THE PRACTICE GAME

Several familiar faces were missing that afternoon, for the Severn game had been hard-fought and certain members of the team stood in need of rest. Those who had remained in for the entire four periods were excused wholly, while others who had participated were released before the scrimmage started. Thus it happened that the first to-day had to recruit most of its members from B Squad and Coach Thorne was hard put to fill some of the positions. Only one first-string player was available for the line, and that was Hickson at left tackle. The rest of the forwards were second and third choice fellows. In the back-field, Cleary, who had played but a few minutes on Saturday, was at quarter, and Jordan, Gray and Schurtman filled the other places.

The second team, when it came across from the other gridiron, perhaps realized that here was a fine opportunity to wreak vengeance for former beatings, and, driven hard by Coach Tibbs, started in to make the fur fly. The first was extremely ragged and early indications showed a bad twenty minutes ahead of it. After the kick-off the second tore the opponent’s center to pieces and reached midfield on seven plays. Coach Thorne stopped operations then while he read the riot act to the center trio, and Hickson, acting captain, was heard to threaten Furchgott with bodily harm if he didn’t stop the enemy. As a result, the second got only six yards on three downs and had to punt from the first’s forty-eight yards. Cleary caught and scuttled back for twenty before he was thrown, and then the first got together long enough to make their distance twice. But, past midfield, Schurtman was forced to punt and the ball went almost straight in the air and, having landed, rolled toward the wrong goal until Cleary fell on it. The gain was something less than ten yards and it was the second’s ball on her thirty-five. Then the day of reckoning arrived. Working one end and then the other for six and eight yards at a time, completely hoodwinking the first team ends and disposing of the backs without difficulty, the second crossed the middle of the field and tore on toward the enemy’s goal. Only infrequently was a thrust at the line made. Coach Tibbs’ sharp “_Jump!_” sounded incessantly, and his men jumped! Hickson stormed and raved and worked like a Trojan at his end, but Crook was no match for the wily second team runners and although Hickson made the left wing less popular than the other to the enemy, gains still came there. Coach Thorne commanded and threatened and, when the rout had reached the first’s thirty-five yards, put in a new end and a new tackle at the right wing. Second made the twenty-seven on a double pass that carried her left half, behind excellent interference, on a wide run around his right. After that the first stiffened and the gains became shorter. But they continued. Four downs took the enemy to the sixteen. There, faking a try-at-goal, the second team full back hit the line at the left of center and plunged through to the twelve. A play outside left tackle was stopped and a quarter-back run yielded only a yard, and the handful of first team substitutes, clustered on the side line, shouted triumphantly. The whole second team back-field was in the next play and the runner piled through for fully five yards, Furchgott proving the weak spot. It was second team’s ball just inside the six yards on first down then and a touchdown seemed certain.

But a second plunge at left guard netted less than a yard when the secondary defense piled in behind Furchgott and an attempted forward pass over the line grounded. A puzzling delayed pass took the second to the four yards and then the second’s full back went up the field. “Watch for a forward!” shouted Hickson. “Watch that ball, fellows!” Even the side line audience warned of a fake, but there was no trick planned. Instead, the ball went back to the kicker and he, standing squarely on the twenty-yard line, lifted it neatly over the crossbar.

First team kicked off again and second came back on the jump, but Manager Naughton’s horn squawked time after the third play. It was a very tired lot of players who slumped onto the bench, but weariness didn’t protect them from Coach Thorne’s eloquence and they were forced to listen to many bitter truths during the succeeding ten minutes. There was a concerted and audible sigh of relief when the coach left them and joined Mr. Tibbs, although the earnest and enthusiastic manner in which the two conversed gave them the appearance of arch conspirators and seemed to bode no good for the players. When time was up Coach Thorne spoke more cheerfully.

“I want a touchdown this quarter,” he announced quite as though he expected it. “You fellows must fight. It’s ridiculous letting the second put it over on you like that. You linemen, get down and break those plays up. Don’t let the back-field do your work for you. All right! Same line-up. Hold on, though. I want a punter in there. Benson! Benson, you see what you can do. Where have you played? Right half?”

“No, sir, left.”

“All right. That lets you out, Jordan. Let’s get at it!”

Jerry wasn’t nearly so elated as he had thought he would be under such circumstances. It wasn’t that he was afraid in the ordinary meaning of the word, but there is no denying that he almost wished that Coach Thorne hadn’t called on him. Being out there for the first time was strange and rather unnerving, and he devoutly hoped that Cleary wouldn’t give him the ball until he had at least recalled the signals which for the first minute or so were gone completely. Yet, after the second had kicked off and Schurtman had received and smashed his way back for half a dozen yards with two of the enemy clinging to him, Jerry forgot to be self-conscious or dismayed. A hefty second team forward had shouldered him onto the turf and the double concussion was just what was needed. When he had picked himself up and trotted to position at the left of the back-field formation he was not only ready but eager for the ball, and was disappointed when the signals called for a full-back buck through right of center. Jerry’s duty was to go through between his own guard and tackle on the left. Schurtman didn’t get far, nor, on a similar play to the left of center, did he do much better. The opponent was more than a match for the first when it came to line attacks. Cleary tried Gray outside tackle on a straight buck and gained three, and, with four to go on fourth down, called: “Benson back!”

Jerry swallowed hard as he turned and walked back to kicking position, and swallowed again when he found himself ranged almost at the coach’s elbow. “A little further, Benson,” the latter directed. “That’s better. Take your time and punt high. Your ends aren’t fast and you’ve got to let them get down under the ball.”

Cleary was piping the signals. Jerry shifted uneasily on his feet, held his hands out and tried to remember all he had ever been taught of punting, and remembered nothing at all! Then something loomed large before his eyes, by some miracle settled in his hands instead of striking him in the face and, as he shifted it instinctively, became known to him as the ball! What happened immediately after he didn’t know. Three forms came plunging down on him as his foot swung and he knew that the kick was blocked and that eternal disgrace was to be his portion! Yet the threatening enemy forms veered past him, the players were running down the field and he found himself standing there alone and deserted. Even Coach Thorne was trotting away from him, and against the blue sky, fairly on a line with the goal, was the ball. He had kicked clear after all! Delight wrapped him and exultation possessed his soul! He had done it!

In the course of time it occurred to him to follow his team mates, and he sprinted fast to where, near the enemy’s twenty-five-yard line, a second team back was receiving first aid to the injured. Crook had tackled most of the breath from the opponent’s body. Hickson sprang at Jerry and slapped him on the shoulder. “A corker, Benson!” he panted. “A corker, boy!” Jerry grinned embarrassedly and pulled his helmet down tighter. Then Mr. Thorne spoke at his elbow. “A good punt, Benson,” he said warmly. “Good distance, good direction and good height. You let your ends get down nicely. Keep it up.”

Jerry was veritably thrilled, and, when, the second team quarter having recovered some of his lost breath, the second tried the first team’s center, he was into the play hard and stopped the hole nobly at the expense of an ensanguined nose. He missed a tackle miserably a moment later and arose painfully humiliated, after most of the enemy had walked on him, humiliated and sore in mind and body. “Rotten, Benson!” said the coach. “Go into him! Don’t let him scare you! Get him, boy!”

So a minute or two later, when the second had made her distance and appeared to be again under way for a triumphant voyage down the field, he went into him and got him! The play was a left half-back plunge off tackle. Crook was forced out and Hickson boxed and the interference, headed by the full back, came straight at him. Quite instinctively, Jerry avoided the first man through. Then he smashed forward, banged up against a body, closed his long arms tightly and braced with every muscle. The enemy came on, though, and Jerry went down, but the enemy with him. Somewhere outside the confusion of tramping feet and panting breaths and the rasping of canvas against canvas a whistle shrilled. Some thrice-blessed benefactor rolled the weight from Jerry’s prostrate form and pried his hands loose. Then he lost interest in proceedings until a smelly sponge washed over his face and he returned to an agonized consciousness. He gasped for breath and found none, and the pain was horrible. Some one was raising his arms over his head and folding them back on his chest, slowly, methodically. He wished that they’d stop. He wished they’d let him die in peace. Then one aching breath took some air into his lungs and the relief was heavenly. Down came the obnoxious sponge again and this time it felt more grateful as it soaked the breast of his jersey with the chill water. His gasps became only long quiet breaths and he opened his eyes, remembering. Only the trainer was with him. All the others were standing or sitting about, quite indifferent to his plight. He felt rather resentful.

“All right, lad,” said the trainer. “Up you get!”

Jerry had very little desire to get up, but when he had been raised to his feet, clinging rather weakly to the trainer’s shoulders, he concluded that in the course of time, perhaps in another hour or so, he would be himself again. Evidently, though, the trainer was in favor of a more speedy recovery, for he insisted on walking Jerry around, and Jerry, much to his surprise, found walking rather pleasant and presently drew away from the trainer’s supporting arm, took a long breath, shook his head and remarked impatiently: “Head guard!”

“You’ll do,” laughed Riordan. “Here you are. All right, Coach!”

Mr. Thorne stopped conferring with Mr. Tibbs and came across. “All right, Benson?” he asked. “That was a good tackle. You got your man and got him hard. I like to see snap. Keep it up. Line up, First!”

Jerry was rather weak and dizzy for a few plays, but it didn’t last, and by the time second was forced to punt in midfield he was himself again. First team came back hard, but, when she had made her distance twice, the second time on a forward pass that netted sixteen yards, two plunges were stopped for no gain and Cleary’s attempt to get around right end resulted in a loss of several yards. Again the call of “Benson back!” came and again Jerry booted, this time with more confidence. He didn’t see that Mr. Thorne was watching him with curious intentness, nor did he heed the clamor of the charging lines or the plunging enemy that threatened. He found himself thinking clearly of his task, realized that he had swung powerfully and that the impact of foot and ball had been hard and clean and had time to see the pigskin start off straight toward the further goal ere a burly second team guard cut off his vision. This time, too, he didn’t fall into a trance, but side-stepped the enemy and streaked down the field in the wake of the others.

The punt didn’t quite equal the first one in distance, yet it was fully as well directed and was high enough to let Crook and Browne reach the catcher and pull him down before he could move from his tracks. Second team accepted the challenge then and punted on second down. In reply, Cleary wormed straight ahead for four yards and then, sending Jerry back to kicking position, gave the ball to Gray, who took it outside left tackle for more than the distance. A moment later Schurtman fumbled the pass, and, although he fell on it, a seven-yard loss resulted, and, after a forward had failed, Jerry again kicked. The second team left half was under the ball when it came down but he failed to hold it. There was a wild scramble and a jumbled pile-up of players, and when the ball was uncovered it lay safely in Brown’s hands on the second team’s seventeen yards!

Tumult and clamor then, and the coaches barking encouragement! Schurtman on a split buck through left of center for three, Gray past left tackle for one, Jerry back and Schurtman plunging straight into the line for four! Fourth down and two to go! The second crouching low, her backs huddled anxiously close to the line, only the quarter guarding the territory behind. Schurtman back, and a well-passed ball to his outstretched hands! Cries from the defenders of “_Watch the pass!_” Then a sweep to the left of Schurtman’s empty hand and a quick plunge forward, the pigskin hugged to his stomach! Cries, grunts, the sound of striking bodies! A yard, two, the second giving at the left of her center, a pause as the back-field players pile in behind the yielding linemen, then forward again, Schurtman the center of a maelstrom of pushing, fighting, panting bodies! And, finally, a rout, with the full back staggering almost free and plunging on past frantically clutching hands, almost stopped yet breaking free and, at last, dropping across the last trampled mark!

Jerry, breathless, his helmet gone, one stocking flapping about his foot, gently removed some one’s legs from his face and stood up. A glance told him that the team had scored and a great joy was his. For the moment that touchdown seemed to him the most wonderful thing that had ever happened! He wanted to shout or do a handspring, but he had too little breath for the first and too little strength for the latter, and so he contented himself with grinning from ear to ear and trotting back with the others while Cleary plumped himself down on the turf and poised the ball for Schurtman.

Schurtman didn’t come within ten yards of the nearest goal post, but no one cared much, unless it was Mr. Thorne. The first team had its revenge!

A minute later the scrimmage ended and peace fell over the field of battle, and the panting, wearied and ofttimes limping players sought the relief of showers and liniment. Those who had watched from the stand followed across the field, and Jerry, soaked with perspiration, begrimed with dirt and noticeably favoring his left leg, heard a voice beside him.

“Reckon those were right good punts,” said Tom, mimicking his chum. “Fellers’ll be calling you ‘Forty-Yard’ Benson ’stead of ‘Three-Base’ Benson, first thing you know, likely!”

Jerry grinned, laid a hand on Tom’s shoulder and plodded on. After a moment he said reflectively: “I’m sort of glad I did like I did, Tom, because it ain’t likely I’ll be playing after to-day.”

“What’s the matter? Going to leave us?”

“Reckon I’ll be leaving the team. There’s a cut coming.”

Tom laughed derisively. “A fat chance you’ve got of leaving it, Jerry!” he answered. “Why, you couldn’t pry yourself loose with dynamite after to-day!”