Nope, we surely aren’t together. Of course we aren’t together; how can we be together when some of the crowd are set on something beside winning a football game? That’s what he wanted to say, tried almost to say as loud as he could; but it refused to come out. He mumbled something about the bad weather, the storm, the wet ball, the footing.
The coach rose. He clapped his hands. The squad gathered about, everyone’s hair still wet and damp. Behind in the rear Mike passed with an armful of soaking uniforms and equipment.
“Boys, this weather is certainly tough. No use talking. I recognize what you are up against out there. The T-formation needs good firm ground to be effective. But I still feel somehow you’re better’n what you’ve shown, and I’ve still got confidence in you to win, yes, even with this score. I have confidence, that is, if you’ll only get going. Nineteen points a lot? Sure. But the test of a player is what he can do when he’s tired. This half go out and play the kind of ball you can.”
Then they were outside, out in that deluge once more. Across the way the Academy stands rose in a roar as Keith led his team at the same moment onto the field. Over the end zone was the scoreboard with those dreadful figures staring at them:
H.S. 0 Visitors 19.
The ball was low, and from his position Ronald could watch the backs of his teammates converge on the runner, on Keith, no, on Heywood. That big halfback, heavy, powerful, fast, had been slashing holes in their line all afternoon. In the mud and slime he seemed impossible to stop, and Ronny himself had tackled him half a dozen times.
The teams lined up. Heywood took the ball once more for a sizable gain. But Ronald was noticing something else; he was watching Mike and two others break through and pile up on Keith. It was what they’d been doing ever since the kick-off. To his astonishment some of his teammates hadn’t forgotten Goldman’s injury of the previous season. They were still trying to pay Keith for his share in it.
There’s a guy we don’t like, so we’ll bang him off at the start. This was their attitude. Ronny knew what they didn’t seem to know, that Keith could take it. All the time they were attempting to bang him off, Steve Ketchum and Heywood had plowed through for those touchdowns.
Once again Heywood sliced into the line and out into the secondary. He was nearly clear before he slipped and fell. That’s a break, that is. On the next play they made a first down, and then Keith got loose off tackle, his most dangerous run. It was Ronny who, seeing the danger on that sloppy field, managed to knock him outside after a thirty-yard gain. He picked himself up, now as wet and soggy as he had been at the end of the first half.
“C’mon, gang, get in there, get in there and play ball like you can, will ya? Block that end, Mike, watch him every minute; get in low, Jake.”
But slowly, surely, steadily, the Academy came toward their goal, toward a fourth touchdown, toward the worst licking the High School had ever taken. Keith charged in low and hard between Vic and Don Westcott who alone seemed to be holding up the center of the line, playing a magnificent defensive game. Don slapped at him and threw him off his stride as Ronny came running up. The whole play was clear before him. Keith with one arm out, stumbling in the mud; Mike and Dave rushing in hard to fall on him so that if he wasn’t knocked out he’d at least know he’d been hit. It made Ronald furious. He closed in, determined not to permit them to get away with it, to block off Dave anyway. He did block him off, and as he did so Mike accidentally slipped and hit him on the chin with the full force of his fist.
He saw stars. When he came to they were standing around in the mud. Doc Roberts was leaning over, wiping his face and holding smelling salts under his nose.
“I’m ok, Doc.” He rose unsteadily, feeling dizzy, tried to step out a little, managed to trot a few steps. “I’m ok.” But he was not ok, and he was mad clean through. This had to end. One thing or the other. They’d have to quit and play ball—or he would.
“Cm here, gang. This way. Look. This has gotta stop. It’s gotta stop or I quit. If you guys don’t lay off that bird, I’ll leave the field, here, right now, and I’ll tell Coach why. C’mon, gang, what say, gang, let’s go. Let’s forget that stuff. Let’s get together, let’s play against that crowd there, not against each other.”
“You’re dead right, Ronald!” Jim Stacey, adjusting his headgear, stepped in toward the center. “Listen, you guys, lay off that fella from now on and play ball. I’ve been watching you, and Ronny’s quite right. We’ve been playing against each other, not together. Let’s all shoot together for the team.”
“Ok, Jim.”
“All right, Jim-boy.”
“Sure, let’s go, gang.”
“Yeah, let’s go.”
“All right now, get in there, you guys.”
The whistle blew. The teams lined up. Ronald looked around. He was standing on the 8-yard line!
It was raining harder than ever. The Academy leaned over the ball. It was snapped to Heywood, who for the first time started a fraction of a second too soon. The ball was over his shoulder, he stabbed at it, deflected it in the air. A wet figure dashed past and snatched at it in the mist. He had it. Never missing a stride he was five yards down the field before anyone turned.
“Go on, Ned, go on, Ned-boy, for Pete’s sake, go on. Don’t slip, Ned, go on, Ned!”
The two teams picked themselves up out of the mud and streamed along behind him, but the fleet colored boy gained with every stride.
“Yeah, team! Team, team, team. Yeah, team!” The cymbals clashed and clanged from the High School side of the field. The first chance they had had to cheer since the kick-off.
IV
Now then, we’re moving. We’re really moving. For the rest of the third quarter the teams slithered up and down the center of the gridiron, both Keith and Ronald punting and handling that juicy sphere as if it were dry and easy to hold. Somehow they managed to cling to the thing.
Then toward the end of the quarter the High School team got moving. A quarterback sneak was good for a long gain. On the Academy 30-yard line, however, they were held for two plays. Third and six. They went into their huddle.
“Ok, gang. 39 on 5 count.” He was winded, he puffed hard. This was Meyer’s play. They went into formation.
“Hike. 27... 38... 40... hike...” He leaned over, his hand on Don’s wet rump. The ball came and for once the play was perfectly executed. He faked with his empty left hand to Jake, the halfback, and then in the same motion tucked the ball in Meyer’s stomach, continuing back himself as if he were about to throw a pass.
Meyer roared off Roger Treadway’s end into the secondary, he bounced off Steve, straightarmed Rex Heywood, and carried Keith along on his back almost five yards. The High School stands were jumping, shrieking, yelling.
Then someone shouted. Over to the left in clear territory a figure lay in the wet. Jim had gone down on the play to fake catching a possible forward and draw in one of the defensive backs in their 5-4-2 alignment. Doing so he had turned, slipped, and fallen in the open. When Ronny reached him a group of players was huddled round and he was writhing in agony on the ground.
The Doc rushed up, shoving them aside. He knelt down in a puddle, began feeling of the thigh, the leg, the calf, the ankle.
“Ouch!” Jim jerked up. “Ow... that hurts... ow...”
The Doc beckoned to the sidelines. “You lay still, young man. Lay still now, don’t move.”
Silence came over the field, and Ronny could hear them from the stands. “It’s Jake... naw... it’s Perry... no, he’s up, there... it’s Jim Stacey.”
Two managers ran out with a stretcher. They rolled him over, protesting. Ronny saw he was in acute pain. On the bench Jack Train, his substitute, leaned over toward the coach. Then they were carrying Jim from the field.
The team stood disconsolately in the rain. Aw, shoot! Shucks, don’t we get the breaks against us! How’s that for rotten luck! First this stinking lousy weather. Then we lose our captain, the key of our passing attack, th
e man who was our best pass catcher.
Jack Train came running on, adjusting his dry headgear. His uniform was unsoiled, his hands were fresh and clean. Ronny looked at him almost with disgust. Heck! What good is he? Couldn’t catch a dry ball at ten feet. What use is he on a day like this?
They tried a play. Then another. Something had gone, the mainspring of their nervous energy had snapped, there was no punch left. Baldy was a bear on scouting other teams, and Ronald well knew they’d been told that with Stacey out the High School’s passing attack wasn’t to be feared. He saw the defensive halfback in one zone slide up. Ideal for a pass if only he had a receiver.
Looking over the situation he called for a fake split buck-end run with Jake carrying the ball. But they were waiting, and although Meyer blocked out the defensive end, the halfbacks smeared the play for a small gain. Third and nine! Shoot! Just as we were rolling, too. That’s lousy luck all right. Then he heard a voice at his elbow as they went into the huddle. It was Ned, who never raised his voice, who never spoke unless you spoke to him first—Ned, who was the best defensive end in the State but never carried the ball.
“Ronny. Lemme have a look at that thing. Shoot me that flat pass up the center. I b’lieve I kin hang on to that thing.”
Why not? They were stopped now. Why not have a try at it? “Ok, gang. Number 46 on 4. Got it, everyone?” He looked round at their muddy faces, heard their panting, saw their affirmative nods. “C’mon now. Formation T. 46 on 4. Hike. 27-38-40-39... hike...” He leaned over, patting Don on his wet back. Here it comes!
Taking the ball, he turned and scuttled to the rear. Careful. Keep your balance. Watch your feet now. Both defensive halfbacks anticipating a thrust at the line had sneaked up, and Ronald, as he’d been coached, shot the flat pass over their heads into empty territory. Like lightning Ned was there, cutting in with a swerve and taking that greasy thing in midair on the dead run. He had it! Doggone, he had it! He was off. Ronald could see nothing more, for he himself was buried under a swarm of resentful tacklers.
He didn’t need to see. When he shook himself free and got the mud out of his eyes, Ned was standing beneath the goal posts and the umpire had his hands high in the air.
Another touchdown. 19-13.
You can’t keep a good gang down! The band blared, squeaky noises came from the brasses, but the cheering drowned everything. Yeah, team! Team, team! Watch it, Meyer. Watch it, boy; watch that kick, it’s terribly important. He remembered the coach’s words as the ball was snapped back to Bob who always held it for Meyer. Give Meyer a chance, and he’ll come through. He’s only missed two out of the last fourteen tries.
Swell! Atta boy, Meyer, great work, Meyer. 19-14. Great work for you, too, Ned. Boy, you’re hot! “C’mon now, gang, c’m here, c’m over here. Look. We got eight minutes to score. Let’s get this one for Jim, gang. You bet, we’ll get this one for Jim.”
It was the longest eight minutes of his life. In that eight minutes he lived a hundred lives, died and was reborn a hundred times. In that space of time he suffered ages of agonies. For he was weary, beaten, his whole frame ached as it had never ached before, he seemed to be carrying around twenty pounds of heavy mud. Each step was a horrible effort. Every fall, every tackle, jarred him badly.
They kicked off, downed them close to their goal line, held them after several rushes, and got the ball near midfield.
“Ok, gang, here’s our chance. Here’s where we go. 48 on 3. Hip-hip. Hike.” Get outa the way, Mike, get outa the way or I’ll tattoo your backbone. No gain? Shoot! Third and eight to go.
He punted, poorly. But then their own line held and once more the Academy was forced to kick back. Now he gave everything he had, a delayed straight buck, a short forward to Ned which was knocked down, a forward to Bob which was incomplete. Again he had to kick.
For the third time they held despite the fierceness of the Academy attack. Dusk was descending fast in the wet and mist. You could hardly see the opposite goal posts. He called for 80. It was one of the coach’s favorites, a play in which he handed the ball to Meyer who tossed it to Bob, the man in motion. His play which had been stopped three times in the first half for no gain went for twenty yards. They were creeping along, well in enemy territory now; but time was running out fast.
A fumble! A fumble! The ball slithered through the mud. He could see it, in the open. Then a figure shot toward it almost parallel to the ground. How he ever managed to hold that greasy object Ronny never knew. There he was, however, with the ball in his stomach when six men piled on top.
Ned LeRoy! Good boy, Ned! You saved us that time. Gee, that’s great work, Ned, that’s really super. They went into the huddle. Why not? Sure it was growing dark. Sure the ball was wet and hard to handle. But why not try it?
The defensive backs were sneaking up again, so he called for a pass down the sidelines in which the left end ran down and cut over to take the ball. Number 86 on 3. He leaned over, panting. Whew! Gosh, I’m all in. The words of the coach came suddenly to mind.
The test of a player is what he can do when he’s tired.
He looked at them. Meyer on his knees in a pool of water, Ned with his mouth open and his white teeth showing, Don hardly able to stand up, Mike with the gash in his forehead open and bleeding, everyone done in, beaten, exhausted. But the test of a player is what he can do when he’s tired.
“Look, gang, let’s give ’em one good one for Stacey. What say, hey, gang... let’s give ’em this one for Jim. One good play. Everyone in it. 86 on 3. Dave, watch that defensive halfback. Jake, fade out a little more. End around direct pass. Everyone got it? Remember, they’re scared now. They’re plenty worried. And they’re just as tired as we are. Ok, gang, let’s make this one a good one for Jim.”
They went into formation. He leaned over, took the ball, and faded slowly back. Meyer and Bob and Jake ran out ahead to form interference; Ned slipped around and then, going ahead, cut toward the sidelines. Ronald saw a form rushing toward him, dodged, and then let loose. This time he had the whole panorama of the play before his eyes.
The pass was true and straight out to the side. This time Ned was there waiting. Gee, if he only holds it. Cool as ice, the end gathered the ball in, turned and cut across the field behind Jake and Meyer. Someone went down. Gosh, is that Ned? Nope, they’re still after him. The pursuit continued. Running forward, Ronny could see scattered bodies writhing on the ground in the mud and mist up ahead. Ned was crossing over now, heading for the opposite sideline. He was in the clear.
A wild spontaneous cheer came from his side. From Abraham Lincoln High.
7
I
YOU’RE SORE. YES, you’re plenty sore. And weary. And tired, and lame all over, even a day and a half after that last whistle blew. Sore? Why not? Imagine Keith Davidson, one hundred and eighty pounds of uniform and armor, charging down on you at full speed. He’s wearing heavy cleated shoes and considerable extra padding, not to mention a stiff leather helmet that’s supposed to protect his skull. Actually it’s a first class battering ram, and if it should smack you just right can bash in your nose or break your jaw.
Sore? Yes, you’re sore all over; stiff and lame, too. Everything aches, everything. But the aches and pains are forgotten in the warm sensation which comes as you walk down the aisle at assembly in the auditorium between Jim and Meyer. Ronny and Meyer and Jim.
“Nice work, Ronny...”
“Hey, Ronny...”
“Great going, Meyer, great going, Ronny, nice work there, Jim.”
“’Atsa boy, Jim.”
“Yeah, Ronny.”
And all the kids slapping at you and reaching for your hand and hollering, and the stiffness gone and the soreness also as you came down the long aisle and sank into your seat with the seniors. The whole auditorium was clapping in steady unison, and the clapping continued while LeRoy walked to his place in front. He was wearing the same badly fitting greenish sweater with the checked shirt underneath. If he felt a
nything he did not show it. His face was as set and impassive as ever while the school thundered. Gee, that’s great, that is. There’s the boy who really won things for us; he’s a sweetheart, that baby.
Mr. Curry came forward on the platform. Ronny reflected how the Duke would enjoy an aftergame scene such as this, what a kick he’d get from standing before the Academy telling his stories, praising the team in well-chosen sentences. Mr. Curry didn’t. He began reading a series of announcements in a dry, dull voice, apparently anxious to get it over as soon as possible, to hurry off that platform away from the school to the emptiness of his own room.
“Following members of the team and substitutes will make the trip to Miami a week from Saturday.” He began calling off their names; but the cheers after each one were so loud you could hardly catch them even toward the front where Ronny sat. “For faithful work on the scrubs during the past two seasons, Coach Quinn has also decided to take along Jerry Richards and Bob Benedict.” More cheers.
“Please pay close attention. The band and fifteen cheerleaders will accompany the squad. The drill squad will be permitted to go on payment of ten dollars apiece toward expenses. Unless at least seventy members of the drill squad sign up, their trip will be canceled.” He fumbled with the notes in his hand.
“Any members of the team who wish their parents to go may bring them in the special train. Fare, including hotel expenses in Miami, thirty-seven fifty. Please get in touch with my office. All applications for places must be in by Friday evening. We have to notify the Central Railroad on Saturday morning of the exact number of persons making the trip. The train will leave the Union Depot on Thursday, the 22nd, at 9:45 A.M. and return Monday morning in time for the first period study.” Groans rose over the auditorium; titters followed the groans to which he paid no attention. “We shall stay in the Seminole Hotel while in Miami. If you have any questions about the trip, consult Miss Robbins in my office who has charge of arrangements.”
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