CHAPTER V.
FRANK LEARNS TO TACKLE THE DUMMY.
"How does that ankle feel?" inquired the Freshman coach of FrankArmstrong one afternoon at practice on the week following the Exetergame. "I see you stepping around quite lively on it."
"I think it is good enough, sir," said Frank. It was far from awell ankle, but Frank was desperately anxious to get into the gamefrom which he had been denied on account of his accident, and waswilling to take a chance with it. He had felt that he was going to beoverlooked entirely in spite of the fact that he had kept in trainingand had done as much as he could under the conditions.
"Good enough then. Do you know the signals?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, then take some practice now and later I want to try you atquarter on the Second. You played there on your prep. school team,eh?"
"Yes, sir," said Frank, his heart jumping at the thought that he wasto have his chance, after all.
"All of you over to the 'Varsity field," commanded the coach. "Theexhibition of tackling in that Exeter game was enough to make astrong man weep, not a half dozen clean ones in the whole game.I'll teach you to stop a man or kill you in the attempt," and CoachHoward, with a determined face, led his squad into the great woodenamphitheater where at one end below the goal line stood two tacklingdummies, looking very much like gallows, each with the canvas-cladshape of a man dangling from a rope over a pit of sawdust and loam.There had been some tackling practice early in the season in whichFrank had not participated on account of his injured ankle, so theexperience for him to-day was to be a new one.
"Now, this is the way, watch me carefully," said Howard. "Start fromhere," indicating a point about fifty feet from the dummy, "get underway quickly, increase your speed toward the end of the run, springoff one foot, not a dive, remember, strike the dummy with yourshoulder just under the hips, and wrap your arms around the legs.This way," and suiting the action to the word, Howard, who was infootball uniform, dashed at the swinging figure, struck it with acrash, carried it from its fastening on a clean, driving tackle.
"Now line up and all take your turn," said the coach as he came backto the group. "Lead off, Bostwick." Bostwick was an old end fromAndover, who had come down to Yale with a reputation already made,and who had been chosen captain of the team.
After Bostwick ran a steady string of the Freshmen tackling thedummy, some cleanly, some awkwardly. A field assistant picked up thecanvas-clad figure, and replaced it on the hook after each savageassault, ready for the next man, while the coach stood by, offeringcriticism and suggestion.
"Too low, too low," he shouted to a candidate. "Your man would getaway from that. Just what you did Saturday." Or to another, "Don'tslow up; he won't bite you. Drive into him hard, and carry him rightoff his feet and keep a good grip with both hands, both hands," heyelled as one of the tacklers slapped one arm around the canvas legs.
It was Frank's turn. He sprinted down the runway, sprang head-firstat the swinging figure, hit it cleanly, and grasping it tightly withboth arms, crashed down in the sawdust pit.
"Wrong, wrong," cried Howard. "That was a diving tackle. Your teamwould be penalized for that; you've got to make that last step a longstride, not a jump, remember. Otherwise it was O. K."
Frank picked himself out of the pit, and walked back limping alittle. He had leaped with all his vigor from the injured leg, andwinced with the pain of it. But he was not going to show it. On hissecond trial he did better, but was so anxious to favor the anklethat he slowed up and took a succession of little short steps justbefore he sprang, which drew the fire of the coach down upon him, andcaused a smile to go around the waiting line.
"Afraid of it?" queried the coach, sarcastically. "It isn't stuffedwith anything harder than excelsior, and it won't bite you."
Frank walked back to his place at the end of the line crestfallen,but determined to show a better result on his next trial. Several ofthe 'Varsity coaches had strolled over from the other tackling dummy,where some of the 'Varsity line men were being put through theirpaces, and all of them were on the lookout for likely material forfuture 'Varsity teams.
But, try as he might, Frank could not satisfy the coach. Somethingwas wrong with all his attempts. The coach did not know that theinjured ankle was throbbing like a toothache. Frank was afraid toadmit it for fear he would be relegated to the side-line for anotherperiod of waiting. So he blundered through his tackling at a greatdisadvantage.
"That's enough," said the coach at last. "You are a sad bunch at thisgame, but we'll give you a daily dose of it and see if it helps any.Come back to the Freshman field for a scrimmage," and followed by hissquad of pupils, he led the way.
That afternoon was a nightmare for Frank. Favoring his ankle asmuch as he dared, he ran the Second team without snap or vigor, andalthough he got away on two quarterback runs for ten or fifteen yardseach, and nearly got a field goal from a difficult angle, he waspulled out of his position and sent to the side-lines before thescrimmaging was finished, firmly convinced that he was not cut outfor a quarterback.
"This infernal ankle of mine," he grumbled to Jimmy Turner on theirway back in the stuffy car to the city. "I couldn't do anything. Myleg felt like a stick. I couldn't get out of my own way."
"I don't think you made much of a hit with the coach this afternoon,"admitted that individual. "I heard him say to one of the 'Varsitymen, just as we were getting on the car, that you had somepossibilities, but you were too much afraid of getting hurt."
"He did, did he?" and Frank glared at Coach Howard who was sittingfurther up the car pointing out a play diagram to Madden, the quarterof the first team. "Thought I was a nice old lady! I'll show himsomething if this leg ever gets better," and he gritted his teeth inanticipation of the happy time to come when he could disprove thecoach's suspicions.
Handicapped by his bad ankle, and often in agony with the pain ofit on the field, Frank continued, as the days went by, to fightan up-hill but losing fight. Turner was daily strengthening hisposition at left halfback, and was already looked upon as of possible'Varsity caliber for the next year. While not very fast, he ranhard and low, and it took an uncommonly hard tackle to bring him tothe ground. He also had that thing which pleases the coaches, anunfailing instinct for the ball. Wherever it was, Turner was not faraway.
On the Saturday of that week came the game with Pawling School.Frank sat on the side-lines with longing in his heart as he saw histeammates, for the first time in the season, play a game worthy ofthem. The first quarterback, Madden, ran his team with speed andjudgment, and when the half was finished had driven the visitors downthe field and scored two touchdowns on them. In the third quarter,Madden received a hard jolt in the stomach in a scrimmage, and Frankthrilled as he saw the coach walk down the side-line, looking for asubstitute. He came on, passed Frank and selected a quarter namedBarlow to take Madden's place, and who sat just beyond him. Barlowshed his sweater as he ran, and with a few words from the coach,sprang into Madden's place behind the center. Under his guidanceanother touchdown was added in the third quarter, and the teamschanged sides for the last period of the game.
Frank gave up hope, as the minutes flew by, for any chance at thatgame. Barlow was not doing so well now, but there was little time toplay. The Pawling team had twice succeeded in stopping the Freshmennear the Pawling goal line, and the substitute quarter had fumbleda punt which for a moment threatened a touchdown against his team.Bostwick, the vigilant end, had recovered the ball at midfield, andsaved the situation, but Coach Howard was evidently anxious. Hehad made many substitutions to give new men practice, and had thusweakened the team, while Pawling seemed to gather new strength. Downthe side-line came Howard again. This time he stopped opposite Frank.
"I'm going to send you in, Armstrong, to get a little practice. Hangonto the ball and keep your head. Steady that line up and look outfor the forward pass. Hurry it up."
But there was no need to tell Frank to hurry. He had torn off hissweater with the first hi
nt of his opportunity, and was listeningto the coach with body poised for the run onto the field. In hiseagerness he had entirely forgotten about the ankle.
With the coming of the new quarterback, the team took fresh life.Under his urgings, they began to mow down their opponents as theyhad in the first part of the game, and the crowd gathered along theside-lines expressed their appreciation of the brace the team wastaking in joyous howls. A pretty forward pass, Turner to Bostwick,put the ball on Pawling's 15-yard line.
Harrington, the big center, made a bad pass on the next play, but ona slice outside of tackle, Turner made five yards. The Pawling teambraced, and cut the advance down on the next play to a single yard.
Bostwick stepped back to Frank and whispered something to him. Thenhe called the whole team around him, and with arms over each other'sshoulders, they conferred on the next play. Dropping apart quickly,the linemen sprang into position.
"Look out for a fake," cried the Pawling quarter, dancing around infront of the goal posts.
"A forward pass!" cried another of the backs.
But it was neither a fake nor a forward pass.
Armstrong ran quickly to a point ten yards behind his crouching line,coolly measured with his eye the distance from where he stood to thecross-bar, and a moment later, receiving the ball on a long, truepass from Harrington, dropped it to the ground, swung his toe againstit as it rose, and sent it spinning directly between the posts.
The kick was as pretty a one as could be desired, and itsappreciation was testified to by jubilant yells and the skywardflight of sweaters and blankets along the side-lines.
A kick-off at midfield which Turner ran back 30 yards, a single rush,and the whistle ended the game.
"Why didn't you tell me you could do that?" said Coach Howard givingArmstrong a hearty slap on the back as he trotted over to theside-line to pick up the discarded sweater. "You put that over like aveteran!"
"Didn't have a chance before," said Frank, grinning.
"Guess you didn't. Well, I'll see to it that you get a chance afterthis." And then, as the throng of grimy players and the spectatorsstraggled off to the cars, "I had pretty nearly come to theconclusion that you were too soft for the game of football."
"My ankle isn't as good as it ought to be," said Frank, looking down."I was afraid of doing more damage to it."
"I'll take a look at that ankle in the gym," said Howard. "Maybe wecan make a quarterback of you yet. I want you to come over to theFreshman training table after this."
It was a joyful gathering in Pierson that night, with a fullattendance, for little by little the Armstrong-Turner-Gleason-Powerscombination began to have a following in the dormitory and in theclass. Friends began to drop in to talk over matters of the momentas they passed to and from their rooms, and if they were the rightkind they always had a welcome. The room became the central one forspreads and parties, when the fun raged until ten o'clock.
"All over," Frank would shout. "Lights out." Both Turner andArmstrong believed in keeping strict training hours.
On this particular night the Codfish was in his element.
"Three cheers for our own little quarterback," he howled.
"Sit down, you fish," shouted Turner. "You didn't even see the game."
"O, but I have ears. All the little birds sang it as I was coming upfrom the boathouse this evening."
"How's the Freshman crew coming on?"
"I'm on the second now. You should have seen us scare the First boatthis afternoon. Had a mile spin. Started up by the Quinnipiac bridge,and finished at Tomlinson, points you land-lubbers know nothingabout."
"And the Second was licked, of course?"
"Only by a blade, my son. We gave them the race of their lives,fairly tore down the river, scared the oysters and all that sort ofthing, to say nothing of the First Freshmen."
"And when do they put you in the first shell?"
"'Nother week, about, I guess. Wouldn't be right to the other fellowto advance me too fast."
"Great stuff, Codfish," said Turner, laughing. "I think you haveconfidence enough to steer the 'Varsity crew over the course at NewLondon right now."
"Sure thing," said that worthy. "There's nothing to it. Mindover matter, as I hinted to you once before; kind of scientificattitude." The Codfish was busy untying a voluminous box which hehad brought home with him.
"For heaven's sake, what have you got there, a prehistoric horse?"inquired Turner.
"No, my little halfback, it is a guitar," and having finishedunwrapping the instrument, he swung it over his head. "I'm going outfor the musical club stuff. I must have some activity, some life;can't get it with two grumps like you fellows, so I must go after it."
"Jove," groaned Frank, "haven't we suffered enough with you and thepiano without having a guitar?"
The Codfish lay back on the window seat, strummed the untuned guitar,and began to hum:
"When I was a student at Cadiz I played on the Spanish guitar--"
"You'll be a student in Hades if you don't let up!" shouted Turner."We can stand anything excepting the picture of you as a student atCadiz. Please desist."
"O, tush, old fellow, your soul is not attuned to music. What's thenext line? I seem to disremember it----"
"When I was a stoogent at Cadiz." strum, strum, strum, strum, "I played on the Spanish guitar."
"Good night!" yelled Frank. "Come on, let's go to Poli's and hearsome real music. We'll let the Codfish be 'a stoogent at Cadiz' allto himself."
"S'matter?" said the musician reproachfully. "Well, if you must go,good night. I cannot frivol my time away at Poli's vaudeville whentrue art is stirring in my soul."
"Let her stir then," said Frank. "We're off," and the door banged.
Frank Armstrong at College Page 5