiring, unflappable. In one 36-hour period last week, everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. Ryan never cussed, never stomped, never moaned, never raised his voice above a low growl to his sons.

When a bolt sheared on the mower blade, Ryan improvised with a coiled spring, got 45 minutes more of mowing on the north side before the spring gave way.

A neighbor, Keith Franklin, fixed the knotter on the baling machine. Stops by most nights to sit and chat under Ryan's oak tree. Brought the terrible news that one of the neighbor boys had been killed, passing a truck with a mower that came loose just as he went by. The "boy" was in his 60s.

The Ryans ran out of water that night, the result of five adults showering the sweat and mud away. Larry Case, the farm manager, who tends to things when Ryan is off coaching football, brought them the news around 10:30. Bedtime.

The next morning, the water man in a Rooster Run baseball cap, delivered $30 worth of water. Stuck around to gossip. Wondered if we'd heard about the guy who got "de-headed" passing a truck with a mower blade that came loose and slashed through the car, through the poor ole boy.

That's the way it happened in the old days, before telephones, before radio, before television, neighbors bringing the news, good and bad.

The district farm agent, Roy Toney, showed up later in the day. Made small talk, drew some doodles in the dirt with his toe, summoning up courage to ask a favor.

His 12-year old son, Kwasi, was finishing up football camp down the road and wondered if coach Ryan could spare five or 10 minutes the next morning to talk to the campers.

Ryan agreed to do it. Toney had helped when Ryan installed a gravity line from the bass-stocked pond to the water troughs in the broodmare paddocks. This is the way it used to be, neighbors helping out, installing water lines, gathering the hay from the hillsides before rain could ruin it.

Ryan had started the day driving to Lawrenceburg to get new bolts for the mower. Waited grumpily until the hardware store opened at 8.

Fixed the mower. Fixed it again when the blade smashed into a hidden rock and the bolt came loose.

Used the outhouse because the electricity was turned off and there was no water in the trailer toilet.