ON THE GRIDIRON
Myron's connection with Parkinson School began inauspiciously. After an
eleventh-hour effort to get his studies scheduled, and the discovery
that he was required to take two courses he didn't want to take and to
omit one that he did, a summons came to him to visit the Office. There
Mr. Morgan, assistant to the Principal, reminded him that attendance at
chapel was compulsory and then announced that there appeared to be some
doubt that he could enter the second class owing to the fact that his
Latin was not up to the requirements. That was disheartening, for Myron
had coached on Latin during the summer and been pronounced fit for the
third-year class at Parkinson or any other preparatory school. Yesterday
he would have received the announcement with unconcern, but today,
since the arrival of that disappointing telegram, he found cause in it
for real alarm. At well past seventeen one doesn't like to be put in
with fellows who average sixteen, Myron held. As a matter of fact, the
third class contained more students of his age than it did of fellows
younger, and he would not have found himself out of place there. But he
didn't know that, and as a result he pleaded very hard to be allowed to
enter the class above. In the end, after much hesitation, and with no
very good grace, Mr. Morgan consented.
"But you'll have to do some hard work, Foster, if you're to stay there.
Unless you're willing to, I'd advise you to go into the third."
"I'll work, sir. Maybe I could coach in Latin."
"Yes, you could do that. If you like, I'll give you the address of a
fellow who does a good deal of tutoring and gets excellent results." He
wrote the address on a slip and Myron tucked it in his pocket. "Well,
that's all, I think. I hope you will get on nicely, Foster. Let me see,
your adviser is----"
"Mr. Cooper, sir."
"Good. Don't hesitate to consult him. He's a fine man and you'll like
him immensely, I think. Good morning."
Myron had a spare hour after dinner and spent it unpacking. When some of
his things had been distributed around the study the place really looked
fairly homelike and attractive, and he began to look forward to a year
at Parkinson with more equanimity. If only he wasn't handicapped with
his Latin, he thought, things wouldn't be so bad. With Dobbins out of
the way and the study and bedroom to himself, he guessed he could get
along fairly comfortably. There was a half-hour of physics at three, and
after that he was through for the day. He returned to Sohmer and changed
into his football togs, which, unlike the nondescript garments worn by
Joe Dobbins, were fairly new and of the best materials. When he had
examined himself critically and appreciatively in the glass he sauntered
downstairs, skirted the end of the gymnasium building and had his first
real look at the playfield.
Nearly twelve acres of still green turf stretched before him, his view
uninterrupted save by the grandstand directly before him. To his left
were the tennis courts, both clay and grass, and about them white-clad
figures darted. Nearer at hand, the blue-grey running track inclosed the
first team gridiron. Beyond that two more pairs of goal-posts met his
sight, and then the baseball diamonds filled the balance of the field.
Track and gridirons and diamonds were already occupied, and the nearer
grandstand held a handful of boys who had gathered in the warm sunlight
to watch the activities. Football practice was called for three-thirty,
and it was nearly four when Myron reached the field. He was in no hurry
to join the panting and perspiring squads that trotted around over the
turf, and so he perched himself on one of the lower seats of the stand
and looked the situation over.
Not far away the manager and assistant manager, both earnest-looking
youths, talked to a stout man in a faded brown sweater who later turned
out to be the trainer, Billy Goode. Myron wondered where the coach
might be, but he couldn't find any one who much resembled his idea of
what that gentleman should look like. However, with more than a hundred
fellows at work out there it was easy enough to overlook him. A squad
of advanced players trotted near, going through elementary signal work.
Rather to Myron's surprise, Joe Dobbins was amongst them, sandwiched
between two capable-looking youths in togs quite as disreputable as his.
Joe was acting as right guard, it seemed. Myron's opinion of Joe as a
football player went up a peg, for it was fairly evident that this squad
was made up of last-year fellows and probably contained the nucleus of
what in a few days would be known as the first squad. About this time
Myron became aware that some of the fellows about him on the grandstand
were viewing him curiously. Doubtless they were wondering why, being in
playing togs, he didn't get down there and go to work. Of course it was
none of their business, but maybe it was time he found the coach and
reported.
He made inquiry of the manager, a slim, very alert youth armed with
a formidable notebook in which he was making entries when Myron
approached. "Mr. Driscoll? He's around here somewhere." The manager,
whose name was Farnsworth, looked frowningly about the field. "Yes,
there he is down there, the man with the blue sweater. Are you just
reporting for practice?"
"Yes," answered Myron. "I wasn't out yesterday."
"What's the name?" asked Farnsworth briskly.
"Foster."
"Foster?" The manager fluttered the leaves of the big notebook until he
found the F's. Then: "What are the initials, Foster?"
"M. W."
"Class?"
"Third."
"Ever played before?"
"Naturally." Farnsworth shot a quick glance.
"Where?" he asked.
"Port Foster High School Team, Port Foster, Delaware. I played two years
there."
"Line or backfield?"
"Backfield: before that at end."
"Had your physical exam yet?"
"No, I didn't know about it. Where do I take it?"
"See Mr. Tasser, in the gym. Any time between ten and twelve and four
and six. Better do it today. Rules are rather strict, Foster. All right.
Report to Cummins. He's handling the new men. You'll find him down there
by the east goal: ask any one."
"I though I'd tell the coach----"
"Not necessary. Cummins'll look after you."
Myron shrugged mentally and turned his steps toward the indicated
location. "One of those smart Alecks," he thought. "Thinks he's the
whole push. All right, it's not my business to tell him his. If they
want me to waste my time with the beginners it's their funeral."
Cummins wasn't difficult to find. Myron heard his bark long before he
reached him. Nearly thirty youths, most of them youngsters of fourteen
and fifteen, although here and there an older boy was to be noticed,
were learning to handle the ball. Cummins appeared to be about eighteen,
a heavily-built chap with a shock of reddish-brown hair and a round
face liberally spattered with freckles. Just now the face was scowling
ferociously and Cummins was sneering stridently at his charges. Myron
took an instant dislike to Mr. Charles Cummins, and, or so it appeared,
Mr. Charles Cummins took an equal dislike to Myron.
"Well, well, _well_, WELL!!" barked Cummins as Myron came up. "What do
you fellows think this is? A lawn party or a sewing circle or what?
Maybe you're waiting for the ice-cream to be served? Listen just one
minute, will you? _Stop that ball_, you long-legged fellow! Now then,
let's understand each other. This is football practice. Get that? The
idea is to learn to hold that ball without having it get away from you,
and to catch it and to pass it. We aren't doing aesthetic dancing or--or
acting in a pageant. This is _work_, W-O-R-K, work! Any of you who are
out here just to get the air or to tan your necks can quit right now.
I'm here to show you hopeless ninnies how to handle a football, and
I propose to do it if it takes from now to Christmas, and the sooner
you put your minds on what you're doing and _try_ a little, the sooner
you'll get through. Now start that ball around again and, for the love
of limes, remember some of the things I've told you. When you catch it,
grab it with both hands and hug it. It isn't an egg. It won't break.
That's the idea, Judson, or whatever your name is. Go ahead, go ahead!
Get some ginger into it! Pass it along! Don't go to sleep. I said hug
it, not fondle it, Whittier! When you--Hello, more trouble?"
"The manager fellow told me to report to you," said Myron as Cummins
turned a baleful gaze on him.
"Oh, the 'manager fellow' told you that, did he? What does the 'coach
fellow' say?"
"I haven't seen the coach yet," answered Myron coldly.
"Haven't you? Why, say, maybe you won't like him! Don't you think you
ought to look him over first? It would be fierce if you didn't happen to
approve of him. What's your name?"
"Foster."
"All right, Foster, you push right in there and show me how you catch
a football. Something tells me that my troubles are all over now that
you've joined this aggregation of stars!"
Myron suppressed the angry retort that sprang to his lips and took his
place in the big circle. "Bounder!" he muttered as he did so. The boy
next to him on the left heard and snickered, and Cummins guessed the
reason. Unseen of Myron, he grinned. "When you can get 'em mad," he said
to himself, "there's hope for 'em."
When the ball was passed to Myron he caught it deftly, bending his body
over it, and then promptly sped it on to the youth who had snickered.
The latter was unaccustomed to such speed and was not ready, and the
ball bounded away. He lumbered after it and scooped it up, returning to
his place with an accusing scowl for Myron.
"Think you're smart, I suppose," he grumbled.
"Sorry," said Myron, "but you ought to be ready for it."
"Is that so? Well----"
"Cut out that talking!" barked Cummins. "Speed it up, fellows!"
There was ten minutes more of the dreary work, during which Myron
mechanically received the pigskin and sent it on to the next in the
circle without a hitch. If he expected to win commendation from Cummins,
however, he was disappointed. Cummins was eloquent with criticism, but
never once did he utter a word of approval. At last:
"That'll do for that, fellows," he called. "You may rest a minute. Maybe
some of you'll get your strength back." He approached Myron with an
accusing scowl. "What are you doing in this bunch?" he demanded. "You
don't belong here."
"I was sent here," replied Myron warmly.
"Didn't you have sense enough to tell Farnsworth you weren't a greenie?
Think I've got nothing to do but waste my time?"
"Well, you're not the only one who's doing it, are you? What about my
time?"
"That's your affair. I didn't want you, believe me! You ought to have
told him you knew something about a football. He's no mind-reader, you
know."
"I told him I'd played two years on a high school team----"
"Oh! That explains it. You high school ginks usually don't know enough
football to make the first year team. Guess Farnsworth thought you were
like the run of 'em."
"Maybe," replied Myron indifferently, "but it's not my business to teach
you fellows how to run your affairs."
"Hard luck for us, isn't it? Well, say, Mr. 'Igh and 'Aughty, you trek
across there and tell Farnsworth I say you're graduated from my bunch.
Get it? Tell him to put you somewhere else, and tell him I don't care
where it is!"
"Thanks," returned Myron with deep sarcasm. "I'm horribly sorry to leave
you, though. It's a real pleasure working under such a gentlemanly
instructor, Mr. Cummins."
Cummins watched him for a long moment with his mouth open. "Well, what
do you know about that?" he murmured at last. "The cheeky beggar!" Then
he grinned again and, surprising amused and delighted expressions on the
countenances of those of his squad who had been near enough to overhear
the conversation, quickly changed the grin for a scowl. "All right now!"
he barked. "Line up along there. Who's got the ball? Let's see what you
pin-heads know about starting."
Myron's message to Farnsworth resulted in his finishing the practice
with a group of fellows whose education had progressed beyond the
rudimentary stage. Toward the last of the period he was put to catching
punts with a half-dozen other backfield candidates and performed to
his own satisfaction at least. There was no scrimmage today, nor
was there any for several days following, and at five o'clock Coach
Driscoll sent them off to the showers. Later Myron went upstairs and
found the physical director and underwent his examination, obtaining a
chart filled with perplexing lines and puzzling figures and official
permission to engage in "any form of athletics approved by the
Committee." After which he returned rather wearily to Number 17 Sohmer
and Joe Dobbins.