“BALL! BALL!”
Monday morning Jerry hurried over to the gymnasium at half-past ten
and donned his togs and at twenty minutes to eleven he was sending off
his first “corkscrew” from the nearer thirty-yard line of the second
team gridiron. The uncertainty of volunteer assistance had made it
necessary for Mr. Thorne to delegate a member of the squad to catch and
return Jerry’s punts, and the lucky――or unlucky――person was Pascoe, a
third-string end. Pascoe made up in determination what he lacked in
speed. No matter how long it took him to do it, Pascoe always insisted
that the pigskin return to Jerry by a kick, and, since kicking was not
a branch of the art that he excelled at, there were frequently long
interims between Jerry’s efforts. Perhaps, however, it was just as
well, for Jerry was inclined to overdo his forenoon work these days.
The big game was less than a fortnight distant, and the fact had struck
Jerry with force. It seemed to him that he had accomplished very little
so far and that in the brief time left to him he could accomplish very
little more. This particular morning he was rather panicky about it
and would have punted himself into a state of coma, perhaps, had his
helper been more prompt with his returns. As it was there was usually
time enough between kicks to think things over and discover what had
been wrong with the previous effort, and so Pascoe’s grim determination
to boot the ball rather than throw it worked for good.
Mr. Tibbs arrived about halfway through the session, which was a
habit of his of late, and, throwing aside his coat, took a hand in
affairs. Jump’s style of punting was slightly different from that
learned――or in process of being learned――by Jerry, and so, in a way,
he was a confusing factor. But Jerry had sense enough not to attempt
to alter his way of kicking at this late date. Instead, he agreed
with all Mr. Tibbs said, to the extent of never questioning it, and
then continued in his own sweet way. Mr. Tibbs secretly thought Jerry
rather dense, but had to admit that the boy’s style of punting got
results. This morning, standing on the thirty-yard line, Jerry landed
the battle-scarred football between the twenty and twenty-five yards
without apparent effort, and did it several times. There was no wind,
favoring or otherwise; the handful of dry grass that Mr. Tibbs tossed
questioningly aloft floated straight down again.
“That’s bully work,” said the second team coach warmly. “Man, with a
decent wind behind you you could do sixty yards! If you could get that
twist a bit better you’d be a wonder. Just let me show you that again,
Benson. I’d sure like you to get that!”
Whereupon, when the ball came dribbling back, Mr. Tibbs took it and
dropped it and swung a sturdy right leg, swinging almost two-thirds
around. The result was a nice forty-yard punt, which in Jerry’s
estimation was not worthy the gyrations that had produced it. But he
only nodded gravely and in silence when Mr. Tibbs turned to him.
“Of course,” said the coach, “that wasn’t a long kick. I’m out of
practice, you see. But it shows what I mean by putting the body into
the kick. You play baseball, Benson, and they tell me you were their
star batter last spring. Well, now, you know that you can’t get a long
hit by just using your arms. You’ve got to put your body into that
swing, haven’t you?”
Jerry reflected and said he reckoned so.
“Of course! Same thing with punting. Mind, I don’t say you don’t get a
fine, healthy biff your way, but I’ll bet that if you got more of your
body into your kicks you’d lengthen them another five yards. Want to
try again?”
Jerry did try again, but with no better results. It just seemed that
he couldn’t get that wide, circling swing of his leg. Mr. Tibbs looked
disappointed and a trifle pained. And, maybe, a trifle suspicious. But
Jerry’s crystal-clear look of apology disarmed him, and he only sighed
as a preliminary to saying: “You didn’t quite get it, Benson, but I’ll
say you made a punt!”
In the afternoon practice began from a running start, so to speak.
Preliminaries were omitted, save for ten or twelve minutes of signal
drill, and the coaches hustled the two teams out on the field and
demanded action. “Your kick-off, Second! Varsity, I want a touchdown
inside of six minutes. You backs, show some speed or you’ll be holding
the bench down a week from Saturday! That means you especially, Ashley.
You’ve been getting slower and slower. Make them jump, Keller! Let’s
see some football!”
Jerry, blanket-draped, followed ten yards or so behind the first
team, one of a dozen or more substitutes whose first duty just now
was to watch every play and learn by the mistakes of others. Ahead of
him, darting into the mêlée after every whistle, went Coach Thorne,
his voice raised almost incessantly in reproof or praise, command or
warning.
“Get down, Left Tackle! You’re letting that man under you every
time!... Omstead! You’re giving the play away! Don’t look at the hole!
Keep your eyes on the ball!... Into it, Varsity! Smash through! That’s
it! Good work, Duveen! Whose place was it to look after that left
tackle? That was up to you, Ashley, wasn’t it? Where were you? He was
almost on the back of the play! Watch that next time!... Come on, now!
You aren’t half fighting! Center, you’ve got to keep your eyes open on
that play. Speed it up, Quarter! Get the jump on those fellows! You’re
all slow, _slow_, SLOW!”
From across the lines came the higher-pitched tones of Mr. Tibbs: “Who
let that man through? That was you, Langley! You let him get you on
a pivot again. I’ve told you twenty times not to let that happen!
Burns, come in here and show this man how to play! Keep your eyes open
and learn, Langley!... Get under ’em, Second! Get under ’em, I tell
you! Lift ’em up! Throw ’em back! Stop this play! Get him! Get him!...
That’s the stuff, Wilson! That’s great! That’s playing it!... Let’s
have it again! Every man into it hard, _hard_! Let’s stop ’em! Bust it
up, Second! _Jump!_”
The six minutes passed and the ball, although still the First’s, was
forty yards from a touchdown. Mr. Thorne scolded and begged. “Where’s
your speed, you fellows? Omstead, you’re slow, man! You’ve got to start
faster. You’ve got to get your stride sooner. You’re only half moving
when you hit the line! Those forwards can’t keep a hole open all day!
Come on and show your pep!”
So it went until, having reached the second team’s twenty-six yards,
Duveen missed a pass and an enemy tackle dived through and stole the
ball from under Keller’s nose. Two smashes at the left of center for
only four yards and then the second punted to midfield, where Keller
caught and was downed on the spot. The gallery, who had dispersed
with flying draperies a moment before, hurried back to their posts of
observation, and Duveen sliced off three yards outside right tackle.
Then Omstead tried a straight buck at the other side of center and ran
into a stone wall, and Coach Thorne raised an imploring hand to the
blue heavens.
“You were late as usual, Omstead,” he snapped. “That’ll do. Benson! Get
in there at left half and see if you can show some speed. All that beat
you fellows Saturday was your slowness. I’m going to have a back-field
with some snap to it if I have to find a brand-new one between now and
the twenty-fifth!”
Duveen made the rest of the distance on a fake forward that sent him
plunging around the left end. Then came the first of a series and
Jerry, arms-length to the left of Duveen in the regular formation,
shifted his weight a trifle more to the right, yet carefully kept his
gaze from the bent figure of Conger, at right tackle. Back went the
ball to Keller. Duveen darted to the left in front of Jerry. Keller
turned and passed to Ashley and the latter followed Duveen, straight
forward toward the left of the line. Jerry moved his prescribed step
forward and held open hands. Ashley was up to him, past him! Then, at
the last possible moment, he tossed the ball back across the angle of
his elbow. Jerry caught it in a sort of panic, but he had lost his
impetus by the time the ball was nestled to his stomach, and when he
had dashed across to the right of the line an enemy half was blocking
the hole and Jerry went full tilt into a heaving, swaying mass of
bodies, pushed and heaved and squirmed all to no purpose, and heard
despairingly the shrill whistle!
“What was your trouble, Benson?” snarled the coach. “Off on the wrong
foot, eh? Balled everything up because you couldn’t remember the play!
A sweet performance that!”
Jerry kept silent and dodged past to position. But he looked past
Duveen and wondered. Gus Ashley was as sober as a judge, but there was
something in his dirt-streaked face that told Jerry that he was by no
means displeased. There were no signals this time, just the brief:
“Come on!” from the quarter; and the play was reversed, with Jerry
taking the ball from Keller and tossing it to Ashley as he trotted
past. It went well, for Ashley found a clear path outside his own left
tackle and sliced past for four yards before he was stopped. Again no
signals, Duveen taking the pass direct from center and plunging forward
like a battering-ram and hurling his weight and strength at the left
guard-tackle hole. The hole was there, wide and well cleaned out, and
the full back shot through and smashed into a back, caromed off, found
his feet, dodged and was off, straight down the field, friend and enemy
streaking in his wake!
Duveen made the eight yards before he was pulled to earth, and from
there, past left tackle, he made four more, and then, with two downs to
spare, romped across for the touchdown.
An interchange of punts after Keller had missed an easy goal ended the
period.
Jerry saw most of the second half from the bench, but when the
scrimmage was almost over he was called back to punt from his
forty-yard line and stayed in after the second had run the kick back
to her thirty-seven. In midfield the second fumbled and Mansfield
captured the pigskin. Jerry and Duveen alternated around right for six,
Ashley added three through the line and Duveen smashed straight into
center for the rest of the distance. Then, faking a punt, Jerry hurled
to Butterfield and there was a clear twelve-yard gain. Again came the
crisscross and again Jerry waited for the pass from Ashley. This time
there was a mocking grin on the right half’s face as he passed too
late, a grin that deepened as the cry of “_Ball! Ball!_” arose. Jerry
flung himself to the ground and wrapped his arms about the pigskin and
felt the weight of falling bodies. Then he was on his feet again and
Coach Thome’s remorseless voice was in his ears:
“That was rotten, Benson! That’ll do for to-day. Gray, take left half,
and, if you can’t gain, at least hold on to the ball!”