THE BASKET BALL GAME
Dan opened the window and thrust his head out.
“The enemy approaches,” he announced. Below him, up the hill,
approached the Broadwood barge, its lamps boring holes in the darkness.
He could hear the straining of the horses, the crunch of wheels on the
gravel and the voices of the occupants. “What time is it?” he asked,
closing the window again with a shiver.
“Twenty-five to eight,” replied Gerald, laying his book down with an
expression of relief. “Let’s go over.”
“It’s a bit early. We’ll walk over and get Alf first. Put your coat on,
chum. It’s as cold as they make it to-night.”
A quarter of an hour later the three of them were sitting in the front
row of the balcony at the gymnasium doing their share of the cheering
which had burst forth as the Yardley Basket Ball Team had trotted onto
the floor. Broadwood appeared a moment later and for ten minutes the
baskets quivered under the assaults of the balls as the players danced
back and forth and shot at goal. The cheering kept up, for everyone was
in high spirits at the prospect of a decisive victory over Broadwood in
the final contest. Broadwood had sent a dozen or two supporters who had
congregated at one corner of the floor and were heroically encouraging
their team. At a few minutes past eight the referee, athletic director
of the Greenburg Y. M. C. A., called the teams together. Goals were
chosen and the Blue and the Green arranged themselves about the floor.
Up went the ball in the ring and Short, stretching his long arm high in
air, tipped it back to Tom. A pass across the floor, a second pass to
a waiting guard, a step forward and an easy toss and the ball dropped
through Yardley’s basket for the first score in something under two
seconds. Yardley cheered and stamped and a black 2 appeared on the
board opposite the Y.
Two more easy baskets followed before Broadwood pulled herself
together. Then her defense covered closer and, although Yardley pushed
the war into the enemy’s territory time and again during the succeeding
ten minutes, she was unable to add to the 6 she had secured. Short’s
ability at center handicapped Broadwood, for that tall youth was able,
nine times out of ten, to put the ball in any direction he pleased.
Usually it went to Tom, who played right forward, and who was so quick
and certain at passing that the ball was under Yardley’s goal before
the defense was aware of it. But after the first ten minutes of play
Broadwood’s captain worked an improvement in the work of his team.
They covered better and Tom found that his opponent had taken on the
semblance of a leech and was always at his elbow, no matter how hard he
tried to shake him off. Broadwood made her first score from a free try
after a Yardley player had been detected holding and the little knot
of Blue adherents in the corner cheered lustily. That 1 on the board
seemed to bring encouragement and the Green set to work furiously. A
long and lucky shot from almost the middle of the floor brought cries
of approval from even the Yardley throng and made the score 6 to 3.
The play was roughing up a good deal and presently a double foul was
called. Yardley failed at her attempt and Broadwood succeeded, and
again the score changed.
“Come on, now!” called Tom. “Stop that fouling and get busy!”
In response Yardley worked through the Broadwood defense by pretty team
work and scored again, but that was the last basket of the period and
the twenty minutes ended with the figures on the board 8 to 4 in favor
of the home team.
During the ten minutes intermission Yardley amused herself singing
songs, while from the floor at intervals came faintly the sound of
Broadwood’s cheers.
“Well, that’s a good margin to begin the next half on,” said Alf
contentedly. “But it doesn’t look to me that Tom’s aggregation of world
beaters is quite up to form. What do you think, Dan?”
“They’re slow. Tom’s been driving them all the way. We haven’t got this
old game yet, Alf.”
“Oh, we’ll have it all right. Here they come.”
Broadwood had made two changes in her team and the changes worked for
the better. The new men were lighter in weight but far speedier, and,
moreover, they were fresh and untired. From the start of the last half
the Blue began to overhaul her rival. The 4 changed to a 6, and then
to an 8, and the score was tied. Over the edge of the balcony hung a
fringe of shouting, gesticulating red-faced youths. A foul was called
on Broadwood and Yardley led by one point. Then followed a long and
desperate throw by a Yardley forward which in some miraculous way got
through the basket.
“That’s the stuff, fellows!” shouted Tom, racing back to his position
and fighting off his too-affectionate opponent. “We’ve got them on the
run now! Play it up!”
For once Short missed the toss and the ball sped away toward a
Broadwood forward. The center raced down the floor as the ball came
back to him. A Yardley guard dived toward him, the center feinted and
let him go sprawling by. Short engaged him from behind and for a moment
gave him all he could do. Then a Blue youth eluded his man, took the
ball at a short pass and threw it backwards and over his head for one
of the prettiest goals of the evening.
For some reason that appeared to demoralize Yardley. She fought
desperately and wildly, but her men forgot team play and it was
everyone for himself. Tom begged and commanded, but dissolution had
the team. Twice Broadwood scored from the floor because the Yardley
defense, over-anxious, had allowed itself to be coaxed away from goal,
and twice she won points from free tries. If she had thrown all the
baskets Yardley’s penalties allowed she would have had several more
figures to her credit. Toward the end of the period Tom, hopeless
of bringing back order to his team, took things into his own hands
in a desperate effort to retrieve the day. Twice he scored almost
unaided and the shouts from the balcony crashed against the walls.
But Broadwood, aware now of her superiority, played together like
well-drilled soldiers and score after score followed. During the last
five minutes it was a veritable rout and when the bell clanged the
score was Yardley, 15, Broadwood, 27, and down on the floor a group of
delighted youths were doing a dance and trying hard to cheer a hole
through the roof.
Dan and Alf and Gerald waited for Tom and walked back to Dudley with
him. Tom was disappointed but philosophical.
“We simply went to pieces,” he said. “It was every fellow on his own
hook with us in the second half, while Broadwood played together
like veterans, which most of them are. If we’d kept up our team play
we could have tied them or won. I guess these little things have to
happen, though, and, after all, she hasn’t beaten us in the series.”
“Will you play her again, Tom?” asked Gerald anxiously.
“I’d like to, but faculty won’t let us. No, it’s a stand-off this year.
We’ll get back at them next year, though. They’re pretty sure to make
Short captain, and he’s a good player and has a head on his shoulders.”
“Well, we mustn’t expect to win all down the line,” said Dan
comfortingly. “We beat at football and cross-country and we have a good
show at baseball.”
“Not to speak of hockey,” added Alf.
“What’s the matter with the track meet?” inquired Tom. “I’ll bet we’ll
simply freeze her out this spring. Why, we’ve got all the sprints and
most of the field events cinched.”
“And Gerald is going to run in the mile,” said Alf. “So you can add
that, too.”
“I really am going to try,” said Gerald earnestly. “Tom says I can make
the team, even if I don’t win points.”
“Why not?” asked Alf, with a wink at Dan. “That’s an easy way to get
your Y. Look at Tom. He’d never have got it any other way!”
“He’s got it in three things,” said Gerald enviously.
“Oh, that’s just because when you once win it nobody cares how many
more you get,” said Alf carelessly. “It’s like shinning up a tree.
After you get to the first branch the rest is easy.”
“I――I wish I could get to the first branch then,” laughed Gerald.
“Oh, you will. Just keep on shinning.”
That day the warm spell had disappeared, and when Dan and Gerald
returned to Clarke there was a bitter northwest wind blowing.
“This means plenty of ice to-morrow,” said Dan.
The ice was there, but it was in such rough shape that it was necessary
to re-flood the rink sufficiently to get a new surface, and instead
of hockey practice on Monday afternoon the team had manual labor.
Unfortunately Mr. McCarthy’s pump had given out, and so, after some
study of the problem, Alf organized a bucket brigade. It was cold
work dipping water from a hole in the river ice and carrying it by
pailfuls a good thirty yards to the nearer corner of the rink. The
water froze around the rim of the buckets and the ice had to be knocked
away after every third or fourth trip. And it was hard on hands, too.
But there were twenty odd boys in the brigade, each with a bucket,
and at last the old surface was flooded over. That was on Monday,
and on the following Saturday was to come the last game before the
Broadwood contest and Alf was impatient to get back to practice. The
enforced idleness showed its effect the next afternoon. Muscles were
stiff, ankles weak and the fellows went at their work in a slow and
half-hearted way that aroused the captain’s ire.
“If you fellows don’t want to play,” he declared sarcastically, “just
say so and I’ll let you off. But if you do, for goodness sake stop
falling over your sticks! Goodyear, you and Roeder had better lay off
awhile. Ridge and Pennimore! Come and see if you can at least stay on
your feet. Hurry up, now. Let’s get some snap into this. You’re letting
the Second put it all over you.”
But the next day the players showed some of their old form and the
Second had all it could do to make its single tally. The weather
remained cold and the ice hard and firm. On Friday there came
indications of a thaw, and it wasn’t until after nine o’clock that
French was certain enough of the morrow’s conditions to go to the
telephone and communicate with the manager of the Rock Hill College
team. “The ice may be a little soft in spots,” he said over the wire,
“but there’s no doubt but that we can play. So we’ll expect you down on
the train that gets here at two sixteen. We’ll play as soon after that
as you’re ready.” Alf’s last act that night before getting into bed was
to open the window and put his head out.
“What’s it doing?” asked Tom sleepily.
“Sort of cloudy, but it’s stopped dripping. It’ll probably freeze a
little before morning. I wonder who invented the New England climate,
anyway. You never know one minute what it’s going to do the next.”
“I didn’t,” murmured Tom, turning over in bed with a grunt.