her dismissal, Ruth sat for a few prickly seconds staring at the coach.
Then she arose and, in place of being indignant, walked sobbingly from
the room!
The following Saturday, minus the services of Tim Mooney, Elliott went
down to a bitter, heart-rending defeat at the hands of Larwood, losing
by the hard-fought score of 7 to 0. Five times during this
blood-tingling conflict, Elliott drove the ball down inside the enemy's
ten yard line but somehow, every one of these times, just missed the
punch which would have taken it over. Throughout the game, and
especially at the moments when Elliott was in possession of her golden
scoring opportunities, the stands had madly implored for Mooney.
"Mooney! Mooney! Give us Mooney!" they had chanted.
And after the game Elliott fans took occasion to warmly denounce Coach
Brown for the discipline he had employed which had deprived Elliott
University of what would have been one of her most notable victories in
years. The press of the nation was full to overflowing of newsprint
that day either attacking or defending the great John Brown. Most
sport writers were of the opinion that the famous coach had only
himself to blame for the defeat, poking much fun at his ten o'clock
law. A few of the more orthodox ones, however, credited John Brown
with having put law and order above victory, and lauded the personal
sacrifice he had made in so doing. But Elliott, crazed at having been
given a taste of athletic fruits after so long a time of starving,
could not reconcile herself at not having been able to eat the whole
apple. As time ticked on, Larwood's defeat of Elliott seemed more and
more uncalled for ... and the abuse of John Brown grew and grew.
What Coach Brown's thoughts were on the situation no one knew. He had
scarcely been seen since the game and he had stayed so close to his
room--it had been reported--that he had even had his meals sent up to
him, refusing all interviews as well as callers. This in itself was
unusual--but that was John Brown. Eccentricity was expected of a man
who had been in the habit of accomplishing such astounding results with
raw human material and a football. To those who flattered themselves
that they reasoned, it was decided that John Brown, incurring popular
disfavor, had taken the simplest and most effective course of curbing
drastic comment by giving his antagonists no object to shoot at. After
all, right or wrong, Coach Brown was in charge of the team and it had
been through his efforts solely that Elliott had been able to even give
Larwood a fight.
Every Monday, following a game, it was a custom among coaches to review
the previous Saturday's struggle, calling attention to the errors of
omission and commission as well as stressing the strong points of play.
Coach Brown's analyses of games had been regarded by many as
classics--some even called them scholarly treatises--but, at any rate,
the Monday hour in the Elliott clubhouse was recognized as the
education period par excellence of the entire week in football circles
and everyone who could possibly command a right to attend was there to
hear the contests cussed and discussed play by play.
"Wonder what thunderbolt J. B. will have up his sleeve for us this
time?" every Elliott football man was asking himself as he headed for
the clubhouse the Monday after the Larwood battle.
It was certain that John Brown would say something distinctly
significant. His stone silence over the week-end would indicate that.
Whatever his reactions to the boiling pot of criticism which had been
stewed over him, the team could expect to get most of these reactions
in the form of sharply defined lightning thrusts at weaknesses
which--to Coach Brown--had been responsible for Elliott's failure to
win. Team members instinctively knew that, so far as Tim Mooney was
concerned, John Brown would regard him as though he had never lived.
The coach would chalk up the defeat--not against Mooney's absence from
the line-up--but against the team individually or collectively failing
to come through in some particular. They knew this because John Brown
had emphasized, in some outstanding past instances, that "Games are
never won by the men on the sidelines but by the eleven on the field."
At the clubhouse the hands of the old wooden-faced clock pointed to
five minutes after four. This was fifteen minutes past the time that
the Monday talk usually began. Players, lounging in the locker room,
looked at one another in silent wonderment and then strolled toward the
windows and gazed out down the walk which led through a lane of trees
to the campus. As the clock droned the quarter hour, Red
Murdock--assistant coach--got up, with an air of uneasiness, and
sauntered to the door and stood, peering. An unnatural quiet fell upon
those present. Coach Brown had never been late before. Punctuality
had been one of his iron-clad rules. And now he had kept them sitting
there, in growing impatience and suspense, some twenty-five minutes!
Suddenly the assistant coach straightened up and stepped from the door.
Automatically the players changed from lounging positions to attitudes
of expectant attention. And every face cried to heaven of the
exclamation, "Ah,--he's coming!"
There followed the sound of feet on the sidewalk--a firm, measured
tread which grew methodically nearer until it stopped abruptly at the
threshold. A moment more and a figure filled the doorway. But such a
figure! John Brown to be sure--yet a different John Brown, an older
John Brown; a sadder John Brown. His face looked white--not so white
as the chalk lines on the gridiron--but unusually white. And there was
a drawn quality about it with a certain weariness under the eyes. All
this no one could help but notice as he stood in the doorway, facing
them. Yet, when the face relaxed into the smile that everyone had
grown to love, its white, drawn weariness was forgotten. The coach was
himself again.
"Well, boys, you've got one on me this time. Sorry to have kept you
waiting."
John Brown advanced into the room, nodding a greeting to Red Murdock.
He lifted a foot and placed it upon the empty end of a bench on which
some players were seated, leaning over to rest his elbow on his
upraised knee and his chin upon the palm of his hand. He stood thus,
the thumb of his other hand run in under his belt strap, his cap pulled
well down so that the band of the rim seemed almost to press against
the furrowed line of his forehead. Just a simple, unaffected pose
perhaps--but somehow, this tardy Monday afternoon, it held a touch of
the dramatic.
"Team--I have a little surprise for you to-day," said the great John
Brown. "We're not going to discuss Saturday's game with Larwood, The
game itself has been discussed enough by everyone who saw it. But I
would like to say to you and let it be heralded as coming from me, that
I never hope to see a more perfect game of football than you men of
Elliott played against Larwood!"
Could the roof have crashed in unexpectedly at that instant it could
have caused no more profound astonishment than this most surprising of
tributes from the lips of John Brown. Was he suddenly gone crazy--or
was he about to perpetrate some biting joke?
A substitute, anticipating a sarcastic follow-up, let out a mirthful
cackle.
"All right, you're through for the day." The coach gave the order
without raising his voice nor even looking at the culprit. He waited
until the chagrined disturber had slunk out before resuming.
"I mean it, men. My idea of perfect play Is when a team performs
strictly as it has been coached to perform ... following a system
through to the very last regardless of the breaks of the game or the
preconceived notions of the individual players. That is team-work in
the fullest--that is genuine football. That you failed to win does not
alter the fact that you gave a faultless exhibition insofar as your
experience and training permitted. Saturday you were by no means the
greatest team I have ever coached, but you were by all odds the
fightingest, willingest bunch of grid warriors that, in my estimation,
ever wore moleskins!"
The coach paused and shifted his position to the other knee while the
Elliott men sat like a group of badly fussed and dumbfounded school
boys. Even Red Murdock could not conceal a look of frank bewilderment.
What on earth was the great John Brown driving at? He had never heard
the coach extol an eleven before. This was a most radical departure....
"A comparatively green line and a green backfield and yet you held
Larwood to one touchdown and threatened her goal five different times!
There is victory enough for me in that achievement...."
Forgetting their embarrassment at the praise which was being heaped
upon them, a change began to creep over the team members--a sort of
magical change which stiffened spines and raised heads with a growing
pride. Gone was the inward despondency which had gripped them since
their gruelling loss to Larwood. And in its place...?
Quick to note this rousing transformation, Red Murdock--assistant
coach--fought back a smile and the simultaneous inclination to kick
himself.
"Strike me for a dumb-bell! J. B. sure knows his stuff. He realizes
he's dealing with practically new and little seasoned men ... and he's
trying to save their morale and bolster it up for the biggest game of
the year--against Delmar. Criticism at this stage of development would
eat their hearts out. He's feeding them... but oh, aren't they eating
it? They've turned to putty in his hands right now!"
This much Red Murdock told himself while Coach Brown was pacing
impulsively across the room and back. The wily old fox still! And the
Elliott men leaning forward breathlessly, hanging upon his every word.
"But what you _have_ done is nothing as compared to what you _can_ do!
This week you are going to learn how to beat Delmar ... and next
Saturday you are going to do it!"
An involuntary gasp escaped the lips of John Brown's listeners.
"You are going to do it because I have faith in you and I am going to
see you through. I..."
The face of John Brown returned suddenly back to its chalk-like white;
the flash sunk out of his eyes, leaving weary rings; the drawn quality
took hold of his cheek muscles--and his foot slipped off the bench to
the floor as he clutched impulsively at his shirt front.
"I..."
A dozen hands caught the great John Brown as he slumped forward and
fell.
There was the mad moment of bringing water, of applying restoratives,
of sending out a rush call for Doctor Landon. Then the quieter, more
chilling moment when the doctor had come ... and had looked up ... and
shaken his head.
Newspapers were kindly enough now. They told how the great John Brown
had been stricken down at the height of his brilliant career. They
intimated that the strain of developing a winning team at Elliott had
taken its toll, together with the loss of the Larwood game and its
attendant _unjust_ criticism. Colleges throughout the country went
into mourning. Football practices were curtailed as a mark of respect
and memorial services were held. At Naylor there was talk of a
monument to place in their Hall of Fame. The sporting populace at
large sincerely grieved over the passing of this nationally revered
figure who had contributed much to football in particular and all
athletics in general.
But it was natural that Elliott should take Coach Brown's passing
hardest of all. A difference of opinion sprung up at once as to
whether the last game of the season should be played. Some argued that
the game should be cancelled as a tribute to John Brown's memory, while
others--who claimed to know J. B. the best--wondered if this were the
sort of tribute that the famous coach would have appreciated. Had he
not left his body with the message to "carry on" on his lips? Had not
his dying words been a fervent exhortation to the team to buckle down
to the strenuous task of preparing to meet and, if humanly possible, to
defeat Delmar? In the light of Delmar's imposing season's record, the
coach's last talk may have seemed preposterous for the colossal faith
he was seemingly placing in his system and his ill-experienced but
fighting team. Yet John Brown had died with his face to the
front--ready to meet his biggest test head-on, and--under these
circumstances it would be a good thing for Elliott and the entire
football world if the game were gone through with on schedule.
There were two individuals at Elliott who mourned as one--a big-framed,
well proportioned fellow and a slender-lined, sweet-faced girl. Their
sorrow over J. B.'s loss had been made all the more inconsolable
because of certain previous events now stamped indelibly upon their
minds and magnified to the point of causing them much remorse. Perhaps
they should not have taken the happening quite so much to heart but Tim
Mooney and Ruth Chesterton somehow felt as though they had been
condemned in the eyes of the coach and his demise now offered them no
opportunity to redeem themselves.
When the Elliott board of control, after a special called session of
great solemnity, announced its decision to permit the looming contest
with Delmar to be played there was much sober rejoicing. The athletic
world figuratively wore a mourning band on its arm but there had been
born a sense of thrill in its heart such as the prospects of no other
gridiron battle had aroused. The demand for seats at the Elliott
stadium became unprecedented. Authorities, harassed from all sides by
the frenzied petition for pasteboards, ordered the construction of
temporary stands but the clamor soon outgrew all bounds of
accommodation.
It was estimated that some fifty thousand fans must be denied the
spectacle of Coach John Brown's last team meeting the tartar of all
football elevens in Delmar. There was little doubt as to what would be
the outcome of the game but the conditions under which the game was to
be played were such as to raise interest to the highest human pitch.
It had been decreed that there should be no vying of rival cheering
sections with one another--a rather foolish decree, some
thought--finding it hard to imagine a football contest devoid of the
familiar and on-spurring "Rah, rahs." But this was an idea that the
faculty had devised as a mark of respect and no one could criticize the
spirit which had prompted the formulation of the decree. No, if the
game were to be played the proper tribute to John Brown must, at the
same time, not be lost sight of. And what could be more significantly
impressive than a crowd numbering upwards of seventy thousand, watching
a football contest in profound silence?
Wednesday night, after Red Murdock had got back to his room from the
services held for his beloved leader, he was surprised by a tap on the
door.
"Don't wish to be disturbed," he said.
"But I--it's very important, sir," intreated a voice from the other
side.
"Can't help it!" he snapped, his irritation being due to the enormous
responsibility which had fallen upon him. "See me tomorrow."
For answer the doorknob turned and the door swung inward. The
assistant coach raised his head, about to make angry protest, but the
protest melted on his lips at what he saw. Standing in the hallway was
the grim and resolute figure of Tim Mooney.
"I beg your pardon, sir--but I've just got to see you tonight!"
"Well,--all right. Come in."
The former Elliott fullback stepped through the doorway and pushed the
door shut after him, nervously. He came over toward the man who had
been forced into the unenviable role of trying to fill Coach Brown's
great shoes, and stood--fumbling with his cap. There was an awkward
moment, broken finally by Red Murdock.
"You said you had something important. Let's get it over quickly. I
don't feel like...."
Tim Mooney crumpled the cap in his large right hand and raised the fist
in an appealing gesture.
"It's just this, sir... I didn't have to--being off the squad--but
I've kept every regulation since. And I want to go in. I'd give my
right arm to go in. I--I--somehow I feel like I'd been partly
responsible for J. B.'s death!"
"You shouldn't feel that way, Mooney."
"Perhaps not ... but I can't help it.... If we'd only won from
Larwood. But we can't lose to Delmar, Mr. Murdock. We can't! No
matter how strong Delmar is we've got to beat 'em ... for J. B.'s sake.
Please, sir ... won't you reinstate me just for this game? After that
I'm through. I'll never play again so long as I live..." Mooney
choked. "I guess there's no flowers our coach would like better than a
victory over Delmar. Won't you let me help try to give 'em to him?"
There was something in Tim Mooney's appeal that was heart-rending.
Tears glistened in the former Elliott fullback's eyes and found their
reflection in the eyes of John Brown's assistant coach.
"Mooney," spoke Red Murdock, with difficulty, "I know just how you
feel. I played for J. B. once and I'd have given as much for him in
life as you're now willing to give to him in death. I can't refuse
you, boy. You play. Report for practice tomorrow night!"
Outside the brown-stoned house and across the street from the place in
which Red Murdock had his room, a girl paced up and down, taking care
to keep within the gathering shadows. Every once in a while she would
stop, just opposite the house, and gaze anxiously at the entrance. The
time of her waiting seemed a young eternity to her though in all it
could not have been more than ten minutes. And then the figure she had
been looking for emerged. He glanced about, saw her, and both started
toward each other.
"What did he say?" she cried, breathlessly.
The former Elliott fullback did not attempt a verbal reply. He simply
reached out and gripped the hands of the girl, as they met, and nodded
his head.
"Pm so glad," she murmured, tears splashing down upon his rough
knuckles. "I really think J. B. misjudged me ... and I haven't any way
of making up to him ... except through you.... It's our chance, Tim
... to make good!"
He smiled and patted her arm and the two of them went off, hand in
hand, through the dusk.
No one saw the sun rise the morning of the momentous day as Saturday
dawned behind a bank of dark, somber-looking clouds. Highways early
became choked with lines of automobiles and railway schedules slowed
under the running of football specials. The vicinity about Elliott
University soon resembled a vast ant hill, swarming with sport-crazed
humans. By noon the little college town was transformed into a huge
outdoor garage with every available space, even front lawns, taken up
by autos, many of which bore licenses from distant states. The throng
milled up and down the streets, impelled by a restless curiosity.
Delmar students, on hand six thousand strong, felt almost lost without
the tuneful services of their famous band. An uncanny absence of
boisterous sound prevailed as though everyone was impressed with the
peculiar nature of the occasion. And because of this strained sort of
reverent silence the atmosphere was gradually being made so tense as to
be almost unbearable.
Members of the Elliott team, confined to their rooms until noon by
order of Red Murdock, reflected--to a much more trying degree--the
feelings of the multitude. Outside they could hear the tramp and
shuffle of feet and occasionally an outcry, but their ears recorded no
blare of music or outburst of jostling gaiety. And, as minute crawled
after minute, their irritation grew so that they took to pacing up and
down--up and down--figuratively frothing at the mouths to be out and
clawing into Delmar ... anything to get the torture of waiting over!
By fifteen minutes before game time every possible nook and cranny of
Elliott field was jammed with heart-palpitating humanity. The great
stadium was packed, aisles and all, with the greatest crowd its
historic confines had ever held. And thousands more stormed the gates
outside, beseeching entrance.
In the clubhouse, eleven Elliott men--the choice of Red Murdock to
start against Delmar--sat in a rigid circle while their assistant coach
delivered his last admonitions.
"And one word more," said Red, as the shrill whistle of the referee
called impatiently for Elliott's appearance on the field. "It was just
last Monday that John Brown stood in this room, precisely as I am
standing now, and voiced his confidence in you. He declared that
Saturday you were going to beat Delmar. He said you were going to do
it because he was going to see you through. Outside there, to-day,"
with a wave of the hand toward the stadium, "There are eighty thousand
people, one of the greatest football gatherings that ever attended a
game in America, hushed and waiting to see what account John Brown's
team gives of itself. Throughout the country telegraph keys will click
your every play and radios will tell the story to countless thousands.
To-day you hold within your palms the opportunity for achieving
Elliott's greatest athletic triumph and at the same time immortalizing
the name of Coach John Brown. Does John Brown live ... or does John
Brown die...?"
Another urgent blast came from the referee's whistle. A motion from
Red Murdock and eleven grim-jawed men shot from the club-house. A
great murmuring hum arose as the team burst upon the field--then an
involuntary cheer as the game got under way with Delmar kicking off.
Highly strung and nervously eager, Elliott took the kick-off on her
seven yard line and advanced the ball, under splendid interference, for
nineteen yards before being downed. The man with the ball had been Tim
Mooney and the stands echoed his name though the cheering sections were
dumb. On the first play, as a price for her over-anxiety, Elliott was
penalized five yards for being off-side. The next play netted but two
yards, an attempt through Delmar's sturdy line. Then the ball was
snapped to Elliott's star fullback and Mooney--every nerve pulsating
with the desire to give his all--fumbled. A mad commotion of flying
legs and arms ... a moment of breathless suspense as the arms and legs
were untangled ... a mighty groan of disappointment from the
crowd--scarcely three minutes of play over and Delmar in possession of
the ball but twenty-three yards from Elliott's goal!
The recovered fumble was too good an advantage for Delmar to pass up.
Employing a crushing style of attack, directed furiously and
unmercifully at the lighter Elliott line--Delmar commenced her first
march toward a touchdown. It took just five plays to put the ball
across despite the most heroic efforts of Elliott to resist Delmar's
steam roller offensive. Delmar added the point after touch down by a
kick from placement, giving her an early lead of 7 to 0.
Convinced now that they were in for the witnessing of a massacre, the
stands sat dejectedly considering how foolish it had been to hope that
the late John Brown's eleven could possibly prove a match for
Delmar--cream of the country's football teams. There were some who
even callously began to remark, as Delmar launched her second
ground-gaining onslaught against Elliott, that Providence had been kind
to John Brown in calling him home, thus saving the great coach from the
ignominy of seeing his last efforts crowned by a crushing and
devastating defeat.
But passing such quick judgment upon Elliott was hardly fair in the
light of the terrific strain under which the eleven was playing.
Temporarily shot to pieces by the disheartening fumble, it was not
until Delmar had swept into Elliott territory again that John Brown's
team found itself enough to brace and rock the stadium with the thrill
of stopping Delmar's smashing advance by taking the ball on downs!
Even this sudden flare-up of spirited defense was lightly regarded by
the stands who saw in Elliott's improved play but the last spent effort
of a dying ember whose light is always brightest before it fades into
oblivion. And Tim Mooney's fifty yard punt, putting Elliott out of
danger for the time being, was the ember at full glow. Delmar would
soon get going once more and Elliott would be beaten back until the
team, burning itself out against a mightier foe, became as so many
ashes underfoot.