TACKLING THE ARMY
"THIS looks like a case of bearding the lion in his den," remarked Dick,
as the stately steamer on which they had embarked at New York that
morning swept up to the landing at West Point, and the boys were
gathering up their traps to go ashore.
"It's certainly a stiff contract to tackle the future leaders of the
United States Army," replied Tom. "But we're the boys to do it, and to
lick them, too. If that be treason, make the most of it."
"Don't you be too sure of that," admonished Bert. "From all I hear,
they're a husky set of brutes, and we're likely to have our hands full.
They've never been easy picking and we'd better postpone our jubilee
till after the game."
"Punk philosophy," countered Tom. "Let's have it now and make sure of
it."
He was clearly a hopeless case, and they gave up the task of subduing
his levity, and started for the gang plank.
It was a large party that had come up the river on that glorious day in
early October, to test the prowess and mettle of the cadets. The team
itself with the substitutes numbered over thirty, and there was a small
army of rubbers and other attendants. To these were added several
hundred of the college boys, and these were further reinforced by a host
of "old grads" who sniffed the battle from afar and couldn't resist the
temptation to "come on along," and root for the youngsters on their
scalp-hunting expedition.
The game with the Army was always one of the events of the football
season. Although not ranked with the "big three," they followed close
behind, and once in a while gave the "top-liners" a hard struggle to
avoid defeat. Only the year before, they had held the Blues to a 6 to 0
score, and on a muddy field had played a tie with the "Maroons" after a
Homeric contest. They were not "easy meat" for any one, and the coaches
of every team had learned not to hold them lightly.
This year, disquieting rumors had leaked out from West Point as to the
strength of the team. They were said to have the heaviest aggregation
behind the line that they had had in twenty years, and it was freely
predicted that here, if anywhere, the Blues might find themselves
overmatched. The fullback was a new recruit who weighed close to two
hundred pounds, and despite his weight was said to be as fast as greased
lightning. The two halves were both veterans, and one of them the
previous season had been picked for the All-American team in his
position. In addition they had a powerful set of guards and tackles, and
it was universally acknowledged that their quarterback was one that it
would be hard to match on any of the big teams.
Still the Blues were not greatly stirred up by this advance information.
If they were to be "licked," it would have to be by actual speed and
muscle on the field, and not by "dope" that might prove fallacious.
"They can't come too big or heavy to suit," philosophized Drake. "The
bigger they are the harder they fall."
There was a stiff wind blowing when the rival teams came on the field,
and in the toss for position the Army won. As the teams lined up for the
kick-off, there was a tremendous outburst of cheers from the Army
supporters who, of course, vastly outnumbered the loyal Blues who had
accompanied their team. What the latter lacked in numbers, however, was
made up by the enthusiasm with which they cheered the wearers of the
Blue colors, that had waved triumphantly over so many hard-fought
fields, and which, they hoped, was now to add another trophy to their
list.
Since the Blues had lost the toss for position, they were entitled to
the kick-off. Bert took careful aim and lifted the ball far and high.
Ordinarily it would have been good for at least fifty yards, but the
wind limited it to thirty-five. Caldwell was down under it like a flash,
but Birch, of the Army, made a fair catch and kicked back for twenty
yards. Drake got possession of the ball, and the Blues had it on the
Army's forty yard line.
A forward pass, superbly engineered by Tom, gave them twelve yards. They
gained eight more on two successive downs, but were penalized five yards
for off-side play. On the next play they gained their distance, but on
the next, in attempting to skirt the end, Axtell dropped the ball, and
the Army left pounced upon it instantly.
It was now the Army's ball, and they immediately started to try a
plunging game. The Blue line held like a rock, however, and then the
Army tried one of their favorite formations. They lined up as though for
a kick, but the back who had dropped behind as if for that purpose,
either tried a forward pass or made a quick dash around the ends. To
complicate the play still further, it was sometimes passed to still
another back before the attempt was made. It was a clever "fake," and
against a weaker or slower team might have worked. But the Blues had
practiced many a weary hour in breaking up just such a combination, and
they met it and smothered it so effectually, that before long the Army
recognized its futility and fell back on straight football.
And here for the first quarter they fairly held their own. McAlpin,
their giant fullback, proved a tower of strength, and when he was given
the ball plunged through the line like a thunderbolt. There seemed to be
no holding him, and his team backed him up so powerfully that he made
his distance easily on the four downs. The ball was still in the Army's
possession when the referee's whistle announced the end of the first
quarter, and the field was swept by the cheers of the cadets at the
gallant way in which their favorites had made a stand against the most
famous team in the country.
In the short rest between quarters, there was a hurried council of the
Blues.
"Buck up, fellows, for heaven's sake," urged Bert. "We mustn't let these
Army men outplay us. What'll the boys at home think of us? They've
already got the bulletin of this quarter, and they're wondering what on
earth is the matter with us. Get a move on now and show them some real
football. Just go in and eat them up."
This was an eminently desirable thing from the Blue standpoint, but the
cadets refused to subscribe to such a cannibal programme. They were not
ready to glut anybody's appetite. On the contrary, their own was whetted
by their sturdy resistance so far, and their ambition was rapidly
growing. They had really not had much idea of winning at the outset. It
would have been almost more than they dared to hope to hold these
doughty warriors to a tie. Failing that, they hoped possibly to cross
the enemy's goal line for at least one score or perhaps more. But their
wildest hopes had hardly soared so high as to count on actual victory.
Now, however, that they had locked horns with their adversaries and
found to their delight and surprise that they were holding them on even
terms, they were fired with a mighty determination to win.
Nor did the second quarter dim their hopes. The Blues had not yet found
themselves. There was a cog missing somewhere in the machinery.
Technically, their playing was not open to much adverse criticism. Their
passing was accurate and their tackling fair, but they were too
mechanical and automatic. They needed something to wake them up.
That something came more quickly than any one expected. Out of a
scrimmage on the forty yard line of the Army, a flying figure emerged,
with the ball tucked under his arm. Twisting, dodging, ducking, he
threaded his way through the field, bowling over Caldwell, eluding
Axtell's outstretched arms and bearing down upon the Blue goal. As he
neared Bert, who was running in a diagonal line to head him off, he
swerved sharply to the right in an attempt to pass this last obstacle
between him and a touchdown. But in a twinkling Bert had launched
himself against him, gauging the distance unerringly, and they both came
heavily to the ground on the Blue's ten yard line.
It was the Army's ball with only ten yards to go! The stands went
frantic as the teams lined up for a last desperate trial of strength.
The Blues were thoroughly awake now. All their apathy was gone at this
moment of deadly peril, and they swore to themselves to hold that
precious ten yards if they died in doing it.
The jubilant Army men called on McAlpin, their giant fullback, to buck
the line. He went into it like a maddened bull, but Dick at center
refused to give an inch. He tried again at left and made two yards
through Ellis. A hole made by his guards between Axtell and Martin
yielded three more. Five yards yet to go and only one chance left! Once
more he braced and hurled himself savagely against the right side of the
line. But Bert was crouching there in readiness, his six feet of bone
and muscle instinct with power and resolution. He went into McAlpin like
a human pile driver, and threw him back for a loss of four yards. The
goal was safe and the ball belonged to the Blues on their ten yard line.
It had been a close call, and a murmur of disappointment went up from
the Army partisans, while the Blue stands rocked with applause.
The elevens lined up and Tom snapped the ball to Dick, who passed it to
Bert, five feet behind the line. The ball rose from his toe like a bird
and soared down to the forty yard line. From there the Blues rushed it
down to within thirty yards of the Army goal before the whistle
announced the end of the second quarter.
It was a different crowd that gathered in the Blues' dressing rooms in
the interval that followed. That threat against their goal line was the
electric spark that was necessary in order to shock them into action.
They were worked up to fighting pitch. Their eyes were blazing, their
features grim, and "Bull" Hendricks, who was primed to lash them to the
bone with his bitter tongue, wisely forebore. He saw that they were
fairly fuming with eagerness for the fray, and after making some minor
changes in the line-up--Ellis having sprained his ankle and Caldwell
broken a finger--he sent them out with the single exhortation to
"hammer the heart out of them."
It wasn't as classic as Wellington's "Up, Guards, and at them," but
quite as effective. Against that electrified and rejuvenated team, the
Army didn't have a chance. Their highly raised hopes went glimmering
before the raging onslaught of the Blues. Every man worked as though the
outcome of the game depended upon him alone. They plunged into the
crumbling lines of the Army like so many wild men. Their opponents
fought back nobly, furiously, desperately, but to no avail. The "class"
was with the Blues, and as this fact was driven home to the spectators,
deep gloom settled over the Army stands, while from the opposite side
the old college song went booming down the field.
The Blues were bent on massacre. They charged hard and played fast. Dick
plunged through the line again and again like a battering ram for
tremendous gains. Tom did some dazzling running back of punts. Drake hit
the forwards hard and often, and Axtell tackled with deadly accuracy,
laying out his victims all over the field.
As for Bert at fullback, no such demon playing had been seen at West
Point for a generation. His handling of the forward pass was a delight
to the eye, and even the hostile stands were stirred at times to
involuntary applause. Twice he carried the ball over for a
touchdown--once by straight bucking and again by a spectacular run of
fifty-five yards through a broken field. The quarter ended with a result
of 15 to 0 in favor of the visitors.
From that time on, it was only a question of the size of the score. The
battle had become a rout. In the last quarter the ball was in the Army
territory all the time. There was no necessity now for tricks to further
befuddle the demoralized cadets. By "straight football" the Blues
pursued their victorious course down the field and added two more goals
before the game was called, with the ball on the fifteen yard line, and
destined, had the play continued two minutes longer, to make a final
touchdown. It was a dashing victory, gallantly won after an inauspicious
start. The weary players drew the first long breath they had permitted
themselves since the start of the game. The cadets, game as pebbles,
gave their conquerors the rousing Army cheer and the Blues responded
vigourously. The rival teams fraternized for a while and then the Blues
retired to their quarters to dress and make their "get-away."
Naturally, despite the immense fatigue that weighed them down, they were
tingling with exultation. It was the first time they had been pitted
against a really big team, and they had clearly outclassed them. The
contests with the smaller colleges had been little more than practice,
and in most cases the scrub could have won as certainly if not as
overwhelmingly as the 'Varsity. And the victory to-day had been won not
by a "fluke," but by clearcut playing. To be sure, the memory of the
first part of the game kept rising up like Banquo's ghost to make them
uncomfortable. But they had redeemed that so royally in the final half
as to silence the most captious critic.
Moreover, they had come through that crucial contest in good shape.
There had been no serious accident to weaken the team. The injuries to
Ellis and Caldwell were only trivial and in a week they would be as well
as ever. Of course there were minor wounds and bruises galore, but they
were incident to the hardening process and were of no consequence.
The mere fact that they had won, satisfying as it was, counted for
little compared with the enormous benefit of the game in welding the
team together. It had taken eleven stars and molded them into a team. No
individual brilliancy, however great, can atone for the lack of team
work. To-day they had tested each other, supported each other, played
into each other's hands, forgotten that they were anything but parts of
one great, smoothly moving, swiftly running machine. And, having so
tested his fellows, each one would play with the confidence and
self-forgetfulness that alone can win a championship.
For all these reasons, it was a very hilarious bunch that foregathered
in the dressing rooms and tumbled into their clothes, after the soothing
ministrations of shower and rubdown.
"I guess we're poor, eh, old top," chuckled Tom, as he poked Bert in the
ribs.
"Ouch," responded that worthy, "haven't I been punched enough to-day
without you soaking me? I'm black and blue all over."
"I don't wonder," put in Dick. "The way that big McAlpin lammed into you
was a crime. He piled on me in one of the scrimmages, and I thought the
Flatiron building had fallen."
"He's a tough bird, all right," said Drake, "but he ran up against a
tougher one when he tried to go through Bert for that last down in the
second quarter. I never saw anything prettier than the way Bert flung
him back as though he had been a lightweight. I caught the bewildered
look on his face as he went over. He didn't know for a minute what had
hit him."
"It was the only thing that saved us from being scored on," said
Martin. "It's the tightest place we've been in so far this season."
"Well, a miss is as good as a mile," said Bert, slipping on his coat.
"But hurry up, you fellows, and let us tackle some eats. I'm so hungry
that it hurts."
He had struck a responsive chord and in a few minutes they were on their
way to the mess hall of the cadets, who had insisted that they should be
their guests at supper.
To reach the dining hall they had to cross the baseball field, abandoned
now in the early fall, but the scene of fierce diamond battles earlier
in the season. To Bert and Tom and Dick it brought back the memory of
the great game they had played there two years before--a game that had
gone into extra innings, and had been won by a wonderful bit of playing
on the part of Tom who was holding down third.
"Remember that game, Tom?" asked Bert.
"O, no," mocked Dick. "He doesn't remember. A man who has made a triple
play unassisted never thinks of it again."
"He's blushing," exclaimed Drake. "Look at him, fellows. What a
shrinking violet."
Tom made a pass at him.
"A mere bit of luck," he countered. "You fellows give me a pain."
But there had been no luck about it. The game had been bitterly fought,
and at the end of the ninth the score was a tie. The Blues had got a man
round in the tenth, and the cadets went in to do or die. Before long the
crowds were on their feet and screaming like maniacs. There was a man on
third, another on second, nobody out, and the heaviest slugger in the
nine was at the bat. Amid exhortations to "kill it," he caught the ball
squarely on the end of his bat and sent it whistling toward third about
two feet over Tom's head. He made a tremendous leap, reaching up his
gloved hand, and the ball stuck there. The batter was out, but the man
on third, thinking it was a sure hit, was racing like mad to the plate.
As Tom came down he landed squarely on the bag, thus putting out the
runner, who had by this time realized his mistake and was trying
desperately to get back. In the meantime, the man on second, who had
taken a big lead, was close to third. As he turned to go back to second,
Tom chased him and touched him out just before he reached the bag. The
game was won, three men were out, and the bewildered spectators were
rubbing their eyes and trying to make out just what had happened. They
had seen a "triple play unassisted," the thing that every player dreams
of making, and one of the rarest feats ever pulled off on the baseball
diamond.
"We've certainly got the edge on Uncle Sam's boys in both baseball and
football," commented Dick, in discussing the incident, "but it's only an
edge. They always make us extend ourselves to win."
They had a royal time at the mess hall and afterward at the barracks,
where both the vanquished and victors mingled on terms of the most
cordial good fellowship. But the demands of training were not to be set
aside, and all too soon they were forced to tear themselves away and
repair to their hotel. By ten o'clock they were in their beds, lights
were out, and they were sleeping as only a college team can sleep after
a day of such storm and stress.
After Reddy had made his rounds and assured himself that all his charges
had retired, he joined "Bull" Hendricks for a chat and smoke over the
day's happenings. Few things had escaped their keen eyes during that
crowded hour, when conditions and formations changed with the swiftness
of a kaleidoscope. And now that it was all over, they could recall every
play, every gain, every fumble, every pass, with a precision that would
have been astounding to any one less versed than they in every turn and
angle of the game.
Their mood was one of deep, if quiet, satisfaction. A long and bitter
experience had made them cautious in prediction. They were by no means
ready to admit yet, even to themselves, that they had a team of "world
beaters." There were still a host of faults to be corrected, of raw
edges to be polished off, of plays to be developed. But, on the whole,
the boys had done surprisingly well. The dogged way in which they had
held the enemy when their goal was threatened was worthy of the best
"bulldog" tradition. And the slashing, ding dong way in which they had
worked the ball down the field in the last half had been gratifying
beyond words. It showed that the "never say die" spirit, that they had
tried so hard to instill, was there in abundance.
There was still another cause for congratulation. They had not been
forced to uncover any of the new tricks that they were holding in
reserve for the championship games. At one point, in the early part of
the game, they had feared this might be necessary, but the quick
recovery later on had enabled them to depend upon straight football. The
scouts for the "Greys" and "Maroons," several of whom had been "spotted"
in the stands, had had "their trouble for their pains," and the coach
was greatly elated in consequence.
"They'll go home with an empty bag from this day's hunting," he
chuckled.
"They sure will," assented Reddy, as he filled and lighted his faithful
cob. "And I'm thinking 'tis a little bit shaky they are, after seeing
the way we ripped up the Army line."
"That boy Wilson is certainly a hummer," commented Hendricks, flicking
the ash from his cigar. "I haven't seen such plunging and line bucking
since the days of Heffelfinger. You could no more stop him than you
could a runaway horse."
"He's all there, full sixteen ounces to the pound," was Reddy's emphatic
endorsement. "I've seen some crack fullbacks in my time, but none to top
him. He's got the weight, he's got the speed, and as for nerve, begorra!
Did ye note the way he toyed with that big rhinoceros, McAlpin?"
"What he did to him was plenty," laughed Hendricks. "I guess that's one
position we don't need to worry about any longer. And I'm feeling pretty
good, too, about Trent and Henderson. They worked together at quarter
and center like a pair of shears. Axtell tackled like a tiger, and if he
keeps it up, we can count on him as a fixture. And Drake, too, did some
dandy work at end. Did you see the way he got down under Wilson's punts?
Johnny-on-the-spot, every time the ball came down."
"For them five positions there's nothing better in sight," said Reddy.
"I rather think so," acquiesced the coach. "There's only one weak spot
in the back field, and that's at left half. Martin, for some reason,
isn't playing his game. He's too slow in starting, and he doesn't tackle
as hard and fast as he ought to. Then, too, he's a little bit thick when
it comes to the signals. He got mixed up twice to-day, and he was all at
sea on that 'fake' pass in the second quarter. He needs more blackboard
work, and I'm going to see that he gets it.
"But it's in the line that we've got to make some changes. Most of the
forwards to-day would have been 'pie' for the 'Greys' or 'Maroons.' I
can excuse Caldwell for not playing his best, since he broke his finger
in the beginning of the game and nobody knew it until twenty minutes
later. Plucky of the youngster, but he ought to have told us. Ellis is
all right, but that's the second time his bum ankle has given way, and I
don't know whether he can stand the strain of a big game. Hodge has got
the weight and the strength, but he leaves too much of the work to
Trent. As for Boyd, I'm afraid he lacks sand."
"I saw him flinch to-day, when McAlpin piled into him," mused Reddy.
"I'm going to try out Warren a little longer," went on Hendricks.
"There's good stuff in that boy, but I'm afraid there's hardly enough
beef. But he's trying all the time, and never lets up till the whistle
blows. Perhaps I'll let him change places with Martin and see how it
works. He's quick as a flash and an expert at dodging, and he may make a
better back than he is a tackle. We'll shift him there for a tryout.
"I'll have to keep quite a bunch of them 'under suspicion' for some time
yet, and we may have quite a different line up by November. But, take it
all in all, I'm not kicking at the way we're going along, so early in
the season. As a matter of fact, I wouldn't let them know for a farm how
good I really feel over their showing. I'd like to get a line, though,
on the other teams. By the way, I saw you talking with Bushnell, the old
'Grey' quarter. Did that Irish blarney of yours get anything out of
him?"
"Niver a bit," mourned Reddy. "I did me best, but he was as
close-mouthed as a clam. I ran across a reporter though, who's been down
that way lately, and he says they're going great guns in practice."
"They're the fellows we've got to beat. That agrees with everything I've
heard from that quarter. We're heavier and I think we're faster than the
'Maroons' this year. But from all accounts the 'Greys' have got
everything, and then some. They'll take a lot of beating."
"Hivin send that they take it instead of giving it," ejaculated Reddy;
and with Hendricks' grunted indorsement of this pious wish, the captain
and first mate of the football craft parted for the night.