KENTUCKY’S DOWNFALL
The change from the shadows of the Blue Moon and the weird whispers of
Panther Eye to the low roar of Dave’s boiler room and Dave’s own low
rumbling voice was almost startling. Dave was real, and quite human, the
heating plant, made up as it was of bricks and pipes, pumps and boilers,
was about the most substantial thing in the world. No spooks here.
In this place for six hours every day Dave reigned as king. He had come
to love that room as some people love their homes. The mild, clean air,
made pure by the constant breathing in of those twin boilers, brought
unconscious joy to his heart. The low hiss of steam, the faint roar of
the fires on the grates, the quish-quash of the pumps, were music to his
ears.
To his nicely tuned ears, every sound had a meaning. If the hiss of steam
increased, if a pump bumped ever so softly, if the fire’s low roar sank
to a whisper, he was on his feet. His hands grasped a shovel, a valve, or
a wrench and in a trice all was right again.
More than this, the old heating plant stood for a very definite change in
his life. The moment he stepped through those doors and good old John
MacQueen said, “Your work will be this. You will do it this way and that
way,” he had become important both to himself and to others. He was a
worker.
He loved to sit there, with the green shaded light gleaming low, with the
shadows leaping among the pumps and the pipes, and picture the rooms in
those other buildings. In the gym, all aglow with light, a practice game
of basketball was in progress. Soon the players would go bounding down
the stairs to the showers. In the old brown stone building across the
way, Prexy, in his office, dictated letters, in another room the
treasurer thumbed his ledgers. Far up beneath the rafters were bat-roosts
where a score or more of boys bent over tables reading intently, or
figuring feverishly. In the red brick “dorm,” at the far corner of the
campus, more than a hundred girls garbed in lounging pajamas, kimonos, or
more formal garb, were studying.
“All these,” he would think with a smile, and a glad tug at his heart,
“are warm and comfortable on a damp and chilly night, because I am here
watching these old furnaces and listening to that hiss of steam. I am
part of a big thing. I am a worker.”
Ah, yes, what more could any boy ask, a chance to study, to listen to the
talk of men older and wiser than himself and then to do his part in
making all this possible for many others.
Did Dave think of this often? Probably not. His head was full of forward
passes, lateral passes, touchdowns, college algebra, chemical formulae,
and all the rest that made up his life. For all that it was good at times
just to sit there listening and thinking, just thinking and
listening—nothing more.
A sturdy, cheerful, independent lot were these Hillcrest boys who worked
their way. And there were scores of them. On the football team there was
Stagger Weed, who tended a string of furnaces; Rabbit Jones, who swept a
dozen floors every day; Punch Dickman, who was a hash slinger at the
Golden Gate, and many others, happy warriors all.
“Howdy, Johnny! How’s things?” Dave greeted as Johnny came in blinking
from the light.
“Fine, Dave.”
“And the Blue Moon?”
“Wonderful, Dave.” Johnny dropped into a chair beside Dave’s small desk.
“Dave, how’s football?”
“You saw how it was Saturday,” Dave laughed.
“Yes, but—” Johnny’s brow wrinkled, “you didn’t use my good pal,
Kentucky, very much.”
“No-o,” Dave spoke slowly, “we didn’t. He’s trying too hard. Have to let
him slow down a bit. But he’s a fine kid, Johnny, a mighty fine kid. I
like to see him run. Wait until next Friday. You know we play on Friday
this week, Naperville’s request. You’ll see a thing or two. Just you
wait!”
Johnny was willing enough to wait if Dave felt that way about it. He did
wait. He did see things, wonderful things for a while—and then—well—yes,
and then.
* * * * * * * *
“Look!” Dave’s tone was low, tense with emotion. “We gotta’ beat that
Naperville gang. We just got to. And we can do it, Old Kentucky.” He
placed a hand affectionately on the mountain boy’s shoulder.
The great day had come. The Naperville game was about to start. Never
before had there been such crowds, so much color, enthusiasm, and
cheering.
“We can do it,” Dave went on, “just you and I. No one can dodge the way
you can. And I—I’m a battering ram. I’m good! I even admit it,” he
chuckled. “I’ll go through ’em. You follow on and make the gains. We’re
going to have a touchdown two minutes after the first whistle. I’ll tell
you how,” his voice dropped to a mere whisper. “Artie will give you the
ball. I’ll hit their tackle, hit him hard and ram their line into a heap.
That makes a hole. You go through, far as ever you can.” He drew a long
breath.
“And then?” Kentucky asked in a low, quiet drawl.
“Same thing. Four times running,” was Dave’s reply. “Every time we’ll
gain a little less ground. Shouldn’t wonder if you’d be thrown for a loss
on the fourth. There’s a bright sophomore on that Naperville team—too
bright. Plays right guard. He’ll break through and smear you. Let him!”
Dave chuckled. “And then,” another long breath, “then Artie will send you
through the spot where that same right guard belongs. He’ll be feeling so
happy about smearing you, he won’t be watching, or if he is, he’ll expect
that same play. You should get through, all the way through, kid! Make it
a touchdown, boy. Make it a touchdown.” He wrung the younger boy’s hand.
“There’s the horn.”
Who can say what went on inside the Kentucky boy’s mind as he crouched
behind the line waiting for the snapping of the ball? As yet all was
quite new and strange to him. They expected so much of him. They wanted
him to beat this Naperville team. Naperville meant nothing to him. But to
his team mates and all the old grads, the letter men of other years, it
meant a great deal.
But here was the ball. He felt its hard smoothness in his hand, saw Dave
plunge forward to send a player crashing to one side, saw the opening and
went through for a gain of a yard, two, three, four, eight yards. Then a
bolt of lightning appeared to hit him and he went to earth.
The instant the whistle blew, he felt Dave’s hands on his shoulder,
helping him to his feet.
“Grand, Old Kentucky! Better’n I expected. Now make it a first down.”
A first down it was. The crowd on the bleachers screamed its approval.
The boy could hear them shouting: “Na—per—ville! Na—per—ville! Beat ’em!
Beat ’em! Smear ’em! Smash ’em! Kill ’em!” The shout, coming in slow
motion at first, picked up speed until it sounded like an on-rushing
train.
“Steady, boy!” Dave warned. “Don’t expect too much. Remember!”
“I—I’ll remember,” Kentucky’s breath came short and quick.
There was need to remember, for on the second down he failed to gain and
on the third he was thrown for a loss of two yards. It was at this moment
that the mountain boy became conscious of that Naperville guard. He was
not only a smart boy, he had a mean turn to his nature. He leered as if
to say, “Ha! Ha! Big joke! Smeared you, didn’t I?”
Ballard’s face was a mask as he took his place for the next play. Then,
as he received the ball, he faked that same line plunge, saw that leering
guard leave his place, then, like a flash of fire, shot to the right,
through that opening and away.
Then a strange thing happened to his mind. As a player flashed past him,
he was to him no longer a player, but old Nicodemus, the Colonel’s ram.
And now here was another off to his right. Oh, well! offer him a hip,
then fade. He faded down the field. To the left a third Nicodemus
appeared. He too was dodged. But here he was now straight ahead of him,
not Nicodemus, of course, but the Naperville’s safety man, all that
remained between him and a touchdown.
With a friendly grin, holding the ball straight out before him, the
Kentucky boy sprang straight at the waiting giant.
Thrown off his guard, the giant reached for the ball. But, of a sudden,
the ball was not there. Stopping dead in his tracks, Kentucky had pivoted
sharply to the right and was away for that touchdown.
Then how the bleachers roared.
“See! I told you,” Dave grinned as he came up with the Kentucky boy. “Two
minutes to a touchdown, exactly by the watch!”
Kentucky did not laugh. He did not even smile. Strangely enough, at that
moment he was seeing a face, an unfriendly, leering face, the face of
Naperville’s right guard. A chill shook his slender frame. He wanted to
plead with the coach. Strange as it may seem, he wanted to be taken out
of the game. “But how foolish!” he muttered. “What reason could I give?”
He did not quit the game. He played on, but ever and again, as there was
time-out and he lay flat upon the ground relaxed, with eyes closed, he
seemed to see that leering face and always it caused him to shudder.
After their brilliant start, the team slowed down a bit. The quarter
ended without another touchdown.
In the second quarter, Naperville took the ball and, for the most part,
kept it. With the dogged determination of a slow, heavy team, they at
last pounded their way across the field to a touchdown. Since both teams
had made good on kicks, the score was now tied.
But not for long. Hillcrest went into the air. The grilling practice of
that week did not go for nothing. Three times their forward passes were
complete. It was a short lateral caught by Kentucky and hurled high and
wide to Dave that at last scored their second touchdown of the game. The
kick was good.
Then again came tough going. The Hillcrest team was tiring. Like shock
troops, a half dozen husky subs were pushed into the Naperville team and
again they battered their way across the field and over the goal. The
kick was good. Once again the score was tied.
Then came the five last tense moments of the game. Even faces in the
grandstand were drawn into hard fixed lines. Men were there, stout, gray
haired men, who, in their day, had gone romping over their ancient enemy
to victory. Now they wanted that victory once again, wanted it terribly.
True, there was one more game scheduled with this team, but every game
counted, every game! There was no time like the golden now.
“Smash that line!” they chanted. “Smash that line! Smash that line!”
As they went into a huddle, Dave muttered to his team: “Remember what we
did in the beginning? They’ve forgotten by now. Same play, all the way
through, except just three plunges through left tackle, then one through
right guard.”
Hillcrest’s ball on the enemy’s thirty-yard line. Four minutes to play.
First down, ten to go.
Snap! The ball fairly cracked as it reached Kentucky’s hands. Dave broke
a wide opening. Kentucky went through to a first down.
“Break that line! Break that line! Smash ’em! Smash ’em! Smash ’em!” the
bleachers chanted.
Kentucky passed his hand before his eyes—that leering sophomore was there
again.
Now he was off once again for a gain of six yards.
“Make it a first down!” Dave muttered grimly.
From the enemy’s bleachers there came a mighty roar: “Stop that man! Stop
that man! Kill him! Kill him!” Dave knew they meant him. He grinned
broadly. A moment more and he was laughing, for the bruised and battered
tackle of the opposing team straightened up to shout back to the now
silent bleachers:
“Stop him yourself! He ain’t no man! He’s a stick of flaming red
dynamite!”
“Red dynamite!” The Hillcrest bleachers caught the words and hurled it
back. “Red dynamite! Red dynamite! ’Ray for Red Dynamite!” And so, in a
flash, Dave was named for life.
They did not make it a first down, not that time, for, as if he had
rehearsed the act, that grinning, leering guard broke through once more
and threw Ballard for a loss. As he did so, he hissed some words in the
mountain boy’s ears. Kentucky heard it but indistinctly. Even so, his
blood raced. His fingers itched for action. As he rose, he stood there
like a marble statue, white and cold.
The next play came with the speed of thought and, like a radio flash, was
executed. Kentucky went straight through the place left by the leering
guard. It looked like a touchdown. But no, he was thrown hard, just one
yard from the goal line.
“What a break!” Dave exulted. “First down and a yard to a touchdown!”
The crowd saw it all and went into hysterics. Hats soared high. Girls
screamed. An old grad fell backward off the bleachers, barely escaping a
broken neck. The bleachers were a riot.
But what was this? Players on both teams leaped into action. They began
piling up, pulling and hauling. When it was all over, Ballard, white
faced and panting, was dragged from the bottom of the heap.
There had been a fight going on beneath that pile. Kentucky and that
leering Naperville guard had been at it tooth and nail.
“He was cho—choking me!” the Naperville guard gasped. “He—he nearly
killed me.”
“What happened, Ballard?” the coach asked, crowding in.
The Kentucky boy made no reply. He was white as marble and shaking like a
leaf. He turned, pushed his way through his own team and walked
unsteadily to the bench to drop upon it like a sack of sand.
A hush fell over the throng. The referees conferred. There was nothing
for it, whatever the cause, the Kentucky boy had started a fight. Fifteen
yards penalty for Hillcrest.
Less than two minutes to play and sixteen yards to a touchdown. Hillcrest
lost heart. Four downs and only four yards gained. Naperville took the
ball. They booted it down the field. The whistle blew. The game was over.
“Only a tie,” came a murmur from the bleachers. “Only a tie and we might
have won.”
“Only a tie and we might have won,” the words were taken up by more than
one player. But Ballard, Old Kentucky as they had lovingly called him,
such a short time before, did not hear. He was not there. He was far
away, how far no one seemed to know.