Behind the Line: A Story of College Life and Football

by Ralph Henry Barbour

  CHAPTER XVIII

  NEIL IS TAKEN OUT

  The Tuesday before the final contest dawned raw and wet. The elms in theyard _drip-dripped_ from every leafless twig and a fine mist coveredeverything with tiny beads of moisture. The road to the field, trampledby many feet, was soft and slippery. Sydney, almost hidden beneathrain-coat and oil-skin hat, found traveling hard work. Ahead of himmarched five hundred students, marshaled by classes, a little army ofbobbing heads and flapping mackintoshes, alternately cheering andsinging. Dana, the senior-class president, strode at the head of theline and issued his commands through a big purple megaphone.

  Erskine was marching out to the field to cheer the eleven and topractise the songs that were to be chanted defiantly at the game. Sydneyhad started with his class, but had soon been left behind, the rubbertires of the machine slipping badly in the mud. Presently the head ofthe procession, but dimly visible to him through the mist, turned in atthe gate, the monster flag of royal purple, with its big white E,drooping wet and forlorn on its staff. They were cheering again now, andSydney whispered an accompaniment behind the collar of his coat:

  "Erskine! Erskine! Erskine! Rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah!Erskine! Erskine! Erskine!"

  Suddenly footsteps sounded behind him and the tricycle went forwardapparently of its own volition. Sydney turned quickly and saw Mills'sblue eyes twinkling down at him.

  "Did I surprise you?" laughed the coach.

  "Yes, I thought my wheel had suddenly turned into an automobile."

  "Hard work for you, I'm afraid. You should have let me send a trap foryou," said Mills. "Never mind those handles. Put your hands in yourpockets and I'll get you there in no time. What a beast of a day,isn't it?"

  "Y--yes," answered Sydney, "I suppose it is. But I rather like it."

  "Like it? Great Scott! Why?"

  "Well, the mist feels good on your face, don't you think so? And thetrees down there along the railroad look so gray and soft. I don't know,but there's something about this sort of a day that makes me feel good."

  "Well, every one to his taste," Mills replied. "By the way, here'ssomething I cut out of the Robinson Argus; thought you'd like to seeit." He drew a clipping from a pocketbook and gave it to Sydney, who,shielding it from the wet, read as follows:

  Erskine, we hear, is crowing over a wonderful new play which she thinks she has invented, and with which she expects to get even for what happened last year. We have not seen the new marvel, of course, but we understand that it is called a "close formation." It is safe to say that it is an old play revamped by Erskine's head coach, Mills. Last year Mills discovered a form of guards-back which was heralded to the four corners of the earth as the greatest play ever seen. What happened to it is still within memory. Consequently we are not greatly alarmed over the latest production of his fertile brain. Robinson can, we think, find a means of solving any puzzle that Erskine can put together.

  "They're rather hard on you," laughed Sydney as he returned theclipping.

  "I can stand it. I'm glad they haven't discovered that we are busy witha defense for their tackle-tandem. If we can keep that a secret for afew days longer I shall be satisfied."

  "I do hope it will come up to expectations," said Sydney doubtfully."Now that the final test is drawing near I'm beginning to fear thatmaybe we--maybe we're too hopeful."

  "I know," answered Mills. "It's always that way. When I first begancoaching I used to get into a regular blue funk every year just beforethe big game; used to think that everything was going wrong, and wasfirmly convinced until the whistle sounded that we were going to be tornto pieces and scattered to the winds. It's just nerves; you get used toit after a while. As for the new defense for tackle-tandem, it's allright. Maybe it won't stop Robinson altogether, but it's the best thingthat a light team can put up against a heavy one playing Robinson'sgame; and I think that it's going to surprise her and worry her quite alot. Whether it will keep her from scoring on the tackle play remains tobe seen. That's a good deal to hope for. If we'd been able to try theplay in a game with another college we would know more about what we cando with it. As it is, we only know that it will stop the second and thattheoretically it is all right. We'll be wiser on the 23d.

  "Frankly, though, Burr," he continued, "as a play I don't like it. Thatis, I consider it too hard on the men; there's too much brute force andnot enough science and skill about it; in fact, it isn't football. Butas long as guards-back and tackle-back formations are allowed it's gotto be played. It was a mistake in ever allowing more than four menbehind the line. The natural formation of a football team consists ofseven players in the line, and when you begin to take one or two ofthose players back you're increasing the element of physical force andlessening the element of science. More than that, you're playing intothe hands of the anti-football people, and giving them further groundsfor their charge of brutality.

  "Football's the noblest game that's played, but it's got to be playedright. We did away with the old mass-play evil and then promptlyinvented the guards-back and the tackle-back. Before long we'll see ourmistake and do away with those too; revise the rules so that therush-line players can not be drawn back. Then we'll have football as itwas meant to be played; and we'll have a more skilful game and one ofmore interest both to the players and spectators." Mills paused andthen asked:

  "By the way, do you see much of Fletcher?"

  "Yes, quite a bit," answered Sydney. "We were together for two or threehours yesterday afternoon."

  "Indeed? And did you notice whether he appeared in good spirits? See anysigns of worry?"

  "No, not that I recall. I thought he appeared to be feeling verycheerful. I know we laughed a good deal over--over something."

  "That's all right, then," answered the coach as they turned in throughthe gate and approached the locker-house. "I had begun to think thatperhaps he had something on his mind that troubled him. He seemed a bitlistless yesterday at practise. How about his studies? All rightthere, is he?"

  "Oh, yes. Fletcher gets on finely. He was saying only a day or two agothat he was surprised to find them going so easily."

  "Well, don't mention our talk to him, please; he might start toworrying, and that's what we don't want, you know. Perhaps he'll be inbetter shape to-day. We'll try him in the 'antidote.'"

  But contrary to the hopes of the head coach, Neil showed no improvement.His playing was slow, and he seemed to go at things in a half-heartedway far removed from his usual dash and vim. Even the signals appearedto puzzle him at times, and more than once Foster turned upon himin surprise.

  "Say, what the dickens is the matter with you, Neil?" he whispered once.Neil showed surprise.

  "Why, nothing; I'm all right."

  "Well, I'm glad you told me," grumbled the quarter-back, "for I'd neverhave guessed it, my boy."

  Before the end of the ten minutes of open practise was over Neil hadmanaged to make so many blunders that even the fellows on the seatsnoticed and remarked upon it. Later, when the singing and cheering wereover and the gates were closed behind the last marching freshman, Neilfound himself in hot water. The coaches descended upon him in a smallarmy, and he stood bewildered while they accused him of every sin in thefootball decalogue. Devoe took a hand, too, and threatened to put himoff if he didn't wake up.

  "Play or get off the field," he said. "And, hang it all, man, lookintelligent, as though you liked the game!"

  Neil strove to look intelligent by banishing the expression ofbewilderment from his face, and stood patiently by until the last coachhad hurled the last bolt at his defenseless head--defenseless, that is,save for the head harness that was dripping rain-drops down his neck.Then he trotted off to the line-up with a queer, half-painful grinon his face.

  "I guess it's settled for me," he said to, himself, as he rubbed hiscold, wet hands together. "Evidently I sha'n't have to play off to givePaul his place; I've done it already. I suppose I've been bothering myhead abou
t it until I've forgotten what I've been doing. I wishthough--" he sighed--"I wish it hadn't been necessary to disgust Millsand Bob Devoe and all the others who have been so decent and have hopedso much of me. But it's settled now. Whether it's right or wrong, I'mgoing to play like a fool until they get tired of jumping on me and justyank me out in sheer disgust.

  "Simson's got his eagle eye on me, the old ferret! And he will have meon the hospital list to-morrow, I'll bet a dollar. He'll say I've gone'fine' and tell me to get plenty of sleep and stay outdoors. And thedoctor will give me a lot of nasty medicine. Well, it's all in thebargain. I'd like to have played in Saturday's game, though; but Paulhas set his heart on it, and if he doesn't make the team he'll haveseven fits. It means more to him than it does to me, and next fall willsoon be here. I can wait."

  "_Fletcher! Wake up, will you_?"

  Foster was glaring at him angrily. The blood rushed into Neil's face andhe leaped to his position. Even Ted Foster's patience had given out,Neil told himself; and he, like all the rest, would have only contemptfor him to-morrow. The ball was wet and slimy and easily fumbled. Neillost it the first time it came into his hands.

  "Who dropped that ball?" thundered Mills, striding into the back-field,pushing players left and right.

  "I did," answered Neil, striving to meet the coach's flashing eyes andfailing miserably.

  "You did? Well, do it just once more, Fletcher, and you'll go off! Andyou'll find it hard work getting back again, too. Bear that in mind,please." He turned to the others. "Now get together here! Put some lifeinto things! Stop that plunging right here! If the second gets anotheryard you'll hear from me!"

  "First down; two yards to gain!" called Jones, who was acting asreferee.

  The second came at them again, tackle-back, desperately, fighting hard.But the varsity held, and on the next down held again.

  "That's better," cried Mills.

  "Use your weight, Baker!" shrieked one of the second's coaches, slappingthe second's left-guard fiercely on the back to lend vehemence tothe command.

  "Center, your man got you that time," cried another. "Into him now!Throw him back! Get through!"

  Ten coaches were raving and shrieking at once.

  "Signal!" cried the second's quarter, Reardon. The babel was hushed,save for the voice of Mills crying:

  "Steady! Steady! Hold them, varsity!"

  "_44--64--73--81!_" came Reardon's muffled voice. Then the second'sbacks plunged forward. Neil and Gillam met them with a crash; cries andconfusion reigned; the lines shoved and heaved; the backs hurledthemselves against the swaying group; a smothered voice gasped "Down!"the whistle shrilled.

  "Varsity's ball!" said the referee. "First down!"

  The coaches began their tirades anew. Mills spoke to Foster aside. Thenthe lines again faced each other. Foster glanced back toward Neil.

  "_14--12--34--9!_" he sang. It was a kick from close formation. Neilchanged places with full-back. He had forgotten for the moment the rolehe had set himself to play, and only thought of the ball that was flyingtoward him from center. He would do his best. The pigskin settled intohis hands and he dropped it quickly, kicking it fairly on the rebound.But the second was through, and the ball banged against an upstretchedhand and was lost amidst a struggling group of players. In a moment itcame to light tightly clutched by Brown of the second eleven.

  "I don't have to make believe," groaned Neil. "Fate's playing squarelyinto my hands."

  Five minutes later the leather went to him for a run outside of lefttackle. He never knew whether he tried to do it or really stumbled, buthe fell before the line was reached, and in a twinkling three of thesecond eleven were pushing his face into the muddy turf. The play hadlost the varsity four yards. Mills glared at Neil, but said not a word.Neil smiled weakly as he went back to his place.

  "I needn't try any more," he thought wearily. "He's made up his mind toput me off."

  A minute later the half ended. When the next one began Paul Gale went inat left half-back on the varsity. And Neil, trotting to thelocker-house, told himself that he was glad, awfully glad, and wishedthe tears wouldn't come into his eyes.