COACH DRISCOLL APOLOGISES
Half a minute later the horn blew and the quarter ended.
Parkinson went back to line attacks, now that she was facing the wind,
and soon yielded the ball. Kenwood, profiting by her adversary's
example, started a kicking game. History repeated herself and every
exchange of punts gave the Blue a good five yards of territory and
before the period was many minutes old Parkinson was digging her cleats
into her thirty-yard line. Dannis let the centre alone now and sent his
backs outside of tackles and made gains of a sort. Only once did she
try a forward-pass, and then it was a short one over the middle of the
line that gained her eight yards. Slowly but irrevocably she was being
forced back. When, from her twenty-five, Wirt's punt was caught in a
flurry of wind and blown almost back to him and captured by the enemy,
it was evident that Fortune meant to even her favours.
The Kenwood supporters cheered incessantly while the Blue team tore at
the Brown line and, failing to gain the distance, again punted. This
time it was Parkinson's time to taste of luck, for Dannis, cuddling
the ball to him squarely on his goal line, leaped away, eluding both
Kenwood ends, and tore it past friend and enemy to his own forty-two
yards amidst a perfect thunder of cheers. But three tries only netted
six yards and Wirt had to punt and the ball was Kenwood's again on her
fifteen yards. A penalty set her back five and then came another long
forward-pass and the pigskin was back in midfield. Price, right end,
was hurt and Ritter took his place.
Kenwood smashed the line once, skirted the left end once and tried a
quarter-back run, all for a gain of five yards. Back went her punter
and the Parkinson backfield scattered. But the ball didn't sail into
the air this time. Instead, it was borne straight through centre by the
husky fullback for a good seven yards, and when the dust of battle had
settled Conlon and Brackett were on their faces.
"They got Terry," said Brad. "I saw it. It was their right guard. Guess
Brackett's only winded, though."
And to prove it, Brackett was already climbing to his feet. But
Conlon was taking full time and Billy Goode was kneeling over him
solicitously. Coach Driscoll was looking intently across the field, and
Billy had scarcely raised a beckoning hand before he had swung smartly
on his heel and his eyes were searching the line of substitutes.
"Rowland! On the run!" he called sharply.
Ira, startledly disentangling himself from his blanket, stumbled to
his feet, dimly aware of Brad's cheerful and envious "Good luck!", and
hurried across. He expected the coach to give him instructions, but Mr.
Driscoll only nodded sidewise toward the line-up.
"Go in at centre," he said. "Here, leave your sweater behind!"
Ira stopped and struggled out of that garment, tossed it behind him
and trotted on. They were carrying Conlon off, his head sagging, and
as Ira paused to catch the head-harness tossed by Billy Goode he had a
glimpse of the boy's pale face, dirt-streaked and drawn with pain, and
something that was as near like fear as Ira had ever felt came to him!
Then Dannis was thumping his arm and the others were grinning tiredly
at him and he was pulling his harness on. In front of him, inches wider
of shoulder and inches taller, loomed the formidable Beadle. He was
a fine-looking youth, in spite of a swollen mouth and a greenish lump
under one eye, and there was nothing savage in the steady look he gave
Ira. It was an appraising look, and as Ira met it something very much
like a smile flickered for an instant in the big centre's eyes. Then
the signals came and Ira stepped back out of the line and the game went
on.
For the first few minutes Ira had only a dim conception of what he
was doing and of what was going on about him. He worked in a sort of
haze, doing what he had been taught to do, blocking, breaking through,
tripping, falling, racing here and there after the ball, passing now
and then, always with his breath coming hard and every energy alert.
Kenwood came through time after time, but the gains were short. Beadle
was a terror at his job and Ira's efforts to stop him were seldom more
than half successful. Beadle was quicker than anyone Ira had ever
played against, and he knew more tricks, and he was terribly hard to
reach. Ira worked like a Trojan during that remaining six minutes, and
sometimes he got the better of his man, but those times were few in
number. Toward the end of the half Parkinson palpably played for time,
and it was only that that saved her, for when the welcome whistle
finally blew the enemy was raging about her fifteen yards. Had Kenwood
been satisfied with a goal from the field she might easily have made
it, for two chances were hers, but Kenwood wanted a touchdown and kept
after it, and only the timer's watch defeated her. As it was, Parkinson
trotted back to the gymnasium still leading by three points, but very
doubtful of the outcome.
Ira was wondering how it would be possible for him to last another
half-hour, for it seemed to him that he had already done a day's work.
He had a bleeding nose--he couldn't remember where or how he had got
it--and one of his wrists had been badly wrenched, but compared with
some of the others he was in fine condition! The locker-room was a
scene of wild confusion, with rubbers hard at word, a vile odour of
liniment in the air, dozens of tired voices scolding, the sound of
rushing water over all. Mended and massaged, Ira sank into a corner and
tiredly looked on. Fred Lyons, pale-faced, agitated, was pushing Billy
Goode aside in his effort to reach Coach Driscoll.
"Oh, let me alone, Billy! I'm all right, I tell you! Coach! Coach! What
are we going to do if they try that forward-passing again! We haven't a
man who can stop it! It's rotten!"
"It's up to the ends," answered Mr. Driscoll. "What's wrong with them?
Where were you, White? And you, Price? Haven't you been taught----"
"It wasn't my end, sir!" denied Ray warmly.
"It's always your end! Any end's your end in a forward-pass! You don't
keep your eyes open! Bradford! You go in at left end next half and
see if you can cover your man. Where's Wells? Look here, what sort of
football have you been taught? Can't you do anything but throw your
head back and paw the air? You weren't much better, Cole. Someone's got
to get through that line if we expect to win this game. Slow starting
and slow running! It's been awful! Dannis, you've got to speed them up
next half. They'll fall asleep in their tracks! Lyons, for the love
of Mike, let Billy get that bandage on you! What is it, Lowell? Oh, I
don't know. Yes, let them have it. Well, Rowland!" The coach paused in
front of Ira and looked down at him with a sneer. "You're a fine piece
of work, aren't you? Is that the best you can do?"
Ira, startled and surprised, looked back dumbly. Surely this wasn't
the Mr. Driscoll he knew, this snarling, contemptuous person with the
flashing eyes!
"Can't you fight a little bit?" went on the coach. "Clean yellow, are
you? All you did was stand up there and take your punishment. Let me
tell you something, Rowland. They're coming after you this next half.
They're going to flay you if you don't show signs of life. They want a
touchdown and they mean to have it and they'll be hitting the centre
from now on. What do you intend to do about it, eh? Speak up!"
"Why--why--" faltered Ira, "I--I'm going to do the best I can!"
"Best you can be blowed! Don't you know you're up against the best
centre there is today on a school team? 'Do the best you can!' Great
Scott, man, you've got to do _better_ than you can! Better than
you ever dreamed of doing! You've got to _fight_! This isn't any
Sunday-school picnic. This is football. We're out to win. I was afraid
all along you had a yellow streak, and now I know it. But you'll stay
in there until you have to be carried off, like Conlon. Want to know
what your trouble is?"
Ira was still too amazed to answer.
"You're a coward! That's your trouble! You're afraid! You don't dare
fight back! You're a plain squealer! I've got your measure, son!"
Ira felt the blood pouring into his cheeks as he jumped to his feet and
faced the coach with clenched hands.
"You take that back!" he said in a low voice that trembled in spite of
him.
"Take it back!" sneered the coach. "Yes, I'll take it back when you
show I'm wrong. You can't bluff me, Rowland. I see right through you."
"You take it back now, or--" Ira stopped and his arms fell at his
sides. "You're coach now," he said hardly above a whisper, "but
afterwards--if you aren't what you say I am--you'll--you'll answer for
what--what----"
But the tears, hot, angry tears, were no longer to be denied, and he
ended in a sob and turned away blindly and stumbled his way to the
door. Outside, in the cold sunlight, he blinked the tears back and
tried to get control of himself. Coward, was he? Then what was the
coach? He had taken advantage of his authority! He knew well enough he
wouldn't be called to account now. But afterwards! Just wait until the
game was over, until they had quit training! Ira's hands clenched until
they hurt. They'd see who was the coward. Driscoll wouldn't be coach
then, he'd be just--just a thing to strike! He--
And then the door banged open and the players came trooping out, Fred
Lyons in the lead, and Ira fell in with them as they passed and went
back to the field, his thoughts in a strange confusion and a red-hot
anger at his heart.
It was Parkinson's kick-off and Fred, no longer white and tremulous,
but quiet and cheerful and composed, sent the ball skimming the heads
of the charging enemy. Then the battle began again, desperately.
Kenwood settled down to batter her way through the opposing line.
Forward-passes were not for them any longer. They wanted the six
points a touchdown would give them and they meant to have them, and
their way of getting them was to wear down the enemy and make weight
and endurance tell. Minutes passed and the slow, steady grind went
on. Twice Kenwood made her distance through the opposing line, yet,
once past midfield, her plunges failed. Then came a punt, and it was
Parkinson's turn. There was little to choose between those rival teams
today. Offence and defence were evenly matched, and only when one side
was favoured by the wind did that team's kicking excel. Between the two
thirty-yard lines the battle raged until the third period was nearly
gone. Then fortune favoured the visitors and a runner got away past
Fred Lyons and reeled off twenty-odd yards before Dannis brought him
down. The enemy was on the Brown's twenty-two-yards now and it was
first down. Plunge, plunge, plunge! Two yards--three yards--one yard!
Four to go still and only one down left! A fake attack at centre and a
back stealing off to the left, Wells breaking through and bringing him
crashing to earth, cheers and frenzied shrieks of joy and relief from
the Brown stand! Back to midfield then under the ball, and the same
thing to do all over again.
No scoring in that first fifteen minutes. Subs going in now for both
teams. Basker for Dannis, Pearson for Wells, Neely for Brackett on the
Brown. Parkinson works the ends for short gains and then Wirt tears
through the redoubtable Beadle and goes on and on, dodging, turning,
twisting, throwing off tackle after tackle!
The ball is on the enemy's thirty-four-yards. Pearson, fresh and eager,
makes four through tackle on the left, Cole adds two more, Wirt is
stopped. Off goes the ball on a short kick and the Kenwood quarter
is thrown on his five-yard line. Now the Blue desperately tries a
forward-pass again, faking a kick, but Bradford has his man covered
and the ball rolls into the hay. Two attempts at the line and Kenwood
punts far down the field. Basker fumbles, recovers and is thrown on
his twenty-eight. Pearson slips around the end for a yard, Cole gets
three through Beadle, Cole takes the ball for two more, Wirt punts.
And so it goes, and the minutes slip by. Kenwood sees defeat staring
at her now. Eight minutes left and the ball again in midfield. Kenwood
tries desperate tactics. She pulls her line apart and opens her bag
of tricks. Sometimes she fools the enemy and gains, but for the most
part she is forced to fall back on a punt on third down or fourth. Five
minutes left and Parkinson well satisfied now to play on the defensive
and hold what she has. And then, a sudden change in the fortunes of the
game!
It was Basker's fault, for the punt was unmistakably Pearson's. With
both backs trying for it, the pigskin escaped and trickled past, and a
flying Kenwood end was on it. Fortunately, Basker got him in the act of
finding his feet again and pulled him back to earth, but the pigskin
was Kenwood's on Parkinson's twenty-seven-yards and there was time
enough to turn a victory to a defeat!
Then it was that Kenwood made her final, fiercest effort. Straight at
the centre she sent her backs. Slowly but surely the Brown gave way.
Play after play crashed at Lyons and Ira and Donovan, sometimes gaining
a yard, sometimes two, infrequently more. Beadle worked like a wild
man, but the holes weren't always there now. Time and again he brought
up against his opponent as against a stone wall. Something--Beadle
could never guess what--had wrought a change in that smiling-faced
adversary since the first inning. The smile was still there, but it was
a different smile. This man Rowland was playing him out, and he knew it
well now. He couldn't fool him any longer, couldn't turn him in or pull
him past as he had before. Every inch had to be fought for desperately.
Back to her seventeen went Parkinson, fighting hard but giving a
little each time. Kenwood might tie the game now if she chose to try a
field-goal, but Kenwood wanted a victory. Still she aimed her plays at
the centre, from guard to guard, though twice she attempted the ends
and was stopped. Two yards was her best gain, once past the fifteen,
and after that the distances grew shorter each time. With five to go
on fourth down and the ball just short of the ten-yard line, she sent
her quarter sneaking out toward the left end and, somehow, he squirmed
and wriggled through for the distance. Parkinson's supporters were
imploring wildly as the panting teams lined up on the seven-yards.
It was now or never for the Blue, while, if she got over that line,
Parkinson's lot would be defeat, for the minutes were nearly gone.
Kenwood sent her full-back straight at centre. The Brown line bent, but
held. A scant yard was gained. Then an attack on Lyons made two. Third
down now and four to go! Kenwood shifted, thought better of it, changed
her signals and shifted back. Quarter and captain walked apart and
whispered. Then signals again, and once more the plunge came at Ira.
There was a moment of heaving, panting confusion, the charge faltered
and stopped. Another yard was gone!
Kenwood lined up quickly, put her backs in a tandem behind her left
guard and the signals piped once more. But the tandem split and the
ball went again to the big full-back and again he charged, head down,
straight into the centre. Cries, grunts, the rasping of canvas! A surge
forward checked in the instant. A second surge as the Kenwood linesmen
turned in behind the attack. A yard gained! A sudden pause then and,
somewhere, a faint voice grunting "_Down!_"
The whistle shrilled and the referee dived into the mass of squirming
players. One by one they were thrust aside or pulled breathless to
their feet until only two figures remained there on the trampled turf.
One was the fullback with the ball clutched desperately under him,
but a full yard from the line, and the other was the Kenwood centre.
Above the latter stood a boy in a brown uniform who looked down at his
vanquished foe with a queer, crooked smile on his lips.
They lifted Beadle to his uncertain feet presently and carried him
away, and the game went on. But the time was practically up, for after
Wirt had punted from behind his goal and Kenwood had made a fair-catch
on the enemy's forty-five-yard line the final whistle blew and the
Parkinson hordes swept down from the stand and flooded over the field
with waving pennants.
Ira, head hanging, feet dragging, climbed the gymnasium steps. He had
fought off those who would have placed him aloft and borne him around
the field--they had captured fully half the team--and made his escape.
With him was a happy, dirty-visaged Brad and an equally disreputable
Pearson, for substitutes will flock together even in the hour of
triumph, and behind and in front were straggling groups of other
heroes. Brad found Ira strangely taciturn on the way to the gymnasium,
and marvelled. Himself, he could have danced, as tired as he was! They
burst riotously into the building, shouting mightily, and tore off
soaking, dirt-grimed togs.
Ira, struggling grimly with his shirt, heard his name called above the
din and saw Coach Driscoll standing in front of him. The shirt parted
with a rip and Ira stepped forward, free.
"Are we out of training yet, sir?" he asked.
The coach nodded. He was smiling gravely. Ira wondered at that smile
even as he poised himself to strike.
"Wait a minute, Rowland," said Mr. Driscoll quietly. "There's time
enough."
Ira paused irresolutely. "What is it?" he demanded frowningly.
"First, it's an apology," answered the coach. "Don't you understand
yet, Rowland?"
"Understand? Yes, I understand that you--you called me a coward a while
ago, Mr. Driscoll. We're not in training now and you're going to answer
for it!"
"My dear fellow," laughed the coach, "I'm quite ready to answer for
it. But listen to me first, will you? I suppose I played rather a
mean trick on you, but I think the end justifies it. You weren't
doing yourself justice. You weren't half playing the game you could
play--and did play afterwards. And I knew there was only one way to
wake you up, and that that was to make you angry. I'm sorry, Rowland,
if I hurt you, even for a half-hour, but--well, I wanted to win! We
all did! Even you did, though you didn't know it! Rowland, if I hadn't
insulted you you'd never have played Beadle to a standstill, my boy!
We won and you did a big share of the work. And you did it because you
were mad clean through. Now didn't you?"
Ira's look of amazement brought chuckles of amusement from the circle
of listeners.
"You mean that--that you said that just to--to make me play better?"
gasped Ira.
The coach nodded. "Just for that," he said. "And now I apologise.
You're no coward, Rowland, and I never believed you to be. Want to
shake hands and forget it?"
A smile came slowly to Ira's face and he shook his head hopelessly.
"Football," he murmured, "is a funny game!" But he stretched his hand
out and clasped the coach's firmly.
* * * * * *
Transcriber's note:
--Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to
follow the text that they illustrate, so the page number of the
illustration may not match the page number in the Illustrations.
--Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.
--Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
--Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
--The author's em-dash style has been retained.