THE PRACTICE GAME
Several familiar faces were missing that afternoon, for the Severn
game had been hard-fought and certain members of the team stood in
need of rest. Those who had remained in for the entire four periods
were excused wholly, while others who had participated were released
before the scrimmage started. Thus it happened that the first to-day
had to recruit most of its members from B Squad and Coach Thorne was
hard put to fill some of the positions. Only one first-string player
was available for the line, and that was Hickson at left tackle. The
rest of the forwards were second and third choice fellows. In the
back-field, Cleary, who had played but a few minutes on Saturday, was
at quarter, and Jordan, Gray and Schurtman filled the other places.
The second team, when it came across from the other gridiron, perhaps
realized that here was a fine opportunity to wreak vengeance for former
beatings, and, driven hard by Coach Tibbs, started in to make the fur
fly. The first was extremely ragged and early indications showed a bad
twenty minutes ahead of it. After the kick-off the second tore the
opponent’s center to pieces and reached midfield on seven plays. Coach
Thorne stopped operations then while he read the riot act to the center
trio, and Hickson, acting captain, was heard to threaten Furchgott
with bodily harm if he didn’t stop the enemy. As a result, the second
got only six yards on three downs and had to punt from the first’s
forty-eight yards. Cleary caught and scuttled back for twenty before he
was thrown, and then the first got together long enough to make their
distance twice. But, past midfield, Schurtman was forced to punt and
the ball went almost straight in the air and, having landed, rolled
toward the wrong goal until Cleary fell on it. The gain was something
less than ten yards and it was the second’s ball on her thirty-five.
Then the day of reckoning arrived. Working one end and then the other
for six and eight yards at a time, completely hoodwinking the first
team ends and disposing of the backs without difficulty, the second
crossed the middle of the field and tore on toward the enemy’s goal.
Only infrequently was a thrust at the line made. Coach Tibbs’ sharp
“_Jump!_” sounded incessantly, and his men jumped! Hickson stormed and
raved and worked like a Trojan at his end, but Crook was no match for
the wily second team runners and although Hickson made the left wing
less popular than the other to the enemy, gains still came there. Coach
Thorne commanded and threatened and, when the rout had reached the
first’s thirty-five yards, put in a new end and a new tackle at the
right wing. Second made the twenty-seven on a double pass that carried
her left half, behind excellent interference, on a wide run around his
right. After that the first stiffened and the gains became shorter.
But they continued. Four downs took the enemy to the sixteen. There,
faking a try-at-goal, the second team full back hit the line at the
left of center and plunged through to the twelve. A play outside left
tackle was stopped and a quarter-back run yielded only a yard, and the
handful of first team substitutes, clustered on the side line, shouted
triumphantly. The whole second team back-field was in the next play and
the runner piled through for fully five yards, Furchgott proving the
weak spot. It was second team’s ball just inside the six yards on first
down then and a touchdown seemed certain.
But a second plunge at left guard netted less than a yard when the
secondary defense piled in behind Furchgott and an attempted forward
pass over the line grounded. A puzzling delayed pass took the second
to the four yards and then the second’s full back went up the field.
“Watch for a forward!” shouted Hickson. “Watch that ball, fellows!”
Even the side line audience warned of a fake, but there was no trick
planned. Instead, the ball went back to the kicker and he, standing
squarely on the twenty-yard line, lifted it neatly over the crossbar.
First team kicked off again and second came back on the jump, but
Manager Naughton’s horn squawked time after the third play. It was a
very tired lot of players who slumped onto the bench, but weariness
didn’t protect them from Coach Thorne’s eloquence and they were forced
to listen to many bitter truths during the succeeding ten minutes.
There was a concerted and audible sigh of relief when the coach left
them and joined Mr. Tibbs, although the earnest and enthusiastic
manner in which the two conversed gave them the appearance of arch
conspirators and seemed to bode no good for the players. When time was
up Coach Thorne spoke more cheerfully.
“I want a touchdown this quarter,” he announced quite as though he
expected it. “You fellows must fight. It’s ridiculous letting the
second put it over on you like that. You linemen, get down and break
those plays up. Don’t let the back-field do your work for you. All
right! Same line-up. Hold on, though. I want a punter in there. Benson!
Benson, you see what you can do. Where have you played? Right half?”
“No, sir, left.”
“All right. That lets you out, Jordan. Let’s get at it!”
Jerry wasn’t nearly so elated as he had thought he would be under such
circumstances. It wasn’t that he was afraid in the ordinary meaning
of the word, but there is no denying that he almost wished that Coach
Thorne hadn’t called on him. Being out there for the first time was
strange and rather unnerving, and he devoutly hoped that Cleary
wouldn’t give him the ball until he had at least recalled the signals
which for the first minute or so were gone completely. Yet, after the
second had kicked off and Schurtman had received and smashed his way
back for half a dozen yards with two of the enemy clinging to him,
Jerry forgot to be self-conscious or dismayed. A hefty second team
forward had shouldered him onto the turf and the double concussion was
just what was needed. When he had picked himself up and trotted to
position at the left of the back-field formation he was not only ready
but eager for the ball, and was disappointed when the signals called
for a full-back buck through right of center. Jerry’s duty was to go
through between his own guard and tackle on the left. Schurtman didn’t
get far, nor, on a similar play to the left of center, did he do much
better. The opponent was more than a match for the first when it came
to line attacks. Cleary tried Gray outside tackle on a straight buck
and gained three, and, with four to go on fourth down, called: “Benson
back!”
Jerry swallowed hard as he turned and walked back to kicking position,
and swallowed again when he found himself ranged almost at the coach’s
elbow. “A little further, Benson,” the latter directed. “That’s better.
Take your time and punt high. Your ends aren’t fast and you’ve got to
let them get down under the ball.”
Cleary was piping the signals. Jerry shifted uneasily on his feet,
held his hands out and tried to remember all he had ever been taught
of punting, and remembered nothing at all! Then something loomed large
before his eyes, by some miracle settled in his hands instead of
striking him in the face and, as he shifted it instinctively, became
known to him as the ball! What happened immediately after he didn’t
know. Three forms came plunging down on him as his foot swung and he
knew that the kick was blocked and that eternal disgrace was to be his
portion! Yet the threatening enemy forms veered past him, the players
were running down the field and he found himself standing there alone
and deserted. Even Coach Thorne was trotting away from him, and against
the blue sky, fairly on a line with the goal, was the ball. He had
kicked clear after all! Delight wrapped him and exultation possessed
his soul! He had done it!
In the course of time it occurred to him to follow his team mates, and
he sprinted fast to where, near the enemy’s twenty-five-yard line, a
second team back was receiving first aid to the injured. Crook had
tackled most of the breath from the opponent’s body. Hickson sprang at
Jerry and slapped him on the shoulder. “A corker, Benson!” he panted.
“A corker, boy!” Jerry grinned embarrassedly and pulled his helmet down
tighter. Then Mr. Thorne spoke at his elbow. “A good punt, Benson,” he
said warmly. “Good distance, good direction and good height. You let
your ends get down nicely. Keep it up.”
Jerry was veritably thrilled, and, when, the second team quarter having
recovered some of his lost breath, the second tried the first team’s
center, he was into the play hard and stopped the hole nobly at the
expense of an ensanguined nose. He missed a tackle miserably a moment
later and arose painfully humiliated, after most of the enemy had
walked on him, humiliated and sore in mind and body. “Rotten, Benson!”
said the coach. “Go into him! Don’t let him scare you! Get him, boy!”
So a minute or two later, when the second had made her distance and
appeared to be again under way for a triumphant voyage down the field,
he went into him and got him! The play was a left half-back plunge off
tackle. Crook was forced out and Hickson boxed and the interference,
headed by the full back, came straight at him. Quite instinctively,
Jerry avoided the first man through. Then he smashed forward, banged
up against a body, closed his long arms tightly and braced with every
muscle. The enemy came on, though, and Jerry went down, but the enemy
with him. Somewhere outside the confusion of tramping feet and panting
breaths and the rasping of canvas against canvas a whistle shrilled.
Some thrice-blessed benefactor rolled the weight from Jerry’s prostrate
form and pried his hands loose. Then he lost interest in proceedings
until a smelly sponge washed over his face and he returned to an
agonized consciousness. He gasped for breath and found none, and the
pain was horrible. Some one was raising his arms over his head and
folding them back on his chest, slowly, methodically. He wished that
they’d stop. He wished they’d let him die in peace. Then one aching
breath took some air into his lungs and the relief was heavenly. Down
came the obnoxious sponge again and this time it felt more grateful as
it soaked the breast of his jersey with the chill water. His gasps
became only long quiet breaths and he opened his eyes, remembering.
Only the trainer was with him. All the others were standing or sitting
about, quite indifferent to his plight. He felt rather resentful.
“All right, lad,” said the trainer. “Up you get!”
Jerry had very little desire to get up, but when he had been raised
to his feet, clinging rather weakly to the trainer’s shoulders, he
concluded that in the course of time, perhaps in another hour or so,
he would be himself again. Evidently, though, the trainer was in favor
of a more speedy recovery, for he insisted on walking Jerry around,
and Jerry, much to his surprise, found walking rather pleasant and
presently drew away from the trainer’s supporting arm, took a long
breath, shook his head and remarked impatiently: “Head guard!”
“You’ll do,” laughed Riordan. “Here you are. All right, Coach!”
Mr. Thorne stopped conferring with Mr. Tibbs and came across. “All
right, Benson?” he asked. “That was a good tackle. You got your man and
got him hard. I like to see snap. Keep it up. Line up, First!”
Jerry was rather weak and dizzy for a few plays, but it didn’t last,
and by the time second was forced to punt in midfield he was himself
again. First team came back hard, but, when she had made her distance
twice, the second time on a forward pass that netted sixteen yards,
two plunges were stopped for no gain and Cleary’s attempt to get
around right end resulted in a loss of several yards. Again the call
of “Benson back!” came and again Jerry booted, this time with more
confidence. He didn’t see that Mr. Thorne was watching him with curious
intentness, nor did he heed the clamor of the charging lines or the
plunging enemy that threatened. He found himself thinking clearly of
his task, realized that he had swung powerfully and that the impact of
foot and ball had been hard and clean and had time to see the pigskin
start off straight toward the further goal ere a burly second team
guard cut off his vision. This time, too, he didn’t fall into a trance,
but side-stepped the enemy and streaked down the field in the wake of
the others.
The punt didn’t quite equal the first one in distance, yet it was
fully as well directed and was high enough to let Crook and Browne
reach the catcher and pull him down before he could move from his
tracks. Second team accepted the challenge then and punted on second
down. In reply, Cleary wormed straight ahead for four yards and then,
sending Jerry back to kicking position, gave the ball to Gray, who
took it outside left tackle for more than the distance. A moment later
Schurtman fumbled the pass, and, although he fell on it, a seven-yard
loss resulted, and, after a forward had failed, Jerry again kicked.
The second team left half was under the ball when it came down but he
failed to hold it. There was a wild scramble and a jumbled pile-up of
players, and when the ball was uncovered it lay safely in Brown’s hands
on the second team’s seventeen yards!
Tumult and clamor then, and the coaches barking encouragement!
Schurtman on a split buck through left of center for three, Gray past
left tackle for one, Jerry back and Schurtman plunging straight into
the line for four! Fourth down and two to go! The second crouching
low, her backs huddled anxiously close to the line, only the quarter
guarding the territory behind. Schurtman back, and a well-passed
ball to his outstretched hands! Cries from the defenders of “_Watch
the pass!_” Then a sweep to the left of Schurtman’s empty hand and
a quick plunge forward, the pigskin hugged to his stomach! Cries,
grunts, the sound of striking bodies! A yard, two, the second giving
at the left of her center, a pause as the back-field players pile in
behind the yielding linemen, then forward again, Schurtman the center
of a maelstrom of pushing, fighting, panting bodies! And, finally, a
rout, with the full back staggering almost free and plunging on past
frantically clutching hands, almost stopped yet breaking free and, at
last, dropping across the last trampled mark!
Jerry, breathless, his helmet gone, one stocking flapping about his
foot, gently removed some one’s legs from his face and stood up. A
glance told him that the team had scored and a great joy was his. For
the moment that touchdown seemed to him the most wonderful thing that
had ever happened! He wanted to shout or do a handspring, but he had
too little breath for the first and too little strength for the latter,
and so he contented himself with grinning from ear to ear and trotting
back with the others while Cleary plumped himself down on the turf and
poised the ball for Schurtman.
Schurtman didn’t come within ten yards of the nearest goal post, but
no one cared much, unless it was Mr. Thorne. The first team had its
revenge!
A minute later the scrimmage ended and peace fell over the field of
battle, and the panting, wearied and ofttimes limping players sought
the relief of showers and liniment. Those who had watched from the
stand followed across the field, and Jerry, soaked with perspiration,
begrimed with dirt and noticeably favoring his left leg, heard a voice
beside him.
“Reckon those were right good punts,” said Tom, mimicking his chum.
“Fellers’ll be calling you ‘Forty-Yard’ Benson ’stead of ‘Three-Base’
Benson, first thing you know, likely!”
Jerry grinned, laid a hand on Tom’s shoulder and plodded on. After a
moment he said reflectively: “I’m sort of glad I did like I did, Tom,
because it ain’t likely I’ll be playing after to-day.”
“What’s the matter? Going to leave us?”
“Reckon I’ll be leaving the team. There’s a cut coming.”
Tom laughed derisively. “A fat chance you’ve got of leaving it, Jerry!”
he answered. “Why, you couldn’t pry yourself loose with dynamite after
to-day!”