A DESPERATE FIGHT
THE day for the game with the "Maroons" broke dark and lowering. Clouds
chased each other across the sky, the air was saturated with moisture
and, although rain had not yet fallen, there was every prospect that it
would before the day was over.
The team had been "tuned to the hour." There was not a man on it that
was not fit to put up the game of his life. Each one had brought himself
down to the weight at which he was most effective, their flesh was "hard
as nails," and their lean bronzed faces betokened the pink of condition.
If they were doomed to be beaten there could be no excuse put forth that
they were not at the top of their form.
Not that they anticipated any necessity of making excuses. An air of
quiet confidence was everywhere apparent. The old indomitable Blue
spirit was as much in evidence as their splendid physical condition. Not
that they underestimated their opponents. The "Maroons," despite their
defeat of the week before by the "Greys," were formidable opponents and
still full of fight. In fact, their loss of that game might be counted
on to put them in a savage mood of retaliation, and nothing was more
certain than that they would fight like demons to down the Blues. But
the latter welcomed the prospect of a bitter fight, and were fully
convinced of their ability to give harder blows than they would have to
take.
"We've simply got to win to-day, fellows," said Tom as they strolled
back to their rooms after breakfast.
"It's the only way we can have a clear title to the championship,"
remarked Bert. "It won't do us much good to lick the 'Greys' next week
if we fall down to-day. In that case it will be 'even Steven.' Each team
will have won and lost one and we'll be as much at sea as ever as to
which has the best team."
"Then, too," added Dick, "we're fighting to-day on our own grounds and
next week we'll have to play the 'Greys' on a neutral field. If we can't
win now with that advantage it will be doubly hard to win then."
"We'll cop them both," said Bert with an air of finality. And this
solution received the hearty approval and implicit faith of his
companions. In one form or another every man on the team was swearing to
himself that the prediction should come true, if it lay in human power
to compass it.
As the day wore on the town took on a festal air. Flags and bunting
fluttered everywhere. Special trains drew in from every point of the
compass and disgorged their thousands to swell the crowds. The streets
resounded with the raucous cries of the fakirs, and their wares of canes
and flags were soon sold out. Groups of college boys accompanied by
pretty girls wandered over the campus, and the walks under the elms
resounded with song and laughter. From every city in the country "old
grads" came down to renew their youth and shout themselves hoarse for
their favorites. The clouded sky and threatening rain daunted them not
at all. They were there to make holiday, and serenely ignored everything
else. Only an earthquake or a cyclone could have kept them from coming.
It might rain "cats and dogs," rheumatism and pneumonia might hang out
danger signals, but they cared not a whit. They were out for the time of
their lives and bound to get it.
The game was to begin at two o'clock, and after cleaning out all the
restaurants in town, put to their utmost to feed the ravening horde of
locusts that had swarmed down upon them, the throngs set out for the
stadium. That gigantic structure could hold forty thousand people and,
long before the time for the game to begin, it was crowded to repletion.
On one side were the stands for the Blues and directly facing them were
those reserved for the "Maroons." The occupants yelled and shouted and
waved their flags at each other in good-natured defiance. At the upper
end a band played popular airs that nobody cared for, and half the time
in the din and tumult did not even hear. In front of the stands the
cheermasters jumped up and down and went through their weird
contortions, as they led the cheers and gave the signal for the songs.
The Blues were gathered in their training quarters, ready and anxious
for the fight. They were like a pack of hounds straining at the leash.
Reddy and his assistants had gone over every detail of their equipment,
and the coach had spoken his last word of appeal and encouragement. This
he had purposely made short. There was little dwelling on the game to be
played, nor any attempt to rehearse signals. The time for that was past.
If they were not ready now, they never would be. He had done his utmost
and now the result must be left to the team and to fate.
At half past one a slight drizzle set in. Old Jupiter Pluvius had lost
patience and refused to hold off until the game was over. But the
general hilarity abated not a particle. It would take more than rain to
drive that crowd to cover. The field had been strewn with straw to keep
the ground beneath as dry as possible. Now, however, it was time for
practice, and a crowd of assistants appeared and raked the straw away,
showing the glistening newly-marked yard lines underneath.
Then a gate at the end of the one of the stands opened and the
"Maroons," in their gaily colored jerseys, trotted on the field. The
"Maroon" stands rose en masse and a torrent of cheers swept over the
field as they gave the team a greeting that must have "warmed the
cockles of their heart."
The boys peeled off their jerseys and commenced punting and falling on
the ball. They kept this up for ten minutes and then gave way to their
rivals.
Out from the other side of the field scampered the Blues. Then
Pandemonium broke loose. The yells were simply deafening, and, as the
home crowd let itself go, the fellows grinned happily at each other and
their muscles stiffened with ardor for the fight.
"Seems as though they were glad to see us," laughed Tom, as he sent the
ball whirling in a spiral pass to Bert.
"You bet," answered Bert, "and we must make them yell louder yet at the
finish."
The practice was short and snappy. There was ginger in every movement
and Bert's tries for goal elicited the unwilling admiration at the same
time that it awakened the fear of the "Maroon" supporters.
Then the signal was given and the captains of the two teams clasped
hands cordially in the middle of the field and tossed a coin for
position. The "Maroons" won and, as there was not enough wind stirring
to favor either goal, elected to take the kick off. The teams lined up
on the "Maroon's" forty yard line. Miller kicked the ball thirty yards
down the field and the game was on.
Martin made a fair catch, but before he could run back was downed in his
tracks. The teams lined up for the scrimmage. Dick plunged through left
guard and tackle for a gain of five yards. Axtell went through right for
two more. Then the ball was given to Bert, and he went through the hole
opened up by Drake and Boyd for eight more. They had gained their
distance and the ball was still in their possession on the fifty yard
line.
Their bucking had been so successful that they were still inclined to
try the plunging game. But the "Maroons" had braced. Three successive
downs failed to yield the coveted ten yards and Bert dropped back for a
kick. The ball was handled with superb precision by Tom and Dick, who
made a perfect pass to Bert. It was off from his toe like a flash, just
escaping the "Maroon" forwards as they broke through to block. Miller
made a great jumping catch, but Axtell's savage tackle downed him where
he stood. The ball was now in "Maroon" territory on their twenty yard
line.
It was altogether too close for comfort, and the "Maroons" made a
gallant and desperate effort to get it further down the field. The
Blues, however, were no less determined. Against the bull-like plunges
of the enemy they held like a stone wall. Three times in succession they
refused to let their foes gain an inch. It was clear that other tactics
would have to be resorted to. Halliday, the "Maroon" quarter, tried a
forward pass. Richmond at right end caught it and started down the
field. Warren tackled him, but slipped in the mud and Richmond shook him
off. His interference was good and he was off like a frightened rabbit.
He had made twenty yards before Bert caught and threw him heavily. But
he held on to the ball and the "Maroons" breathed more freely. The ball
was still theirs, forty yards from their goal line.
"Never mind, old man," called Bert cheerfully to Warren. "A bit of hard
luck, but don't let it get your goat. Any one might have slipped in such
muddy going."
The narrow escape heartened the "Maroons" and they fought like wildcats.
They were on the defensive and the ball stayed in their territory. But
the utmost efforts of the Blues failed to make substantial gains, and
when the whistle blew at the end of the quarter neither side had scored.
By this time the rain was coming down in torrents. The stands were a
mass of glistening umbrellas and shining raincoats. The flags and
decorations no longer waved defiantly, but hung dank and dripping. The
field beneath the rushing feet of the players had been churned into a
sea of mud, and this was plastered liberally on the uniforms of the
teams. In the minute's interval between quarters a host of trainers'
assistants rushed from the side lines with sponges and towels and tried
to get their charges in some kind of shape.
When the next quarter started the play was fast and furious. The teams
had sized each other up and got a line on their respective line of play.
Each side realized that the battle was for blood, and that it had in the
other a worthy foeman. There would be no walkover for anybody that day.
Floundering and slipping in the mud, the Blues steadily pounded their
way down to the "Maroon's" goal. Morley made a successful dash around
left end, netting twenty yards. On a forward pass Caldwell fumbled, but
Tom made a dazzling recovery before the enemy could pounce upon the
ball. Bert found a gap between left and tackle and went through with
lowered head for twelve yards before the "Maroons" fell on him in a
mass. Then the Blues uncovered the "Minnesota shift"--one of "Bull"
Hendrick's pet tricks--and they went through the bewildered "Maroons"
for twenty yards. Another trial of the same shift was smothered and a
daring end run by Hudson of the "Maroons" brought the ball to the middle
of the field. Four unsuccessful attempts failed to advance it and it
went to the Blues on downs.
The ball was now on the "Maroons'" forty yard line and there were only
two minutes left of playing time. The "Maroon" defence had stiffened and
it was a practical certainty that line bucking could not avail in that
limited time, so Bert dropped back for a kick. Tom snapped it back to
Dick, who with the same motion made a beautiful pass to Bert. With all
the power of his mighty leg he swung on it and lifted it far and high.
Straight as an arrow it winged its way toward the "Maroons'" goal.
A tremendous shout had gone up as the ball left his toe, but then
followed a deadly silence as they watched its towering flight. Would it
go over the posts and score three points for the Blues or would it go to
one side just enough to give the "Maroons" a new lease of life?
Now the ball had reached its highest point and was falling in a swift
curve toward the goal. As it neared the posts it seemed for a moment to
hesitate. Then, as though it had made up its mind, it swooped suddenly
downward and crossed the goal bar, just grazing it. The goal had counted
and a groan went up from the "Maroon" stands, while those in the Blues
leaped to their feet waving their flags and cheering like madmen.
Tom danced a jig on the field and threw his arms about Bert, and the
other fellows coming up swarmed around him with frantic congratulations.
And just then the second half ended and both teams went to their
quarters for the fifteen minutes' rest that marks the half of the game.
Here they changed quickly into fresh uniforms and braced themselves for
the second and decisive half. Naturally the confidence was on the side
of the Blues, but the lead was not large, and as yet it was anybody's
game.
"You've got them started," exhorted Hendricks. "Now keep them on the
run. Don't let up for a minute. Hit them, hammer them, tear their line
in pieces. I want you to roll up a score that will scare the 'Greys'
before we tackle them."
The advice was good in theory and the will was not lacking to carry it
out in practice. But the "Maroons" had other views and from the moment
they came on the field it was evident that they had taken a brace. They
were yet a long way from giving up the ghost. After all, the field goal
had only counted three points, and a touchdown would not only even this
up but put the Maroons in the lead.
To get that touchdown they worked like fiends. Berriman kicked the ball
out of bounds and Flynn fell upon it, sliding along in the mud and water
as he did so. The ball was brought in at the Blues' forty yard line and
the teams lined up for the scrimmage. Adams slammed through left tackle
for five yards. Gibbons with lowered head butted into center, but Dick
threw him back for a loss of two. Hudson skirted left end, cleverly
dodging Caldwell and making twelve yards, before Tom leaped upon him and
downed him heavily. But the ball was under him and the "Maroons" had
more than made their distance on the four downs.
Once more they lined up, and now the Blues were on the defensive. Boyd
had hurt his knee and Chamberlain came running out to take his place.
Instead of reporting to the referee, he spoke first to one of his
comrades, and for this violation of the rules the Blues were penalized
five yards. A moment later they lost five more through off-side play by
Warren. Ten precious yards thrown away when every one was beyond price!
And now the jubilant "Maroons" were within fifteen yards of the goal,
and their partisans were on their feet yelling like wild men.
Panting, crouching, glaring, the two teams faced each other. The
"Maroons" consulted for a moment. Should they try a kick for goal,
yielding three points if successful and tieing the score, or buck the
line for a touchdown which would put them in the lead? The first was
easier, but the latter more profitable if they could "put it over." They
might never be so near the line again, and they thought that they saw
signs of wavering among the Blues. They decided then to try for the
greater prize and buck the line.
Berriman, their halfback, bowled over Chamberlain for a gain of four
yards. Richmond tried to make a hole between Dick and Tom, but was
nailed without a gain. Once more Berriman ploughed in between Warren and
Chamberlain, which seemed to be the weakest part of the defense, but,
anticipating the move, Bert had posted himself there and, meeting the
rush halfway, dumped Berriman on his head. As he fell, the ball slipped
from his hands and Tom, quick as a cat, picked it up and twisting,
dodging, squirming, scuttled down along the southern line. Burke flung
himself at him in a flying tackle and grabbed one leg, but the runner
shook him off and, with his momentum scarcely checked flew down the
field, aided by superb interference on the part of Drake and Axtell,
who bowled over the "Maroon" tacklers like so many ninepins. He had made
thirty-five yards and was going like the wind when, in eluding the
outstretched arms of Miller, he slipped in a pool of mud and water and
went down, skating along on his nose for several yards, while the whole
"Maroon" team piled over him. But his nose guard had saved him from
injury and, when the wriggling mass was disentangled, it was found that
he still had the ball. He wiped the mud from his face and grinned
happily while his mates gathered round him and billows of cheers swept
down from the Blue stands, frantic with delight at the brilliant run.
"Splendid, old boy!" cried Bert, slapping Tom on the back. "That was
classy stuff. You went down the line like a shot from a gun."
"It saved the goal line all right," panted Dick. "Jove! They were close.
It looked for a minute as though they had us going."
The ball was put into play again but just as the teams lined up time was
called. The game was three-quarters over and the remaining fifteen
minutes would tell the tale of victory or defeat. The boys stood around
in groups scraping the mud from their uniforms and rubbing rosin on
their hands to get a better grip in tackling.
Just as the breathing spell was over the sun suddenly burst forth in a
blaze of glory. Umbrellas went down like magic and even the "Maroon"
supporters, chagrined as they were, joined in the cheer that rose from
the drenched spectators. It put new life into the players also.
"Look!" cried Bert as the teams took their places. "The rainbow!"
All eyes were turned in the direction he pointed, where in a magnificent
arch of shifting colors the bow of promise curved over the field.
"It's our rainbow," shouted Tom. "We saw it first."
"Come off, you dubs," sang out Halliday. "Don't you see that it's over
our goal?"
"Sure," retorted Tom. "That's to show us where we've got to go."
"It is, eh?" said Halliday grimly. "You'll only get there over our dead
bodies."
"You're dead ones already," taunted Drake good-naturedly. "You're only
walking round to save funeral expenses."
But in the furious battle that developed from the kick-off, it was
evident that the "Maroons" were very lively corpses. It was no use to
play on the defensive. If they did that, they were beaten already by the
three points that now loomed up in such tremendous proportions. Nor was
there any reason to keep any of their plays up their sleeves. For them
it was the last game of the season and now was the time to uncover their
whole "bag of tricks."
So they threw caution to the winds and played with utter recklessness
and abandon. Their "Wheel shift" was a new one on the Blues, and the
"Maroons" had used it twice for a gain of thirty yards before the Blues
solved and checkmated it. Then the forward pass was tried, usually
without advancing the ball, though one clever skirting of the end gained
fifteen yards. The ball was getting pretty well down into Blue territory
when a magnificent drop kick by Bert sent it sailing to the middle of
the field. In the momentary silence that succeeded the cheering, some
wag from the Blue stands piped out:
"It's too bad that fellow Wilson is lame." And everybody laughed.
But the laugh of the "Maroons" had a pang behind it. Only five minutes
of playing time were left, and the ball was in the hands of their
enemies. They ranged up for the scrimmage with the desperation of men
faced by advancing doom but bound to go down fighting.
And go down they did before the savage and exulting onslaught of the
Blues. Fighting, raging, blocking, charging, they were forced back
toward their goal. Drake and Dick and Axtell went ploughing through big
holes opened up by their comrades in both sides of the line until, with
two downs yet to go, the ball was in the hands of the Blues twelve yards
from the enemy's goal.
Everybody was standing now. Flags were waving, voices yelling and the
tumult was indescribable.
It was the supreme moment, and Bert was called on for the final plunge.
"Go to it, old man, the instant I snap it back," whispered Tom.
"For the sake of the old college," urged Dick.
Bert stiffened.
"Watch me," he said.
It was a perfect snap from Tom to Dick, who passed it to Bert so swiftly
that the eye could scarcely follow it. At the same instant Drake and
Axtell opened up a hole between left guard and tackle and Bert ploughed
through it like an unchained cyclone. The whole "Maroon" team was on him
in an instant, but the fearful headway of his charge had carried him
through nine of the coveted twelve yards and the goal post loomed almost
directly overhead.
"Buck up, fellows, buck up," screamed Halliday wildly. "For heaven's
sake, brace!"
Bert's head was buzzing with the impact of that mighty plunge, but his
eyes blazed with the light of coming triumph.
"Not an inch, boys, not an inch," yelled Halliday. "Throw them back.
It's their last down."
But their hour had struck. Once more the ball was passed and, charging
hard and low, Bert went into the line. The "Maroons" hurled themselves
savagely against him, but a regiment could not have stopped him. He
crumpled them up and carried the fragments of the broken line on his
head and shoulders, coming at last to the ground five yards over the
goal for the touchdown. And the Blue stands promptly went stark raving
mad.
Bruised and dizzy but smiling, Bert rose to his feet. At that moment he
would not have changed places with an emperor.
The ball was carried out to the twenty-five yard line and Dick, lying
flat on the ground, steadied it for the kick. Bert took careful aim and
lifted it unerringly over the goal. It had scarcely touched the ground
when the whistle blew and the game was over. The Blues had triumphed,
ten to nothing, but only after a desperate battle that left the
"Maroons" vanquished, but not disgraced. Their gallant foes gave them a
rousing cheer that was returned by the victors with interest.
Then the crowds swept down like a tidal wave from the stands and
submerged the doughty fighters. The Blues, all muddy and disheveled as
they were, were hoisted on the shoulders of their exulting comrades and
carried from the field. And it was all they could do to get away from
them and repair to their shower and rubdown, never before so needed or
so welcome.
The campus blazed that night with bonfires and resounded with noises
that "murdered sleep." But all the pleading that the team might take
part in the festivities fell unheeded on the ears of the two inexorable
tyrants, Hendricks and Reddy. Happy and exulting tyrants just then, but
tyrants none the less.
"Not until they lick the 'Greys,'" was "Bull's" decree. "If they do that
they can split the town wide open. Until then the lid is on."
There was no appeal from his decision, and by nine o'clock the weary
warriors were tucked away in bed to dream of past and hope for coming
victory.
Dick was just dropping off when a voice came from Bert's bed:
"Say, Dick, what's the greatest game in the world?"
"Football," was the prompt reply.
"And, Dick, what's the greatest team in the world?"
"The Blues," averred Dick stoutly.
"Right," assented Bert. "Now go to sleep."