HARWELL _VS_. YATES--THE FIRST HALF.
That game will live in history.
It was a battle royal between giant foes. On one hand was the confidence
begat of fifteen years of almost continuous victory over the crimson; on
the other the desperation that such defeat brings. Yates had a proud
record to sustain, Harwell a decade of worsting to atone for. And
twenty-five thousand persons watched and hoped and feared as the
battle raged.
Down settled the soaring ball into the arms of Kingdon, who tucked it
under his arm and started with it toward the distant goal. But eight
yards was all he found ere a Yates forward crashed down upon him. Then
came a quick line-up on Harwell's forty yards, and first Prince, then
Kingdon, then Blair was put through the line, each for a small gain, and
the Harwell benches shouted their triumph. Again the pigskin was given
to Prince for a try through the hole between tackle and guard, but this
time he was hurled back for a loss. The next try was Kingdon's, and he
made a yard around the Yates left end. It was the third down and five
yards were lacking. Back went the ball for a kick, and a moment later
it was Yates's on her thirty-five yards, and again the teams were lining
up. It was now the turn of the east stand to cheer, and mightily the
shout rolled across the field.
Through came the Yates full, the ball safely stowed in the crook of his
elbow, the whole force of the backs shoving him on. Three yards was his.
Another line-up. Again the Yates full-back was given the ball, and again
he gained. And it was the first down on Yates's forty-five-yard line.
Then began a rout in which Harwell retreated and Yates pursued until the
leather had crossed the middle of the field. The gains were made
anywhere, everywhere, it seemed. Allardyce yielded time and again, and
Selkirk beside him, lacking the other's support, was thrust aside almost
at will. The Yates shouters were wild with joy, and the cheers of
Harwell were drowned beneath the greater outbursts from the supporters
of the blue.
Harwell appeared to be outclassed, so far as her rush line was
concerned. Past the fifty-yard line went the ball, and between it and
the next white streak, Harwell at last made a desperate stand, and
secured the ball. At the first play it was sent speeding away from
Blair's toe to the Yates mid-field, a long, clean, high kick, that led
the forwards down under it in time to throw the waiting back ere he had
taken a step, and that brought shouts of almost tearful delight from the
Harwell sympathizers. Back to her line-bucking returned Yates, and
slowly, but very surely, the contest moved over the lost ground, back
toward the Harwell goal. The fifty-five-yard line was passed again, the
fifty, the forty-five, and here or there holes were being torn in the
Harwell line, and the crimson was going down before the blue. At her
forty-yard line Harwell stayed again for a while the onslaught of the
enemy, and tried thrice to make ground through the Yates line. Then back
to the hands of Wilkes went the oval and again the heart-breaking
rout began.
YATES.
Full-back
ELTON, 184
Right Left
Half-Back Half-Back
THOMPSON, 153 CUSHING, 157
BIRCH, 140
Quarter-back
Right Right Right Left Left Left
End Tackle Guard Center Guard Tackle End
O'CALLAGHAN, FERGUSON, MORRIS, WILKES, ALLISON, GALT, FRASER,
163 203 197 204 194 189 150
Left Left Left Center Right Right Right
End Tackle Guard Guard Tackle End
DUTTON, SELKIRK, ALLARDYCE, CHESNEY, RUTLAND, BURBRIDGE, CHASE,
150 186 189 229 196 179 156
Quarter-back
STORY, 144
PRINCE, 157 KINGDON, 182
Left Right
Half-Back Half-Back
BLAIR, 179
Full-Back
HARWELL.
Harwell made her last desperate rally on her twenty-five yards. The ball
was thrown to Blair, who kicked, but not soon enough to get it out of
the way of the opposing forwards, who broke through as the ball rose. It
struck against the upstretched hand of the Yates right guard and bounded
toward the crimson's goal. The Yates left half fell upon it. From there,
without forfeiting the ball, Yates crashed down to the goal line, and
hurled Elton, her crack full-back, through at last for a touch-down.
For five minutes chaos reigned upon the east stand. All previous efforts
paled into nothingness beside the outbursts of cheers that followed each
other like claps of thunder up and down the long bank of fluttering
color. Upon the other side of the field no rival shouts were heard. It
was useless to try and drown that Niagara of sound. But here and there
crimson flags waved defiantly at the triumphant blue.
The goal was an easy one, though it is probable that it would have been
made had it been five times more difficult; for Elton was the
acknowledged goal kicker par excellence of the year. Then back trotted
the teams, and as the Harwell Eleven lined up for the kick-off Allardyce
at left guard gave place to Murdoch. The big fellow had given out and
had limped white-faced and choking from the field.
The whistle sounded and the ball rose into air, corkscrewing toward the
Yates goal. Down the field under it went the Harwell runners like bolts
from a bow, and the Yates half who secured the pigskin was downed where
he caught. The two teams lined up quickly. Then back, foot by foot, yard
by yard, went the struggling Harwell men. Yet the retreat was less like
a rout than before, and Yates was having harder work. Her players were
twice piled up against the Harwell center, and she was at last forced to
send a blue-clad youth around the left end, an experiment which netted
her twelve yards and which brought the east stand to its feet,
yelling like mad.
But here the crimson line at length braced and the ball went to its
center on three downs, and the tide turned for a while. The backs and
the right end were hurled, one after another, at the opposing line, and
shouts of joy arose from the crimson seats as gain after gain resulted.
Thrice in quick succession Captain Dutton shot through the left end of
the blue's line, the second time for a gain of five yards.
The cheering along the west side of the great field was now continuous,
and the leaders, their crimson badges fluttering agitatedly, were waving
their arms like tireless semaphores and exciting the supporters of
Harwell to greater and greater efforts. Nearer and nearer to the coveted
touch-down crept the crimson line. With clock-work precision the ball
was snapped, the quarter passed, the half leaped forward, the rush line
plunged and strove, and then from somewhere a faint "Down!" was cried;
and the panting players staggered to their feet, leaving the ball yet
nearer to the threatened goal line. On the blue's twenty-three yards the
whistle shrilled, and a murmur of dismay crept over the Yates seats as
it was seen that Captain Ferguson lay motionless on the ground. But a
moment's rubbing brought him to his feet again.
"He's not much hurt," explained the knowing ones. "He wants to rest a
bit."
A minute later, while the ball still hovered about the twenty-yard line,
Yates secured it on a fumbled pass, and the tide ebbed away from the
beleagured posts. Back as before were borne the crimson warriors, while
the Yates forwards opened holes in the opposing line and the Yates
halves dashed and wormed through for small gains. Then Fate again aided
the crimson, and on the blue's forty-seven-yard line a fake kick went
sadly aglee and the runner was borne struggling back toward his own goal
before he could cry "Down!" And big Chesney grinned gleefully as he
received the leather and bent his broad back above it.
Canes, crysanthemums, umbrellas, flags, carnations, hats, all these and
many other things waved frantically above the great bank of crimson as
the little knot of gallant knights in moleskin crept back over their
recent path of retreat and took the war again into the enemy's country.
Every inch of the way was stubbornly contested by the defenders, but
slowly they were pushed back, staggering under the shocks of the
crimson's attack. Chesney, Rutland, and Murdoch worked together, side by
side, like one man--or forty!--and when time was called for an instant
on the Yates twenty-five yards it was to bring Galt, the blue's left
tackle, back to consciousness and send him limping off the gridiron. His
place in the line was taken by an old Hilltonian, one Dunsmore, and the
game went on.
And now it was the blue that was in full retreat and the crimson that
pursued. Nearer and nearer to the Yates goal line went the resisting
besieged and the conquering besiegers, and the great black score-board
announced but eight more minutes of the first half remaining. But even
eight were three more than were needed. For Harwell crossed the twenty
yards by tandem on tackle, gained the fifteen in two downs by wedges
between tackle and guard, and from there on until the much-desired goal
line was reached never paused in her breathless, resistless onslaught.
It was Wesley Blair who at last put the ball over for a touch-down,
going through between center and left guard with all the weight of the
Harwell Eleven behind him. His smothered "Down!" was never heard, for
the west stand was a swaying, tumultuous unit of thunderous acclaim.
Up went the flags and banners of crimson hues, loud sounded the paean
of praise and thanksgiving from thousands of straining throats, while
below on the side lines the coaches leaped for joy and strained each
other to their breasts in unspeakable delight.
And while the shouting went on as though never would the frenzied
shouters cease, the grim, panting Yates players lined up back of their
goal line, on tiptoe, ready at the first touch of the ball to the earth
to spring forward and, leaping upward, strive to arrest the speeding
oval. Prone upon the ground, the ball in his hands, lay Story. A yard or
two distant Blair directed the pointing of it. The goal was a most
difficult one, from an angle, and long the full-back studied and
directed, until faint groans of derision arose from the impatient east
stand and the men behind the goal line moved restively.
"Lacing to you," said Blair quietly. Story shifted the ball
imperceptibly.
"More." The quarter-back obeyed.
"Cock it." Higher went the end toward the goal.
"Not so much." It was lowered carefully, slowly.
"Steady." Blair stepped back, glanced once swiftly at the cross-bar, and
stepped forward again.
"Down!" Story's left hand touched the grass, the Yates men surged
forward, there was a thud, and--
Upward sped the ball, rising, rising, until it topped the bar, then
slowly turning over, over in its quickening descent. But the nearly
silent west stand had broke again into loud cries of triumph, and upon
the face of the Scoreboard appeared the momentous word, "GOAL!"
Again the ball was put in play, but the half was soon over and the
players, snatching their blankets, trotted to the dressing rooms. And
the score-board announced:
"Opponents, 6. Yates, 6."
As the little swinging door closed behind him Joel found himself in a
seething mass of players, rubbers, and coaches, while a babel of voices,
greetings, commands, laughter, and lament, confused him. It was a busy
scene. The trainer and his assistants were working like mad. The doctor
and the head coach were talking twenty to the second. Everybody was
explaining everything, and the indefatigable coaches were hurrying from
man to man, instructing, reminding, and scolding.
Joel had only to look on, save when he lent a hand at removing some torn
and stubborn jersey, or at finding lost shin-guards and nose masks, and
so he found a seat out of the way, and, searching the room with his
gaze, at length found Prince. That gentleman was having a nice, new pink
elastic bandage put about his ankle. He was grinning sturdily, but at
every clutch of the web his lips twitched and his brow puckered. Joel
watching him wondered how much more he would stand, and whether his
(Joel's) chance would come ere the fatal whistle piped the end of
the match.
"Time's up!" cried the head coach suddenly, and the confusion redoubled
until he mounted to a bench and clapped his hands loudly above the din.
Comparative silence ensued. "Fellows," he began, "here's the list for
the next half. Answer to your names, please. And go over to the door.
Fellows, you'll have to make less noise. Dutton, Selkirk,
Murdoch--Murdoch?"
"Right!" The voice emerged from the folds of a woolen sweater which had
stubbornly refused to go on or off. With a smile the head coach
continued the list, each man responding as his name was announced and
crowding to the doorway.
"Chesney, Rutland, Burbridge, Barton--"
A murmur arose from the listening throng, and Chase, a tall, pale-faced
youth, his cheek exhibiting the marks of a contact with some one's shoe
cleats, groaned loudly and flung himself on to a bench, where he sat
looking blindly before him until the list was finished.
"Story, Prince--"
"Here!" called the latter, jumping from his seat. Then a sharp, agonized
cry followed, and Prince toppled over, clutching vainly at the air. The
head coach paused. The doctor and the trainer pushed toward the fallen
man, and a moment later the former announced quietly:
"He's fainted, sir."
"Can he go on?" asked the head coach.
"He is out of the question. Ankle's too painful. I couldn't allow it."
"Very well," answered the other as he amended the list. "Kingdon, Blair,
March."
Joel's heart leaped as he heard his name pronounced, and he tried to
answer.
"March?" demanded the head coach impatiently; and
"Here, sir!" gulped Joel, rushing to the door.
"All right," continued the head coach. "There isn't time for any fine
phrases, fellows, and if there was I couldn't say them so that they'd do
any good. You know what you've got to do. Go ahead and do it. You have
the chance of wiping out a good many defeats, more than it's pleasant to
think about. The college expects a great deal from you. Don't disappoint
it. Play hard and play together. Don't give an inch; die first. Tackle
low, run high, _and keep your eyes on the ball!_ And now, fellows,
_three times three for Harwell!_"
And what a cheer that was! The little building shook, the men stood on
their toes; the head coach cheered himself off the bench; and Joel
yelled so desperately that his breath gave out at the last "Rah!" and
didn't come back until the little door was burst open and he found
himself leaping the fence into the gridiron.
And what a burst of sound greeted their reappearance! The west stand
shook from end to end. Crimson banners broke out on the breeze, every
one was on his feet, hats waved, umbrellas clashed, canes swirled. A
youth in a plaid ulster went purple in the face at the small end of a
five-foot horn; and for all the sound it seemed to make it might as well
have been a penny whistle. The ushers waved their arms, but to no
purpose, since the seats heeded them not at all, but shouted as their
hearts dictated and as their throats and lungs allowed.
Joel, gazing about him from the field, felt a shiver of emotion pass
through him. They were cheering _him_! He was one of the little band in
honor of which the flags waved, the voices shouted, and the songs were
sung! He felt a lump growing in his throat, and to keep down the tears
that for some reason were creeping into his eyes, he let drive at a ball
that came bumping toward him and kicked it so hard that Selkirk had to
chase it half down the field.
"Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Harwell! Harwell! Harwell!
Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Rah-rah-rah, Harwell!"
The leaders of the cheering had again gotten control of their sections,
and the long, deliberate cheer, majestic in its intensity of sound,
crashed across the space, rebounded from the opposite stand, and went
echoing upward into the clear afternoon air.
"Harwell!" muttered Joel. "_You Bet_!" Then he gathered with the others
about Dutton to listen to that leader's last instructions. And at the
same moment the east stand broke into cheers as the gallant sons of
Yates bounded on to the grass. Back and forth rolled the mighty torrents
of sound, meeting in midair, breaking and crashing back in fainter
reverberations. They were singing the college songs now, and the merits
and virtues of both colleges were being chanted defiantly to the tunes
of popular airs. Thousands of feet "tramp-tramped," keeping time against
the stands. The Yates band and the Harwell band were striving, from
opposite ends of the field, to drown each other's strains. And the blue
and crimson fluttered and waved, the sun sank lower toward the western
horizon, and the shadows crept along the ground.
"There will be just one more score," predicted the knowing ones as they
buttoned their ulsters and overcoats up at the throat and crouched along
the side lines, like so many toads. "But who will make it I'm blessed
if I know!"
Then Harwell lined up along the fifty-five-yard line, with the ball in
their possession, and the south goal behind them. And Yates scattered
down the field in front. And the linesmen placed their canes in the
turf, the referee and the umpire walked into the field, and the stands
grew silent save for the shrill voice of a little freshman on the west
stand who had fallen two bars behind in "This is Harwell's Day," and
needs must finish out while his breath lasted.
"Are you all ready?" asked the referee. There was no reply. Only here
and there a foot moved uneasily as weights were thrown forward, and
there was a general, almost imperceptible, tightening of nerves
and muscles.
And then the whistle blew.