Bert Wilson on the Gridiron

by Madeline Leslie

  CHAPTER II

  RAKED, FORE AND AFT

  IN the training quarters, "Bull" Hendricks paced to and fro, hisforehead creased by deep lines as he wrestled with the problems thatbeset him.

  Six feet two inches in height and built in proportion, he was a finefigure of a man. Despite his weight and bulk, there was nothing ungainlyor awkward about him. If he had not the grace of an Apollo, he had whatwas better--the mighty thews and sinews of a twentieth century Hercules.His massive chest and broad shoulders were capped by a leonine head,from which looked the imperious eyes of a born leader of men. Few mencared to encounter those eyes when their owner was angered. He was agood man to have as an ally, but a bad one to have as an antagonist.

  How he had obtained his nickname was a disputed question in collegetradition. Some maintained that it was due to a habit of plungingthrough the opposing lines with the power and momentum of an enragedbuffalo. Others with equal likelihood held that it was an abbreviationof "bulldog," and had been won by the grit and grip that never let gowhen he had closed with an enemy. But whatever the origin of the term,all agreed that either definition was good enough to express the courageand power and tenacity of the man. Force--physical force, mental force,moral force--was the supreme characteristic that summed him up.

  In his college days, ten years earlier, he had been a tower of strengthon the greatest football team that had ever worn the Blue, and the parthe played in its triumphs was still a matter of college song and story.It was the day when mass play counted heavily, when the "guards back"and the "flying wedge" were the favorite formations; and the Blue wouldnever forget how, after a series of line plunging, bone-breaking rushes,he had dragged himself over the enemy's goal line with the whole franticeleven piled on him, while the Blue stands went stark raving mad overthe prowess of their champion. That famous goal had won him anundisputed place on the All-American team for that year and thecaptaincy of his own team the following season.

  His reputation clung to him after he had graduated, and even among hisbusiness associates he was commonly and affectionately referred to as"Bull." The same qualities of courage and tenacity that had marked hisstudent days had followed him into the broader arena of business life,and he had speedily become prosperous. But the tug of the old collegehad drawn him back for more or less time every year to help "lick thecubs into shape" and renew the memories of the past. This year the callhad been particularly insistent, owing to two bad seasons in succession,when the Blues had been forced to lower their colors to their exultingrivals who had so many defeats to avenge. A hurry call had gone out forthe very best man available to stop the "tobogganing" of the team; andas this by universal consent was "Bull" Hendricks, he had, at a greatsacrifice, laid aside his personal interests and come to the rescue.

  A few days on the ground had been sufficient to show him that he was "upagainst it." A herculean task awaited him. The material he had to workwith was none too good. The line was lacking in "beef" and the backs inspeed. There were exceptions, notably at center and full and quarter;and here his falcon eye detected the stuff of which stars are made. Butit takes eleven men to make a team and no individual brilliancy canatone for a lack of combination work. "A chain is no stronger than itsweakest link," and, in a modified sense, a team is no stronger than itsweakest player. That one weaker player would be unerringly "sized up" bythe sharp-eyed scouts of the opposition and they would plunge againsthim like a battering ram.

  Usually, at the beginning of the fall season, there would be an influxof promising candidates from the leading academies and preparatoryschools. Fellows who had starred at Andover and Exeter andLawrenceville, some of them giants in bulk or racehorses in speed, wouldcome in as Freshmen and give the Sophs or Juniors a tussle for the team.But "nothing succeeds like success," and the failure of the Blues fortwo seasons in succession had tarnished their prestige and turned towardother colleges the players emulous of football glory. The "Greys" and"Maroons" had "gobbled" the most likely "future greats" and the Blueshad been replenished by a number limited in quantity and mediocre inquality. Of his veterans, the right guard and left tackle had graduatedthat summer, and their places in the line would be hard to fill.

  Not that the coach felt discouraged. He didn't know the meaning of theword. It simply meant that he would have to work the harder. LikeNapoleon, the word "impossible" was not in his dictionary. It was saidonce of a famous educator that "Mark Hopkins at one end of a log and astudent at the other would make a university." With equal truth it couldbe declared that "Bull" Hendricks on the coaching line and eleven menon the field would turn out a 'Varsity team.

  His task was the more difficult just now because he was practicallyalone. It was too early in the season for the "old grads" to put in anappearance. By and by they would come flocking in droves from allquarters of the compass, eager to renew their youth, and to infuse intothe raw recruits some of the undying enthusiasm that they felt for theirold Alma Mater. Then every separate player on the team could have thebenefit of the advice of some famous former player in his own position,who would teach him every trick and turn by which he had won his ownreputation. But at present most of the work devolved on him. He had toteach the backs how to kick, the ends how to run down under a punt, theguards and tackles how to interfere; and into all he had to infuse thedeathless determination to win that is the very heart and core of thegame. Like a new Atlas, he was carrying the football world on hisshoulders, alone.

  No, not quite alone. There was "Reddy." And that sorrel-toppedindividual was a host in himself.

  Not one fellow out of ten could have told his real name. He was simply"Reddy" and they let it go at that. His flaming mop of hair to which heowed his nickname covered a shrewd if uneducated mind. For many years hehad been connected with the college as head trainer, and in thiscapacity he had turned out so many winners that he had become famous inthe athletic world. He had supreme control of the physical training ofall the teams turned out by the college--track, baseball andfootball--and none excelled him in sending their men to the post insuperb condition. He had an unerring eye for an athlete and knew how tobring each individual to the very top of his form. Whatever was in himhe brought out to the full. He was a universal favorite in the college.All the boys swore by him, although at times perhaps--for his temper wasas red as his hair--they were tempted to swear _at_ him. But if theyever did, it was under their breath, for Reddy was an autocrat, and inhis own domain ruled with an iron hand.

  Just now, he was, as he himself put it, "as busy as a one-armedpaperhanger with the hives." Dinner was over and the footballcandidates, scrub and 'Varsity alike, were getting into their togs andundergoing the searching scrutiny of Reddy. There were bad knees andankles and shoulders galore. He began at the soles of the feet and wentup to the crown of the head.

  "Take off those shoes, Kincaid," he commanded. "The soles are worn sothin that you can't help feeling the cleats through them. Before youknow it, your feet'll be so bruised that you'll be wanting a crutch."

  "Those phony ankles again, eh," he remarked, as he noticed a slightwobbling on the part of Anderson. "Here," to an assistant, "give me thattape." And with the skill of a surgeon he applied strips of adhesivetape along each ligament, leaving a narrow space down the instep freefrom bandaging to allow free circulation of the blood. And when he gotthrough, the "phony" ankle was so protected that it was practicallyimpossible for it to turn under its owner.

  So, step by step, he went up the human frame that he knew so well. Shinguards were handed out to the forwards to help them against the fiercehammering that they would have to meet. Pads were strapped below theknee and left loose above to give free play to the joints. The thighswere protected by fiber, and large felt pads covered the hips andkidneys. Then with shoulder and collarbone pads, topped by a head guard,the costume was complete. Then Reddy stood in the door that led to thepresence of the coach and not a man went through until the trainer'scritical eye pronounced him ready for the fray.

  "Don't
hurry," he said goodnaturedly, as some crowded past him. "'Tisquick enough ye'll be getting in there, I'm thinking," and his eyestwinkled, as he thought of the castigation that awaited them.

  To tell the truth, they did not hurry. There were no bouquets awaitingthem. They knew that they were due for a raking fore and aft and thatthey deserved it. No one could tell which one or how many would be"fired" back into the scrubs. More than one of them, on waking in themorning, wondered what made his heart so heavy, until with a qualm thethought of "Bull" Hendricks came to enlighten him. That thought hadpersisted all through the morning hours, and, if they were distrait inthe recitation rooms, the reason was not far to seek. Even Tom'sirrepressible spirits were somewhat tamed, although he had less to fearthan some of the others.

  "Gee," he whispered, "it's like a funeral."

  "Don't cheer, boys, the poor devils are dying," murmured Bert.

  "They piled the stiffs outside the door, There must have been a cord or more,"

  quoted Dick.

  The subdued way in which the boys filed in gave the coach his cue.

  "Nice little flock of sheep," he purred. "Little Bo-Peep will miss youpretty soon and come down here looking for you."

  "There was a time," he flashed, "when a Blue football team was a pack ofwolves. But you're just sheep and the 'Greys' and 'Maroons' will makemutton of you, all right."

  "A football team!" he went on scornfully. "Why, you don't know therudiments of the game. You're a bunch of counterfeits. You can't tackle,you can't interfere, you can't kick, you can't buck the line. Outside ofthat, you're all right.

  "Now this kind of work has got to stop. As a comic opera football team,you're a scream. If the 'Greys' or 'Maroons' had seen you yesterday,they'd have laughed themselves to death. But no Blue team has ever beena joke in my time, and you're not going to get away with it, if I canpound any brains into your heads or any strength in your muscles. IfNature hasn't done it already, I don't know that I can, but I'm going totry. The team I'm going to send into the field may be licked but itshan't be disgraced. It's going to be an eleven made up of men--notfemale impersonators. And I'll get them if I have to rake the collegewith a comb."

  From generals he came down to particulars, and his rasping tongue sparedno one, as he went over the plays of the day before and described theirsins of omission and commission. The men writhed beneath the lash andtheir faces tingled with shame. But they were game and stood the"lacing" with what grace they might, the more so as they realized thatthe criticism, though bitter, was just. His whip tore the flesh and herubbed vitriol into the wounds, but behind it all was his immensepassion for victory and his pride in the old college that they loved andwanted to serve as ardently as he did. It was a wry dose and theyswallowed it with a gulp, but it braced them to new endeavor, and deepdown in their hearts was forming a resolution that boded ill for thescrubs, who had been gloating while the 'Varsity "got theirs."

  "Now," the coach concluded, "I'd about made up my mind to fire half thisgang of quitters back into the scrubs, but I'm going to give you onemore chance. Do you get me? Just one more. For the next hour, you'llpractice tackling and passing and interference. Then when you'velimbered up your poor old joints, I'm going to line you up against thescrubs. I want you to rip them up, eat them alive, tear them to pieces.And heaven help the 'Varsity man that falls down on the job."

  The boys saw some real practice that day. The coach was merciless. Theyflung themselves against the dummy tackle until they were bruised andsore. They ran down the field under punts until their breath came ingasps. They practiced the forward pass until they were dizzy and seemedto see ten balls flying over the field instead of one. But no onecomplained or shirked, although every separate bone and muscle seemed tohave its own particular ache. A short respite, the 'Varsity and scrubfaced each other as they had the day before.

  But the hour had struck for the scrubs. They faced their doom. To besure, they faced it gallantly, but it was doom none the less. From thebeginning they never had a chance. All the pent up rage of the 'Varsitythat had accumulated while they were being flayed by the coach waspoured out on the devoted heads of their opponents. They wiped out thestigma of the day before and paid their debt with interest. It was a"slaughter grim and great," and before their furious attack the scrubline crumpled up like paper.

  In vain Morley yelled to his little band to stand fast. They might aswell have tried to stem Niagara. Warren and Hodge tackled like fiends.Dick at center and Tom at quarter worked together with the precision ofa machine. Bert's mighty kicks were sure to find Caldwell or Drake underthem when they came down, and three times he lifted the pigskin over thebars. Then as the play was most of the time in the scrubs' territory,the kicking game gave place to line bucking. Bert was given the ball,and through the holes that Boyd and Ellis made for him in the enemy'sline he plunged like a locomotive. There was no stopping them, and thegame became a massacre. They simply stood the scrubs "on their heads."Their own goal line was not even threatened, let alone crossed.Touchdown followed touchdown, until when the whistle blew, the 'Varsityhad rolled up a score of 54 to 0 and their humiliation had beengloriously avenged.

  "Well, Morley," taunted Drake, as the panting warriors left the field,"how about that 'false alarm' stuff?"

  "Who's loony now?" crowed Tom.

  "Only a spasm," countered Morley, with a sickly grin. "We'll get youyet."

  "Bull" Hendricks said never a word as the fellows filed past, but, as heturned to leave the field, his eyes encountered Reddy's, and he favoredthat grinning individual with a drawing down of the right eyelid thatclosely resembled a wink. And when he was alone in his own quarters, heindulged in a low chuckle.

  "Pretty strong medicine," he said to himself as he lighted his pipe,"but it worked. I guess I'm some doctor."