THE PRACTICE GAME.
"First and second Eleven rushes and quarters down the field and practice
formations. Backs remain here to kick!" shouted Wesley Blair.
It was a dull and cold afternoon. The last recitation was over and half
the school stood shivering about the gridiron or played leapfrog to keep
warm. Stephen Remsen, in the grimiest of moleskins, stood talking to the
captain, and, in obedience to the command of the latter, some fifteen
youths, clad for the coming fray, were trotting down the field, while
eight others, backs and substitute backs on the two teams, passed and
dropped on the pigskin in an endeavor to keep warm.
The first and second elevens were to play their first real game of the
season at four o'clock, and meanwhile the players were down for a stiff
thirty minutes of practice. Joel March shivered with the rest of the
backs and waited for the coach and the captain to finish their
consultation. Presently Blair trotted off down the field and Remsen
turned to the backs.
"Browne, Meach, and Turner, go down to about the middle of the field
and return the balls. Cloud, take a ball over nearer the side-line and
try some drop-kicks. Post, you do the same, please. And let me see, what
is your name?" addressing a good-looking and rather slight youth. "Ah,
yes, Clausen. Well, Clausen, you and Wills try some punts over there,
and do try and get the leg swing right. March, take that ball and let me
see you punt."
Then began a time of sore tribulation for Joel; for not until ten
minutes had passed did the ball touch his toe. His handling was wrong,
his stepping out was wrong, and his leg-swing was very, very wrong! But
he heard never a cross word from his instructor, and so shut his lips
tight and bore the lecture in good-humored silence.
"There," announced Remsen finally, "that's a lot better. Now kick." Joel
caught the ball nicely, and sent it sailing far down the field.
"That's a good kick, but it would have been better had you landed higher
up on your foot. Try and catch the ball just in front of the arch of the
foot. You take it about on the toe-cap. Remember that the broader the
surface that propels the ball the greater will be the accuracy--that is,
the ball has less chance of sliding off to one side when the striking
surface is large. Here's your ball coming. Now try again, and remember
what I have said about the swing at the hip. Forget that you have any
joints at all, and just let the right side of you swing round as
it will."
Then Remsen passed on to the next man and Joel pegged away, doing
better and better, as he soon discovered, every try, until a whistle
blew from the middle of the field and the players gathered about the
captains on the fifty-five-yard line. Joel was down to play left half on
the second eleven, and beside him, at right, was Wills, a promising
lower middle boy, who was an excellent runner, but who, so far, had
failed to develop any aptitude for kicking. Cloud and Clausen occupied
similar positions on the first eleven, and behind them stood Wesley
Blair, the best full-back that Hillton Academy had possessed for many
years. The full-back on the second eleven was Ned Post, a veteran
player, but "as erratic as a mule," to use the words of Stephen Remsen.
The first eleven was about six pounds heavier in the line than the team
captained by Louis Whipple, who played at quarter, and about the same
weight behind the line. It was a foregone conclusion that the first
would win, but whether the second would score was a mooted point. Joel
felt a bit nervous, now that he was in his first game of consequence,
but forgot all about it a moment later when the whistle blew and Greer,
the big first eleven center, tore through their line for six yards,
followed by Wallace Clausen with the ball. Then there was a delay, for
the right half when he tried to arise found that his ankle was strained,
and so had to limp off the ground supported by Greer and Barnard, the
one-hundred-and-sixty-pound right tackle. Turner, a new player, went
on, and the ball was put in play again, this time for a try through left
tackle. But the second's line held like a stone wall, and the runner was
forced back with the loss of a yard. Then the first eleven guards fell
back, and when the formation hit the second's line the latter broke like
paper, and the first streamed through for a dozen yards. And so it went
until the second found itself only a few yards from its goal line.
There, with the backs pressed close against the forwards, the second
held and secured the ball on downs, only to lose it again by a fumble on
the part of Post. Then a delayed pass gained two yards for the first and
a mass at left tackle found another. But the next play resulted
disastrously, for when the ball was passed back there was no one to take
it, and the quarter was borne back several yards before his own
astounded players could come to his assistance.
"That about settles Cloud," whispered Post to Joel, as they hurried up
to take the new position. "That was his signal to take the leather
through right end, and he was fast asleep. Remsen's laying for him."
But the advantage to the second was of short duration, for back went the
first's guards again, and down came the ball to their goal line with
short, remorseless gains, and presently, when their quarter knelt on the
last white line, the dreaded happened, and Blair lay between the posts
with half the second eleven on top of him, but with the ball a yard over
the line. An easy goal resulted, and just as the teams trotted back to
mid-field the whistle sounded, and the first twenty-minute half
was done.
The players wrapped themselves warmly in blankets and squatted in the
protection of the fence, and were immediately surrounded by the
spectators. Remsen and Blair talked with this player and that,
explaining his faults or saying a good word for his work. In the second
half many of the second eleven went into the first, the deposed boys
retiring to the side-lines, and several substitutes were put into the
second. Joel went back to full, Ned Post taking Clausen's place at right
half on the first eleven and Turner becoming once more a spectator.
It was the second eleven's ball, and Joel raced down the field after the
kick-off as far as their twenty-yard line, and there caught Blair's
return punt very neatly, ran three yards under poor interference, and
was then seized by the mighty Greer and hurled to earth with a shock
that completely took the breath out of him for a moment. But he was soon
on his feet again, and Whipple gave him an encouraging slap as he
trotted back to his place. The next play was an ordinary formation with
the ends back, and the ball passed to left end for a run back of quarter
and through the line outside of guard. It worked like a charm, and left
end sped through with Joel bracing him at the turn and the left half
going ahead. Four yards were netted, Meach, the substitute left half,
being tackled by Post. In the mix-up that followed Joel found himself
sprawling over the runner, with Cloud sitting astride the small of his
back, a very uncomfortable part of the body with which to support a
weighty opponent. But he would not have minded that alone; but when
Cloud arose his foot came into violent contact with Joel's head, which
caused that youth to see stars, and left a small cut back of his ear.
"That wasn't an accident," muttered Joel, as he picked himself up and
eyed Cloud. But the latter was unconcernedly moving to his position, and
Joel gave his head a shake or two and resolved to forgive and forget. A
play similar to the last was next tried with an outlet on the other
side, outside tackle. But it resulted in a loss of a yard, and at the
next down the ball was thrown back to Joel, who made a poor catch and
followed it with a short high punt to the opponent's forty yards.
"Your head's cut, March," said Wills, as they took up the new position.
Joel nodded. "Cloud," he answered briefly.
"Punch him," answered Wills. "He's mad because he made such a bull of
his play in the other half. If he tries tricks with me--"
"If he does, let him alone, if you want to stay on the team," said Joel.
"That sort of thing doesn't help. Watch your chance and spoil a play of
his. That's the best way to get even."
The next ten minutes were spent in desperate attack on the part of the
first and an equally desperate defense by the second eleven. Twenty
yards of gain for the former was the result, and the half was nearly up.
On a first down Blair ran back and Joel, whispering "Kick!" to himself,
turned and raced farther back from the line. Then the ball was snapped,
there was a crossing of backs, and suddenly, far out around the right
end came Cloud with the pigskin tightly clutched, guarded by Post and
the left end. It was an unexpected play, and the second's halfs saw it
too late. Meach and Wills were shouldered out of the way, and Cloud ran
free from his interference and bore down on Joel, looking very big
and ugly.
It was Cloud's opportunity to redeem himself, and with only a green
full-back between him and the goal line his chances looked bright
indeed. But he was reckoning without his host. Joel started gingerly up
to meet him. The field was streaming down on Cloud's heels, but too far
away to be in the running. Ten yards distant from Joel, Cloud's right
arm stretched out to ward off a tackle, and his face grew ugly.
"Keep off!" he hissed as Joel prepared for a tackle. But Joel had no
mind for keeping off; that cut in his head was aching like everything,
and his own advice to Wills occurred to him and made him grin. Cloud
swerved sharply, but he was too heavy to be a good dodger, and with a
leap Joel was on him, tackling hard and true about the runner's hips.
Cloud struggled, made a yard, another, then came to earth with Joel's
head snugly pillowed on his shoulder. A shout arose from the crowd. The
field came up and Joel scrambled to his feet. Cloud, his face red with
chagrin and anger, leaped to his feet, and stepping toward Joel aimed a
vicious blow at his face. The latter ducked and involuntarily raised his
fist; then, ere Greer and some of the others stepped between, turned and
walked away.
"That will do, Cloud," said Remsen in sharp, incisive tones. "You may
leave."
And with a muttered word of anger Cloud strode from the field, passing
through the silent and unsympathetic throng with pale face and
black looks.
"First's ball down here," cried Greer, and play went on; but Joel had
lost his taste for it, and when, a few minutes later, neither side
having scored again, time was called, he trotted back to the gymnasium
in a depressed mood.
"You did great work," exclaimed Outfield West, as he joined Joel on the
river path. "That settles Cloud's chances. Remsen was laying for him
anyhow, you know, and then that 'slugging!' Remsen hates dirty playing
worse than anything, they say."
"I'm sorry it happened, though," returned Joel.
"Pshaw! don't you be afraid of Cloud. He's all bluster."
"I'm not afraid of him. But I'm sorry he lost the team through me. Of
course I couldn't have let him go by, and I don't suppose it could have
been helped, but I wish some one else had tackled him."
"Of course, it couldn't have been helped," responded West cheerfully.
"And I'm glad it couldn't. My! isn't Cloud mad! I passed him a minute or
two ago. 'You ought to try golf, Bart,' said I. You should have seen the
look he gave me. I guess it was rather like 'rubbing it in.'" And West
grinned hugely at the recollection.
"How about the tournament, West?" asked Joel.
"Fine! There are twelve entries, and we're going to begin at nine in the
morning. I did the fourth hole this afternoon in two, and the eighth in
three. No one has ever done the fourth in two before; it's the Bogey
score. Don't forget that you have promised to go around with me. They
say Whipple is practicing every morning over in Turner's meadow. What
with that and football he's a pretty busy lad, I dare say. Don't forget,
nine o'clock day after to-morrow."
And Outfield West waved his hand gayly and swung off toward Hampton
House, while Joel entered the gymnasium and was soon enjoying the luxury
of a shower bath and listening to the conversation of the others.
"There'll be a shake-up to-morrow," observed Warren as he rubbed himself
dry with a big, crimson-bordered towel. "Mr. Remsen wasn't any too well
pleased to-day. He's going to put Greer on the scrub to-morrow."
"That's where you might as well be," answered the big center
good-naturedly. "The idea of playing a criss-cross with your right end
on the side-line!"
"We took two yards just the same," replied Warren.
"We gave it to you, my lad, because we knew that if you lost on such a
fool play your name would be--well, anything but Thomas 'Stumpy'
Warren." The reply to this sally was a boot launched at the center rush,
for Tom Warren's middle name was in reality Saalfield, and "Stumpy" was
a cognomen rather too descriptive to be relished by the quarter-back.
Greer returned the missile with interest, and the fight grew warm, and
boots and footballs and shin-guards filled the air.
In the dining hall that evening interest was divided between the golf
match to be played on the following Saturday morning and the football
game with the Westvale Grammar School in the afternoon. Golf had fewer
admirers than had the other sport, but what there were were fully as
enthusiastic, and the coming tournament was discussed until Joel's head
whirled with such apparently outlandish terms as "Bogey," "baffy,"
"put," "green," "foozle," and "tee."
Whipple, Blair, and West all had their supporters, and Joel learned a
number of marvelous facts, as, for instance, that Whipple had "driven
from Purgatory to The Hill in five," that Blair was "putting better than
Grimes did last year," and that "West had taken four to get out of
Sandy." All of which was undoubtedly intensely interesting, but was as
so much Sanskrit to Joel; and he walked back to his room after supper
with a greatly increased respect for the game of golf.