FOR A SCRAP OF PAPER
Out on the field Judd was having the biggest fight of his life. There
surged up within him the desire to overcome the fears of the past. He
remembered the morning that he took the pen and signed his name to the
contract in Bob's room; remembered his coming back to Trumbull and
re-entering school; remembered how he had made himself get out for
football; remembered his mother's changed feelings toward his
activities. He had fought this thing that he knew was not a part of
him ... trying ... trying to shake it off ... but it clung to him
hardest at just the times when he wanted to do the most ... when it was
the most difficult to get away from ... and easiest to surrender.
The paper had seemed to Judd as the only outward evidence of his
determination to keep up the good fight ... to conquer fear. He did
not want to admit to anyone that he had broken faith with himself ...
he had gone so far now that there must be no turning back ...
regardless of consequences. And the piece of paper did mean something
to Judd. It meant living up to his true self ... a self which had no
use for babying; a self which never recognized failure ... a self which
did not think of itself ... first.
Judd crouched in his defensive position, a hand holding his lame
shoulder, eyes on the Canton backfield. There was a sudden shift, the
lines crashed and the big Drake came through again. But Judd, gritting
his teeth, went forward to meet him and dropped Drake for a bare two
yard gain.
"Good boy!" cried Barley, pulling Judd to his feet. "Right at 'em!"
Drake, dripping with mud and water, jogged back to his position. The
quarterback said something in Drake's ear. Drake nodded and glanced at
Billings derisively. The next moment he had the ball again and was
circling the end.
Judd, muttering to himself, "I can! ... I can!" cut through the muddy
turf. Barley spilled the interference and once more Judd tore into
Drake, bringing the big fellow down. But Drake had gained five yards.
Third down and three to go! Canton tried a line play. Trumbull held.
Drake fell back to kick. Judd retreated to Trumbull's thirty yard line
to play for the punt.
The pigskin came spinning through the heavy air toward him. He had run
forward about five yards to get under it. He made the catch but
slipped and fell as he started forward. As he got to his feet two
Canton tacklers hit him. When Judd got up he was conscious of a sharp
pain in his right knee. Time out was taken while he paced about,
testing his foot to the ground.
Barley, supporting him, said in a whisper: "Tough luck, old man.
You're putting up a great game. They wouldn't be in it if it wasn't
for their man Drake ... we've got just seven minutes ... I'll tell you
what I'm going to do ... I'm going to give you the ball practically
every play and we'll hand them some of the same medicine they've been
feeding us!"
"I--I don't believe I can do you much good," faltered Judd.
Barley grinned. "Where do you get that stuff? Anyone who can stop
that bird Drake can hit the line ... How's your knee ... better?"
The referee's whistle sounded. Judd became conscious of the wild
entreaties of the Trumbull crowd. They still had faith in their team
... they knew the boys would do their best ... and now was the time
when Trumbull must fight the hardest.
He nodded. On the first play Barley, at quarterback position, smacked
the ball against his stomach as he came pounding through. Judd hit the
line; it wavered; he went through; his feet scraped against the
slippery sod; bodies struck him ... hands clutched at him ... but he
kept on going as long as he could feel earth beneath him. When he
found himself back in position and got his bearings he discovered that
he had made seven yards! His team-mates were exuberant. There was a
wild motley of sounds from the sidelines.
Once more he felt the ball in the hollow of his arm, finding himself
plunging around the end with his hand against Barley. He saw a tackler
and pushed Barley into him ... then cut in, stumbling as he did so, to
avoid another muddy face which leered before him. Judd ran for ten
yards before he was dragged to the ground....
The game became just one run after another; it seemed like he was
continually getting up from the bottom of a heap and staggering to his
position, only to start forward again--reaching out for the ball--and
blindly but savagely following in the direction of his interference.
There was an outer din of noise that Judd was vaguely conscious of. He
could feel a jerking pain in his leg and an aching twitch in his
shoulder, Occasionally, when Barley didn't call his number, he would
start forward, then drop to his hands and knees and rest. Oh, how good
it seemed to be out of play! He was tired ... desperately tired ...
his whole body was sore ... he was miserably wet and uncomfortable ...
his eye-lids were almost stuck shut with mud ... his mouth was thick
with the grime of it ... but he kept mumbling to himself, "I can! I
can!"
Barley called time out as he fell face downward in the mud. The water
boy was out on the field again. Judd blinked as a sheet of cold water
struck him slosh in the face. Barley was pounding him on the back.
"Wake up, ... we're only five yards from the goal and three minutes to
go..."
Judd looked up and beyond Barley. He saw the dark outline of the
bleak, wet goal posts, saw the tense faces of the Canton team ... then
his own fellows grouped around him.
Fenstermaker, Trumbull guard, knelt beside him. He was crying ... the
tears making odd little rivulets down his blackened face. "Come on,
Judd ... we'll make a hole for you!"
Judd struggled to his feet. They were all willing to help him. He was
astounded at his own power to keep going. He didn't seem to care what
happened. It didn't seem like it was he at all. He allowed them to
set him on his feet. "You--you fellows make the hole," he said,
"I-I'll go through!"
On the sidelines, under the very goal posts, the great Bob stood ...
his cap was in his hands ... his hair was wet with rain ... his feet
were almost lost to view in a puddle of water ... he was unconscious of
anything but the actions of his brother. A Trumbull fan, recognizing
him, pounded Bob on the back. "I guess you'll have to take a back seat
now, eh Bob? The kid's got it all over you!"
If Judd could have known what his brother was thinking of him then! If
he could only have known that Bob was on the sidelines! But Judd
didn't know a thing except that this was his fight. He wasn't even
playing for the school. He wasn't thinking of any honor. His single
thought was that to have failed in what he set out to do was to fail in
everything.
Bob watched Judd as he swayed upon his feet; his eyes followed him as
he lunged forward and took the ball once more; he lost sight of Judd
for a moment, then saw him come straining through the line with a
tackler hanging to his waist.
The tackler's hand slipped off ... Judd shook himself free ... Bob
wanted to shout, "Look out!" as he saw Drake dive for him ... then he
caught his breath as the kid dodged the fullback but slipped and fell.
Drake turned and threw himself upon Judd as Judd rolled over and
planted the ball over the goal line.
The name "Billings" rang from one end of the field to the other, with
the substitute fullback being lifted to his feet and pummeled by his
team-mates who were crazy with joy ... but Judd was so fatigued that
his attempt at a goal after a touchdown went wide. Two minutes more to
play and the score 14 to 12 in favor of Canton.
It was Trumbull's kickoff, Barley begging Judd to hurry up. Judd swung
his toe against the ball and started to follow his kick dazedly. The
ball, water-soaked and heavy, carried to Canton's five yard line. The
best Canton could do was carry it back ten yards.
Because the game was so nearly over ... the Canton quarterback ordered
a punt. "Mud Scow" Drake, with a self-confident smile on his
dirt-rimmed face, stood with his arms outstretched waiting to send the
ball far down the field ... crushing the last slight hope of victory
from Trumbull. It had been a terrific game ... and Drake was conscious
of his power now as never before.
Barley, realizing that this was the most critical moment in the entire
game, ran along the line exhorting the half dead linesmen to a final
frenzied effort.
"Get in there, fellows, and block that kick! Block that kick!"
The sidelines took up the frenzied cry.
Drake's hands closed upon the ball, he raised it shoulder high and let
it drop, his muddy foot came up to meet it ... but just at that instant
a body shot against him ... there was the hollow plunk of a ball
striking a rather soft object and a mad scramble of flying forms.
When the referee had pulled the players apart he found Fenstermaker,
Trumbull guard, lying face down upon the ball. Trumbull's ball on
Canton's eleven yard line ... and fifty seconds left to play!
Judd knew that he was not capable of carrying the ball another foot.
He instinctively realized that Canton would repulse any effort that
Trumbull might make at running with the ball. The time was too
desperately short.
Then, in a flash, there came to him the vision of practice sessions he
had held with Burton, second team quarterback. Burton knew how to
handle the ball, how to place it to his liking. If Burton were only in
the game....
Judd spoke a few quick words to Barley and Barley ... loyal son of
Trumbull ... called time out so that Burton could come into the game
... and substitute for him.
Everyone knew what was going to be attempted. Burton came racing out
to Judd who had picked out the spot where he was to attempt the place
kick. Three points would just win if Trumbull could make them. But
the field was so soggy and the footing so uncertain. Besides ... the
heavy clouds had brought dusk upon the field prematurely.
Judd removed his cap and took out the piece of white paper. He
unfolded it and laid it flat upon the ground, then stepped back a few
paces and Burton knelt, with hands extended, over the paper. The
seconds seemed like hours.
"Hold that line!" Judd begged of the linesmen. But he need not have
urged this ... tired though they were, they could be depended upon to
give their all now.
The pass from the center was a bit wide but Burton caught it deftly and
upended the ball upon the white piece of paper. Judd took three short
steps and bit his lips as he brought his toe squarely against the
pigskin ... a sharp pain shooting through his knee.
Blackwell and Barley hugged each other on the sidelines. Rudolph
danced in glee. The ball had skimmed over and between the uprights ...
skimmed above the bar by a hair! The timekeeper's whistle sounded and
Trumbull had won a miraculous uphill game by the score of 15 to 14!
And the fellow, who, singlehanded, had made the triumph possible--weary
to the point of dropping--stooped and picked up the piece of paper,
stuffing it back in his cap. The next instant he was carried away upon
the shoulders of the madly joyous crowd to one of the wildest victory
celebrations Trumbull had ever witnessed.
* * * * *
That night, refreshed by a hot shower and with his sprains carefully
bandaged, Judd accompanied the great Bob to the high school campus
where a huge bonfire defied the dismal patter of rain. As they stood
by the fire, listening to the cheers of the student body, Bob said to
Judd: "Buddy, where's that contract?"
Judd reached sheepishly inside his overcoat and pulled out a muddy
piece of paper. Bob took the paper, reached over and before Judd could
stop him, tossed it in the bonfire.
Silently the two of them watched the tongues of flame eat the paper up.
When the paper had become nothing but formless ashes, Bob turned to his
younger brother and reached out his hand, saying in a voice that was
husky with emotion: "Well, Buddy, it's gone. You don't need the
contract any longer. You lived up to more than a scrap of paper this
afternoon. You lived up to the best that was in you!"
And Judd, a happy lump in his throat, could not answer. But his heart
sang with the knowledge that he had won more than the football game.
He had won a lasting victory over himself.
"One of these days, Judd, old scout--you're going to be taking my place
at Bartlett!" Bob continued, his arm about Judd's broad shoulders.
"I--I'd sure like to," Judd replied, warmly, "Not your place exactly
... but be making a place of my own!"
Bob grinned.
"That's the stuff!" he returned, little realizing that the following
football season would bring drastic changes and see his kid
brother--still quite the green, clumsy youth from the country--headed
for Bartlett while he ...?