An Old Score Settled
A low, gray ceiling of clouds hung over the field at Woodcrest when the
cadet team came out to play that November afternoon. Stands were
crowded, and as the team entered the field a cheer went up from the
Woodcrest section and a yell of derision from the Dimsdale side of the
field. Briefly, the cadet team looked at the beefy Dimsdale team across
the field, where they were running signals. Grim mouths, bright eyes,
and hearts filled with determination marked the silent purpose of the
young soldiers.
When the news of the coming game with the Class A champions had been
circulated around town great had been the derision. The two teams were
in different classes, the preparatory school ranking in the higher Class
A division and the military school in the lighter Class B aggregation.
Woodcrest had not lost a game nor had Dimsdale, in each class. Crushing
power lay with the preparatory school machine and nothing but the stings
of years of insults and determined purpose with the cadets. Those who
cared for such things had made heavy bets against the cadet team and the
feeling was general that Woodcrest was in for a bad beating.
The football coach had not said much to his team, but he had said just
enough. He told them that the feeling was against their chances of
winning, that the whole thing was looked upon as foolishness, and that
Dimsdale was frankly considering it nothing more than a practice game.
This was their chance, he told them, to settle once and for all an old
score, and his only plea was that they play like gentlemen and forget
revenge.
“Because if you think of it merely as a revenge, you are sure to lose,”
the coach wound up. “Bad sportsmanship spoils and defeats any game.
Knowing you as I do and just how you feel, I know you’ll play your
hardest, and my only request is that you play clean and hard.”
It was therefore a silent, grim group which trotted out on the gridiron
and started to run through signals. Derisive yells and cat-calls came
from the opposite side of the stands. They fell on heedless ears, or at
least on unresponsive ones. Quarterback Vench called his signals
quietly, the ball was snapped with calm accuracy, and although the
hearts of the soldiers beat rapidly there was no outward sign to show
that they were burning with an eager fire inside.
The cadet band struck up and played well, the cadets marching across the
field to the grandstand side which they were to occupy. When they were
seated the two teams began to take their places. Hudson, the Dimsdale
Captain and the official met in the center of the field, the coin was
tossed, and Dimsdale won the toss. They decided to kick and the teams
lined up.
The ball was placed, the Dimsdale captain looked up and down his line to
make sure that everything was ready. Tensely the cadets, spread out in
receiving formation, waited. For an instant the field was in silence.
Then, as both captains nodded, the referee blew his whistle sharply and
the bitter game was on.
There was a thud as the ball was kicked and sailed in a long arc to the
waiting arms of half-back Barnes. He tucked it under his arm securely
and bounded off to the left side of the field. Realizing that he was in
danger of outrunning his guards he slowed slightly and ranged himself
behind Hudson, Berry and Vench. Behind this wall he ran the ball back to
the center of the field before being downed. Lazily the preparatory
players untangled themselves from the heap, but the cadets snapped into
line with a spirit that showed their purpose.
Don and Jim were benched, as they were in nearly every game. In the
following year, and their senior year they expected to play on the team
regularly, but as yet they were only substitute. Jim played in the line
in practice and Don had once or twice played halfback. Well wrapped in
their heavy parkas they sat on the edge of the players’ bench, wholly
absorbed in the game.
Vench called his signals and the ball was snapped to Berry, who made
five yards through tackle. It was apparent that Dimsdale was playing
lazy football. The team was heavy enough to hold the cadets from any
dangerous threat and that was all they were doing. The next two plays
did not gain anything and Vench kicked out of danger. The ends got down
under the ball and brought the Dimsdale captain to earth with a telling
slam.
Dimsdale began a march which was alarming, but an accident changed the
situation. Berry pounced on the ball when the right halfback fumbled it.
Woodcrest was on the forty-five yard line and prospects were good.
“Those guys are playing awfully sleepy football,” Don said to Jim.
“Vench had better take advantage of it and get the ball across.”
The same idea seemingly occurred to the little quarterback. He surveyed
the team before him over the backs of his teammates and then suddenly
bent down. Calmly and quickly his signals came.
The ball snapped back. Berry, Barnes and Hudson doubled up and ran
toward the right side of the field, and the Dimsdale team swung in that
direction. Vench, the ball buried deeply in his stomach, swung left and
let loose all of his speed. For a moment there was a wild mixup on the
right side of the line and then Dimsdale woke up, but too late.
Vench was away and down the field and the goal was close at hand. He
crossed it with the nearest Dimsdale player three feet in back of him. A
wild roar went up from the Woodcrest stand and the Dimsdale team looked
bewildered. Vench was slapped and shaken by his enthusiastic teammates
and then they prepared to kick the ball. The kick was made successfully
and the score stood seven to nothing for Woodcrest.
Now, however, it was a different Dimsdale team that lined up for the
kick. Energy took the place of indifference. Helmets were pulled on
tightly, belts hitched, feet kicked ridges in the field and an aroused
and dangerous foe faced the cadet team. But they found a wideawake
outfit waiting for them, and the game went on with a punch. This time
the prep school team drove forward with purpose and held the cadet team
to four straight downs, Vench declining to kick.
When the ball finally passed to Dimsdale the drive began. The smaller
team was not able to hold the Class A group. Steadily they stormed down
the field until they were under the shadow of the goal and a touchdown
seemed the only final result. It was then that a merciful break came to
Hudson.
This game against Dimsdale had been Hudson’s dream for years, and he was
anxious to distinguish himself. His opportunity came with dazzling
suddenness. Impatient at the time taken to put the ball over the goal
line, and fearful that the half would end, for they were now in the
second quarter, the Dimsdale quarterback called for a forward pass. The
ball went to their left halfback, who tossed it like a bullet to the
left end, hovering at that moment down near the goal.
Hudson had been slow to get away when the ball had been snapped and he
was blaming himself for it, when he saw the ball come speeding through
the air, over his head. He leaped into the air as though there were
springs on his feet. The ball stopped in the cup of his hands and he
landed, hesitated, slightly dazed, and then, with a bound that carried
him forward, began to run up the field, to the opposite goal posts,
which seemed miles and miles away.
A frantic roar burst from both stands and the Dimsdale players turned
and threw themselves at him. One went down under his cleated feet and he
avoided him, a second he straight-armed with no uncertain force and then
he broke away on a long run. Chaos broke loose in the stands and the
captain, his supreme chance with him and up to him, ran as he had never
run before, to cross the goal line at top speed and touch the ball to
earth amid a terrific uproar. The goal had barely been kicked before the
whistle blew, ending the half.
Down in the locker room the coach was quietly encouraging. “You are
doing splendidly, boys,” he smiled. “It is hurting the pride of the A
champions terribly to have a score of 14 to 0 against them. You can all
see we owe the last score, with all due credit to Hudson’s run, to the
quarterback’s error. They were sure to drive over the goal, but he made
the mistake of tossing a pass, which Hudson speared. The next time they
begin to drive, look out!”
The coach turned out to be a true prophet. Dimsdale received the
kick-off in the second half and drove with crushing force right down the
field and over the line for their first touchdown. The cadets were
unable to hold them and the goal was kicked, making the score 14 to 7.
The drive was accompanied by rough handling on the part of the heavier
players, and two of the cadets were slightly injured and had to be
replaced. Jim was sent in and played guard, while Don waited for his
chance.
“Well, it’s a cinch we’ll never beat them at straight football,”
remarked Vench, as the quarter ended, the cadets failing to gain an inch
either through the line or around the ends. “They roll over us like a
steam roller! We’ll have to hold them down somehow!”
But the cadets were unable to do so. Once more the preparatory players
drove the lighter players before them like grass and scored a touchdown.
They failed to kick the goal and the score stood 14 to 13.
“They are going to drive again,” murmured the coach, to a friend. “My
boys can’t hold them on a drive.”
And drive they did. They punched holes yards wide in the lighter team’s
line, rolled over them in waves, and steadily forced them back. In one
of these smashes Berry was hurt and was helped off the field. The coach
looked over his players and nodded to Don.
“Go in for Berry, Mercer,” he said, and was none too hopeful when he
said it for Don’s playing was not spectacular and the coach wished that
he had a star just at that moment.
Don tossed aside his parka and ran on the field, grateful for a chance,
but not at all glad that Berry had been crippled for the time being. He
reported to the referee and then, pulling his helmet down over his
forehead and tightly around his ears, took his place in the backfield
and bent down to catch the signals.
Dimsdale lost the ball on downs and the cadets got it almost in the
shadow of the goal posts. It looked very much as though the usual thing
would happen, the failure to advance and the necessity of a kick to save
themselves, or losing the ball right there. The ball was snapped and a
scant two yards were made.
Don played an average, ordinary game, carrying the ball twice for short
gains and playing his part as interference. He found himself opposed to
one large player on the other side who began to rough him with
unnecessary force. It was the right halfback, a heavy-set individual who
threw all of his weight with paralyzing force on Don at every
opportunity. Don made no complaint, because it was part of the game for
the other fellow to drop him whenever possible, and for some time he
tried to believe that the man was not stepping out of bounds, but before
long he knew this wasn’t so.
He carried the ball again and the same player tackled him, rolling him
over and thudding down on him violently. The breath was knocked out of
him and he wobbled slightly when he got up, but he said nothing, partly
from a lack of breath and partly from a desire not to complain. But when
the same man viciously dug him with his elbow he protested.
“Keep your elbow to yourself or I’ll report it to my captain,” he warned
him.
“Aw, run and tell your mama, soldier boy!” was the derisive answer.
Don made no reply but his eyes blazed as he went back to the place he
occupied. The next few plays were grim and hard-fought. The cadets had
managed to make first down and still held the ball.
“Are you all right?” Vench said to Don, as they formed again.
“Yes, only that big circus wagon over there is roughing me every chance
he gets!” snapped Don.
“They are all doing it,” replied the plucky little quarterback, wearily.
He had worked with all his strength and was ready to drop. He fumbled
the ball on the next pass and it rolled away. Immediately, every
available player sprang toward the ball, but luckily a cadet fell on it,
saving it for his team.
“Three downs, eight yards to go,” groaned the coach. “They’ll never make
it, and Dimsdale will make another march down the field. It won’t even
do any good to kick.”
Don had run toward the rolling ball, to be met by his heavy rival and
knocked flat. There was no excuse for it, as there had been no danger
that he would recover the ball, but he went flying, nevertheless, to
land with jarring force on his stomach. With his breath whistling
through his set teeth he staggered to his feet and walked to Vench, his
eyes burning.
“Let me run that ball!” he hissed in the quarterback’s ear. “Just give
me a chance to run that ball once!”