THE SECOND TEAM COACH
“Want to try a good ball, Mart?” asked Jimmy that afternoon while the
candidates were assembling for practice.
Mart Proctor accepted the pigskin and looked it over critically.
“Where’d you get it, Jimmy?” he inquired. Jimmy explained and Captain
Proctor dropped the ball to the ground, caught it on the rise, balanced
it in his right hand, tried it in his left and then fell to a careful
inspection of the seams.
“Looks good,” he commented.
“It is good,” responded Jimmy earnestly. “Try a kick, Mart.”
So Mart, nothing loth, swung a sturdy leg, dropped the ball and watched
with satisfaction its forty-five-yard flight down the field. “Kicks
well,” he acknowledged while a willing youth chased the pigskin and
hurled it back. “Let’s see it again, Jimmy.”
But while Jimmy was handling it a third person joined them. “What make
of ball is that, Cap?” asked Mr. Cade.
“I don’t know. Jimmy here is booming it. Something he got in the
village at the new store a couple of the fellows have started.”
“Proctor and Farnham,” commented the coach as he read the label. “Oh,
yes, I’ve heard of it. Used out West a lot, I believe. Very sturdy
looking trick, isn’t it? Feels nice, too. A good wet weather ball, I’d
say. Grain’s very heavy, if you notice. Gives you a good hold.”
“It’s the best ball I ever put a foot to,” declared Jimmy impressively.
“I can get a lot better distance with it than I can with the ball we’re
using.”
The coach smiled. “They must be giving you a commission, Austen,” he
laughed. “I’m glad, though, you like it. Only, don’t get so used to it
that you won’t be able to kick one of our sort. How you getting on, by
the way?”
“Oh, pretty fair,” replied Jimmy modestly. “I guess I’m sort of getting
the hang of it. Neirsinger and I put in a couple of hours this morning.”
“That’s fine,” said the coach. “Well, let’s get started, Captain
Proctor.”
So Jimmy deposited his ball with Jake the trainer, with instructions
to guard it with his life, and departed to the field where for the
succeeding thirty minutes he trotted about behind Appel in signal
drill. The second team proved far less formidable that afternoon and
the first walked through its line three times for touchdowns and ran
rings around it meanwhile. Rumor had it that Steve Gaston, second team
coach, expressed dissatisfaction very strongly to his charges after
the day’s work was over. Certain it is that on Wednesday there were
several changes in the scrubs’ line-up, changes which resulted in a
smaller total of points for the first team, but which did not entirely
satisfy the big coach. Gaston had spent two seasons as a second team
player, for some not quite explicable reason never reaching the first.
Perhaps this was because he knew football just a little better than he
could play it. Last season an injury to his leg had laid him off a few
days before the end, an injury which seemed at the time inconsequential
enough but which had afterwards proved so serious as to bar him from
football for two years at least. Had it not been for that injury Gaston
would have been this year’s second team captain. As it was, a wise
Athletic Committee proffered him the position of coach, and Steve,
bitterly resenting the fate which had deprived him of the fierce joys
of the game, could have wept with delight. Of course he did nothing of
the kind. All he did do was accept with a contained air and earnestly
promise to show the committee and the School the best scrub eleven of
recent years.
It is frequently easier to promise than to perform, however, and now,
in the second week of the term, Steve Gaston was learning as much. He
had started, a week since, with a promising lot, many of them veterans
from last year, a few old campaigners with two years of service behind
them. He had gathered a scanty handful of likely youngsters from last
season’s freshman and dormitory teams, youngsters, of course, who
for one reason or another were not yet varsity caliber. Falls, an
experienced guard, had been made captain, and the second had started
off with fair prospects. The difficulty in building up a second team,
however, lies in the fact that just as sure as a player shows anything
resembling remarkable ability a hawk-eyed first team coach snatches
him away. This is likely to happen, too, toward the end of the season,
when there is scant time left in which to break in a substitute. But
it may happen at any period, and Steve prayed for a team that would be
composed of hard, steady workers and that would contain not a single
“phenom.”
The start was like most starts. The first team, playing together
better, made Steve’s aggregation look very weak and very futile. But
that was to be expected. It took time--yes, and patience, too--to weld
seasoned, plugging veterans and inexperienced, high-tensioned newcomers
into a smoothly-working whole. After a few days the scrubs began to
lose some of their rough edges and Steve relaxed a bit.
Thursday brought new frowns of perplexity to his rather rugged and very
earnest countenance. The ends were not what they should be, nor did
they look to Steve like fellows who could be taught. Then, too, on the
other side of center from Captain Falls, the guard position worried
him. On Friday he switched a full-back candidate to the guard position
and tried young Williams, who had played quarter rather brilliantly on
a dormitory eleven last fall, at left end. But the results were not
satisfactory. The backfield man lacked the steadiness required of a
lineman, and Williams’ performance showed Steve that he was sacrificing
a good quarter-back in the securing of a doubtful end. Steve cudgeled
his brains and, after supper that Friday night, metaphorically seized
his club and set forth on his man-hunt. At a little after nine he
arrived at Number 27 Upton.
His prey, attired in a stained and faded old blue flannel dressing
gown, his stockinged but slipperless feet supported on his bed, his
chair tipped precariously back so that the light from the green-shaded
lamp fell over his shoulder, was deep in study. On the other side of
the table Stick Patterson sat with head in hands and nose close to
his own book. Stick was down to trousers and shirt, for the night was
warm. Visitors were infrequent at Number 27, and so when the somewhat
imperative knock sounded both occupants looked up startledly. It was
Stick who called “Come in!” in a decidedly ungracious tone of voice.
Then Steve Gaston entered, big and broad-shouldered and, somehow,
momentous looking, and Russell’s chair came down with a crash of its
front legs and his dressing-gown was ineffectually drawn together.
“Hello, Gaston,” said Russell, surprised. “What--I mean-- Do you know
Patterson?”
Steve didn’t and shook hands rather perfunctorily and took the chair
that Russell yielded. Russell perched himself on the bed and gathered
his scantily covered knees within his arms. He thought now that he knew
Gaston’s mission, for he had suddenly recalled the forgotten fact that
Gaston had become second team coach. Steve smiled, but it was plainly
only a sop to etiquette, or whatever law it is that decrees that a
guest must show pleasurable emotion on arrival. So, perhaps, did the
Cave Man smile ere he raised his club and smote, subsequent to dragging
off his victim. Although Steve didn’t smite, having got that brief
smile out of his system he approached his errand with as little delay
as his distant progenitor.
“How does it happen you’re not with us this fall, Emerson?” he asked
severely.
Russell, who had determined to put on a bold front and be as adamant
to all pleas and protestations, secretly quailed a little. There was
that about this big, serious-faced youth that made him wish he had not
been discovered in dressing-gown and “undies”; his attire, or lack of
it, put him at a disadvantage, for it is difficult to do battle, even
moral battle, when your unclothed ankles stare up at you from under
the frayed hem of a dressing-gown and you are distressingly aware of a
large hole in your left sock! Russell had to blink once or twice before
he answered, and blinking took time and looked like hesitation and so
weakened his cause right at the outset.
“I haven’t time for football this year, Gaston,” he answered finally.
“You see, Patterson and I have started a small store--”
“Yes, I know that,” interrupted Steve impatiently. “I hope you do well,
Emerson. But that store won’t take all your time, I guess. We’re up
against it for good men this fall and I’d take it as a real favor if
you’d give us a hand, old man.”
That phrase “good men” didn’t unduly elate Russell. He knew that Gaston
would use it in like circumstances to any fellow he might be after.
Still, there was a pleasant sound to it. Russell shook his head,
though, and steeled himself.
“I’m afraid it can’t be done. I’d like to, Gaston, but I’m in this
store business to make some money, and there’s only Patterson and
me to look after it. Patterson tends the place most of the morning,
generally, and so I have to be down there afternoons. If it wasn’t for
that--”
“You played end a good deal last year, didn’t you?” Steve asked.
Russell felt helplessly that Gaston hadn’t been one bit impressed by
what he had told him. Russell nodded dolefully.
“Quite a bit,” he conceded.
“Thought so. We need you, Emerson. Got a place ready and waiting for
you. Fact is, I want to make this year’s second something the School
will remember and talk about for the next ten years. I want to turn
out a rip-snorting bunch of fellows that’ll make the first team sit up
and take notice. You’ve got to have a good scrub team if you’re going
to have a good first, Emerson. You can’t train a first team against
a lot of easy-marks and then beat Kenly. No, sir, you’ve got to have
something hard to go up against, and the better your second team is
the better your first will be. Well, I mean to give the school a great
second, Emerson, and that’s why I’m after you; you, and a couple of
others who have been playing possum. I want all the good stuff I can
get hold of, and, believe me, I’m going to get it!”
“Yes, of course,” answered Russell uneasily, glancing toward his
room-mate for assistance. Stick, however, was pretending to study, and
Russell saw that he must expect no help from that quarter. He went on
more firmly. “I wish I could help you, Gaston--”
“Oh, not me, Emerson! Never mind about me! It’s the School you’re going
to help, you see. Keep that thought in your mind, son. You can’t turn
down the School, can you?”
“Why, no, but--”
“When a fellow can play football, Emerson, he’s got a duty to the
School, and you don’t need to be told that. Fellows like you don’t
hesitate at a sacrifice when the good of Alton is at stake. And you’ve
been here long enough to know that a fellow who goes out and does his
best on the second is doing just as much for the success of the big
team as he would be doing if he played on the first instead.” Gaston
was horribly earnest, and his brown eyes bored Russell’s implacably.
Russell stirred uncomfortably.
“Well, but, you see how I’m fixed, Gaston,” he said pleadingly.
“I--we’ve put quite a little money in this thing, and we can’t afford
to lose it. Fact is, between you and me, we--the store hasn’t got
started very well yet, and it wouldn’t do at all to get careless about
it. Now, if--”
“No, indeed,” agreed Steve quite heartily. “Naturally, you want to
make it go. I don’t blame you. I’d see what arrangement I could make,
Emerson.” He glanced at Stick. “I dare say Patterson can fix it somehow
to take charge in the afternoon long enough for you to get in some
work. A couple of hours would do. Patterson would be doing his part,
too, that way. Every fellow wants the team to win, of course, and is
willing enough to do what he can.”
Patterson looked over and scowled. “That’s all right, Gaston, but I
can’t tend that shop morning and afternoon both. I’ve got recitations
and things. Seems to me there must be plenty of chaps for your team
without Rus!”
“Got to have him, Patterson.” Steve arose smiling calmly but
inexorably. “You fellows fix it up between you. You can do it better
without me, so I’ll be going along. I’m grateful to you, Emerson, for
doing what you’re going to do, even if, as I’ve said, it isn’t as a
favor to me. And the School doesn’t miss these things either. Well,
I’ll look for you Monday, old man, and I’ll give you a chance to be
mighty useful. Good night. Good night, Patterson.”
“Night,” replied Stick morosely.
“Good night,” said Russell. “You--you mustn’t count on me, though,
Gaston. I’ll think it over and if there’s any possible way--”
“Sure! I understand. That’s the way to talk.” Steve paused in the open
door and smiled back appreciatively. “Monday at three-thirty, then!”
When the door had closed Russell stared blankly across at Stick and
Stick scowled darkly back at Russell.
“A nice mess you’ve made of it,” growled Stick disgustedly.