Evening Games.
After supper sometimes the porch is cleared for a friendly boxing match
or wrestling bout. The boys are chosen who in size and strength are
pretty well matched.
There is a well-padded mat, and if the wrestlers stand up first they are
stripped. The referee reads the rules to them. They are cautioned
against any foul or losing their tempers, and then, at the signal,
turned loose.
Do they wrestle? Do they tussle? Do they struggle with might and main to
put one another down? You try to find out whether they are wrestling
according to Graeco-Roman methods or catch-as-catch-can, and decide it
must be a mixture of both. After a spirited round time is called. Each
of them goes to his corner to be fanned in a strictly professional way
by his seconds.
After one minute's rest they are at it again hammer and tongs, give and
take, like two old-timers, all over the mat, first one, then the other
having the advantage. They begin to show signs of being winded, so the
referee blows his whistle, and again they repair to their respective
corners.
After another minute's rest they stand forth for the final round. In
this you see some mighty pretty holds. Were they stronger men probably
they would be throwing each other over their shoulders, but, being boys,
they can't do that. The last round is declared a draw, and as each won
one of the other rounds, there is a happy shaking of hands as they go
back to their friends.
The next bout being between larger boys, is more interesting. Here we
see two splendid types of young manhood. They stand on the mat measuring
each other with their eyes, planning just where to take hold, when the
whistle blows to begin.
The referee reads the rules to them, lets them clearly understand that
he wants no nonsense. "Go ahead," he says, "play the game fair and never
mind who wins."
They take each other's hand, the whistle blows and the fun is on. This
is genuine, dyed-in-the-wool sport, this is, and all the boys are
yelling their heads off for their favorite.
"Go it, old Socks!" "Give it to him, Chesty!" "Say, what did you let him
get away with that for?" These and many more such exclamations are heard
on all sides.
How easy it is for one to sit on the fence and criticise the other
fellow, to tell him just what to do and how to do it! But what a
different proposition it looks like when you try it yourself?
The first round is finished and the boys are sitting back almost as
tired as the wrestlers. They are being taken care of by the men
appointed for that task. As soon as they are rested, they stand up, for
all the world like a pair of young bucks in the springtime, who are
eager to lock antlers and so long as they conquer the other fellow,
don't care how much damage is done to them.
The second round is called; both boys rush in, each eager to be at the
other. This is a most spirited and enjoyable affair. It is first one
then the other, until one is dizzy watching them. Such beautiful holds!
such daring! such a muscular exhibition, that the boys fairly go wild,
and when this bout is declared a draw, one cannot hear himself think for
the racket.
The third and last round is got over in short time. One of the chaps,
watching his chance, puts the other down and of course when his
shoulders touch it is all over.
Now for the boxing! We thought we had tasted the cup of happiness to the
last drop when the wrestling was on, but no, we had not. There was the
sweetest drop yet to be quaffed, and we quaffed it alright, alright,
that merry evening.
As usual, the very smallest boys were picked out for the first bout;
light weight gloves strapped on, the mat removed, the youngsters told
what they were not to do and then turned loose.
They put up a manly little exhibition and at the end of the first round
it was only by a hairbreadth that it wasn't called a draw.
In the second round they went at it a little mite more furiously, and
the prize ring rules had to be read to them by the Referee. They
themselves did not know whether they were fighting with Queensbury rules
or plain Johnson tactics. Just having the time of their lives, it was
nip and tuck with them, all around the ring; so much so, that when the
whistle blew the round was declared a draw and the little chaps being
slightly winded, it was decided to let them off the third round.
The next two to step up for the pleasure of boxing were larger boys.
These were well matched in every respect, both as to size, muscle and
grit. We knew they would make good. They were both anxious to please
their friends, and apart from that were chums. Could two bosom friends
come together and try to get the best of each other? That was the
thought uppermost in every one's mind. Well, they did, fought like
little men, a square, game fight, each bound to win to show there was no
queer business; but there were only two rounds fought. Then as each had
won one, the boxing bout was ended, to the satisfaction of audience and
performers.
But we have other ways of amusing ourselves beside the two I have just
mentioned.
The boys who love chess will find partners to play with, and can sit
contented, making one and a half moves during the entire evening, if it
so please them to deliberate like that.
The checker fiends can play checkers to their heart's content, jumping
his men and crowning a man king without half the fuss the usual
crowning of kings calls for.
He just sticks one checker on the top of another checker, when he has
got to the top row, looks his opponent in the eye, and says "King," then
begins to waltz backward and forward up and down, sweeping all the poor
little men he finds in his way into the discard. He seems to forget the
time when he was only a little man himself. How like live men that is!
While some will be considerate of those they have left behind them in
the race for fame and fortune, others will step over them or push them
out of their way.
That old time game of dominoes must not be forgotten. How many weary
hours it has beguiled away! New games may come and new games will go,
when we are tired of them, but our pleasant little oblong friends from
blank blank to double six will always find a welcome here.
Then Lotto. Why, I am anything but a spring chicken, yet Lotto was an
old game when I was young. What a hurry and flurry to cover with bits of
glass the numbers as quickly as they were called, and what a joyful yell
when you were out first!
On warm nights the boys sit out of doors on the Campus. Some one starts
up a college song and the fun begins. All the old time and all the new
songs. Among the voices a young tenor is heard; he leads, all the rest
joining in the chorus.
Such a medley of sounds--the boy who can sing and is willing, the boy
who can't sing and wants to; never mind, when one is young everything
goes; it is only when one grows old that one becomes hypercritical.
The night birds cease their songs, so entranced are they at the human
warbling. The only feathered night prowler who will not keep quiet is
the owl, who persists in joining in the chorus, his part being a
question, Who? Who? and then flying quickly away.
These are all innocent little amusements to while away the time until
"quarters" sound.
We have other pleasures of a different nature, but those I will leave
for another chapter.
"Another evening gone!" you say. "Why, I have done hardly anything at
all, and meant to do so much." It is that way every evening. We plan to
do all sorts of things, but what with games, songs, feats of strength,
spinning of yarns, the time goes all too quickly.
The instructors walk about telling their charges to get a move on.
Everybody goes to his tent to undress quickly, plan for another day's
fun and frolic; then the bugler blows "Taps" and once more we wrap our
covers around us, lying down to peaceful slumber. "So long, Ned." "So
long, Joe." "Good night, fellows."
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