Right End Emerson

by Ralph Henry Barbour

  CHAPTER XVI

  ALTON SQUEEZES THROUGH

  It was after the Hillsport game that the slump began. The first teamseemed to fairly droop under the shock of that unexpected reverse;for to be played to a tie by that opponent was virtually no less thana defeat. Last year, even on Hillsport’s own field, Alton had easilybeaten the other by 14 to 0, and for years past Hillsport had gone downin defeat, often ingloriously. On this regrettable occasion, however,the enemy had honestly earned her touchdown by outrushing Alton allthrough the first two periods and, finally, by old-fashioned smashingtactics, pushing across for a score. Had Hillsport possessed a moreadept goal-kicker she might have departed with a victory. Ned Richards’scurry down the field for Alton’s touchdown in the last moments of thethird period had been a splendid piece of individual brilliancy, andit had, in a measure, saved the day for the Gray-and-Gold, but therewas no blinking the fact that all of Alton’s efforts to gain throughthe Hillsport line had failed and that against a heavy, fast-working,clever team the Gray-and-Gold had showed up rather miserably. Allthis, realized by the onlookers, had not been lost on the playersthemselves, and the effect of the knowledge seemed to be paralyzing.The team promptly passed into what Captain Mart feelingly termed a“forty below” slump. Coach Cade sweated and scolded and planned andpleaded, and all through the following week the second pushed andtossed the big team about the gridiron with an amazing lack of respect.The second, awaking to the evident fact that the opponent was not,after all, invulnerable, took revenge for past abuse and aspersion andbullied and maltreated the first eleven brutally. In this reprehensiblecourse they were aided and abetted, nay, even encouraged, by one SteveGaston. Steve had no mercy, or, at least, showed none. The secondjestingly referred to the daily scrimmage as the “massacre.” “Comeon,” Captain Falls would blithely call. “Let’s go over and finish ’emup, second!” Now all this was fine for the morale of the second, aswas speedily proved. Success, instead of spoiling them, improved them.It welded them more firmly together just as, doubtless, a successfulsortie by the Robber Barons of the Rhine in the old days produced anincreased _esprit de corps_. Probably a career of crime, such as thesecond was now following, is like that. Anyhow, Steve Gaston secretlyrejoiced as he incited his desperadoes to greater atrocities.

  The first didn’t take their drubbings meekly, you may be sure, but theytook them. They took them three times that week. They almost criedat some of the indignities put upon them by an awakened and mercilessscrub, and they fought back desperately and staged many “come backs”that never developed, and the School, attracted by the novel, well-nighincredible spectacle of a first team being baited and beaten by asecond, flocked to the field of an afternoon as for a Roman holiday.They didn’t always see the helpless victim devoured by the raveninglion, for twice the victim forgot his rôle and held the lion at bay,and once--that was Friday--even sent him cringing back to his lair,defeated! But in any case the spectators got their money’s worth inthrills.

  It would be nice to be able to say that Russell was the brightparticular star of the second, but he wasn’t anything of the sort.Russell didn’t aspire to be a star, and maybe he couldn’t have been,anyway. Besides, Steve Gaston didn’t hold with stars. He discouragedthem as soon as they lifted their heads into sight. His idea of a goodfootball team was one in which eleven men acted as one man and in whichnone stood out above his fellows. Steve’s slogan was “Fight!”

  “I don’t care,” he would say, “how much football a fellow knows if hewon’t fight. He’s no use on this team. Football’s fighting, from firstto last. Keep that in mind. The fellow who fights hardest wins. Fightfair, but _fight_. Some of you chaps act as if you thought you were inthis to let the first slap your face and get away with it. You’re not,by gumbo! You want to forget that the first team fellows are members ofthe same frat! They’re your enemies from the moment the whistle blows,and your business is to everlastingly whale ’em. Beat the tar out of’em! Knock the spots off ’em! That’s football. That’s the game. Theharder you use those fellows, the harder they’ll use Kenly. Paste thatin your helmet!”

  Russell took Steve’s earnest commands with a grain of salt; whereinhe was wrong, for Steve meant all he said. Russell liked footballand liked to play it hard, just as he liked to do anything else heattempted, but he retained all through that unprecedented week asneaking sympathy for the first. Probably others of his mates did also,even if they dissembled the fact most successfully. Russell made hismistake in not thoroughly dissembling, which is why there was a knockon his door that Friday evening and Coach Gaston entered.

  As was his way, Steve got to business at once. “I’ve been watching youplaying pretty closely this last week, Emerson,” he began, settlinginto a chair, “and I’m curious. Thought I’d come around and have alittle talk with you. Now, suppose you tell me, first off, just whatyou think the matter is.”

  “Matter?” echoed Russell. “What is the matter?”

  “You tell me,” answered the coach. “I’ve seen fellows who could playand fellows who couldn’t play--a lot more of the last kind than thefirst, you bet!--but it’s sort of out of the ordinary to find a fellowwho can play and doesn’t. Must be a reason, of course, so I thought I’dask you.”

  Russell looked every bit as puzzled as he felt. “But I don’t get you,Gaston. Are you--do you mean _me_?”

  Gaston nodded. “Of course. You’re the man. If it’s a private matter,Emerson, and you’d rather not let me in on it--”

  “But I _am_ playing, Gaston! I don’t understand what you mean!”

  “Yes, you’re _playing_, and I guess that’s the trouble. Maybe someone’s clipped your claws, eh?”

  Russell couldn’t have said whether Gaston’s tone had been sneering ornot, but he flushed as he answered warmly: “If you mean that I’m nottrying my hardest and doing my best--”

  “Uh-huh, that’s it,” replied the coach easily. “Why don’t you?”

  “But I tell you I am!”

  Gaston smiled gently and shook his head. “No, you’re not, Emerson.Maybe you think you are, but you’re not. You go through the motionsvery nicely. You follow the ball as closely as any of the fellows, yousense plays well and you handle yourself finely. But you always holdsomething back, son. I’ve seen it time and again. To-day, for instance,you let Crocker get around you twice, and you tackled Austen on oneplay there as though you thought he was made of glass and might breakin the middle.”

  “I stopped him,” protested Russell.

  “Sure, you stopped him! But, man alive, don’t you know that he wascarrying the ball? Don’t you know that a smashing hard tackle willsometimes make the runner drop the ball? I’ve seen a college game wonby the team that tackled the hardest. Sooner or later a runner will geta jar that’ll send the ball out of his arms. It doesn’t happen often,but it does happen, and it’s worth counting on, Emerson, for games havebeen won before now because of a fumbled ball.”

  “But I don’t want to kill any one!”

  “Don’t worry about that. Players don’t get hurt by hard tackling,beyond a bruise or two. It’s because we count on hard tackles and stiffblows that we train for the game as we do. No fellow who learns to takea fall the right way gets anything broken. Emerson, you can’t playfootball and consider the other fellow’s feelings. Now, as I’ve said,I’ve watched you, and I like your style, but, by gumbo, son, you’renot doing yourself justice! And you’re not playing fair by me! You’veheard me tell the team over and over that when the game starts thoseother chaps aren’t friends of ours, they’re the enemy. And the enemy issomething to lick! I don’t care if the man playing opposite you sharesyour room here, Emerson. When you’re playing against him he’s just asmuch your foe as if he wore the red K on his sweater! Funny I can’tdrill that into you chaps. I’ve tried hard enough!”

  “Seems to me,” said Russell, “that’s carrying it pretty far.”

  “No, it isn’t. You think a minute. What are we in business for? To givepractice to the fi
rst team, eh? Sure! All right. Now suppose we’re apoor lot. What’s the result? First gets feeble opposition. She walksthrough us, holds us for downs, fools us on plays, out-punts us. Shegets the notion that she’s pretty good and is right pleased and cocky.Then she runs up against a real team and gets knocked into a cockedhat. What good’s that?”

  “I know all that,” acknowledged Russell, “but we aren’t that bad,Gaston.”

  “Of course not, but don’t you see the point? We’re here to do ourhonest, level best, Emerson, to fight hard every minute, to show thefirst that she’s just a bunch of mutts, to knock her down and rub herface in the mud and teach her to fight, _fight_! That’s our part inlicking Kenly next month. That’s our share of the big moment. Thebetter we are, the better the first will be.”

  Russell sighed. “Maybe that’s all true, Gaston, but it doesn’t seem tome that we have to play like muckers to do our share.”

  “Muckers! Gosh, no! But there’s nothing muckerish in playing hard. Hardplaying isn’t dirty playing, Emerson. I’ll chuck any fellow on thesecond who plays dirty, and do it before the umpire can open his mouth.But I want my men to give me everything they’ve got, Emerson. When theygive it to me they’re giving it to the School. Next month you’ll sitand watch the big team wallop Kenly, and you’ll say to yourself: ‘Someteam that, some team! And I helped build it! I blamed near wore myselfout, and maybe I won’t get the last bandage off before Christmas, butit was worth it! That’s my team that’s winning, and I taught it how!’Well, I must be going. There’s a conference at Johnny’s in ten minutes.Think over what I’ve said, Emerson. Good night.”

  And Steve was gone, having wasted no time on ceremony.

  Russell did think it over, during the ensuing few minutes before Stickcame in and, later, when the light was out and he was curled up inbed. He knew that Gaston was right, and before he went to sleep he haddetermined that the second team coach should never again have cause toreproach him for holding back. Maybe Gaston took the whole thing tooseriously, but that was up to Gaston. Russell’s duty was to obey orders.

  The first journeyed to New Falmouth the next day and played HighSchool. New Falmouth was a manufacturing town and the High School bunchwas a very husky aggregation of youths who played the game of footballearnestly and in a manner that doubtless won the warm commendationof Steve Gaston. It is possible, though, that they sometimes allowedtheir enthusiasm to lead them into devious ways, for there was muchpenalizing that afternoon and some cautioning, and if further proofwas needed there was Nichols’ ensanguined nose and Mart Proctor’sextremely discolored eye! The game was lacking in science but not ininterest, for it see-sawed back and forth as the twelve-minute periodspassed and neither the goodly army of Alton supporters or the muchlarger assemblage of enthusiastic and strongly prejudiced New Falmouthcohorts dared predict a victory for its team. At the end of the firstquarter Alton was in the lead, 6 to 0. When the half was done the teamswere tied at 6 to 6. When the third period had passed into history,the Gray-and-Gold was once more trailing, for again New Falmouth hadscored a touchdown, without, however, adding a goal to it. At the finaltooting of the horn Alton was victorious by the narrow margin of onepoint, the complete score being 13 to 12. Mawson, succeeding where MartProctor had previously failed, had added the deciding point amidst thehostile howls and shrieks of the enemy. After that five minutes more ofplay had failed to alter the figures.

  Alton had certainly not done herself proud, but she derived some joyfrom the victory and returned home with the notion that she had got herfeet back on terra firma once more and that, come Monday, she wouldshow that second team that it couldn’t bite her and get away withit! That was the team’s notion. The School wasn’t nearly so set-up,while Coach Cade, although he kept his own counsel, was not undulyoptimistic. That slump was still hanging around, as the day’s game hadshown, and he didn’t look for an immediate departure. Such maladies asthat which held the Alton football eleven in its grip are mysteriousand difficult to conquer. They must run their course, although thatcourse may be shortened by skillful handling of the case. Having triedheroic measures for a week, Coach Cade now decided to try oppositemethods. On Monday there was no work for any of those who had takenpart in the New Falmouth game, and, consequently, no scrimmage with thesecond. On Tuesday the work was light, and again there was no meetingwith the scrubs. The latter were chagrined and insulting. The firstdidn’t dare face them, they declared. Johnny was afraid to have themhurt. As a result of such charges there were two mix-ups between firstand second team players, one in the locker-room that was halted thisside of bloodshed, and one which was said to have gone four full roundsto no decision. The latter was held back of Haylow and witnessed by anappreciative audience in nearby windows. Neither affair did anythingtowards fostering that spirit of forbearance so deplored by SteveGaston!

  Meanwhile, from Kenly came bright reports of the Cherry-and-Black team,and Alton Academy settled down into deep pessimism on the subjectof the big game. This, it was clear, was not to be an Alton year.Youths of literary proclivities wrote indignant letters to the schoolweekly--a few of which were published--and wherever two or more weregathered together the invariable subject of discourse was What’s theMatter with the Team? In such unsatisfactory way the early seasonpassed and the Mount Millard game loomed closely ahead.