AN UNWILLING HERO
North Side used Wightson and Larue continuously, hurling them against
the line from tackle to tackle and managing to work the ball from under
the goal well into the middle of the field. There, however, the Second,
surmising that attacks outside the tackles were not included in the
enemy’s present plans, concentrated its secondary defense behind the
center of its line and stopped the advance, North Side being forced
to kick. The punt was poor and rolled out near the adversary’s forty
yards, and from there the Second began another advance. But a fumble
again lost ground and a punt went over the goal line. On a third try
from their twenty yards, the North Siders managed to get Wightson clear
for a twelve-yard run. A minute later Larue also squirmed free and,
with the factory workers yelling their lungs out in the stand and
along the side lines, North Side passed the middle of the field, and
for the first time had the pigskin in High School territory.
They played a hard and desperate game, caring nothing for knocks and
bruises; in fact, showing a willingness to stand any sort of punishment
so long as they gained ground. Concentrating their attack on Gage,
at left guard, they wore that youth down, so that, finally, on the
Second’s thirty-two yards, that player was withdrawn to recover his
breath and nurse his injuries, and Johnson took his place. Johnson was
a big Senior who knew little football, but who looked so imposing and
mighty that the North Side transferred its attentions to the other
guard. But Captain Nostrand was not so easy a proposition as Gage had
proved, and the enemy’s advance was stopped. A desperate attempt to get
a forward pass across the goal line from the thirty yards failed, and
the twelve-minute period came to an end.
High School punted on second down when play was resumed and Grover
recovered the ball after a fumble by Quarterback Shores on the North
Siders’ thirty-yard line. From there, in eleven plays, mixing forward
passes with fake-kicks and end runs, High School scored, sending
McCoy through right tackle for two yards and a touchdown. Brimmer, who
essayed to kick the goal, failed by a narrow margin.
There was no more scoring in that half, although the North Siders were
threatening High School’s goal when the whistle blew. Undismayed, the
audience from across the river consumed peanuts and popcorn and enjoyed
themselves noisily. Nostrand returned Gage to the line when play began
again and put Burns in for Sawin at right half. Getting the pigskin
on the kick-off, North Side, with one or two substitutes in her line,
returned to her line-bucking tactics, evidently resolved to tire out
and wear down the High School defense. Wightson was the marvel of that
contest. How he could perform the work that was given to him and keep
on his feet, no one understood. He was always good for a short gain and
seldom failed to get clear of the first defense. Only the fine work of
McCoy and Burns, the latter returned to the backfield on account of his
defensive ability, saved the day time after time, for, once free, the
big Welshman could never have been stopped. Pete Farrar, with his one
hundred and forty-odd pounds, would have been tossed aside like a chip
had he ever been called on to get between Wightson and the goal line!
Now and then, but infrequently during the first three periods, Larue
was called on, but for the most part it was the Welshman who took the
ball and banged himself, head down, against the opposing line, much
as an enraged bull might have assaulted a stone wall. High School was
fortunate in being able to know beforehand pretty well where the attack
was coming, since Danny Shores had but few plays and those were not
difficult to guess, and so was able to put her backfield defenses where
it would do the most good. But for all of that, their line was showing
wear and tear before that third quarter was over. North Side did not
deliberately “mix it up,” and only one penalty was meted out to her
because of unnecessary roughness, but her savage and desperate attacks
were bound to tell. Fudge was wearing a bloody nose, which gave him a
most disreputable appearance, and several other linemen showed marks of
battle when the third quarter ended.
By that time the North Side supporters had become impatient and were
howling for a touchdown, calling on the players individually to
distinguish themselves. “Get into ’em, Billy! What you scared of?”
“Eat ’em up, Pat! Show us what you know!” “Give us a touchdown now! Are
you goin’ to let ’em lick yer?” “Where’s yer fight, Terry? Kill ’em,
boy, kill ’em!” “Give us a score, Danny! Let’s do ’em up, now.”
As if in obedience to such promptings, North Side began again harder,
more desperately than ever. A penalty for holding put High School back
to her twenty-three yards. An end run gained but a yard, and Brimmer
punted almost straight into air. When the ball stopped rolling it was
North Side’s on High School’s thirty-two yards. Yells of delight and
encouragement came from the stand, and Danny hurled Wightson at the
line again. Two yards resulted, McCoy stopping the runner. Larue made
four on left tackle and was pulled down by Brimmer. Wightson again at
Fudge’s position and three yards more were gained. Wightson at right
guard and first down made.
Twenty to go now. Danny Shores himself took the ball but made no gain.
Then Wightson made three and the fullback two, and, with five to gain
on fourth down, Danny faked a place-kick and sent Wightson straight
into the line, plunging, dodging, straining, and made the distance by
a bare two inches, as the tape showed! Pandemonium reigned in the
North Siders’ camp. Entreaties, commands, threats of personal violence
were hurled at the players! High School gathered herself compactly,
concentrating her whole strength behind the center of her line. For
North Side had tried no end of plays and seemed not to have included
them in her education. But Danny Shores was red-headed, and so is a
fox. A try at the center yielded a scant two feet and took the ball
to the nine yards. Then the pigskin was shot back to Larue and that
swarthy-faced little Canuck shot around Grover’s end like a weasel and
planted the ball just behind the left goal-post!
The North Side supporters were all for rushing onto the field and
carrying the heroic Larue around on their shoulders, and it was all
that Will Scott and the officials, aided by most of the visiting team,
could do to persuade them to postpone that ceremony. When order had
been restored and the delighted and noisily appreciative supporters had
been cajoled back of the side line again, Danny essayed to kick the
goal. But North Side’s chance to win the game there and then was lost,
for the ball went well under the cross-bar, and High School shouted its
relief.
There were still six minutes of playing time remaining, and Captain
Nostrand called on his team to make the most of it. High School kicked
off and North Side caught and ran back to her fifteen yards. Larue now
took the brunt of the work, but his forte was broken field running,
and his attempts at the line were less successful than Wightson’s.
Nevertheless, North Side made first down twice and took the ball
to her forty yards before she was forced to punt. Farrar caught on
High School’s thirty-three and, behind good interference, ran back
to midfield. There a fumble lost a down, a forward pass failed, and
Brimmer punted to the opponent’s twenty. Danny Shores made the catch,
but was downed without gain and Larue tried to win through the left
of the line without success. A fumble by Larue cost North Side half a
dozen yards, and the ball sailed through the air to midfield again.
Once more Farrar caught and ran back, reeling off ten or twelve yards
before he was stopped. A forward pass, Farrar to Smith, gained seven
and McCoy made it first down off left tackle. From the thirty-yard
line High School advanced to the six, mixing her plays bafflingly and
fighting with desperation. And then, once more on the threshold of a
score, luck deserted her. Farrar, attempting a forward pass to Grover,
found that end out of position for the catch, and so tried, in forlorn
hope, to gain around the other side. But he was caught well back of
the line and, on third down, the ball went into play on the twelve
yards. A double pass to Brimmer for a plunge at the left of the line
failed miserably and, as a last resort, a field-goal was attempted. But
Brimmer never had a chance to get the ball away, for the whole right
side of High School’s line crumpled before the savage attack of the
enemy, and the fullback was downed with the pigskin in his hands.
Then Fortune appeared to desert the home team utterly. Larue got clear
through, eluding the secondary defense as though he was greased, and
put forty yards behind him before Farrar, running desperately, brought
him down from behind. From midfield to High School’s fifteen-yard
line plunged the triumphant North Siders. High School was weakening
every minute now. Nostrand put in two fresh linemen and replaced Burns
with Sawin, but the advance went on, Larue finding all sorts of holes
to squirm through, and the redoubtable Wightson, rested and chafing
under inactivity, returned to the attack with redoubled fury, hurling
himself at the faltering High School line for good gains.
With two minutes left and the ball just inside the third white line,
High School fought for time, hopeless now of victory and only seeking
to stave off defeat. Twice the whistle shrilled while some real or
imaginary injury was looked to, and each time North Side raged like so
many tigers who had tasted blood.
“One minute and fifty-six seconds,” proclaimed the Timer.
“All right now, fellows!” piped Danny. “Over with it! Here’s where we
score again!”
“Hold them, Scrub!” shouted Nostrand hoarsely, and, “Throw ’em back!”
yelled Farrar. “Get down there, Shaw! Play low, fellows! Get under ’em
and throw ’em back!”
Then――well, no one ever had a very clear idea of what immediately
ensued. All that is known is that somewhere between the North Side
center and Wightson the ball went astray and that for the longest four
seconds on record it bobbed and trickled about under the feet of fully
half the contending players. But after that what happened was just
this. Fudge Shaw, who, perhaps, owed his presence at center more to
his ability to keep his eyes on the ball than to any other feature of
his playing, was one of the first to cry “Ball! Ball!” Also, he was one
of the first to break through. Unfortunately, he came through on his
hands and knees and his first effort to capture the erratic pigskin
only sent it further afield. But Fudge, by a miracle of spontaneity
that must have shocked his system dreadfully, rolled to his feet,
seized the bobbing ball from under the outstretched hands of a North
Side player and staggered off with it!
Having done that much, Fudge was willing to call a halt, and he proved
it by stopping stock-still and, looking back, inviting someone to lay
him low. But, as it happened, he was for the moment unchallenged, and
instead of a tackle he received the exultant, imperious, entreating
cries of his team-mates to “Run, Shaw!” “Go it, Fudge!” He heard those
cries plainly, in spite of the counter-cries from the momentarily
befuddled enemy, and, although they chimed in not at all with his
inclinations, he obeyed them and started, somewhat irresolutely, toward
the far-distant goal.
Fudge was not built for speed. There was no unnecessary fat on his
somewhat rotund body, but his legs were short and stocky and his
strides, lengthen them as he might, covered scant territory. But,
despairingly he ran, with the enemy momentarily drawing nearer and
nearer, a grim, flaming-haired Danny, with “Danger” written all over
him, in the lead. To say that Fudge despaired because the enemy
promised to stop his flight would be wide of the truth. Fudge despaired
because they didn’t hurry up and do it! Fudge had not the slightest
desire in all the wide, wide world to race at breakneck speed down
that interminable field and become a hero. The price was too large! If
someone would only take the ball from him, it would be fine! And, as
if in answer to Fudge’s wish, Danny Shores gained until he was close
behind. And Fudge, half closing his eyes, awaited the shock of that
tackle.
But it didn’t come! Feet spurned the turf behind him, a purple-stockinged
figure raced up, Danny Shores went reeling to earth and Fudge was again
out of danger, free to carry that ball in triumph over some eighty
yards!
The player who had cleared Danny from his course was the fleet-footed
Grover and with a world of entreaty in his eyes and voice, Fudge half
turned, held the pigskin out and faltered laboredly, “Take it!”
But Grover had shot his bolt. He fell behind. Only his voice followed
Fudge: “Run, Shaw! You’ve got it!”
So poor Fudge, his short legs twinkling so fast that they became a mere
purplish-yellow blur, ran! And behind him came friend and foe. Midfield
now, and still uncaptured! Only fifty yards more! Only! The stand was
shouting wildly. From the side lines, where raced shrieking partisans
of the visitors, came cries of rage, of encouragement, of despair! One
by one the High School interference, hastily formed but effective,
performed their duty and fell behind, and now only one of the enemy
pursued and only one of the High School players followed. At the forty
yards Fudge was gasping painfully for breath. At the thirty he was
ready, more than ready to give up. If only, thought Fudge, someone
would pull him down! He resented the fact that he was allowed to run
his legs off, and held it in for weeks against Danny Shores’ team that
they had so easily allowed themselves to be put out of the running!
At the twenty-yard line Fudge saw the goal-posts distinctly for
the first time and the hope that perhaps, after all, he might reach
them without dying first came to him and encouraged him. He never
once looked back. He only hoped each moment that hands would seize
him and pull him to earth. But Fudge’s hope was idle, for, near the
fifteen-yard line, Farrar made a final despairing effort, flung himself
in the path of the pursuing North Sider and together they subsided,
too weak to move for many moments. And then, with the shouts of the
spectators beating on his ears like the sound of distant surf, Fudge,
unwilling hero of the contest, fell across the last white line and sank
into peaceful coma!