THE TROWBRIDGE GAME
TO Sumner more than to any one else of the Westcott School was due the
fine spirit of caution and determination with which the eleven faced the
momentous game with Trowbridge. He had not slackened for a moment his
devotion to the team from which, according to Stover, he had been
ignominiously fired. He had watched the Trowbridge-Newbury contest with
a sharp eye and an open note-book. The newspapers remarked after the
game that Trowbridge had gained on end runs and tackle plays and lost on
kicks; and that Ricker, the Trowbridge back, was the star of the game.
Sumner had not been content with any such general impressions. He had
observed how the plays were started behind the line, what holes were
relied on for emergencies, who was most likely to fumble punts, and in
precisely what way Ricker’s interference formed and hit the line. During
the last week of practice, his second team was an imitation Trowbridge,
with Trowbridge end runs and genuine Ricker dashes. The Ricker of the
Westcott second was alumnus Bill Ellery, Harvard junior, who could cover
the two-twenty in twenty-three, and started like a deer. Two active old
Westcottites from across the Charles personated Trowbridge tackles, and
another guarded right end. Yards practiced his linesmen in breaking
straight through, with a spring and a dart and a slap of the open hand
against the opponent’s headguard; he forced them to make gripping
tackles on the slippery dummy; he taught them how to master, not to
kill, the men in front of them; he furnished practicable plays adapted
to the powers of the team, and drilled the players in signals until
obedience was automatic—but it was Sumner who prepared them for Ricker
and the deceptive end runs.
“This last week’s work has been the best of all,” said Yards, the
evening before the game. “If Pete’s knee holds out, we ought to be able
to put up a pretty good offence, and Sumner’s second has developed our
defence wonderfully.”
“And he won’t even make his W!” lamented Harrison.
“No, he won’t!” answered Yards, who could afford to be outspoken now
that the end of the season was at hand. “On every point of the game
McDowell is better.”
“Then you don’t think there’s any chance for Jack to get in?” asked
Harrison, wistfully.
Yards shook his head. “Not unless Mac is laid out or we get a big lead.”
[Illustration: REGULAR WESTCOTT DEFENCE—OPEN (Outside thirty-yard
line)]
Harrison smiled feebly at the sarcasm of this last suggestion. There was
about as much chance of getting a big lead on Trowbridge as that Mac
would make half a dozen goals from the field or that Bumpus would find
big Hubbard an easy victim; while it was quite within the range of
probability that Pete would injure his knee again and deprive the team
of its only good punter, or that some accident would befall Eaton or
Hardie or some other strong player whose place no one could fill.
Subconsciously he shared the view prevalent in school that Trowbridge
was likely to win, though he did not admit the possibility even to
himself. He had never wholly approved the system of open defence which
Yards had adopted from the Harvard theorists. To one used to a solid
line of bodies before the ball it seemed a reckless scheme to pull the
centre out of his place and put him behind the line, thus leaving open,
in the wall of defence, an avenue wide enough for a cart. He could see
that this method of resistance strengthened the wings, through which the
longest gains are made, and rendered it possible to keep two backs in
reserve for on-side kicks and forward passes; but would not this open
highway through centre furnish an easy route for heavy plunges? Yards
maintained that if Ford and the guards would but watch the play
carefully, the gains through centre could be made unprofitably small;
yet Harrison’s doubts, though unuttered, were none the less real.
[Illustration: REGULAR TROWBRIDGE DEFENCE—CLOSED]
Roger Hardie’s heart was beating quick with eagerness to get into the
play, when Talbot opened the game by sending the ball spinning down to
the lower corner of the field. Cowles took it on the bounce, and had
worked it back fifteen yards before he ran into Eaton’s arms. Through
the centre highway Ricker pushed for five yards before Ford and Talbot
reached him and brought him down. Another assault at the same place gave
a first down. The open defence was showing its weak side. Then they
sought a hole outside Bumpus, but Bumpus got free and threw the runner
into Talbot’s hands. Another dash at centre yielded two yards, and with
five to gain Cowles punted. Mac took the ball safely on his thirty-yard
line, and sent Horr twice against the Trowbridge right flank behind
Eaton and Hardie, each time gaining five yards; and Bradford once just
inside Harrison, who, tugging with Tracy and supported by Talbot behind,
dragged the runner eight yards before the Trowbridge men pulled him
down. A tandem through right guard yielded a first down. After that an
end run was blocked with the loss of a yard through the quickness of the
Trowbridge tackle, and Mac decided to kick.
Pete’s punt, which was got off so quickly that the defence was hardly
ready for it, went diagonally down the field, and, by rolling out at the
Trowbridge thirty-yard line, prevented any running back. Trowbridge
tried an end run from a fake kick, but Harrison was not deceived, and
threw the runner behind the line. Then recourse was had to punting once
more, but the back was slow in getting off his kick, and Bumpus, who had
slapped his way through the line and leaped wildly in the air in the
path of the ball, took it on his chest and beat it down to the ground.
Three men threw themselves at it as it struck, and buried it deep under
struggling brown bodies; but the one who lay closest to it, hugging it
ecstatically in his arms, proved to be the Westcott left end.
The wave of the referee’s hand which moved the measurers down was the
signal for shrill whoops from the excited band of youngsters in the
Westcott cheering section. Sumner on the side-lines flung his arms about
the coach in a transport of delight.
“Our ball on the fifteen-yard line!” he cried jubilantly. “We’ve got ’em
now!”
“Don’t be too sure,” answered Yards, who, though just as eager, had
himself under better control. “It’s a hard fifteen yards to cover.”
The players were in position now, nerved for the great struggle. Behind
their forwards, the Trowbridge backs stood in a line of three. Each
linesman recognized that the success or failure of the next play might
depend on the quickness with which he leaped. The signal which rang out
in Mac’s clear, sharp voice called for a tandem play between left tackle
and guard, with Talbot carrying the ball. Eaton, straining to get the
jump on his antagonist, moved before the ball, and was off side. The
umpire blew his horn; the referee counted back five yards; the lines
formed again.
“O dear!” groaned Sumner. “What’ll he do now?—I believe he’s going to
try a drop!”
“It’s a fake,” said Yards, composedly. “He’d try another down if he
meant to do that.”
McDowell was back holding out his hands, the backs had taken the
formation for interference. Ford passed, but it was Talbot who received
the ball and made a short, quick kick over the right side of the line.
Harrison charged after it with all his speed, but Ricker beat him in the
sprint, took the ball on the bounce, and ran round the Westcott captain
for a gain of fifteen yards before Talbot forced him out of bounds.
From his chagrin at this failure Sumner was aroused by a loud chuckle of
mirth close behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes met
the exultant gaze of President John.
“Wasted his chance,” remarked the dignitary, with an oily grin of
recognition. “I’m afraid he won’t get another.” Sumner nodded and moved
down the line.
And now the Trowbridge men, taking courage from their escape, began to
put new life into their play. Ricker shot through centre and squirmed
forward ten yards. His second attempt was blocked by Ford and Channing
after a short gain. Then a trick was sprung; the guards, tackles, and
ends moved out suddenly six paces, leaving the centre all alone before
the ball, with a great space on either side of him. The movement was
supposed first to confuse the enemy, then to draw them out of position
so as to leave a big hole near the centre, or to furnish a close
interference for a run at end. But the Westcott rushers, having had
experience with this very play as practiced by Sumner’s eleven, took it
coolly as a matter of course, went through evenly along the line, and
downed the dangerous Ricker before he got well under way. On the third
down Trowbridge tried a forward pass on a crisscross formation, but Horr
blocked off the end, and the ball, striking the ground, fell once more
to Westcott’s. McDowell wasted a down in a fruitless effort to push
Bradford through centre, and Horr fumbled. Trowbridge made seven yards
and kicked, Talbot punted back, and for ten minutes the play oscillated
between the thirty-yard lines.
At last—it seemed to Sumner that the half must be nearly at an end—a
rash attempt on the part of Trowbridge to gain four yards after a third
down gave Westcott’s the ball fifty yards from their opponents’ goal.
Mac, who had by this time “sized up” the Trowbridge defence, now ceased
experimenting, and applied his whole mental power to the task of
matching the strong points of his team against the weaknesses of the
foe. On the defence, Trowbridge played the centre in the line, with but
a single line half-back. The Westcott quarter brought his end over, and
drove his backs outside tackle and outside end, now on the short side,
now on the long, gaining satisfactory distances at each stroke.
Presently a second Trowbridge back came up to support the line, leaving
the back-field clear. Mac recognized this opportunity for a forward
pass, and seized it. Pete’s long spiral throw fell into Eaton’s hands on
the enemy’s twenty-yard line. It was a close shave, for Cowles was upon
him as he leaped for the ball, but Eaton held it, though he was thrown
hard. A crash through centre, a skin-tackle play, a split play on a
delayed pass, and Westcott’s brought up at the third down on the
Trowbridge thirteen-yard line with three yards to gain, the enemy’s
linesmen on their knees, and their whole back-field pushed up to support
them.
But two minutes remained. If the ball were lost now, the opportunity to
score would go. Harrison shouted a signal from his end. McDowell nodded,
and fell back to a kicking position, giving his signals clearly as he
went.
“Look out for an on-side kick!” yelled the Trowbridge captain. “Get
through on them now!”
While he spoke, the ball went back. The line in the centre swerved, but
held; the Trowbridge ends, followed by the tackles, swooped down upon
the waiting quarter, but the Westcott backs blocked them off from the
danger zone. Mac got his drop away safely, and, holding his breath,
watched the ball floating upward beyond the reach of human hands. It
crossed the bar three feet inside the post.
The play during the rest of the half was comprehended in two kicks.
Trowbridge sent the ball on the kick-off deep into Westcott territory;
and Talbot on the first down punted it far back.
Sumner, dancing with joy round Mike and the water pail, found himself
again in the presence of the lord of the league.
“What about that chance that wasn’t coming?” he asked, with a sudden
accession of friendliness.
“The game isn’t over,” answered President John, sourly. “A single
touch-down will wipe that gain out.”
At the dressing rooms the usual discussion of the developments of the
game was going forward. The bedraggled players, their mud-streaked faces
aglow with hope, lay stretched on the floor about the coach, listening
eagerly to his last directions. In one corner, Duane, of the Harvard
Second, was explaining to Bumpus how, by proper use of his knee, he
could hold Hubbard on the offence at least a second longer. Yards,
having finished his general exhortation, drew McDowell aside to talk
over with him the strategy of the second half, which was, in brief, to
play safely, keep the ball in opponents’ territory, and watch for
chances.
“If we hold them well, you’ll put in Sumner at the last, won’t you?” Mac
asked.
“Not with the score three to nothing,” answered Yards, quickly.
“If we should make a touch-down, then?” persisted Mac.
The coach hesitated a moment before replying, but when he spoke, there
was no uncertainty in his words. “It wouldn’t be safe. Sumner is a good
fellow, and he’s worked hard for the team, but we’re playing the game to
win, not to give good fellows a chance to make their W’s. I sha’n’t take
any risks.”
The Westcott players trotted forth at the call, determined to make at
the outset such a show of power and dash as would put Trowbridge
immediately on the defensive. The Trowbridge rushers strung out across
the field on a line with the ball. Westcott’s took the usual defensive
positions, the centre ten yards back from the ball, the guards flanking
him, but behind, the tackles outside the guards and still farther back.
Cowles ran forward for his kick-off, but instead of driving the ball to
the limit of his powers down the field, he sent it with a little stab of
his foot diagonally across toward the side-line. It struck the line
outside the Westcott left guard. Bumpus, perplexed at the unexpected
play, hesitated a moment before he leaped for the ball. His hesitation
cost his side dear, for two Trowbridge rushers crashed into him before
he had taken three steps, and the Trowbridge end flung himself on the
ball just ahead of Eaton, who pounced upon him like a wild beast upon
his prey. Trowbridge had gained the ball on Westcott’s forty-yard line!
Sumner’s heart was like lead, as he saw the Trowbridge line open in wide
gaps for a trick play. If the Westcott rushers lost their heads now,
there was no hope for the team. But a line that sifts evenly through,
with each man keeping well within his own territory, is a hard line to
work tricks upon; and a strong, aggressive tackle is a dangerous
obstacle to end plays. The Westcott line did sift evenly through, and
Eaton was a good tackle—so good, indeed, that he burst straight into
the Trowbridge interference, and, hooking the runner with a long reach,
swung him directly into Hardie’s arms. The next play, which was directed
at the open centre, was spoiled by Bumpus, who burned to retrieve
himself, before it had advanced three yards. Then, with six yards to
gain, Cowles drew back for a kick.
“Fake!” shouted Harrison. “Look out for a forward pass!”
His warning proved false; it served only to check his own line, and give
Cowles a better opportunity to get off his kick. He punted high and with
such splendid accuracy that the ball fell at the Westcott six-yard line.
McDowell stood under it as it came down, holding his hand high aloft and
claiming the privilege of a fair catch. All about him thronged the
menacing Trowbridge forwards, ready to seize the ball and carry it
across the line should Mac fail to hold it.
“I’m glad I’m not there!” thought the anxious Sumner. “I’d fumble it
sure! If it should slip out of his hands, now—”
But it didn’t. As calmly as if he were in mid field with no one near to
disturb him, Mac gathered in the descending ball and heeled his mark.
Twenty seconds later Pete’s long punt rolled out at the Westcott
forty-five-yard line.
Again Westcott’s held Trowbridge to a seven-yards gain in two downs, and
Trowbridge, as a last resort, tried a complicated forward pass; but
Tracy worked through on the end who had come round to make the pass, and
threw him before he could complete it. Now, for the first time during
the half, the Westcott lads took the offence, though Mac still preferred
to rely on Talbot’s foot. Down sailed the ball to the Trowbridge
twenty-yard line, only to be kicked back beyond the centre of the field
a few minutes later. Here for some minutes the play wavered within the
neutral zone. On the exchange of punts there was little advantage except
that gained by
[Illustration: SWUNG HIM DIRECTLY INTO HARDIE’S ARMS.]
Hardie and Harrison as they dodged down the field under the kicks, and
nailed the receiver of the ball at his first step; but on the rushes
Westcott’s covered more ground, and the play gradually drew near the
Trowbridge end of the field.
A series of successful line plunges had brought the Westcott offence to
the Trowbridge twenty-yard line, when the referee announced at the third
down that four yards of the necessary ten were still lacking. Mac
conferred with Harrison, and, falling back to the kicking position,
knelt at Talbot’s side. The quarter caught Ford’s pass, but instead of
placing the ball for a kick, he waited until the Trowbridge men were
sweeping down upon him, when he passed to Talbot, who threw the ball in
a long spiral that bored its way through the air far over the left side
of the line. Hardie was ready to receive it, and so was Ricker. They
came together with a shock, but Ricker was short and Roger tall, and the
Westcott man clutched the ball over his rival’s head, as the latter
tumbled him to the ground. The eight yards to the goal line Pete covered
in two downs.
Sumner did not see the goal kicked; he was coasting along the side-lines
in search of his friend Smith. He found him at last, just as the elevens
were changing ends, standing alone near the corner of the field.
“Great game, sir!” offered Sumner, politely.
“I call it a very poor game,” answered President John, staring straight
before him. “That Trowbridge line is rotten.”
“It’s hard to understand how they could beat Newbury seventeen to
three,” remarked Sumner, cheerfully. “About time enough left for another
touch-down, isn’t there?”
Smith made no reply to this question, unless a scowl and an
unintelligible exclamation could be construed as a reply. But even thus
Sumner seemed to consider the conversation worth while, for as he
hurried back to the side of the Westcott coach, he was bubbling with
glee.
With the score nine to nothing and the game nearly over, there seemed no
serious doubt as to the outcome. So thought Mac, at least, when Harrison
recovered the ball on a fumble near his fifty-yard line, and Pete punted
down close to the Trowbridge goal. It was high time that Sumner should
appear if he was to be sent into the game at all, but Yards made no move
to send him. Mac considered the matter at intervals, while he stood far
back waiting for his friends in the line to gain possession of the ball.
The result of his consideration was to arouse in his mind the suspicion
that Yards was working, not for a safe victory, but for a score which
would leave no doubt as to the success of his coaching.
“Jack deserves a chance, and he is going to get it!” muttered Mac to
himself. “If it can’t come one way, it shall another.”
The Westcott defence had just thrown back another attempt at a
skin-tackle play, and Harrison signalled to his quarter to be ready for
a kick. Mac was under the ball when it came down, and slipping by the
end, zigzagged a dozen yards up the field before he succumbed to two
hard Trowbridge tacklers. Ford came puffing back and took the ball from
his hand; but Mac, instead of scrambling to his feet and calling out his
signals as the team gathered, remained squirming on the ground.
“What’s the matter?” asked Harrison, anxiously, as he knelt beside him.
“My right ankle!” groaned Mac, twisting his face into an expression of
frightful pain.
Time was called; Mike appeared with his water pail and sponge, closely
followed by Yards. Together they rubbed the injured joint, while Mac
writhed and moaned.
“How much time is left?” he asked.
“Three minutes.”
“I’ll see if I can stand.”
Yards and Harrison lifted the sufferer to his feet. He took a step with
his right foot, rested his weight on it,—and went down in a heap.
“Do you think it’s broken?” asked the coach in alarm.
“I guess not,” replied Mac, transforming a grin into a grimace, “but
you’ll have to send Jack in.”
Yards called for Sumner, and the maimed quarter went hobbling off the
field, supported by Yards and Louis Tracy, and saluted by a booming
salvo from the graduates, and an impassioned cheer from the schoolboy
section. Yards proposed to send him directly to the dressing rooms and
call in a physician, but Mac pleaded piteously to be allowed to see the
game out. So he stood at the side-lines, leaning on Louis’s shoulder.
“We should have made another touch-down if you hadn’t got hurt,” said
the coach, in a resentful tone, as Horr at the first signal was pushed
through outside Ben Tracy for a gain of five yards. “We had ’em on the
run.”
“Jack will do just as well,” answered Mac, calmly. “He’s better on the
offence than I am.”
In truth, Sumner had the advantage over Mac in some respects. He was
heavier, he got into the plays better, and he profited by his close
study of the game from the side-lines. The team reacted to a fresh
voice, while Sumner’s strength, applied at the critical instant, helped
to break the resistance and roll the wedge along. Outside guard, outside
tackle, around the end, changing his attack from side to side, Sumner
pushed his backs to a first down, to another, to a third. Then, when the
Trowbridge secondary defence concentrated close behind the line, he
worked a forward pass himself, running backward to make sure of his
throw, and delivering the ball safely into Tracy’s hands. Westcott’s was
on the Trowbridge ten-yard line, pressing hotly forward, when the
referee’s whistle put an end to the game.
Mac lingered on the side-lines, waiting for an opportunity to
congratulate Sumner on his playing. As they walked together to the
dressing rooms, escorted by a half-dozen admiring youngsters, the
injured quarter forgot to limp. Close by the entrance Yards accosted
them.
“You ran the team finely, Sumner,” he exclaimed, with radiant face.
Then, suddenly recalling Mac’s misfortune, he turned upon him and
demanded, “How’s that ankle?”
“It seems all right now,” replied Mac, with an abrupt lapse from his
gayety.
Yards gave him a sharp glance, and his eyes darkened ominously. “I
believe you—” he began, but the beseeching look on Mac’s face checked
him. “I’m glad it’s no worse,” he finished lamely.
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