THROUGH THE ENEMY'S LINE
Parkinson played Musket Hill Academy the next Saturday at North
Lebron and met her second defeat. As, however, Musket Hill was, with
the possible exception of Kenwood, the most formidable adversary on
the season's schedule, the school was not much surprised nor greatly
disappointed. Of course, there had been a secret hope that the Brown
would triumph, but to have done that she would have had to play a far
better game than she had so far exhibited, and Coach Driscoll was not
ready to speed up the team for the sake of a single victory. Parkinson
played true to midseason form and so did Musket Hill, and as Musket
Hill's midseason form was by far the better she took the contest. The
score, 16 to 6, fairly represented the merits of the teams.
Parkinson was outplayed in three periods and held her own and no more
in the fourth. By that time Musket Hill had accumulated a touchdown
from which she had failed to kick goal and a field-goal, and had held
her adversary scoreless although the latter had twice threatened to
tally. Once Parkinson had reached the home team's twenty-two yards and
had attempted a forward-pass across the line which had failed, and
again, in the third inning, she had rushed the ball as far as Musket
Hill's eighteen, where, held twice for downs, she had tried to put
the ball over the bar from placement. Instead of going between the
uprights, though, the pigskin went into the mêlée and was captured by
the opponents. It was that failure of Right Half-Back Cole's that paved
the way for Musket Hill's second score, for the fortunate youth who
picked the ball from the ground got nearly to the centre of the field
before he was stopped and from there it was rushed to the visitors'
twenty-six and, when the brown line stiffened, was sent across the bar
for three points.
In the fourth quarter, Parkinson went bravely at it to retrieve her
fallen fortunes, but a fumble by Basker, who had gone in for Dannis
a minute or two before, gave the ball to Musket Hill on Parkinson's
thirty-yard line and Musket Hill was not to be denied. She tore big
holes in the brown line between tackles, favouring the centre for the
last stage of the journey, and at last pushed her full-back over. She
brought her score up to sixteen by kicking a pretty goal from a hard
angle. Parkinson wanted to give way to discouragement then, but Coach
Driscoll sent back Donovan and Walker and replaced Almy with Conlon at
centre, Almy having been injured in the final play of the drive, and
somehow the Brown took on a new lease of life and acquitted herself
rather heroically. And when, with some five minutes of playing time
left, one of Basker's punts went over the head of the Musket Hill's
quarter, Ray White dropped on it near the enemy's twenty-yards. Then
the Brown pulled herself together in really superb style and showed an
offence which, had it matured earlier in the game, might have written
a different page in history. Parkinson went over the immaculate Musket
Hill goal line in just five plays, of which three were mighty rushes by
Wirt, one a delayed pass to Billy Wells for a slide off tackle and the
fifth and last a straight plunge through the centre of the crumbling
Musket Hill line by Cole. That final rush met with so little opposition
that Cole went stumbling and falling half-way to the end line!
But six points--Lyons failed at goal by a mere inch or so--while
comforting, didn't alter the fact of defeat, and Parkinson went home
through a cloudy, chilly evening with another dent in her shield. But
the fact that the school had "come back" in its allegiance was proved
well that afternoon, for the hundred-odd boys who had accompanied the
team stood up in the stand after the battle was over and cheered again
and again for "Parkinson! _Parkinson!_ PARKINSON!"
As it turned out later, Parkinson had sustained something more serious
than a defeat that day. She had lost the services for most if not all
of the balance of the season of Bill Almy, the centre. Almy had borne
the brunt of the last half-dozen rushes made by Musket Hill when on the
way to her final score and he had paid for it. They had taken him off
groaning and half fainting, but it wasn't known until the next morning
that he had broken a collar bone in two places! The attending physician
seemed highly elated over that second break, but his enthusiasm was
shared by no one else. There was hopeful talk of a pad later on and of
Almy getting into the Kenwood game at least, but Coach Driscoll didn't
deceive himself. On Monday afternoon he moved Conlon into Almy's place
and looked around for a likely substitute for Conlon. His choice fell
on Tooker, a guard, and Tooker was put through a course of sprouts
that almost ruined an excellent disposition but failed to satisfy Mr.
Driscoll. Crane, too, was given a chance to demonstrate that he was
intended for a centre rather than a guard, and Crane failed quite as
signally as Tooker.
There was a time when "any old man," provided he had weight, bulk
and strength, did well enough for the centre position on a football
team, but that time has long since passed. Today the centre position
is rightly called the pivotal position. A poor centre may do more to
handicap a team than any other one player, and a good centre can do
more to perfect it. He is the man that the team lines up about, and
his spirit is, more frequently than is realised, the spirit of the
whole eleven. In these days, instead of merely learning two passes,
one to the quarter and another to the kicker, a centre must become
accomplished in anywhere from six to a dozen, for each of the new
formations requires its special sort of pass. Instead of being guardian
only of the little piece of territory on which he stands, the centre
today must be "all over the lot." He goes down the field with the ends
under a punt, plunges into the interference on mass plays or end runs
and must do his part when a forward-pass is tried. Nor is he less busy
on the defensive, for he shares the responsibility for end runs and
forward-passes and must help in blocking off the opponents going down
the field under kicks. And, whether on offence or defence, he must
handle the opposing centre and at all times use his head as well as his
body. Consequently, an ideal centre must combine a good many qualities,
as many if not more than any other man on the team. He must be steady,
fast, intuitive and high-spirited. If he has weight besides, so much
the better but some of the weight should be inside his head and not all
below the neck.
Ira had not been used in the Musket Hill game, but the following
Saturday, after a week of longer and harder practice than had fallen
to the lot of the team all season, he found himself at right guard
when the third quarter of the game with Chancellor School began.
Chancellor had not come up to expectations and the Brown had run up
nineteen points in the first half and had the contest secure. Brackett
had played at right of centre during the first half and Neely was
supposed to be next in succession, but for some reason Coach Driscoll
called Ira's name. Tooker had started at centre, but had lasted only
through the first quarter and half of the second, and Crane had taken
his place. Crane, while a fairly good substitute guard, was still
quite at sea in the centre position and much of his work devolved on
the guards. As Chancellor School was not yet acknowledging defeat;
had a slow-moving but heavy line and was relying on rushes between
tackles for the most part, Ira and Tom Buffum, the latter playing at
the left of Crane, had their hands pretty full. Crane could be relied
on to play his man on most occasions, but on the attack he was slow in
recovering after the pass and it was usually Ira or Buffum who blocked
the opposing centre. Any save ordinary passes to quarter or kicker were
beyond Crane, and so most of the direct passes were eliminated. On
getting the ball back to the kicker Crane was inclined to be erratic,
but so far had not sinned many times. He worked as hard as he knew
how, perhaps twice as hard as he would have had to work had he known
his position better. For most of the third quarter he got on well
enough, with the two guards sharing his duties, but when the period was
nearly over he began to weaken and Chancellor discovered the fact very
speedily. Play after play came through the centre of the brown line, in
spite of the efforts of the guards and the backfield, and had there not
been a fumble by a Chancellor half-back on the opponent's twenty-seven
yards Chancellor would surely have scored. She recovered the fumble for
a twelve-yard loss and began her rushes again, but the distance was
too great and an unsuccessful attempt at a field-goal from near the
thirty-five yards gave the ball to Parkinson.
Cole tore off four yards and Wirt got two and then the latter was sent
back to punt. Crane had been pretty badly used and what might have
happened earlier in the game happened then. The pigskin flew away
from him at least two feet above Wirt's upstretched hands and went
rolling and bobbing toward the goal line. It was merely a question of
whether a Chancellor end would get to it before it could be recovered.
Something told Ira that the pass had gone wrong almost as soon as he
had seen it vanish from Crane's hands, and he was tearing back nearly
on the heels of the ball before his own backfield had more than sensed
the catastrophe. Chancellor came piling through and her ends fought
desperately to get around. Wirt was legging it back after the pigskin
and several other Parkinson players had begun pursuit. But Ira's
start had given him the advantage and he passed Wirt at full speed.
The ball was trickling toward the five-yard line. Behind, pounded the
feet of friend and foe as Ira slackened, caught the ball up, stumbled,
recovered his gait and swung to the long side of the field. He might
have played it safe by taking it over the line for a touchback,
but the idea didn't occur to him. Instead, he pushed the ball into
the crook of his left elbow as he had been taught to do, raised his
right hand to ward off tacklers and plunged back the way he had come,
circling, however, well over toward the further side of the field.
Hasty interference gathered to his aid, but the enemy was abreast
of him and stretching toward him as he reached the twenty yards. He
avoided one tackler by dodging. Then two of the enemy faced him and
escape looked impossible to the watchers. But he stopped short in
his tracks, stopped for such a perceptible period that it seemed as
if he was deliberatingly studying his chances, and then, just as the
two pair of striped arms reached for him, he was off again, swinging
on his heel, swerving to the left, leaving the enemy empty-handed as
they staggered and rolled over the turf. After that only something
approaching a miracle could account for Ira's escape. In evading the
last danger he had thrown himself straight into the centre of the enemy
horde. His interference, never very effective, was scattered now and
he had only his own wits to serve him. But serve him they did. And so
did his weight and strength, for twice he literally tore himself loose
from Chancellor players when it looked from the side line as though
he was stopped, and twice he bowled over an eager tackler by sheer
weight and impetus. He deserved to carry the pigskin the remaining
length of the field for a touchdown, after such an exhibition, but we
don't always get what we deserve--when we deserve it. Ira still had the
Chancellor quarter to reckon with, and that canny youth had refused to
be drawn up to the line and was waiting just short of the centre of the
field.
Eager shouts urged the runner on and behind him brown legs and striped
legs sped desperately. Ira changed his course a little toward the
nearer side line and the quarter edged in to meet him. Then they came
together. The Chancellor quarter tackled surely and Ira's attempt to
get past him failed. But then, with the quarter hanging to his hips,
Ira kept right on. The exclamations of dismay from the stands turned to
shrieks of laughter, for the quarter-back, who, although smaller than
the runner was of no mean size, dangled from Ira like a sack of meal,
squirming, dragging, pulling! Five yards Ira gained. Then his plunging
steps shortened, for the quarter had slipped his clutching arms lower
until they were binding Ira's legs together. But even then he managed
to conquer another two yards, and perhaps he would have gone on and
on to the far-off goal line had not a ponderous Chancellor linesman
reached the scene at the next moment and hurled himself on the runner.
When they wrested the ball away it was just past the centre line and
Ira had made a good forty-five yards in that plucky run. Fred Lyons
hugged him as he helped drag him to his feet, and Basker shouted:
"That's going some, Rowland! That's going some, boy!" and thumped what
little breath was left in his lungs away. That ended Crane's session
and Conlon went in at his position. After that Parkinson took the ball
forty-eight yards without losing it and shot Cole across for the fourth
score. When the whistle shrilled Billy Goode summoned Ira out and
sent him trotting back to the gymnasium and Neely came into his own.
Ira was not at all pained at being taken out, for he had had a pretty
busy fifteen minutes and was glad enough to get under a shower. He was
dressed and out of the building before the others returned and only
heard the final score at supper time.
Coach Driscoll had put in too many substitutes in the fourth period, he
was told, and one of them--some said Cheap and some said Mason--had
fumbled a pass near goal and a Smart Aleck Chancellor youth had fallen
on the ball. It had taken the full allowance of downs to get the ball
over, but they had done it, and the final score stood 26 to 7. Ira was
something of a hero at Mrs. Trainor's table that evening, but he must
have been a disappointing one, for his account of his achievement had
to be dragged from him piecemeal and sounded extremely flat as he told
it. To his credit, it may be stated that he didn't look on his feat as
at all remarkable and didn't feel at all heroic. Only rather tired. He
fell asleep over his Latin about nine and was in bed ten minutes later.
When he wrote home the next morning--it was a rainy Sunday and so
eminently suited to the writing of letters and the balancing of bank
books and the "getting up" on neglected studies--he did mention his
part in the Chancellor game, but he didn't make much of it, first,
because he didn't think much of it and, second, because his father
didn't know as much about a game of football as Ira himself had known
before coming to Parkinson!
On Monday Ira might have seen evidences of new respect in the looks
and behaviour of his teammates, but he wasn't looking for them. It
didn't occur to him that picking up a football and carrying it through
the opposing team for a matter of forty-five yards could make any
difference in his status. But there was a difference, and he was
ultimately forced to perceive it. For awhile, however, he was far
too busy. Coach Driscoll beckoned him from the bench before practice
started. The coach had a quizzical smile on his face as Ira approached.
"Rowland," he said, "that was a nice little piece of work of yours on
Saturday, and it seems too bad to find fault with you, but, my boy, you
had no more business with that ball than a tramp with a cake of soap!"
"Oh!" murmured Ira. "I'm sorry, sir."
"Your duty was to play your position, no matter what went on behind.
As it turned out you got away with it, but you might not have. It was
Wirt's place to pick up that ball, or Basker's, but not yours. When you
left the line you left a hole open for half the opposing team to pile
through. If you'd made a slip they'd have brushed you and Wirt aside
and had a touchdown in the shake of a lamb's tail. See it?"
"Yes, sir," agreed Ira sheepishly. "I'm afraid I didn't think of that."
"No, but those are the things you must think of, Rowland. You must
use your head every minute. You're not likely to do the same thing
again and we'll say no more about it. Aside from the fact that it was
wrong at the start, Rowland, that was as pretty a piece of running in a
broken field as I ever saw. And I was mighty glad to see one thing in
especial: you didn't stop when you were tackled. I liked that. You got
a good seven yards after Myers grabbed you, and when you did go down
you went down the right way, toward the other fellow's goal. That may
seem a small thing to you, Rowland, but if you put together all the
ground lost during a game by men who give in too soon when tackled and
who don't 'stretch' when they're down you'd have a fairly respectable
slice of territory. All right. Now, here's something else. Do you think
you could play centre?"
"Centre?" Ira stared blankly. "I don't know, sir."
"Well, we've got an opening for a bright, industrious lad like you,"
said the coach, with a smile. "You'd have to work like the very
dickens, Rowland, but I have a hunch that we can make a centre of you
if you'll do your part. Want to try it?"
"Why, yes, sir, if you want me to."
"Hm! Your soul doesn't exactly crave it, I see."
"I'd just as lief, Mr. Driscoll, but I don't know much about it. I'll
be glad to try."
"And try hard?"
"Hard as I know how, sir."
"Well, we can't expect more than that, I guess. Anyway, we'll see in
a few days how you shape up. Today you'd better study Conlon and try
to see how it's done. Keep your blanket on and follow scrimmage from
behind the line. Use your eyes, Rowland. Maybe we'll get you in for a
minute or two at the end. Have you ever tried to pass?"
"No, sir, not as a centre."
"Well, it isn't hard if you put your mind on it. I'll turn you over to
Basker when he gets through signal work. If you make good, Rowland, you
stand a mighty good show of getting into the Kenwood game. And if you
do that you'll get your letter."
"Yes, sir."
"Hang it, Rowland!" laughed the coach. "Don't you ever get enthusiastic
about anything? Most fellows would be tickled to death at the idea of
playing against Kenwood."
"I suppose I'd like it very much," replied Ira in a slightly puzzled
tone. "I hope I'll be good enough."
"If you're not, you won't get a chance," said the coach drily. "All
right now. Join your squad. When you get through signal work report to
me again."
Work like the very dickens Ira did, not only that day but every
practice day following during the next fortnight. He was taught his
duties in the line and he was taught to pass the ball in all of seven
different styles and angles. It was Basker who did most of the coaching
as to passing, although on one or two occasions Dannis took him in
charge. Then Bill Almy, his shoulder and arm confined in a cast and
a hundred yards of bandage--I'm accepting Almy's estimate--appeared
and went at Ira unmercifully. There were half-hour sessions at odd
times during the day and every afternoon he stayed on the field with
the goal-kickers and, always with two, and frequently with three or
even four, busy coaches about him, passed and passed and passed! Or he
stood up and was pushed about by Coach Driscoll or he hurled his weight
against the charging machine to a chorus of "Low, Rowland, low! Now!
Push up! Harder, man! You're not working!"
Not working! Ira decided that he had never even suspected before what
the word meant! And what haunted him most of the time was the bothering
conviction that a whole lot of persons, including himself, were wearing
souls and bodies out for no important result! Surely, if it came to
all this bother it would be much more reasonable to let Kenwood win
the game. Of course he realised that a victory for Parkinson would
be very nice and would please everyone around him, especially Fred
Lyons and Coach Driscoll, but it didn't seem to him that the game was
worth the candle. Still, he kept his nose to the grindstone without
a murmur, remained good-tempered in the face of many temptations to
be otherwise and worked like a dray-horse. And, at last--it was the
Tuesday following the game with Day and Robins's School--he was told
that he had made good. "You'll do, Rowland," was what Coach Driscoll
said briefly that day. "Rest up tomorrow. Thursday we'll give you a
good try-out against the second."
If he expected signs of delight, he was disappointed. For all that Ira
said was: "Thank you, sir."