HITTING THE LINE
The big game took place at Greenbank that year, and at a quarter to
four two days later the first half of the contest came to an end with
the score 7 to 6 in Mount Morris’s favor. Perhaps one who held the
fortunes of neither team at heart would have voted that first half
uninteresting and none too well played, but to the five hundred boys
who cheered and sang and flaunted banners from opposite sides of the
field the contest had been exciting from end to end, and if there had
been some poor playing, at least it had been pretty equally shared by
the contesting elevens. An amazing deal of fumbling and poor judgment
had featured the first ten minutes, and both teams had been guilty.
Stage-fright had affected everyone, it had seemed, and it was not until
a misjudged punt had gone over Nick Blake’s head and been captured
by a Mount Morris end on Grafton’s twelve yards and then been worked
across the line for the first touchdown that either side pulled itself
together. Mount Morris had converted the resulting six points into
seven by a well-aimed kick. Against this handicap the Scarlet-and-Gray
had fought unavailingly until within six minutes of the end of the
second period. Then Fortune had, in turn, smiled on the visitors.
A long forward-pass by Mount Morris had been captured by Milford,
playing at right end, and Milford had dodged and feinted his way past
the whole green-and-white team and would have scored then and there
had he not slipped on a none too dry turf and been pounced on by a
pursuing enemy some eight yards from the last line. But that only
stayed the touchdown for a few minutes, for Grafton had no idea of
being stopped virtually on the threshold. Winslow and Ordway and then
Monty had each sliced off his share of the remaining distance, and then
Winslow, skirting left tackle, had gone rolling across the final mark.
But the captain had made a mess of his goal-try and when, a minute or
two later, the whistle had blown, Mount Morris had trotted off with one
point to her advantage.
During half-time the spectators pulled their collars up around the
necks and plunged chilled fingers into pockets and stamped numb feet,
for the afternoon was gray and cold. Earlier, there had been one or
two brief glimpses of the sun and a pale yellow radiance had promised
warmth, but the promise had not been fulfilled. There was a light but
chilling breeze from the northwest that stole searchingly up sleeves
and down unprotected necks. Grafton and Mount Morris adherents sang
their songs and cheered lustily while they awaited the reappearance of
the teams and managed occasionally to forget their discomfort. But the
time went slowly, as it always does when a close score has made the
next half-hour of play so vitally important, and it seemed much more
than a quarter of an hour before the blanketed teams reappeared and
the cheer leaders dashed to the front of the stands and waved their
arms. Then the last sustained “Grafton!” died away and the voice of the
referee came distinctly from the field.
“Ready, Grafton? Ready, Mount Morris?”
Then came the whistle, a moment of waiting and the ball arched away
from Pete Gowen’s boot.
Monty watched now from the bench, for they had given his place to
Caner. Why this was so Monty couldn’t fathom. He was sensible of having
conducted himself at least worthily. He didn’t have to accept his
own judgment only as to that, for in the little bleak shed in which
they had spent the intermission more than one fellow had told him as
much; not in words, to be sure, but in approving thumps and looks that
meant more than words. Monty had been roughly used in those first
two quarters, for Mount Morris was out to win, and gentleness was no
part of her method, but his injuries were not important and most of
them were in plain sight in the shape of a swollen left eye and a
two-inch cut on his chin, the latter chastely hidden by a strip of
plaster. However, there was no use in whining. Caner had the job and
Caner was doing it well. Monty strove to be philosophical and snuggled
his hands into his sweater sleeves and hunched the red blanket more
closely about him and watched every play with his heart almost in his
mouth. When you have taken part in a game it is hard to be relegated
to the rôle of looker-on. You see so many things happen that, you are
firmly convinced, could not have happened had you been in there! As
when Ordway, running the left end, was brought thumping to earth for a
six-yard loss because the interference had straggled. Or as when Caner,
trying a straight plunge from kick formation, which had fooled no one
for an instant, had chosen the wrong hole and been brought up standing
and pushed back and back!
Monty could only hope that Caner, without being badly hurt, would
be put out of it before the game was over. Even then, however, he
reflected morosely, it might be Fenton who would pull his head harness
on and go loping into the line-up.
Mount Morris put a scare into the hearts of Graftonians in the third
quarter by working the ball steadily up the field by end runs and
tackle plays interspersed with three successful forward-passes as far
as the visitor’s eighteen. There, though, Grafton met the succeeding
onslaught heroically and, while retreating to her twelve yards, finally
forced the enemy to try a place-kick. That Mount Morris did not by that
means add another three points to her seven was only because her line
did not hold. The ball started true enough, but someone’s canvas-clad
chest got in its way and Nick Blake fell on the pigskin far back up the
field and for the time danger was averted. A minute or two later Weston
replaced Blake and Hanser went in for Ordway. The result of Weston’s
substitution was at once apparent, for Grafton started to kick in the
endeavor to reach a point from which Winslow might lift a field-goal
over the bar and so forge ahead. And Grafton gained slightly on each
exchange, for Mount Morris accepted the challenge and punted back
regularly on third down, but the gains came slowly and time was flying
and almost before anyone expected it the quarter was up.
It was Grafton’s ball then on her own forty-five-yard line, Hanser
having just reeled off five yards through left guard with the rest of
the Grafton backfield piling through on his heels. The teams changed
positions and Hanser again banged at the Mount Morris left and got a
scant two. Winslow punted on the next down and Mount Morris made a
fair catch――she was taking no chances of fumbling――on her twenty-two.
Two tries at the line netted six yards and again the ball was in air.
Winslow caught on his forty-seven and rushed to the enemy’s forty-six.
A yard by Caner made it second down and Hanser got seven around the
left end on a delayed pass. Weston punted from close up and the ball
went out at the opponent’s twenty-one. Then Mount Morris faked a
forward and sent a back circling around Derry’s end and gained nearly
her distance. A forward-pass grounded and she punted to Grafton’s
thirty. Weston fumbled the catch, but recovered before he was tackled.
Caner went back and tried a forward to Milford that grounded. Winslow
smashed off three at right tackle but fumbled, Weston recovering for a
loss of seven yards. Winslow punted.
Mount Morris ran back for a dozen yards before she was stopped and time
was called for Grafton. Hanrihan was hurt and made way for Gordon. The
timer announced nine minutes left. Two attempts at the Grafton line
failed and Mount Morris punted to Grafton’s twelve. Weston missed the
catch, but Hanser recovered it and gained a few yards before he was
thrown. Blake replaced Weston. Winslow got free around the right side
and ran to the thirty-two. On a fake-kick he again gained, getting
six through center. Caner added four more and made it first down on
the forty-two yards. Caner got three through center and Blake ran the
right end for three more. Winslow was stopped for no gain and punted
to the enemy’s ten yards, a kick that brought a roar of applause from
the Grafton side. The Mount Morris quarter signaled a fair-catch, but
muffed the ball and finally fell on it just inside the goal line. Mount
Morris kicked on first down from behind her goal and Blake caught on
the thirty-seven and was downed for no gain. There were six minutes
left. Longley replaced Musgrave at center and Derry went back at left
end. Grafton was cheering imploringly, incessantly now.
Winslow tried to find a hole at right guard, but was stopped, and
Hanser had no better luck on the other side. Winslow went back to
kicking position and launched a lateral pass to Derry and the end got
eight yards straight along the side line. From kick formation Blake
dived through for first down. On this play Winslow was injured and
Boynton was sent in. Mount Morris also made changes. The home team was
plainly on the defensive now and showing weakness. Boynton tried to run
the left end and was downed behind his line. Caner got four through the
line, but off-side was called and Grafton took her third penalty of the
game. Hanser sent a forward to Derry and gained the distance. Hersum
went in for Kinley at guard.
The ball was now near Mount Morris’s eighteen yards and close to the
right side of the field. Hanser and Caner failed to gain and Boynton
took the ball on an end run and gained four yards, placing the pigskin
on the enemy’s fourteen yards and in front of her goal. Mount Morris
called time for an injury and Blake conferred with Derry, acting
captain.
At that moment Monty, absorbed in anxious speculation as to the next
play, felt a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, Crail,” said Coach Bonner,
and Monty followed the latter along the line. “Do you know who gave you
that eye?” he asked.
Monty nodded. “Their left guard, sir.”
“He’s still in there, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Think you could get through him if you had the chance?”
“I know it,” replied Monty grimly.
Mr. Bonner clapped him on the back. “Go ahead then,” he said. “Tell
Blake not to kick. Tell him we want a touchdown. Tell him to use the
three-abreast formation and _hammer that guard_!”
Only fourteen to go and a good three minutes left! Monty ran in with
his message to Nick Blake and took Caner’s head-guard from that
player’s unwilling hand. Then he went back to position and awaited the
whistle and the signal, and as he waited he fixed a speculative eye on
the Mount Morris left guard. That player glared back from a disfigured
countenance and Monty smiled secretly and trod the half-frozen sod to
limber his legs. And then Mount Morris, having used her full allowance
of time, formed her line again, and Blake looked around at his backs
and cried “Formation B! Signal!” and Monty fell in between Hanser and
Boynton and crouched.
Then he sprang ahead and Blake clapped the ball against his stomach
and he smashed straight into that guard position and went on ripping
and tearing through, yard after yard, until arms at his neck and arms
gripping his legs and arms tugging at his waist brought him to a stop
and he grunted “_Down_,” and let them push him back.
There was one anxious moment, with the official, astride the ball,
peering through the early twilight toward the linesman’s upraised hand.
Then came the verdict, curt, decisive: “First down! About seven to go!”
Monty’s heart thumped triumphantly. He had gained a good six! And he
had gained it through that left guard position! He went panting back to
his place again, his face lighted with a huge smile.
He wondered if Blake would let him try it again. He knew he could do
it. There was never a doubt in his mind as to that. And something
told him that that green-and-white stockinged left guard knew it,
too! But Blake didn’t know it, and Blake slapped the ball at Boynton,
and Boynton, crossing the backfield, slammed past tackle for a scant
yard. And Mount Morris shouted hoarsely in defiance. The timekeeper
was edging in, step by step, his gaze alternating from watch dial to
players. Monty hated him intensely.
Blake was begging them to hurry.
“Come on now, Grafton! Let’s put it over! Hurry up! Hurry up! Signals!”
Then Monty’s heart leaped, for the ball was his again. He felt it jam
against his stomach, clutched his hands across it and slammed ahead.
The hole was not there this time.
He struck fairly into that left guard and felt his bones rattle. But
he meant to get through and he was going through, and he put all his
strength into his pushing legs and all his weight into his straining
body and the mass about him gave before him or followed after. A yard,
half a yard, a foot, another foot, an inch or so――――
All about him the sound of rasping canvas, of stertorous breaths, of
inarticulate cries, a welter of heaving bodies, of grasping arms! And
then, suddenly, he was looking straight into the face of that left
guard from the distance of six inches, and the face was despairing! And
Monty called on every last ounce of strength and felt his heart swell
with the effort and his muscles creak. And the face in front of him
passed aside, the eyes very wide and troubled, and Monty’s legs found
a stride that they had despaired of and he went on again, at first
slowly and then with a sudden rush, and at last, stumbling and falling,
he crashed against a canvas-padded post, caromed off it, measured his
length on the turf and felt the jar of bodies plunging down upon him
and smiled contentedly because the ball was still clutched safely in
his arms and he knew that Grafton had won!
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
――Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to
follow the text that they illustrate.
――Printer’s, punctuation, and spelling inaccuracies were silently
corrected.
――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.