SCRUB VERSUS SCRUB
“Me, sir!” Loring looked startled.
“I suppose you couldn’t. I forgot for the moment that you can’t get
about as easily as the rest of us. It only occurred to me that, knowing
what you do already, Deane, you’d be just the fellow. But never mind.
I’ll find some one.”
“Why, I could go, Mr. Babcock,” said Loring eagerly. “It――it sort of
surprised me, that was all. And I’m not sure that I could do what you’d
want, sir.”
“I think you could. You see, I don’t want a report on the playing. I
just want you to look around over there and see what goes on. There may
be a nigger in the wood-pile, or there may not. If there is, you may
not spot him, but it’s worth trying; and you’re the man for the job
since you know the situation better than any of us. See who they use
as substitutes and try to figure out why. If your hunch is the right
one, Deane, they’ve got an end or a back over there that they’ve been
keeping under cover. Look for him.”
“Yes, sir. It’s sort of like spying, though, isn’t it?”
“We call it scouting. It’s quite legitimate. They do it, and we do it,
just as all the schools and colleges do, and they’ll expect us to have
scouts there to-morrow just as we expect them to have scouts here. In
fact, I think I’d tell them that you’re from Wyndham. Maybe they’ll get
you a good place to see from.”
“That’s one difficulty,” said Loring. “I’ll have to go over by
automobile, and I suppose I couldn’t get near enough to see much
without getting out.”
“Unless they’ve changed their arrangements there,” replied the
instructor, “you are allowed to park on one side of the field, and if
you got there early enough you could pretty near have your choice. I’ll
see about a car――”
“No, please, sir! Wattles will attend to that. I’d a great deal rather
not have you or any one pay for anything, Mr. Babcock.”
“But, Deane, the Athletic Association is perfectly able to stand the
expense, and it’s only fair that it should. An automobile will cost
twenty dollars or so, I imagine, and there’s no reason why you should
pay it.”
“I’d rather, if you don’t mind, sir,” Loring persisted.
“Well, suit yourself. I’ll see you again on Friday and we’ll talk it
over before you go. By the way, you’d better have some one with you,
hadn’t you?”
“I’ll take Wattles, sir. Good night, and thanks for bothering with that
play.”
“If it works as I hope it’s going to, Deane, thanks will be going the
other way. Good night.”
The second cheer meeting――there had been one on the eve of the Toll’s
game――was held Thursday after study hour, and some new songs were
tried out――Mr. Parks at the piano――and some old ones were resung.
And, of course, there was a good deal of enthusiasm and noise. There
was another and even more demonstrative affair Saturday evening, at
which Mr. Babcock and Mr. Clendenin, who was Chairman of the Athletic
Committee, and Captain Dave spoke, but before that other events
transpired.
The Scrub got badly mauled on Thursday, for the First Team, recovering
its self-esteem and poise, went after revenge. Yet the Fighting Scrub
proved once again its right to the nickname and the nine points scored
by the adversary were hard earned. Loring’s forward-pass play――known
now as Number 30――was twice used by the First, the second time for a
long gain that led to the field-goal. This in spite of the fact that
the Scrub knew the play and was watching for it. Friday was another
hard day, for “Cocky” was driving the team with Wolcott in mind and
making no preparations for the next day’s visitors. There was only
one period of scrimmaging, but it lasted fifteen minutes and held at
least one spectacular incident. That was Clif’s interception of Ogden’s
forward-pass. Ogden, a second-string half, was being tried out at
fullback and was making a good impression. Ogden, while not so heavy as
Hanbury or Badger, still had a good deal of weight and wore it where
it did the most good when he hit the Scrub line. And Ogden was faster
than any of the other candidates for the position of alternate to “Big
Bill.” That pass was made from kicking position after the First had
hammered its way to the Scrub twenty-seven and two slams at the line
had yielded but four yards. It was a quick, short heave over right
tackle and was meant for Stiles or Archer, the latter having lately
displaced Couch at left end, but Clif had swept around back of his
line with the snapping of the ball, for “Wink” Coles had “called” the
play, and it was Clif, and neither Whitemill nor Archer who was on the
spot when the pass went over. Clif made the catch while still going
at brisk speed and he kept on going, heading first for the side-line
and then turning in. Since the First Team left end and right half were
already out of the way, he had only Stoddard and Ogden to challenge him
at first. But by the time he was well straightened out, running some
five yards inside the border, Cotter, First’s speedy left tackle, had
taken up the chase. Cotter soon distanced the others, and it was he who
finally threw Clif out of bounds at the First’s thirty-eight. That the
Scrub only got five yards more in three downs spoke well for the big
team’s defense. “Sim” Jackson’s toss to Adams grounded and First took
the pigskin. But Clif had covered some forty-eight yards in that romp
of his, and, back in the gymnasium, once more enjoyed the applause of
his teammates.
There were two games played on Wyndham Field on Saturday. At two
o’clock the Wyndham and Wolcott Scrub Teams met and, since the High
Point contest was not to begin until three, the School surrounded the
farther gridiron and cheered lustily for the Scrub. When it was obliged
to leave in order to be present at the kick-off of the more important
contest the score was 7 to 7, the third period was a minute or two old
and it was anybody’s game. There were some staunch supporters, however,
who remained until the last, and they were well repaid, for it was the
final fifteen minutes that held the real thrills.
Both Wyndham and Wolcott were reduced to line-ups largely composed
of substitutes by that time, for the game had been a hard-fought and
not over gentle affair. Although they were but Second Teams and no
championship depended on their efforts, they were still Wyndham and
Wolcott, rivals always. Each team played not for its own honor but
for the honor of its School, and mighty deeds were performed before
the question of supremacy was settled. At 7 to 7 the battle had waged
into the third period and through it, and at 7 to 7 the last quarter
had started. Then, when some three minutes had gone by, Wolcott’s
brown-stockinged horde swept into its stride and, strengthened by the
return of several first-string men who had been deposed in the first
half, slammed its way down to the home team’s twenty-five-yard line.
There the ball was lost only to be recovered again. From the thirty-two
Wolcott started once more and tore forward. “Babe” Ridgway, who had
stuck it out under a grueling attack through three busy periods, had to
give way finally to Pat Tyson, and Pat was responsible for an advance
that took Wolcott from the twenty-eight to the sixteen yards. Wyndham
steadied then and held, momentarily, but when the enemy had reached the
ten yards it was not to be denied, and at last, when two smashes at
the center had netted but three, the Wolcott right half took the ball
on a cross-buck and plunged inside Jimmy Ames for a first down. Three
more plays put the pigskin across.
The period was fully half over and those six points looked enough to
spell victory for the visitor, but the Fighting Scrub couldn’t spell
that way. Scrub set itself to dispute the try-for-point, and when Al
Greene strode over the sprawling body of his adversary and plunged
toward the kicker that youth hurried his effort. The ball didn’t miss
the goal by many inches, but miss it did, and the Fighting Scrub gave
voice to joy and stumbled back to positions. Mr. Connover shuffled his
men then. Tyson crossed over to right tackle and “Wink” Coles went
to center. Hoppin replaced Thayer and Patch took Clif’s place. And
with that final change “Steve” shot his last bolt. He hadn’t a single
available player left to call on! But Wolcott didn’t know that.
Wyndham’s chance didn’t come along until the period was twelve minutes
old. Then desperate, but still believing in its ability to even the
score, “Sim” Jackson, who had spent the third quarter on the bench,
dug deeply into his small bag of tricks and, finding nothing much
there, used what was left. It wasn’t much of a trick, either, but it
served. The Fighting Scrub tore itself literally in half and the two
halves hugged the side-lines. The ball went with the left portion of
the team. Wolcott moved this way and that, momentarily at a loss how to
meet the extraordinary formation. That wide-open space in the middle
of the field held a strong attraction for the visitor, and, although
it finally divided its defense just as Wyndham had divided its attack,
it was evident that the opening was much on its mind. The handful of
Wolcott adherents and players on the side-line howled derision. Then
“Wink” passed the ball at an angle to Heard, a back across the field
started with the ball and ran toward his own goal, and Wolcott became
loudly vocal with warnings and advice and swarmed in the direction of
the ball. Heard stepped back and back, facing the middle of the field.
Then, when further delay meant danger, he swung half about and threw
the ball to his left. Jeff Adams, who had skirted around close to the
side-line and was now well away, put up a pair of long arms and a
pair of large, eager hands and plucked the ball out of the air. After
that, very soon after, he set out for Wolcott’s goal as though he had
important business somewhere in its vicinity!
But, although Jeff had a fair start, he wasn’t swift enough to
cover fifty-odd yards before the enemy overtook him. He did consume
thirty-three or possibly thirty-four, however, and when a fleet-footed,
brown-legged enemy banged him vindictively to earth he was on Wolcott’s
twenty-one! That bang was temporarily too much for Jeff and time was
called while he was induced to put some air back into his lungs. Then,
with the few Wyndham rooters that were present dancing about and waving
sweaters and howling ecstatically, the Fighting Scrub returned to its
struggle. It was fighting now not only against Wolcott but against
time, for the final whistle wasn’t far off. Every one knows that you
can’t use a trick play like that “split team” twice in succession and
get away with it. Sim Jackson knew it. So he tried it again!
That is, he split the team as before, while Wolcott showed amazement
plainly. The fool thing was a crazy quarterback trying it close to
the twenty! Well, they knew what to expect this time and so, while
their forwards watched their men their backs arranged themselves for a
forward-pass. This time, naturally, Wolcott didn’t waste three men to
look after three of the enemy who were almost the width of the field
from the ball. Wolcott put its strength where the danger lay. Which
was a fortunate thing for Wolcott, since no forward-pass was attempted
and Hoppin, who carried the ball, would have gained much more than
seven yards had the opponent divided its forward line evenly. But even
seven yards is not to be sneezed at when it lays the ball close to the
thirteen!
Wyndham closed up then and played rational football, and, with something
under forty seconds left, cleared the goal-line in three plunges,
beating the whistle by the tick of the watch. That touchdown――credit it
to Stiles――tied the score, and when Lee Heard, plainly nervous, stepped
far back to take the pass from “Wink” you could have heard a pin drop.
Well, not just that, perhaps, for a pin doesn’t make much sound when it
strikes a football field, I suppose, and there was a good deal of noise
from the First Team gridiron; but things were awfully quiet just then.
Even the Wolcott players, prancing and edging, madly anxious to break
through, said nothing! Then, when Heard had trod around for a moment
back there, he held his arms out straight and――oh, well, he made the
goal. There’s no use in prolonging suspense. Wyndham won the game,
completing her season with three victories, and a score or so of tired,
dirt-stained boys hugged each other weakly and cheered the defeated
rival.
Later, Clif and the others, refreshed and hurriedly rehabilitated,
reached the other field in time to see the First play the final quarter
of its game with High Point. It wasn’t very interesting, and even
if it had been the Scrub players were still too excited over their
own triumph to find it so. Ostensibly they watched the First Team
substitutes vainly try to add to the Dark Blue’s score of 14 to 0, but
actually they saw little that went on. They were going over the Wolcott
Scrub contest almost play by play and deriving a soul-satisfying
pleasure. The Fighting Scrub, however others might appraise it, thought
very well of itself that Saturday afternoon!