VICTORY
The look of grim determination on Ballard’s face as he took up practice
next day was both inspiring and disturbing to his good friend, Red
Dynamite, who, by this time had come to love the Kentucky boy as he might
a younger brother.
“Steady, son,” he warned as Ballard overran three long forward passes in
a row. “Head work counts more than footwork.”
Ballard quieted down. For a good hour and a half after that, the work of
run-and-pass, pass-pass-and-run, then pass again went on without a pause.
“There!” Dynamite exclaimed at last, “That should do for one day. Come on
over to the Blue Moon for a hot chocolate malted.”
Kentucky dropped in beside him. Together they tramped from the practice
field.
“You know,” Dynamite said soberly, “when you’ve been around a place like
this long as I have you get to love it. Every foot of ground, every stick
and brick, every man and woman comes to mean something to you. They give
you a chance here. Suppose I could go to one of those big schools? Not a
chance! But here, here I sit and listen to the hiss of steam in the old
boiler room. Every fifteen minutes I hop up to feed in some coal and prod
the fires. Every day I eat dust and breathe a little smoke while I drag
the ashes out. That’s all I have to do and that gets me a college
education. By and by, a degree.
“And all the time,” he drew in a long, deep breath, “all the time I’m
living. Living grand, Kentucky, better than I may ever live again. You’ll
come to love it too, Kentucky. You’ll want to fight and fight and fight
for old Hillcrest.
“Here’s the Blue Moon,” he exclaimed as if afraid he had been guilty of
preaching. “Fill ’em up, Artie!” he held two hands wide apart. “Two big
long ones. Double malt and triple chocolate, steaming hot.”
“Two long ones coming up,” Artie grinned broadly. “How’s Kentucky coming
on?”
“Fine!” Dynamite banged the table with his huge fist, then made the sound
of wind whistling through his teeth. “Just watch us next Saturday! I
smack ’em down and Kentucky goes through for a touchdown. Score’ll be
about thirty-one to nothing I’d say.”
But would it? As Dynamite watched the Kentucky boy practice, each day he
seemed to see him growing slimmer, more hollow-eyed and nervous. Nor was
he the only one who watched. Kenneth Roberts the English professor was a
real fellow. He knew boys as well as English. He had written three books
for boys, real thrillers that clicked. When on Thursday, Kentucky sitting
on the front seat slept all the way through his class, English B-3, he
asked the boy to remain after class.
“Ballard,” he said without a smile, “you slept through my class.”
“I—I’m sorry,” Ballard blushed.
“A class room,” the teacher’s voice took on a mellow, kindly note, “is a
poor place to sleep. You’ve been practicing too hard and too long. You’ll
defeat yourself. I want you to do three things, stop practicing, sleep
twelve hours tonight, cut all your classes tomorrow. I’ll fix it up about
the classes. We—we’re watching you, boy. We’re pulling for you, son,
and—and praying for you.”
“Than—” the boy’s chin quivered, “thanks awfully. I—I’ll do whatever you
say.”
It is said there is power in prayer. If this is true the good professor’s
prayers were not in vain. Hillcrest had never witnessed such a game of
football as was played on their grid-iron the next sunny Saturday
afternoon.
As they watched, it seemed that their own team consisted of but two men.
One had been dubbed Old Kentucky, the other Red Dynamite. This, of
course, was not true. There were eleven men on the team. On the
defensive, blocking and tackling, they were all one. Even on the
offensive, in his own quiet way, each man did his full share.
Even so, as the fans watched, they saw again and again a strapping fellow
in red jersey break through the opponent’s line to go flaming down the
field. At once the cry arose:
“Dy-na-mite! Dy-na-mite! Red! Red! Red! Dy-na-mite!” The rooters came in
time to turn that cry into a series of explosions, like the clash and
clatter of a front-line battle.
But always, with a pigskin tucked in the hollow of his arm, there
followed a slender torch of red. And this was Old Kentucky.
As they advanced down the field, Dynamite, with uncanny wisdom, picked
the onrushing opponents one by one. Those who remained, sprang all in
vain at the wisp of red that, like a flaming cardinal, went fluttering
past them to a touchdown.
Twice this unusual pair achieved a run of sixty yards to a touchdown.
When the game was over, the score stood one point below Dave’s prophecy:
30-0.
“You sure done uncommon good today!” Johnny exclaimed dropping into a
slow Kentucky drawl as Ballard entered the Blue Moon.
It was closing time. The lights were low. The fire in the big stove gave
forth an inviting mellow glow. The mountain boy dropped silently into a
chair, stretched his feet straight out before him, then, eyes half
closed, sat there silent while the clock ticked off a full quarter hour.
“Yes,” he roused at last, “that’s what old Noah Pennington would call a
‘right smart of a ball game.’ But, do you know, Johnny, I don’t think
I’ll ever do my part as well again.”
“Probably you’re right,” Johnny agreed, understanding on the instant.
“There are times in all our lives when some special thing gives us a
mighty push and we climb to heights we may never hope to reach again.
“But, Ballard, old boy,” he hastened to add, “you’ll do well enough. Now
you’ve got going, nothing can stop you. For once Hillcrest has a winning
team and I’m glad, mighty glad.”
“Tomorrow I’m coming back to work here in the Blue Moon,” Ballard said
quietly.
“Artie Stark has done enough for me. Every fellow’s got to make his own
way,” he continued.
“All right, Ballard,” Johnny’s tone was as quiet as the other boy’s, but
he felt a surge of warmth work its way through his being. He loved every
boy who took his place in life’s battle-line prepared to do his part.
“You’ll be a lot of help, Ballard,” there was real enthusiasm in his
voice. “You’ll be popular. That will help the Blue Moon.”
“I—I’m glad you think so, Johnny,” there was a wealth of gratitude in the
mountain boy’s tone.