THE GENTLE ART OF HANDLING PUNTS
Life now was filled with hard work for both Neil and Paul. Much of the
novelty that had at first invested study with an exhilarating interest
had worn off, and they had settled down to the daily routine of lectures
and recitations just as though they had been Erskine undergrads for
years instead of a week. The study and the adjoining bed-room were at
last furnished to suit; The First Snow was hung, the "rug for the
wash-stand" was in place, and the objectionable towel-rack had given way
to a smaller but less erratic affair.
Every afternoon saw the two boys on Erskine Field. Mills was a hard
taskmaster, but one that inspired the utmost confidence, and as a result
of some ten days' teaching the half hundred candidates who had survived
the first weeding-out process were well along in the art of football.
The new men were coached daily in the rudiments; were taught to punt and
catch, to fall on the ball, to pass without fumbling, to start quickly,
and to run hard. Exercise in the gymnasium still went on, but the
original twenty-minute period had gradually diminished to ten. Neil and
Paul, with certain other candidates for the back-field, were daily
instructed in catching punts and forming interference. Every afternoon
the practise was watched by a throng of students who were quick to
applaud good work, and whose presence was a constant incentive to the
players. There was a strong sentiment throughout the college in favor of
leaving nothing undone that might secure a victory over Robinson. The
defeat of the previous year rankled, and Erskine was grimly determined
to square accounts with her lifelong rival. As one important means to
this end the college was searched through and through for heavy
material, for Robinson always turned out teams that, whatever might be
their playing power, were beef and brawn from left end to right. And so
at Erskine men who didn't know a football from a goal-post were hauled
from studious retirement simply because they had weight and promised
strength, and were duly tried and, usually, found wanting. One lucky
find, however, rewarded the search, a two-hundred-pound sophomore named
Browning, who, handicapped at the start with a colossal ignorance
regarding all things pertaining to the gridiron, learned with wonderful
rapidity, and gave every promise of turning himself into a phenomenal
guard or tackle.
On the 5th of October a varsity and a second squad were formed, and Neil
and Paul found themselves at left and right half respectively on the
latter. Cowan was back at right-guard on the varsity, a position which
he had played satisfactorily the year before. Neil had already made the
discovery that he had, despite his Hillton experience, not a little to
learn, and he set about learning it eagerly. Paul made the same
discovery, but, unfortunately for himself, the discovery wounded his
pride, and he accepted the criticisms of coach and captain with rather
ill grace.
"That dub Devoe makes me very weary," he confided to Neil one afternoon.
"He thinks he knows it all and no one else has any sense."
"He doesn't strike me that way," answered his chum. "And I think he does
know a good deal of football."
"You always stick up for him," growled Paul. "And for Mills,
too--white-haired, freckle-faced chump!"
"Don't be an idiot," said Neil. "One's captain and t'other is coach, and
they're going to rub it into us whenever they please, and the best thing
for us to do is to take it and look cheerful."
"That's it; we _have_ to take it," Paul objected. "They can put us on
the bench if they want to and keep us there all the season; I know that.
But, just the same, I don't intend to lick Devoe's boots or rub my head
in the dirt whenever Mills looks at me."
"Well, it looks to me as though you'd been rubbing your head in the dirt
already," laughed Neil.
"Connor stepped on me there," muttered Paul, wiping a clump of mud from
his forehead. "Come on; Mills is yelling for us. More catching punts,
I suppose."
And his supposition was correct. Across the width of the sunlit field
Graham, the two-hundred-and-thirty-pound center rush, stooped over the
pigskin. Beside him were two pairs of end rushes, and behind him, with
outstretched hands, stood Ted Foster. Foster gave a signal, the ball
went back to him on a long pass, and he sent it over the gridiron toward
where Neil, Paul, and two other backs were waiting. The ends came down
under the kick, the ball thumped into Paul's hands, Neil and another
formed speedy interference, and the three were well off before the ends,
like miniature cyclones, were upon them and had dragged Paul to earth.
The head coach, a short but sturdy figure in worn-out trousers and faded
purple shirt, stood on the edge of the cinder track and viewed the work
with critical eye. When the ends had trotted back over the field with
the ball to repeat the proceeding, he made himself heard:
"Spread out more, fellows, and don't all stand in a line across the
field. You've got to learn now to judge kicks; you can't expect to
always find yourself just under them. Fletcher, as soon as you've
decided who is to take the ball yell out. Then play to the runner; every
other man form into interference and get him up the field. Now then!
Play quick!"
The ball was in flight again, and once more the ends were speeding
across under it. "Mine!" cried Neil. Then the leather was against his
breast and he was dodging forward, Paul ahead of him to bowl over
opposing players, and Pearse, a full-back candidate, plunging along
beside. One--two--three of the ends were passed, and the ball had been
run back ten yards. Then Stone, last year's varsity left end, fooled
Paul, and getting inside him, nailed Neil by the hips.
"Well tackled, Stone," called Mills. "Gale, you were asleep, man; Stone
ought never to have got through there. Fletcher, you're going to lose
the ball some time when you need it badly if you don't catch better than
that. Never reach up for it; remember that your opponent can't tackle
you until you've touched it; wait until it hits against your stomach,
and then grip it hard. If you take it in the air it's an easy stunt for
an opponent to knock it out of your hands; but if you've got it hugged
against your body it won't matter how hard you're thrown, the ball's
yours for keeps. Bear that in mind."
On the next kick Neil called to Gale to take the pigskin. Paul misjudged
it, and was forced to turn and run back. He missed the catch, a
difficult one under the circumstances, and also missed the rebound. By
this time the opposing ends were down on him. The ball trickled across
the running track, and Paul stooped to pick it up. But Stone was ahead
of him, and seizing the pigskin, was off for what would have been a
touch-down had it been in a game.
"What's the matter, Gale?" cried Mills angrily. "Why didn't you fall on
that ball?"
"It was on the cinders," answered Paul, in evident surprise. Mills made
a motion of disgust, of tragic impatience.
"I don't care," he cried, "if it was on broken glass! You've got orders
to fall on the ball. Now bring it over here, put it down
and--_fall_--_on_--_it_!"
Neil watched his chum apprehensively. Knowing well Paul's impatience
under discipline, he feared that the latter would give way to anger and
mutiny on the spot. But Paul did as directed, though with bad grace, and
contented himself with muttered words as he threw the pigskin to a
waiting end and went back to his place.
Soon afterward they were called away for a ten-minute line-up. Paul,
still smarting under what in his own mind he termed a cruel indignity,
played poorly, and ere the ten minutes was half up was relegated to the
benches, his place at right half being taken by Kirk. The second managed
to hold the varsity down to one score that day, and might have taken the
ball over itself had not Pearse fumbled on the varsity's three yards. As
it was, they were given a hearty cheer by the watchers when time was
called, and they trotted to the bucket to be sponged off. Then those who
had not already been in the line-up were given the gridiron, and the
varsity and second were sent for a trot four times around the field, the
watchful eye of "Baldy" Simson, Erskine's veteran trainer, keeping them
under surveillance until they had completed their task and had trailed
out the gate toward the locker-house, baths, and rub-downs.