THE FOOTBALL GAME
Thanksgiving recess began the following Wednesday, to last until Friday
evening, and many of the boys whose homes were near by departed by the
noonday train, superciliously sympathizing with less fortunate friends
whose turkey and cranberry sauce were to be eaten in the school dining
hall. Paddy and Don had both received boxes of canned and sugared
delicacies from home, and a supplementary feast, to follow the six
o’clock repast in the hall, was arranged to take place in Paddy’s
room, and that youth, who was to break training after the St. Eustace
game, promised himself to atone for two months of healthful diet by a
veritable orgy on indigestible luxuries.
Wayne, Don, and Dave, together with more than fifty other Hilltonians,
boarded the morning express and were transported to the little
down-river town of Marshall, where their arrival was enthusiastically
welcomed by several score of St. Eustace fellows, headed by a brass
band, who escorted them twice through the village, and finally left
them, to recover their breaths before lunch at the hotel. Hillton’s
band was already on the ground, having accompanied the football team
the evening before, and with the arrival of the wearers of the crimson
a day of hard work began for it. The band’s repertory was limited,
but its energy tremendous, and the Marshall population gathered in
front of the hotel to hearken to it and to be mercilessly guyed by the
Hilltonians who thronged the broad veranda.
The game was to be called at 2.30. An hour before that time Don and
Wayne--Dave having taken up with a St. Eustace acquaintance for the
while--started across the bridge to the far side of the river, where,
hidden almost from sight, the rival academy nestled amid its trees. The
field was already bright with blue banners when the boys arrived and
the St. Eustace band was busily at work.
“What I don’t understand,” said Wayne, “is why we don’t have to pay any
admission.”
“That,” answered Don, “is because Hillton, when she signed the athletic
agreement with St. Eustace six years ago, made it one of her terms that
no charge should be made for admission to any of the athletic events
between the two schools. Instead, a number of invitation cards are
printed. The home school gets two thirds of them for distribution and
the visiting school the balance. Of course, it puts the cost of keeping
up the eleven and the nine and the other teams on the fellows and the
grads, but they seem willing enough to meet it. And, besides, as I
know from personal experience, it makes the captains and coaches think
more about economy; and we don’t very often travel in parlor cars nor
put up at the swellest hotels, but we’ve managed to turn out a winning
eleven two years out of every three for a long time.”
“But other schools charge admission,” objected Wayne.
“I know. St. Eustace does for every game except this one. But the idea
is ‘Wheels’s.’ He thinks that playing football or baseball for the
gate receipts smacks of professionalism; ‘sport for sport’s sake,’
says ‘Wheels.’ And I think he’s right. Look at the big colleges; some
of them make from ten to fifteen thousand dollars as their share of an
important game.”
“But why shouldn’t they?” asked Wayne.
“Because they’re not professionals; they’re college fellows--the
players, I mean--and have no business going around country like a lot
of--of--circus folk, showing off for money. And, besides, it’s bound
to hurt college sport after awhile. If a captain of a big team knows
that by having a winning eleven he can secure a game with another big
college, and get eight or ten thousand dollars, why, in lots of cases
it’s going to make that captain careless about little things. He isn’t
going to inquire too closely into the standing of the fellows that make
up the team; he’s going to excuse a lot of laxity as regards training;
and he’s going to overlook lots of dirty playing, and all that hurts
the college in the end. No, I think ‘Wheels’ is right; and so does
Remsen and lots of the old fellows.”
“But, look here,” argued Wayne. “When a team makes eight, or ten,
or fifteen thousand dollars, you know, that money doesn’t go to the
players, does it?”
“Gracious, no!” exclaimed Don. “It’s generally turned into the general
athletic fund, and helps meet the expenses of the crews and other teams
that don’t pay their way. But don’t you see that it’s a big feather in
a fellow’s cap if he can say that he made fifteen thousand dollars for
the athletic association! And the oftener a college team makes a big
pot of money the richer the association gets, and the first thing you
know it’s sending its football and baseball teams around the country in
a private car, with a small army of rubbers and coaches and a cook who
prepares all the meals, just as though they were one of those foreign
opera companies! It’s all wrong, Wayne. It isn’t good, honest sport;
it’s--it’s tommyrot--that’s what it is!”
“Well, maybe it is,” answered the other boy thoughtfully. “Anyhow, I
shan’t kick, you know; it’s saved me a dollar, I dare say.”
“No, it hasn’t, Wayne, because you’ll have to pay that dollar, and
maybe another like it, into the crew’s pocket, or the baseball nine’s
pocket, or the track team’s little treasury in the spring.”
“Oh, I see. The idea is to have the school--that is, the fellows and
the graduates--meet the athletic expenses, and not to ask the public
for help.”
“That’s it,” answered Don heartily. “But here comes Hillton.”
A little squad of youths in crimson sweaters, headed by Gardiner
and followed by the Hillton band, defiled on to the field, and the
occupants of the stand where Wayne and Don sat were instantly on their
feet cheering lustily. The band paraded with ludicrous dignity about
the field, and at last found seats near by and for the fifth time began
its programme. A moment later the St. Eustace players entered and
were greeted with acclaim from hundreds of wearers of the dark blue
and their friends, and received a cheer from the rival contingent.
The two teams and their substitutes went busily to practicing, and
Wayne watched Paddy, large of bulk and quick of action, snapping back
the ball and forming the apex of numerous little wedges that grew and
dissolved under the tuition of the coach.
The seats about the broad expanse of faded turf were filled now, and
many spectators had taken up positions on the ground just inside the
ropes that guarded the side-lines. Blue was the prevailing color, and
only on one small section of the stand did the crimson of Hillton
flutter. Presently the substitutes trotted off the gridiron and
squatted, Indian-like in their blankets, along the sides, a coin was
tossed, the teams took their positions, and Paddy sent the new ball
corkscrewing toward the St. Eustace goal, where it was gathered into
the waiting arms of the St. Eustace full-back on the thirty-yard line
and advanced by him over two white bars ere the Hillton ends downed him.
During the six years in which the athletic agreement had been in
force between the two academies Hillton had won three of the football
contests and tied one. Last year, and again the year before, her eleven
had triumphed over the blue, and St. Eustace, with two consecutive
defeats rankling in her memory, was this year determined upon victory.
And it was the very general opinion that she would win it. To be sure,
Hillton had played the usual number of games throughout the fall and
had no defeats behind her. Westvale Grammar School had been beaten to
the tune of 27 to 0; the local grammar school had been whitewashed by
a monotonously big score; the neighboring military academy had managed
to play a tie; and Shrewsburg High School had accepted defeat after a
close and exciting contest, in which Greene had snatched a victory by
a spirited forty-yard run for a touch-down. But those who knew shook
their heads when the subject of the St. Eustace game was mentioned, and
talked vaguely of a “lack of the right stuff,” a term which conveys
nothing to the mind of any one save a football player, but which means
everything.
The preceding Saturday evening the four friends, with numerous other
boys, had obtained permission to go to the village and learn the result
of the Harwell-Yates game, and when, in the telegraph office, the
report that Yates had been the victor greeted them Paddy had sighed
dolefully.
“That settles it,” he had said. “We don’t always win from St. Eustace
when Harwell wins from Yates, but we’ve never beaten when she hasn’t.
It’s St. Eustace’s game.” And no amount of argument could shake his
conviction.
Wayne and Don voted the first half of the game dull. The teams were
apparently evenly matched in defensive playing, and nearly so in
offensive work. The ball oscillated from one twenty-five-yard line to
the other, Hillton and St. Eustace both looking for an opportunity to
send a back around for a run and finding none. Line-bucking made up
the most of the play, and at this each team held its ground stubbornly
when on the defensive, and attacked gallantly when it had the ball.
It was only at the end of the half that anything exciting occurred.
With but three or four minutes to play, and the pigskin near Hillton’s
thirty-yard line in St. Eustace’s possession, the backs drew away from
the line, and amid a tense silence the ball was passed to full for a
try at goal. But Paddy it was who frustrated the attempt by breaking
through St. Eustace’s line and receiving the ascending ball on his
broad chest. Don and Wayne were sitting on the lowest tier of seats so
that the former might lead in the cheering, and as the ball disappeared
under a heap of wildly scrambling players he was on his feet, cap in
hand, and the Hillton section was responding nobly to his appeal; the
fellows delighted at a chance to applaud something worth applauding.
The half ended with the ball in the arms of the Hillton full-back.
During the intermission Dave turned up, and the three boys stamped
about the ground to keep their feet warm and sang “Hilltonians”
vociferously to show their joy. And the band did wonders.
“Looks like a tie, Dave,” said Don.
“Well, I don’t know,” responded that youth, with his usual caution.
“Paddy’s dreadfully used up; he’s been playing center and left-guard
and right-guard and half the team. And if Paddy goes out--well, we
might as well go home and read about the game in to-morrow’s paper.”
“Bowles seems to be running the team well,” mused Don.
“Yes, he’s braced up wonderfully; he’s all right. Gardiner’s delighted
with him. Two weeks ago he couldn’t hold a snapped ball.”
“Oh, have you seen Gardiner? What’s he say?”
“Nothing, but he looks cheerful. That’s a bad sign. When Gardiner looks
cheerful, it means that he’s worried. Hello! here they come again.
Let’s get these stuffed images to cheer.” Dave turned to the seats:
“Now, fellows, you’ve been doing some of the worst cheering that I
ever heard outside of a girls’ school. We’re going to win, but we’ve
got to use our lungs. So let’s give ’em nine long Hilltons, as though
we were glad we’re living.”
The response was all that Dave desired, and he and Don and “Pigeon”
Wallace, president of the senior class, kept the cheers going until the
ball was aloft and the game was on again.
St. Eustace forced the playing at once. Down the field they came
by short rushes, and ere the watchers on the stand knew what was
happening, the ball was on the Hillton ten-yard line and the
blue-stockinged backs were massed close behind their line for a tandem
on guard. A yard resulted from this play. “Second down!” cried the
referee. “Four yards to gain!” The Hillton boys were on their feet,
cheering at the top of their lungs. Another massed attack, and but two
yards was needed by the St. Eustace eleven. But those two yards were
beyond accomplishment, for Paddy led the crimson line in a sturdy,
desperate resistance, Hillton took the ball on her seven-yard line, and
a moment after it was sailing down the field from Grow’s nimble foot,
and Wayne, Dave, and Don were yelling frantically and pounding each
other enthusiastically over the head.
But back came the ball as before, St. Eustace’s steady short rushes
being supplemented once by a stirring run around Hillton’s left end
that brought the blue’s champions to their feet in a mighty burst of
noise. Past the middle of the gridiron went the charging St. Eustace
players, and the ball was down on Hillton’s forty yards ere another
five minutes had flown by. Then the whistle piped shrilly and Dave
clutched Don’s sleeve.
“Paddy’s laid out!” he cried hoarsely.
And so it was; and there was a deal of anxiety in that little throng
until the plucky center climbed to his feet again and broke away from
the trainer’s hands. Then all Hillton shrieked joyously and the game
went on. But it was plainly to be seen that Paddy was suffering, and
it was equally evident that there was good reason; for he had not only
to play his own position, but to help the guards as well, and now,
to make his difficulties greater and to increase his troubles, the
opposing team had decided upon a plan of play that made Dave writhe
impotently in his seat, and which caused even Wayne’s careless good
temper to revolt. Time after time the full force of the St. Eustace
backs was thrown upon Paddy. For long he stood it doggedly, holding his
temper in check under every fresh assault; but there is an end to all
endurance, and now, with fifteen minutes of the second half gone, Paddy
was visibly weakening, and every successive plunge at the center of the
Hillton line resulted in a greater gain.
“There’s slugging going on there, Don!” cried Dave. “That St. Eustace
right-guard struck Paddy then. You watch this time!”
The line-up was directly opposite the boys’ seats and but a few yards
from the side-line, and they watched attentively as Paddy was helped to
his feet and groped his way to his place. “Tackles back!” called the
St. Eustace quarter, “78--36--76--16--” Then the two lines met with a
shock, there was a rasping of canvas, and ere the Hillton line gave
and the St. Eustace backs piled through, a clinched hand rose and fell
twice, and Paddy fell weakly to his knees and slowly stretched himself
out on his face. Not only the three boys saw the blows struck, but
almost every fellow in the immediate vicinity, and a veritable wave of
hisses drowned the applause of the St. Eustace cheerers. And at the
same moment Wayne, with blazing cheeks and angry eyes, leaped from the
stand, darted through the throng about the rope, and strode menacingly
toward the St. Eustace right-guard. But before his upraised fist
reached the surprised player his arm was seized and in a moment he was
struggling in the grasp of two of the Hillton team. Half of the Hillton
crowd had impulsively followed Wayne’s lead, and now an indignant horde
broke through the ropes and invaded the field with loud cries for
vengeance.
It was a time for action, and Gardiner, Greene, and several more of
the wearers of the crimson resolutely stemmed the tide, pleading and
threatening in a breath.
“Fellows! Fellows!” cried Gardiner. “Go back! It’s all right; don’t
disgrace the school!”
“Get off the field, fellows!” shouted Greene. “I swear I’ll knock down
the first fellow that comes any nearer! You’re acting like a lot of
kids!”
“Make ’em take him off, then!” was the reply from dozens of throats, as
the crowd wavered and gave back unwillingly.
“Yes, it’s all right--it’s all right,” said Gardiner soothingly. “Only
go back to the stand, like good chaps.”
The boys withdrew beyond the wrecked ropes again, but did not
immediately return to their seats. Many St. Eustace fellows had drawn
near and were glaring threateningly toward them. Wayne, in the grasp
of his friends, was dragged off the field, trembling with anger and
doggedly promising the offending St. Eustace guard a licking after
the game. Paddy, with a badly bruised eye, was supported to a place
by the ropes, and the belligerent St. Eustace player was ruled out of
the game. The Hillton contingent cheered lustily for Paddy and groaned
derisively at his assailant, and went slowly back to their places,
while the St. Eustace fellows were dispersed by some of the older lads.
Then some one caught sight of Wayne, held in his seat by Don and Dave,
and shouted, “Bully for Gordon!” which cry was taken up by others and
prolonged until Don jumped up and faced the stand.
“Fellows,” he pleaded, “shut up, please! Everything’s all right now.
Only keep still, will you?”
Laughter and cheers greeted him and good humor came back to the crowd.
A small junior shrilled, “We’ll beat them, anyhow!” and the sentiment
was applauded to the echo.
But victory for Hillton was too much to expect with Paddy no longer in
line. Burton, who took his place, was a fair center, but far from heavy
enough to stop the opponent’s triumphant advance down the field, and
though Hillton worked desperately for the next ten minutes the ball
was at length within scoring distance of her goal, and again the St.
Eustace full-back dropped back for a punt.
“Can’t be done from there,” whispered Don breathlessly. “It’s forty
yards, I’ll bet.” But Dave shook his head.
“That full-back’s a wonder, they say, and I wouldn’t be surprised to
see him do it. If only we can get through!”
But the St. Eustace line held like a wall, the ball sped back, the full
caught it neatly, and with admirable care poised it in his palm before
dropping it. Then his toe caught it on the rebound and up it sailed,
straight and unwavering, cleanly between the posts and over the bar!
And blue flags waved and cheers for St. Eustace filled the air, and
Dave and Don looked sorrowfully at each other and groaned in unison.
Only Wayne in all that throng seemed not to heed or care; he was
watching vindictively a boy who was waving a blue sweater on the far
side of the field.
There was no more scoring done, although the Hillton team, to all
appearances undismayed, returned to the game with hammer and tongs, as
it were, and forced the ball to her opponents’ twenty yards ere she
lost it for holding, and afterward stubbornly and heroically contested
every inch of turf ere yielding it to the victorious foe. But the
whistle soon sounded, the two teams gathered breathless in mid-field
and cheered each other, the St. Eustace band paraded the gridiron,
followed by a shouting, dancing train of ecstatic youths with blue
flags, and Wayne, still pining for vengeance, was dragged willy nilly
to the village and on to the train and borne back to school under
strict guard and in dire disgrace--a disgrace that did not deter many
a mistaken fellow from clapping him on the shoulder, and whispering a
hearty “Good boy, Gordon!” into his ear.