JOE AND TUB ENTERTAIN

North Bank played Fernwood on Saturday and had a walkover, winning a rather uninteresting contest to the tune of 34 to 9. Fernwood’s 9 represented three field goals, each well-deserved. She never got dangerously close to the Light Blue’s goal line, although once, in the last period, a long forward pass would have resulted in a touchdown had it succeeded. That it didn’t was due to Jerry Benson, whose long arm shot up and out at the last moment and converted a certain catch into a fumble. Jerry played some eight minutes of that final quarter and comported himself satisfactorily enough. He was called on for but one kick, for North Bank had no reason to punt when rushing gained consistently, and on that occasion, with all the time he wanted, he sent the ball soaring both high and far and brought murmurs of approval from the stand. For the rest, there was nothing spectacular in his playing. In the confusion of the moment only a very few, outside his team mates and the coach, identified him as the one who spoiled Fernwood’s threatening heave from North Bank’s thirty-yard line.

All of the Light Blue’s scores were made by the running game, only two forward passes being attempted. Of these one made good and one was captured by the enemy. Ashley, Duveen and Omstead played through the first three periods, even though the game was safe at the end of the second. With the St. John’s College contest coming a week later, Coach Thorne doubtless thought it wise to give the regulars a chance to polish up their attack. Tub Keller was back at quarter and played his usual good game. In the last period the back-field was given to Sears, Schurtman, Summerfield, Jordan and Benson. Jerry took Jordan’s place when the backs had twice failed to gain and, with the ball on North Bank’s thirty-two yards, a punt was necessary. Jack Omstead kicked every goal after touchdown while he was in, and Sears, who tried to turn the last 6 into a 7, failed by only a few inches. Although Fernwood proved unexpectedly weak, the game nevertheless gave encouragement to North Bank. The Light Blue team showed itself fully twenty per cent better than in the Severn contest and the work of the linemen was consistently good. North Bank wanted mightily to win each of the remaining games on her schedule, those with St. John’s College, Brackett’s School and Cumbridge Hall, and after the showing made against Fernwood to-day most of the fellows felt that the chance of doing so was fairly good. To be sure, St. John’s usually conquered, but once in three or four years she didn’t, and North Bank saw no reason why this year should not prove one of the occasional exceptions. As to the Brackett’s game there was less doubt. Brackett’s always made a hard fight, but the Light Blue almost invariably won. In the last five years she had failed but once to win, and then the game had been a 6 to 6 tie.

The Cumbridge game, whichever team gained the final decision, was a bitterly-fought contest from start to finish, and seldom did the winner outpoint the opponent by more than one score. As a usual thing the game was not decided until the fourth period; more than once during the long series of contests victory had been won in the final two or three minutes. Experience had proved that predictions were useless regarding the Cumbridge game. The team that looked the best before the kick-off frequently left the field defeated. Elevens that started the contest hopelessly outclassed often emerged the victor. When it came to the Cumbridge game, you just never could tell! Nevertheless there was a feeling of confidence at North Bank this fall that had been sadly lacking last season, and after the smoothness shown by linemen, ends and backs in the Fernwood game that feeling of confidence increased noticeably. There were those who even predicted that for once the Light Blue would win decisively, and such scores as 20 to 0 and 27 to 3 were spoken of. It was Joe Kirkham who sponsored the latter score.

He and Tub Keller, his roommate, gave a party that Saturday night in Number 6 McCrea, and Jerry and Tom were among those invited. Mansfield and Jackson and Duveen were also there, and consequently the gathering possessed a strong football aspect. As a party the affair didn’t amount to a great deal: crackers and cheese and ginger ale made up the list of refreshments. But even such unassuming viands are a remarkable aid to sociability and the affair was a great success. Of course the afternoon’s contest was the main subject of conversation and by far the most interesting to all, with the possible exception of Tom. Tom couldn’t be expected to get terribly excited in listening to such “shop talk,” nor was he, but he dug cheese from the crockery jar with the blade of a penknife and applied it to crackers and, because he didn’t allow oratory to interfere with more important duties, fared somewhat better than the others in one regard. Jerry found the conversation both interesting and informing. A résumé of a football game by those who have taken part in it usually brings to light details missed by the spectators. Jackson’s account of his intimate dealings with one Tappan, right guard on the Fernwood team, was enlightening and amusing.

“He had a nasty way of doubling his right fist and landing it in my stomach,” said Jackson. “It’s an easy trick to get by with and it’s mighty hard on a fellow’s wind. I knew that if he kept it up I’d be seeing the last half of the game from the bench. Fact is, I’ve got a pretty sore spot there now. He always managed to land in about the same place. I tried going in side on, but that was what he wanted. When I did that he got me in the ribs, which wasn’t so bad, but he side-stepped me and came past me behind, and so that wouldn’t do. I was hoping that some one would see what was up and make him quit, but he was pretty foxy and got away with it nicely. Finally I wondered if I could get my knee up high enough and I tried it. The first time I wasn’t quick enough, but the next time I shot it up just as we charged and he planted his fist right on the front of my leg. He was a bit surprised, I reckon, but maybe he thought it was an accident, for he tried it again and I beat him to it and he gave a yelp. Reckon he came pretty near to smashing his fingers that time. Anyway, he didn’t try it afterwards and I had him eating out of my hand.”

From the game the talk turned to the future and Hal Mansfield spoke hopefully of the Cumbridge affair. Then it was that Joe became optimistic and daring. “Listen, Hal,” he said. “We’re going to eat ’em up this year. You mark my words. Say, I’ll bet you we run up a real score on them. I wouldn’t be surprised if we licked them 28 to 0; or, say, 27 to 3. I’ll allow them a field goal, and we might miss one try.”

Murmurs of incredulity greeted him and Mansfield shook his head gently, in the manner of an indulgent parent.

“I rather think we’ve got a good chance to beat them this year, Joke,” he said, “but it won’t be any Waterloo.”

“No, Cumbridge always fights,” agreed Jim Duveen. “One score to none will satisfy me. Not that it wouldn’t do me a lot of good to lick her hard, though. Gee, I’d die happy if we could pile up a real score on her! Think of forty to nothing, fellows!”

“No such luck,” sighed Tub Keller. “Not ever! I’d be almost willing to give a leg if we could just absotively overwhelm Cumbridge once! Wouldn’t it be corking if Thorne could think up some play that would fool her? Say an end-running trick that would shoot Omstead or Ashley around for good long gains. I don’t suppose, though, that there are any new plays to think up. I know I’ve tried for hours at a time to hit on one.”

“Thorne doesn’t believe in plays,” said Captain Mansfield a trifle gloomily.

“How do you mean?” Jackson demanded.

“He said the other day when we were talking about plays that they don’t win games, that it’s the player and not the plays that count. His idea is that if the team is good enough it can win with the simplest sort of stuff.”

“Well, I reckon that’s so,” said Tub. “Just the same――――”

“It stands to reason, doesn’t it,” Jackson demanded, “that no matter how good the team may be, a good play’s a heap better than a poor one? Thorne’s a crank on simple plays. Seems to think we haven’t the brains to learn anything more complicated than a straight buck!”

“Thorne knows you fellows better than you know yourselves,” remarked Tom, scraping the bottom of the cheese jar.

“I don’t know whether that’s his idea exactly,” observed Joe, “but it’s a fact that teams often have too many plays and can’t get them off smoothly when the time comes. I remember seeing――――”

“No one said anything about too many,” objected Duveen. “What we need are some more puzzling ones. There isn’t a thing in our bag yet that would fool a high school team!”

“Thorne says a simple play well executed is a lot better than a complicated one that doesn’t come off right,” said Mansfield. “Of course, that’s true, but I’d like to have about four crackajacks that would make Cumbridge sit up. From the looks of things now we’ll have about fifteen plays for each side of the line and two forward-pass plays. Maybe that’s enough, but they’re all mighty――well, primitive.”

“Primitive is right,” agreed Jackson. “We used some of those plays when I was in grammar school.”

“Did you win with them?” inquired Tom, setting down Tub’s ginger ale bottle, empty.

“Sure did!”

“What’s the kick, then? Looks to me as if a winning play was good enough for any one!”

“Tom, you don’t know anything about football,” retorted Tub, glancing sadly at his private bottle, “so shut up.”

“I don’t see why Thorne doesn’t try another formation,” said Duveen. “It’s mighty easy for the other fellow to guess your plays if they all start from the same back-field layout. We’ve been using this three-men-abreast formation ever since Thorne started here as coach.”

“Well, I don’t think much of changing formations every other time,” said Tub. “Some teams go dippy on shifts, but I don’t see that it gets them any more. I like sticking to one formation for the reason that you don’t give a play away. Some coaches line up the backs one way for running plays and another way for line bucks and still another for forward passes. And every time they change the enemy knows that something different’s coming. It’s a plain advertisement, to my mind.”

“What we need is a corking good forward pass,” said Mansfield. “I don’t mean one of those impossible things that cover about thirty yards and are caught once in ten times, but a good heave for, say, ten or fifteen that’ll make good nine times out of ten.”

“If you had a play like that,” commented Tub, “you’d win every game. No forward pass will succeed more than half the time.”

“Well, that’s because no one’s thought out a good one,” said Mansfield. “That short heave over the center is all right when it goes, but teams are watching for it now and you’ve got about one chance in six of getting into position for it. The backs are watching you every time, and if you try to get behind center they’re on you. Even if you reach position the chance is that the throw will go wrong. There ought to be a good forward to the side with the catcher well guarded. There was a time when an end or a half could sneak out and take a pass and get away with it, but these days the opponent watches you the way a cat watches a mouse.”

“I’d rather see a good line-smashing play,” said Joe. “Folks are dippy about forward passes, and about all they do is slow up the game. Get about eight rattling good line bucks and end runs and put a nice punter in the back-field and you’ll go ahead.”

“Why don’t you fellows quit trying to run the team and play your positions?” inquired Tom amiably. “Maybe that might win games for you. Seems to me if I was a football player I’d forget everything but the fellow I was up against and I’d do my level best to make him look like a piker.”

Rather to Jerry’s surprise, a noticeable silence greeted this remark, a silence first broken by Tub Keller.

“Tom, I believe you said something that time. Not that I mean to insinuate that you fellows don’t play your positions for all that’s in them, but I’ve sometimes thought that the effort after team play makes a fellow lose sight of――well, the individual, if you see what I mean.”

“Can’t say I do,” replied Mansfield. “Tom’s suggestion struck me as rather sensible, though, because I know that for my part I’m likely to think too much about the――the――what you might call the conduct of the game and too little about my personal duties.”

“That’s because you’re captain,” said Joe. “What the others are doing never troubles me. I put my mind on outplaying the fellow in front of me. That’s the only way you _can_ outplay him.”

“That’s sort of what I meant,” said Tub. “There ought always to be a personal rivalry between opposing players. I don’t mean that a fellow ought to try to play the game alone. He’s got to help out the others. Teamwork comes first of all, of course. But, beyond that, if he says to himself: ‘You Mister Enemy, I’m going to make you look like a half portion of nothing before this game’s much older,’ he’s going to play better and harder.”

“When you get to talking psychology,” said Duveen, yawning, “it’s time for decent folks to go home. When it’s all said and done the team that wins is the team that plays the better game. Let’s take Tom Hartley’s tip and stop trying to run things to suit ourselves. Thorne’s being paid a good salary to coach us. Let’s leave that end of it to him and put all our time and energy into playing guard or full back or whatever it is we’re supposed to be playing. Coming over, Hal?”

“Yes,” replied the captain. “I guess you’re right, too, Jim. We’ll just take the plays that Thorne gives us and make them go hard! And if we do we’ll show that bunch of sneak thieves how it feels to take part in a game of real football! Good-night, fellows!”