JOE AND TUB ENTERTAIN
North Bank played Fernwood on Saturday and had a walkover, winning
a rather uninteresting contest to the tune of 34 to 9. Fernwood’s
9 represented three field goals, each well-deserved. She never got
dangerously close to the Light Blue’s goal line, although once, in the
last period, a long forward pass would have resulted in a touchdown
had it succeeded. That it didn’t was due to Jerry Benson, whose long
arm shot up and out at the last moment and converted a certain catch
into a fumble. Jerry played some eight minutes of that final quarter
and comported himself satisfactorily enough. He was called on for but
one kick, for North Bank had no reason to punt when rushing gained
consistently, and on that occasion, with all the time he wanted, he
sent the ball soaring both high and far and brought murmurs of approval
from the stand. For the rest, there was nothing spectacular in his
playing. In the confusion of the moment only a very few, outside
his team mates and the coach, identified him as the one who spoiled
Fernwood’s threatening heave from North Bank’s thirty-yard line.
All of the Light Blue’s scores were made by the running game, only
two forward passes being attempted. Of these one made good and one
was captured by the enemy. Ashley, Duveen and Omstead played through
the first three periods, even though the game was safe at the end of
the second. With the St. John’s College contest coming a week later,
Coach Thorne doubtless thought it wise to give the regulars a chance
to polish up their attack. Tub Keller was back at quarter and played
his usual good game. In the last period the back-field was given to
Sears, Schurtman, Summerfield, Jordan and Benson. Jerry took Jordan’s
place when the backs had twice failed to gain and, with the ball on
North Bank’s thirty-two yards, a punt was necessary. Jack Omstead
kicked every goal after touchdown while he was in, and Sears, who
tried to turn the last 6 into a 7, failed by only a few inches.
Although Fernwood proved unexpectedly weak, the game nevertheless gave
encouragement to North Bank. The Light Blue team showed itself fully
twenty per cent better than in the Severn contest and the work of the
linemen was consistently good. North Bank wanted mightily to win each
of the remaining games on her schedule, those with St. John’s College,
Brackett’s School and Cumbridge Hall, and after the showing made
against Fernwood to-day most of the fellows felt that the chance of
doing so was fairly good. To be sure, St. John’s usually conquered, but
once in three or four years she didn’t, and North Bank saw no reason
why this year should not prove one of the occasional exceptions. As to
the Brackett’s game there was less doubt. Brackett’s always made a hard
fight, but the Light Blue almost invariably won. In the last five years
she had failed but once to win, and then the game had been a 6 to 6 tie.
The Cumbridge game, whichever team gained the final decision, was a
bitterly-fought contest from start to finish, and seldom did the winner
outpoint the opponent by more than one score. As a usual thing the
game was not decided until the fourth period; more than once during
the long series of contests victory had been won in the final two or
three minutes. Experience had proved that predictions were useless
regarding the Cumbridge game. The team that looked the best before the
kick-off frequently left the field defeated. Elevens that started the
contest hopelessly outclassed often emerged the victor. When it came
to the Cumbridge game, you just never could tell! Nevertheless there
was a feeling of confidence at North Bank this fall that had been sadly
lacking last season, and after the smoothness shown by linemen, ends
and backs in the Fernwood game that feeling of confidence increased
noticeably. There were those who even predicted that for once the Light
Blue would win decisively, and such scores as 20 to 0 and 27 to 3 were
spoken of. It was Joe Kirkham who sponsored the latter score.
He and Tub Keller, his roommate, gave a party that Saturday night in
Number 6 McCrea, and Jerry and Tom were among those invited. Mansfield
and Jackson and Duveen were also there, and consequently the gathering
possessed a strong football aspect. As a party the affair didn’t amount
to a great deal: crackers and cheese and ginger ale made up the list
of refreshments. But even such unassuming viands are a remarkable
aid to sociability and the affair was a great success. Of course the
afternoon’s contest was the main subject of conversation and by far
the most interesting to all, with the possible exception of Tom. Tom
couldn’t be expected to get terribly excited in listening to such “shop
talk,” nor was he, but he dug cheese from the crockery jar with the
blade of a penknife and applied it to crackers and, because he didn’t
allow oratory to interfere with more important duties, fared somewhat
better than the others in one regard. Jerry found the conversation both
interesting and informing. A résumé of a football game by those who
have taken part in it usually brings to light details missed by the
spectators. Jackson’s account of his intimate dealings with one Tappan,
right guard on the Fernwood team, was enlightening and amusing.
“He had a nasty way of doubling his right fist and landing it in my
stomach,” said Jackson. “It’s an easy trick to get by with and it’s
mighty hard on a fellow’s wind. I knew that if he kept it up I’d be
seeing the last half of the game from the bench. Fact is, I’ve got a
pretty sore spot there now. He always managed to land in about the
same place. I tried going in side on, but that was what he wanted.
When I did that he got me in the ribs, which wasn’t so bad, but he
side-stepped me and came past me behind, and so that wouldn’t do. I
was hoping that some one would see what was up and make him quit, but
he was pretty foxy and got away with it nicely. Finally I wondered if
I could get my knee up high enough and I tried it. The first time I
wasn’t quick enough, but the next time I shot it up just as we charged
and he planted his fist right on the front of my leg. He was a bit
surprised, I reckon, but maybe he thought it was an accident, for he
tried it again and I beat him to it and he gave a yelp. Reckon he came
pretty near to smashing his fingers that time. Anyway, he didn’t try it
afterwards and I had him eating out of my hand.”
From the game the talk turned to the future and Hal Mansfield spoke
hopefully of the Cumbridge affair. Then it was that Joe became
optimistic and daring. “Listen, Hal,” he said. “We’re going to eat ’em
up this year. You mark my words. Say, I’ll bet you we run up a real
score on them. I wouldn’t be surprised if we licked them 28 to 0; or,
say, 27 to 3. I’ll allow them a field goal, and we might miss one try.”
Murmurs of incredulity greeted him and Mansfield shook his head gently,
in the manner of an indulgent parent.
“I rather think we’ve got a good chance to beat them this year, Joke,”
he said, “but it won’t be any Waterloo.”
“No, Cumbridge always fights,” agreed Jim Duveen. “One score to none
will satisfy me. Not that it wouldn’t do me a lot of good to lick her
hard, though. Gee, I’d die happy if we could pile up a real score on
her! Think of forty to nothing, fellows!”
“No such luck,” sighed Tub Keller. “Not ever! I’d be almost willing
to give a leg if we could just absotively overwhelm Cumbridge once!
Wouldn’t it be corking if Thorne could think up some play that would
fool her? Say an end-running trick that would shoot Omstead or Ashley
around for good long gains. I don’t suppose, though, that there are any
new plays to think up. I know I’ve tried for hours at a time to hit on
one.”
“Thorne doesn’t believe in plays,” said Captain Mansfield a trifle
gloomily.
“How do you mean?” Jackson demanded.
“He said the other day when we were talking about plays that they don’t
win games, that it’s the player and not the plays that count. His idea
is that if the team is good enough it can win with the simplest sort of
stuff.”
“Well, I reckon that’s so,” said Tub. “Just the same――――”
“It stands to reason, doesn’t it,” Jackson demanded, “that no matter
how good the team may be, a good play’s a heap better than a poor one?
Thorne’s a crank on simple plays. Seems to think we haven’t the brains
to learn anything more complicated than a straight buck!”
“Thorne knows you fellows better than you know yourselves,” remarked
Tom, scraping the bottom of the cheese jar.
“I don’t know whether that’s his idea exactly,” observed Joe, “but it’s
a fact that teams often have too many plays and can’t get them off
smoothly when the time comes. I remember seeing――――”
“No one said anything about too many,” objected Duveen. “What we need
are some more puzzling ones. There isn’t a thing in our bag yet that
would fool a high school team!”
“Thorne says a simple play well executed is a lot better than a
complicated one that doesn’t come off right,” said Mansfield. “Of
course, that’s true, but I’d like to have about four crackajacks that
would make Cumbridge sit up. From the looks of things now we’ll have
about fifteen plays for each side of the line and two forward-pass
plays. Maybe that’s enough, but they’re all mighty――well, primitive.”
“Primitive is right,” agreed Jackson. “We used some of those plays when
I was in grammar school.”
“Did you win with them?” inquired Tom, setting down Tub’s ginger ale
bottle, empty.
“Sure did!”
“What’s the kick, then? Looks to me as if a winning play was good
enough for any one!”
“Tom, you don’t know anything about football,” retorted Tub, glancing
sadly at his private bottle, “so shut up.”
“I don’t see why Thorne doesn’t try another formation,” said Duveen.
“It’s mighty easy for the other fellow to guess your plays if they
all start from the same back-field layout. We’ve been using this
three-men-abreast formation ever since Thorne started here as coach.”
“Well, I don’t think much of changing formations every other time,”
said Tub. “Some teams go dippy on shifts, but I don’t see that it gets
them any more. I like sticking to one formation for the reason that
you don’t give a play away. Some coaches line up the backs one way
for running plays and another way for line bucks and still another
for forward passes. And every time they change the enemy knows that
something different’s coming. It’s a plain advertisement, to my mind.”
“What we need is a corking good forward pass,” said Mansfield. “I don’t
mean one of those impossible things that cover about thirty yards and
are caught once in ten times, but a good heave for, say, ten or fifteen
that’ll make good nine times out of ten.”
“If you had a play like that,” commented Tub, “you’d win every game. No
forward pass will succeed more than half the time.”
“Well, that’s because no one’s thought out a good one,” said Mansfield.
“That short heave over the center is all right when it goes, but teams
are watching for it now and you’ve got about one chance in six of
getting into position for it. The backs are watching you every time,
and if you try to get behind center they’re on you. Even if you reach
position the chance is that the throw will go wrong. There ought to be
a good forward to the side with the catcher well guarded. There was a
time when an end or a half could sneak out and take a pass and get away
with it, but these days the opponent watches you the way a cat watches
a mouse.”
“I’d rather see a good line-smashing play,” said Joe. “Folks are dippy
about forward passes, and about all they do is slow up the game. Get
about eight rattling good line bucks and end runs and put a nice punter
in the back-field and you’ll go ahead.”
“Why don’t you fellows quit trying to run the team and play your
positions?” inquired Tom amiably. “Maybe that might win games for you.
Seems to me if I was a football player I’d forget everything but the
fellow I was up against and I’d do my level best to make him look like
a piker.”
Rather to Jerry’s surprise, a noticeable silence greeted this remark, a
silence first broken by Tub Keller.
“Tom, I believe you said something that time. Not that I mean to
insinuate that you fellows don’t play your positions for all that’s in
them, but I’ve sometimes thought that the effort after team play makes
a fellow lose sight of――well, the individual, if you see what I mean.”
“Can’t say I do,” replied Mansfield. “Tom’s suggestion struck me as
rather sensible, though, because I know that for my part I’m likely to
think too much about the――the――what you might call the conduct of the
game and too little about my personal duties.”
“That’s because you’re captain,” said Joe. “What the others are doing
never troubles me. I put my mind on outplaying the fellow in front of
me. That’s the only way you _can_ outplay him.”
“That’s sort of what I meant,” said Tub. “There ought always to be a
personal rivalry between opposing players. I don’t mean that a fellow
ought to try to play the game alone. He’s got to help out the others.
Teamwork comes first of all, of course. But, beyond that, if he says
to himself: ‘You Mister Enemy, I’m going to make you look like a half
portion of nothing before this game’s much older,’ he’s going to play
better and harder.”
“When you get to talking psychology,” said Duveen, yawning, “it’s time
for decent folks to go home. When it’s all said and done the team that
wins is the team that plays the better game. Let’s take Tom Hartley’s
tip and stop trying to run things to suit ourselves. Thorne’s being
paid a good salary to coach us. Let’s leave that end of it to him and
put all our time and energy into playing guard or full back or whatever
it is we’re supposed to be playing. Coming over, Hal?”
“Yes,” replied the captain. “I guess you’re right, too, Jim. We’ll just
take the plays that Thorne gives us and make them go hard! And if we do
we’ll show that bunch of sneak thieves how it feels to take part in a
game of real football! Good-night, fellows!”