FRANK LEARNS TO TACKLE THE DUMMY.
"How does that ankle feel?" inquired the Freshman coach of Frank
Armstrong one afternoon at practice on the week following the Exeter
game. "I see you stepping around quite lively on it."
"I think it is good enough, sir," said Frank. It was far from a
well ankle, but Frank was desperately anxious to get into the game
from which he had been denied on account of his accident, and was
willing to take a chance with it. He had felt that he was going to be
overlooked entirely in spite of the fact that he had kept in training
and had done as much as he could under the conditions.
"Good enough then. Do you know the signals?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, then take some practice now and later I want to try you at
quarter on the Second. You played there on your prep. school team,
eh?"
"Yes, sir," said Frank, his heart jumping at the thought that he was
to have his chance, after all.
"All of you over to the 'Varsity field," commanded the coach. "The
exhibition of tackling in that Exeter game was enough to make a
strong man weep, not a half dozen clean ones in the whole game.
I'll teach you to stop a man or kill you in the attempt," and Coach
Howard, with a determined face, led his squad into the great wooden
amphitheater where at one end below the goal line stood two tackling
dummies, looking very much like gallows, each with the canvas-clad
shape of a man dangling from a rope over a pit of sawdust and loam.
There had been some tackling practice early in the season in which
Frank had not participated on account of his injured ankle, so the
experience for him to-day was to be a new one.
"Now, this is the way, watch me carefully," said Howard. "Start from
here," indicating a point about fifty feet from the dummy, "get under
way quickly, increase your speed toward the end of the run, spring
off one foot, not a dive, remember, strike the dummy with your
shoulder just under the hips, and wrap your arms around the legs.
This way," and suiting the action to the word, Howard, who was in
football uniform, dashed at the swinging figure, struck it with a
crash, carried it from its fastening on a clean, driving tackle.
"Now line up and all take your turn," said the coach as he came back
to the group. "Lead off, Bostwick." Bostwick was an old end from
Andover, who had come down to Yale with a reputation already made,
and who had been chosen captain of the team.
After Bostwick ran a steady string of the Freshmen tackling the
dummy, some cleanly, some awkwardly. A field assistant picked up the
canvas-clad figure, and replaced it on the hook after each savage
assault, ready for the next man, while the coach stood by, offering
criticism and suggestion.
"Too low, too low," he shouted to a candidate. "Your man would get
away from that. Just what you did Saturday." Or to another, "Don't
slow up; he won't bite you. Drive into him hard, and carry him right
off his feet and keep a good grip with both hands, both hands," he
yelled as one of the tacklers slapped one arm around the canvas legs.
It was Frank's turn. He sprinted down the runway, sprang head-first
at the swinging figure, hit it cleanly, and grasping it tightly with
both arms, crashed down in the sawdust pit.
"Wrong, wrong," cried Howard. "That was a diving tackle. Your team
would be penalized for that; you've got to make that last step a long
stride, not a jump, remember. Otherwise it was O. K."
Frank picked himself out of the pit, and walked back limping a
little. He had leaped with all his vigor from the injured leg, and
winced with the pain of it. But he was not going to show it. On his
second trial he did better, but was so anxious to favor the ankle
that he slowed up and took a succession of little short steps just
before he sprang, which drew the fire of the coach down upon him, and
caused a smile to go around the waiting line.
"Afraid of it?" queried the coach, sarcastically. "It isn't stuffed
with anything harder than excelsior, and it won't bite you."
Frank walked back to his place at the end of the line crestfallen,
but determined to show a better result on his next trial. Several of
the 'Varsity coaches had strolled over from the other tackling dummy,
where some of the 'Varsity line men were being put through their
paces, and all of them were on the lookout for likely material for
future 'Varsity teams.
But, try as he might, Frank could not satisfy the coach. Something
was wrong with all his attempts. The coach did not know that the
injured ankle was throbbing like a toothache. Frank was afraid to
admit it for fear he would be relegated to the side-line for another
period of waiting. So he blundered through his tackling at a great
disadvantage.
"That's enough," said the coach at last. "You are a sad bunch at this
game, but we'll give you a daily dose of it and see if it helps any.
Come back to the Freshman field for a scrimmage," and followed by his
squad of pupils, he led the way.
That afternoon was a nightmare for Frank. Favoring his ankle as
much as he dared, he ran the Second team without snap or vigor, and
although he got away on two quarterback runs for ten or fifteen yards
each, and nearly got a field goal from a difficult angle, he was
pulled out of his position and sent to the side-lines before the
scrimmaging was finished, firmly convinced that he was not cut out
for a quarterback.
"This infernal ankle of mine," he grumbled to Jimmy Turner on their
way back in the stuffy car to the city. "I couldn't do anything. My
leg felt like a stick. I couldn't get out of my own way."
"I don't think you made much of a hit with the coach this afternoon,"
admitted that individual. "I heard him say to one of the 'Varsity
men, just as we were getting on the car, that you had some
possibilities, but you were too much afraid of getting hurt."
"He did, did he?" and Frank glared at Coach Howard who was sitting
further up the car pointing out a play diagram to Madden, the quarter
of the first team. "Thought I was a nice old lady! I'll show him
something if this leg ever gets better," and he gritted his teeth in
anticipation of the happy time to come when he could disprove the
coach's suspicions.
Handicapped by his bad ankle, and often in agony with the pain of
it on the field, Frank continued, as the days went by, to fight
an up-hill but losing fight. Turner was daily strengthening his
position at left halfback, and was already looked upon as of possible
'Varsity caliber for the next year. While not very fast, he ran
hard and low, and it took an uncommonly hard tackle to bring him to
the ground. He also had that thing which pleases the coaches, an
unfailing instinct for the ball. Wherever it was, Turner was not far
away.
On the Saturday of that week came the game with Pawling School.
Frank sat on the side-lines with longing in his heart as he saw his
teammates, for the first time in the season, play a game worthy of
them. The first quarterback, Madden, ran his team with speed and
judgment, and when the half was finished had driven the visitors down
the field and scored two touchdowns on them. In the third quarter,
Madden received a hard jolt in the stomach in a scrimmage, and Frank
thrilled as he saw the coach walk down the side-line, looking for a
substitute. He came on, passed Frank and selected a quarter named
Barlow to take Madden's place, and who sat just beyond him. Barlow
shed his sweater as he ran, and with a few words from the coach,
sprang into Madden's place behind the center. Under his guidance
another touchdown was added in the third quarter, and the teams
changed sides for the last period of the game.
Frank gave up hope, as the minutes flew by, for any chance at that
game. Barlow was not doing so well now, but there was little time to
play. The Pawling team had twice succeeded in stopping the Freshmen
near the Pawling goal line, and the substitute quarter had fumbled
a punt which for a moment threatened a touchdown against his team.
Bostwick, the vigilant end, had recovered the ball at midfield, and
saved the situation, but Coach Howard was evidently anxious. He
had made many substitutions to give new men practice, and had thus
weakened the team, while Pawling seemed to gather new strength. Down
the side-line came Howard again. This time he stopped opposite Frank.
"I'm going to send you in, Armstrong, to get a little practice. Hang
onto the ball and keep your head. Steady that line up and look out
for the forward pass. Hurry it up."
But there was no need to tell Frank to hurry. He had torn off his
sweater with the first hint of his opportunity, and was listening
to the coach with body poised for the run onto the field. In his
eagerness he had entirely forgotten about the ankle.
With the coming of the new quarterback, the team took fresh life.
Under his urgings, they began to mow down their opponents as they
had in the first part of the game, and the crowd gathered along the
side-lines expressed their appreciation of the brace the team was
taking in joyous howls. A pretty forward pass, Turner to Bostwick,
put the ball on Pawling's 15-yard line.
Harrington, the big center, made a bad pass on the next play, but on
a slice outside of tackle, Turner made five yards. The Pawling team
braced, and cut the advance down on the next play to a single yard.
Bostwick stepped back to Frank and whispered something to him. Then
he called the whole team around him, and with arms over each other's
shoulders, they conferred on the next play. Dropping apart quickly,
the linemen sprang into position.
"Look out for a fake," cried the Pawling quarter, dancing around in
front of the goal posts.
"A forward pass!" cried another of the backs.
But it was neither a fake nor a forward pass.
Armstrong ran quickly to a point ten yards behind his crouching line,
coolly measured with his eye the distance from where he stood to the
cross-bar, and a moment later, receiving the ball on a long, true
pass from Harrington, dropped it to the ground, swung his toe against
it as it rose, and sent it spinning directly between the posts.
The kick was as pretty a one as could be desired, and its
appreciation was testified to by jubilant yells and the skyward
flight of sweaters and blankets along the side-lines.
A kick-off at midfield which Turner ran back 30 yards, a single rush,
and the whistle ended the game.
"Why didn't you tell me you could do that?" said Coach Howard giving
Armstrong a hearty slap on the back as he trotted over to the
side-line to pick up the discarded sweater. "You put that over like a
veteran!"
"Didn't have a chance before," said Frank, grinning.
"Guess you didn't. Well, I'll see to it that you get a chance after
this." And then, as the throng of grimy players and the spectators
straggled off to the cars, "I had pretty nearly come to the
conclusion that you were too soft for the game of football."
"My ankle isn't as good as it ought to be," said Frank, looking down.
"I was afraid of doing more damage to it."
"I'll take a look at that ankle in the gym," said Howard. "Maybe we
can make a quarterback of you yet. I want you to come over to the
Freshman training table after this."
It was a joyful gathering in Pierson that night, with a full
attendance, for little by little the Armstrong-Turner-Gleason-Powers
combination began to have a following in the dormitory and in the
class. Friends began to drop in to talk over matters of the moment
as they passed to and from their rooms, and if they were the right
kind they always had a welcome. The room became the central one for
spreads and parties, when the fun raged until ten o'clock.
"All over," Frank would shout. "Lights out." Both Turner and
Armstrong believed in keeping strict training hours.
On this particular night the Codfish was in his element.
"Three cheers for our own little quarterback," he howled.
"Sit down, you fish," shouted Turner. "You didn't even see the game."
"O, but I have ears. All the little birds sang it as I was coming up
from the boathouse this evening."
"How's the Freshman crew coming on?"
"I'm on the second now. You should have seen us scare the First boat
this afternoon. Had a mile spin. Started up by the Quinnipiac bridge,
and finished at Tomlinson, points you land-lubbers know nothing
about."
"And the Second was licked, of course?"
"Only by a blade, my son. We gave them the race of their lives,
fairly tore down the river, scared the oysters and all that sort of
thing, to say nothing of the First Freshmen."
"And when do they put you in the first shell?"
"'Nother week, about, I guess. Wouldn't be right to the other fellow
to advance me too fast."
"Great stuff, Codfish," said Turner, laughing. "I think you have
confidence enough to steer the 'Varsity crew over the course at New
London right now."
"Sure thing," said that worthy. "There's nothing to it. Mind
over matter, as I hinted to you once before; kind of scientific
attitude." The Codfish was busy untying a voluminous box which he
had brought home with him.
"For heaven's sake, what have you got there, a prehistoric horse?"
inquired Turner.
"No, my little halfback, it is a guitar," and having finished
unwrapping the instrument, he swung it over his head. "I'm going out
for the musical club stuff. I must have some activity, some life;
can't get it with two grumps like you fellows, so I must go after it."
"Jove," groaned Frank, "haven't we suffered enough with you and the
piano without having a guitar?"
The Codfish lay back on the window seat, strummed the untuned guitar,
and began to hum:
"When I was a student at Cadiz
I played on the Spanish guitar--"
"You'll be a student in Hades if you don't let up!" shouted Turner.
"We can stand anything excepting the picture of you as a student at
Cadiz. Please desist."
"O, tush, old fellow, your soul is not attuned to music. What's the
next line? I seem to disremember it----"
"When I was a stoogent at Cadiz." strum, strum, strum, strum,
"I played on the Spanish guitar."
"Good night!" yelled Frank. "Come on, let's go to Poli's and hear
some real music. We'll let the Codfish be 'a stoogent at Cadiz' all
to himself."
"S'matter?" said the musician reproachfully. "Well, if you must go,
good night. I cannot frivol my time away at Poli's vaudeville when
true art is stirring in my soul."
"Let her stir then," said Frank. "We're off," and the door banged.