CAPTAIN AND COACH
There’s a saying to the effect that “clothes make the man.” It isn’t
true, as you and I both know very well. And it is probably equally
untrue that togs make the hockey player. And yet――well, those new
leg-guards and those new gloves certainly had an effect on Toby. Or
something did. On Thursday before the Rock Hill College game, which
was, with the exception of the final contest with Broadwood, considered
the most important event on the hockey schedule, Toby performed so
creditably that Captain Crowell sought Coach Loring afterwards for
counsel.
“That kid Tucker’s playing pretty nearly as well as Lamson, sir, don’t
you think?” he asked. They were walking up to the gymnasium behind the
others and Mr. Loring was making the boards creak as he stamped his
feet to warm them. “The way he played to-day was corking, I thought.”
Crowell’s admiration sounded grudging and the coach glanced at him
speculatingly before he spoke.
“What have you got against Tucker, Crowell?” he asked.
“Not a thing,” answered Crowell in surprise. “What made you think I
had, sir?”
“Well, for a week and more Tucker has played a bit better than Lamson
and you haven’t so much as mentioned it――or him. I began to think that
possibly you had some personal――er――dislike, Crowell.”
“If I had,” answered the captain a trifle stiffly, “I wouldn’t let it
influence me, sir.”
“Glad to hear it,” was the untroubled response. “If you want my
opinion, Tucker’s a better goal than Lamson right now and he will get
better every day.”
Crowell was silent for a minute. Then: “You think we’d better use him
Saturday, sir?” he asked.
“By all means. He needs the experience, Crowell. If he doesn’t fill the
bill, put in Lamson, but by all means give Tucker a chance to get some
work against an outside team. You never can tell what any player is
good for until he’s run up against some one beside his own crowd.”
“It sounds as though you’d already picked him for the Broadwood game,”
said Crowell doubtfully.
Mr. Loring smiled. “_I_ had, but you needn’t unless you want to. I’m
not interfering with your choice of players, Crowell. I told you I
didn’t intend to when I started in. It would be a lot easier for me if
I did do that. A coach who hasn’t absolute control always works at a
disadvantage. But I realized that you didn’t particularly want me here
this year and that it wouldn’t do to antagonize you.”
Crowell colored. “I don’t think you have any reason to say that, Mr.
Loring,” he stammered. “I’ve been very glad to have you.”
“Rather than no one, yes,” replied Mr. Loring dryly. “Possibly you have
wondered why I ‘butted in’ this winter. I’ll tell you. A number of us
Old Boys got to talking things over one afternoon in the club in New
York and the question of a hockey coach came up. I was asked if I was
going to help again this year and said that I had had no request; that
since we had lost to Broadwood last year I thought that probably the
sentiment here was in favor of a change. We all felt that things ought
to be pulled together and we got in touch with Mr. Bendix by telephone.
He told us that you were looking for a coach but hadn’t found any
one. Nothing more was done then. That was in December. I think about
the tenth. During vacation Mr. Bendix happened into the club one day
and the subject of hockey came up again. He said that they were still
without a coach and that he thought it would be well for some of us
to take the matter up and send some one down there. Two or three old
players were approached, but none of them could give the time. For that
matter, I didn’t feel that I could spare the time myself, but there
seemed to be no one else and the others insisted and so I came. I might
have taken everything right out of your hands, Crowell, and put myself
in full command, as I was last season. Faculty advised me to, but I
knew you well enough to realize that the only way we could turn out any
sort of a team was for you and I to pull together, my boy. You didn’t
want me and you wouldn’t have had me if you could have found some one
else. I didn’t much care whether you wanted me or not, however. We
grads want good teams here and we want the old school to win her games.
My interest begins and ends there. So far you and I have got along very
well, but it’s been mainly because I’ve taken pains not to interfere
a bit more than has been absolutely necessary. Now we’ve come to a
situation that demands a sort of a show-down, I guess. Suppose you tell
me frankly why you dislike the idea of having Tucker play goal instead
of Lamson.”
“I haven’t a thing against Tucker, sir,” replied Crowell slowly,
evidently choosing his words with care, “unless it’s his age. He’s
pretty young to be a first team goal-tend, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but if he can play the position it doesn’t seem to me that his
age has much to do with it. What’s the rest of it?”
“That’s all, Mr. Loring, really,” insisted Crowell. “I guess that the
fact of the matter is that I――I just got used to the idea of a certain
fellow playing a position and hate to think of changing.”
“That’s a bad idea, Crowell. Every team is likely to have some
dead-wood in it that needs cutting out. You want the seven best players
in there that you can find, irrespective of age or social affiliations
or anything else. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, sir, it is. Is there any other dead-wood? Have you any other
fellows in mind?”
“No, I think not. I’d like to see Casement get a good, thorough trial
at right wing, for Deering’s been playing pretty erratically of late,
but I’m not prepared to say that Casement is a better man. As to
Tucker, I’d advise using him harder, giving him a fairer show, Crowell.
If he is really better than Lamson let’s find it out. We want the
best man at goal on Saturday and two weeks from Saturday that we can
discover. Personally I believe Tucker’s the man, but I may be wrong. Is
Lamson a particular friend of yours?”
Crowell frowned. “No, he’s not,” he answered shortly.
“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way,” said the coach soothingly. “I only
wondered if you were hesitating about hurting his feelings. If you are,
you might let me attend to the matter. When it comes to building a team
they all look alike to me.”
Crowell made no answer for a minute. They had reached the gymnasium
and had paused in the upstairs hall. Finally the captain looked up
frankly, if a trifle embarrassedly, at the coach. “I guess, sir,” he
said, “you don’t want to turn out a winning team any more than I do.
And I think it will be best if you just――just take charge of everything
after this. I suppose I’m sort of dunder-headed about some things. If I
choose a fellow for a position I’m likely to let him stay there rather
than acknowledge that I’m wrong even to myself, and that’s mighty poor
management. I’m sorry if I’ve acted like an idiot all the season, sir――”
“You haven’t, Crowell. I didn’t mean to convey the impression that I
was dissatisfied. Everything has gone along quite smoothly, my boy.
If there have been mistakes we’ve shared them. But I’m not going to
pretend that I’m not mighty glad to take full charge, because, quite
frankly, I think you’ll play your position a lot better if you don’t
have too many――er――too many cares of state on your mind! Suppose that
after this we get in the way of meeting after practice, say in your
room, or in mine if you don’t mind walking down to the village, and
going over things together. That seem feasible to you?”
“Yes, sir, I think it would be a mighty good plan,” answered Captain
Crowell. “I guess it would have been better for the team if we’d done
that long ago, Mr. Loring.”
“Possibly. But we won’t worry ourselves with regrets. We’ll look
forward, Crowell, and see if we can’t pull that team together so that
it will everlastingly wallop Broadwood two weeks from next Saturday! I
dare say that what I should have done is had this talk with you a month
ago. But never mind that now. I’ll drop around to-morrow evening――I
guess we’ve said all that’s to be said for the present――and we’ll plan
things for Saturday. Good-night, Crowell.”
Mr. Loring held out his hand and Crowell grasped it tightly.
“Good-night, sir,” he said, “and thanks. I’m not nearly so afraid of
the Broadwood game as I was! You do think we can win it, don’t you,
sir?”
“Hands down, Cap!” answered the coach. “You wait and see what we can
accomplish in two weeks of pulling together!”
And so it came about that when the referee skated to the center of the
rink armed with puck and whistle two afternoons later it was Toby
Tucker who stood guard at the south goal, Toby very sturdy-looking and
straight in toque and sweater and padded khaki pants and magnificent
white leg-guards, his white-gloved hands holding his stick across his
body, his blue eyes very bright and alert and his mouth set firmly and
straight. Toby made a dazzling figure there in the cold sunlight of
a boisterous winter day and, in his costume of dark-blue and white,
against the yellow boards of the barrier and the wind-swept sky above,
might almost have stepped from a poster. In front of him Hal Framer
leaned on his stick, and beyond stood Ted Halliday, and then Crumbie,
and, finally, facing the Rock Hill left wing, Orson Crowell. To the
right was Arnold Deering and to the left Jim Rose. At the other end
of the rink, poised on impatient skates, was the Rock Hill College
team, colorful in gray and crimson. A hard, north-westerly gale blew
across the ice, stinging faces and numbing fingers and, at times,
whirling little clouds of powdery snow in air. A steady _thump-thump_
sounded as the spectators crowded close to the barrier kicked their
shoes against the boards to warm fast-chilling feet. Behind the nets,
ulstered, hands plunged deep into warm pockets, the goal umpires stood
and shivered. Then the referee poised the puck with one hand above the
waiting sticks and raised the whistle to his lips. The tattoo against
the boards died away. A shrill blast sounded, the gray disk of rubber
dropped to the ice, sticks clashed, skate-blades bit and the game began.
On the bench, one of a half-dozen other coated and blanketed figures,
sat Frank Lamson. Frank was still struggling with the surprise that
had overwhelmed him three minutes before when Coach Loring, calling
the line-up, had announced the name of Tucker instead of Lamson. Frank
was still not quite sure the coach had not made a mistake! Only, if he
had, why didn’t he discover it? And what was Orson Crowell thinking of
that he hadn’t entered a protest against such absurdity? Frank stole a
wondering glance along the length of the bench to where Coach Loring
sat. The coach was looking intently at the game and evidently saw
nothing wrong. Slowly, as the figures dashed up and down and in and
out and the ring of steel and the clash of sticks and the cries of the
players filled the air, it was borne to Frank that Toby had superseded
him, that Coach Loring had done what he had done intentionally, that
Crowell had connived at it, that, in short, he, Frank Lamson, was only
a second-string man! Surprise grew to incredulity and incredulity to
dismay. He wondered what the fellows on the bench with him thought of
it, and turned to see. But they were all following the flying puck
absorbedly, evidently with no thought for the stupendous wrong that had
been committed! Indignation surged over him. Anger filled his soul. So
they thought they could treat him that way and get away with it, did
they? They thought they could oust him without a word of explanation
and put a mere fifteen-year-old, inexperienced kid in his place? Well,
they’d find out their mistake! No one could treat him like a yellow
pup, by jingo! He’d show them so, too! Superbly he arose from the
bench, dropped his blanket with a gesture of magnificent disdain and
turned his back on the scene. Unfortunately, however, not a soul saw
him, for at that moment Rock Hill had the puck in front of the Yardley
goal and six pushing, slashing players were fighting desperately there.
And no one saw him make his way off up the slope, bracing himself
against the gale, for just then the referee’s whistle sounded and Rock
Hill was brandishing sticks in triumph and skating, with perhaps a mere
suggestion of swagger, back to her own territory. So Frank’s dramatic
defiance was lost and neither Coach Loring nor Captain Crowell nor any
of Frank’s companions knew that he had withdrawn in outraged dignity
and left them to their fate.
The game went on again. Toby, a little pale, crouched and watched. He
was hating himself for letting the puck get by a minute ago. It had
been almost impossible to follow it. Sticks, feet, bodies had mingled
confusedly before him. He had repelled one attempt after another with
skates and stick, the goal had tilted under the surge of the struggling
players, blades had whacked against his leg-guards, the world had been
a maelstrom of blue legs and crimson――and then the whistle had blown
and, behold, there was the puck a fair six inches past the opening! How
it had got by him he never knew, but there it was, and the goal umpire
had waved his hand and the tragic blast of the whistle had sounded! And
Toby’s heart was filled with woe!
But there wasn’t much time to spend in regrets, for once more the Rock
Hill forwards, strung out across the ice four-abreast, were bearing
down on him. The puck slithered away across to the left and Arnold
charged at his opponent. But a carom against the boards fooled him and
the red-legged enemy secured the disk again and slid it back. Halliday
missed it by an inch and he and the left center went down in a kicking
heap. There was only Framer now, and the puck was but twenty feet away.
Toby slid to the left, crouched, his heart beating hard.
Framer tried to intercept the pass to the right wing but only succeeded
in diverting the puck to the right center. Crowell, dashing in like a
whirlwind, lifted the opponent’s stick, slashed at the puck, missed it
and went past. Framer was on it――had it――was off down the ice, almost
free! Followed a wild scramble then. The Rock Hill cover point fell
slowly back to position. Crowell fell in behind Framer and Arnold tried
hard to get into place for a pass. Then the cover point dashed forward,
Framer slipped the puck to the right and dodged to the left, skates
grated harshly, Arnold swerved in, reached, found the disk with his
stick, circled back, passed across to Crumbie――
“_Shoot!_” yelled Crowell.
“_Shoot!_” implored the spectators.
But the Rock Hill point was rushing desperately at Crumbie, his stick
slashing the ice, and it was Jim Rose, coming in from the rear, who
hooked the puck away just in time and, miraculously dodging the
defenders in front of the cage, banged it home for Yardley’s first
score.
Pæans of delight arose from around the barrier and the blue blades of
the Yardley sticks waved in air. The Rock Hill goal was telling the
point just how it had happened and finding comfort in explaining. Then
they were off again, Rose having the puck along the boards. A pass to
the center of the ice went wrong and it was the Rock Hill cover point
who became the man of the moment. But his reign was brief and ended
when Rose sent him sprawling into the barrier. A Rock Hill forward
stole the disk and skated desperately, but there was no one to take the
pass and ten yards in front of the Blue’s goal Halliday got it away and
fed it down the ice. And so it went for the rest of that first period,
with no more scores for either side. Twice Rock Hill threatened
dangerously and eight times she shot, but only three attempts reached
Toby and those were stopped without difficulty. For her part, Yardley
only once came near to scoring and then the puck struck an upright and
bounded away and Crowell’s attempt to cage it only sent it over the
barrier into the snow.
On the whole, Toby had a fairly easy time of it during that half of the
contest. It was in the second period that he found his work cut out for
him, for, after the rest, Rock Hill showed that she could play hockey.
Halliday was hurt in the first minute of play and Stillwell took his
place. Five minutes after that Crumbie was sent off for tripping, and
it was then that Rock Hill almost snatched a victory. That she didn’t
was only due to the fact that Toby, looking ridiculously small but
making up for his lack of bulk by his quickness, played his position
like a veteran. Stillwell was not Halliday’s equal on defense, and,
with Crumbie off, Rock Hill kept the puck around the Blue’s goal for
what seemed hours to the goal-tend. Shot after shot was made, knocked
down and brushed aside. The applause from the audience was almost
continual and the shouting of the contenders made a babel through
which Toby, inwardly in a wild ferment of excitement but outwardly as
cool as the ice he stood on, slid from one side of the cage to the
other, crouched, straightened, kicked with his skates, thrust with his
stick and watched all the time with his blue eyes, never losing sight
of the puck. Time and again, having shot, Rock Hill secured the disk
the instant Toby thrust it aside. Yardley, minus one player, slashed
and sprawled and shouted helplessly, with Crowell commanding them to
“Get it out of there!” That was a wild and strenuous two minutes for
Toby, but he came through with a clean slate. The scorer credited him
with seven stops in that busy space of time, but Toby is still of the
opinion that the scorer missed some thirty-five or forty! And then,
finally, just as Crumbie tumbled over the barrier again and rushed to
the rescue, Arnold pulled the puck from a Rock Hill forward and got
free with it.
But there was no getting past the opponent’s outer defense now. Cover
point and point had learned their lesson in the first period and, with
a center playing back on defense, Yardley’s rushes never took her past
the outer trenches. Toward the end of the period both teams were
trying long shots and failing miserably. Casement took Arnold’s place
when the latter bruised his knee against the barrier, and, just before
the whistle, Flagg displaced Framer. But the period ended without
another tally, the score still one to one.
Five minutes of rest, then, and back to the battle once more for two
five-minute periods. Then it was that Coach Loring, deciding to relieve
a very tired Toby, called for Lamson and discovered him missing.
Messengers were dispatched to the gymnasium but returned to report that
Frank was not to be found. Coach Loring scowled, shrugged and viewed
Toby doubtfully. Then he conferred with Captain Crowell and the two put
the matter up to Toby himself.
“I’ll be all right in a minute or two,” panted the boy cheerfully.
“Tired? No, sir, I don’t feel tired a bit!”
Coach Loring smiled. “All right, then, you’d better try the next period
anyway. If Lamson turns up we’ll let you off. Do the best you can,
Tucker. We’ve fought them off so far and it would certainly be too bad
to lose the game now, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, sir! I’ll stop them if it can be done, Mr. Loring.”
And then, presently, they were at it again, with the twilight fast
creeping down over the scene and the half-frozen spectators once more
forgetting their misery in the excitement and suspense of those two
final periods. Science went to the discard now, however, and it was
every man for himself. Both teams tried desperately to score by hook
or by crook. Penalties came fast and furious, and at one time each
team was reduced to five players! The whistle shrilled constantly
for off-side plays. The puck was swept up the rink and back again.
Shots from the very middle of the ice were frequently attempted and
seldom rolled past the points. The players became so weary that they
could scarcely keep their feet under them. Substitutes dropped over
the boards and first-string players wobbled off with hanging heads
and trailing sticks. And all the time Yardley at the barriers cheered
and shouted and implored a victory. But it was not to be. One period
ended, the teams changed their goals and the next began. Toby, finding
it hard now to see the puck at any distance, screwed his eyes up and
peered anxiously every minute. But only three times in the last ten
minutes was his skill called into play and none of the shots which
thumped against his pads was difficult to stop. At the other end of the
rink, the opposing goal-tend had an even easier time, for Yardley was
seldom threatening. And then, suddenly, the whistle shrilled for the
last time and the game was over. And Yardley and Rock Hill gathered in
two little groups in the fast-gathering darkness and limply and weakly
cheered for each other. And although the Blue hadn’t won, and although
she pretended to be downcast over the result, she was nevertheless
secretly very well satisfied with the inconclusive contest, because,
just between you and me, Rock Hill had outplayed her in every position
save one. And that one position was goal.