On the bench, John fidgeted impatiently. He longed to join the battle, to feel the shock of body contact, to match his own bulk against that of the big halfback from Lakesburg. There were a few substitutions for minor injuries and for heat exhaustion, but the coach did not even look toward John Buffalo. He had made quite plain from the beginning that no one must ask to play. The upperclassmen had warned newcomers that to make such a request would insure that they would never be put in the game. It was the way of McGregor, and of any good coach, it was said.
So John said nothing, but sat and gritted his teeth, and watched the game grind its painful way toward the end.
Carlisle was ahead, 20-14, and shadows were growing long, when it happened. There were only two minutes to play, and Carlisle held the ball. Victory was in sight … but everyone was exhausted. The pass came from the center—a a poor snap. The quarterback juggled the ball, and as he was hit by a smashing tackle, the ball popped high into the air. An alert Lakesburg guard caught it as it hung there and sprinted around the end and down the field. Perhaps “lumbered” would have been a better description, but the lineman was deceptively fast. There was no one near him as he crossed into the end zone. Lakesburg’s kick was true, and suddenly the game had changed: 21-20, Lakesburg, with scarcely a minute left.
The day which had been so sunny was now darkening. The crowd was quiet. To add to the gloom, storm clouds were gathering to the northwest, and a chill breeze was beginning to whip the flag over at the administration building, and the pennants around the field.
Carlisle took the kickoff and halfheartedly ran it back some twenty-five yards. On the next play Lakesburg, already tasting victory, tackled lazily, and allowed another gain of fifteen yards. Carlisle’s crowd brightened. Maybe … No, there was not enough time for more than one or two plays. It would take a miracle, but they’d make a valiant try.
Quickly, the pile of players unraveled, but one figure still lay on the ground, writhing in pain. Carlisle’s left end … A broken leg? The officials stopped the game clock while a stretcher was brought onto the field and Joe Blackbird was carried off, to sympathetic cheers. Quickly, the coach called his squad together.
“Buffalo!” he beckoned. “You go in at fullback. Mordecai, you move to left end. Now, John, here’s the play: The center passes the ball to you, past the quarterback. Can you kick us a goal?”
“I’ll try …”
“The wind’s coming up,” McGregor explained quickly. “If you catch it just right, John, you can use the wind to get a little more distance.”
The whistle blew, calling the return to the game.
“Go do it, now!” called the coach after them.
Nearly sixty yards … A big assignment. Too big, thought John. But maybe not … He watched the pennants as he trotted out to the line and positioned himself. He’d be kicking toward the south goal, with the wind on his right shoulder blade. Have to allow for the drift to the left … It was not unlike shooting an arrow, maybe, with allowance for a crosswind.
Lakesburg lined up confidently for one more play. Some of them were already smiling, showing the pleasure of victory. The quarterback called the signals. The center snapped the ball, past the waiting hands of the quarterback to the fullback.
To John, time seemed to slow almost to a stop. The ball floated lazily into his hands. He turned it, dropped it, and his right leg began its pendulum swing. He added all the force of powerful leg muscles. The ball struck the ground. A fraction of a heartbeat later, the toe of his shoe sent it on its way. It soared like a bird, too far to the right at first. Then it caught the wind, floating, rising, veering slightly left … . Maybe too far … No … Now, long enough?
The crowd gasped in amazement as the ball split the uprights, then roared in a mighty cheer of victory. John stood numbly as the spectators rushed onto
NINE
The spectators swarmed onto the field, yelling and cheering and congratulating the players. As the crowd began to thin, the team headed for the locker room to wash up and dress. John started across the cinder track toward the field house, with Little Horse at his side, still talking excitedly about the kick that had won the game.
“John! John Buffalo!” a voice called from the area of the stands.
The Senator was standing at the rail, motioning.
“Come here a moment,” he beckoned.
Self-consciously, John shuffled across the track. He was sweaty, dirty but, after all, victorious. It would have been better to meet the stunning beauty who stood next to her father when he was clean and well groomed, but …
“Marvelous play, my boy!” the Senator boomed, extending a hand to pump John’s in congratulation. “My, you’ve grown … Filled out! That’s good. School going well?”
“Yes, sir.”
“John, I’d like to introduce my family. This is my wife, Mrs. Langtry, and my daughter, Jane. Our son is away at school … West Point.”
“So I had heard, Senator. Pleased to meet you, ma’am … Miss Langtry.”
He nodded toward the women. It was “not seemly,” he had been taught, to extend a hand to a woman in greeting.
At that moment, John could not have told anyone what the Senator’s wife might have looked like. He was totally absorbed in drinking in the vision who stood at the Senator’s other elbow. Jane … A perfect name for a creature perfect in form and beauty, he thought. Blue … The eyes were blue. He had been right about that. Her hair, which he had seen to be light in color from a distance, was beautiful in its coppery sheen. Long, uncut, but drawn up tastefully in a bun at the back. Her face was shaded by a wide-brimmed hat, but the healthy glow of sun-warmed skin showed familiarity with the outdoors.
Her smile, showing even white teeth, was one which easily gave the impression that it was for him alone. There are such smiles, of course, but in some way, this was special. The blue eyes searched deep into his soul, as if to verify the mystery that hung between them, yet drew them together. Her straightforwardness was a little embarrassing. To think that she could ever look with favor on an Indian boy with no family and no prestige was ludicrous.
There had been a time when he had been proud. The family of Yellow Bull had been respected, affluent, leaders in the nation. Now that was gone. It might not have impressed her, anyway, he told himself. But here she was smiling, the clear blue eyes showing not only respect and interest, but promise. He was sure that some unspoken understanding had passed between them.
The Senator was speaking now … .
“ … and I was wondering if you would join us for dinner. Your friend here, too, if you’d like.”
The Senator nodded toward Little Horse.
“I … Yes, sir. I’m sure we could get permission.”
The big man chuckled. “Of course. I’ll take care of that while you dress. We’ll pick you up at the dormitory.”
One last look into the blue eyes, so filled with promise, and he turned away. The image of the smile was burned permanently into his memory. He was ready now to fight the world. His heart soared like the eagle.
“Dinner” was at the hotel’s dining room. The young men had never seen such elegance. White linen tablecloth, flowers on the table … Flowers which were clearly exotic species unknown to John’s limited experience. He quickly realized that they had probably been raised indoors, artificially.
The silver table service was an array of beauty. John panicked for a moment, but then realized that he had only to watch the others, to see which fork to use first. He had never wanted so hard to please anyone as he now wished to please the sparkling beauty across the table. He quickly saw that Miss Langtry realized his predicament with the silverware, and was helping him. She would very slowly and methodically reach for the appropriate implement, holding it so that he could see. When he too reached for that utensil, the girl would nod and smile pleasantly. In no time at all, they were communicating, at a different level from the table conversation, which was light and insignificant. It was John’s fi
rst experience with such intrigue, and it was a thrill beyond belief.
“I was proud of your accomplishment today, John,” the Senator said between the main course and dessert. “Well done. Coach McGregor tells me that you’re also interested in the track-and-field events.”
“Yes, sir. But that seems to be seasonal. Springtime, Coach said.”
“Yes. Quite true. But I have something in mind. Are you familiar with the Olympics?”
“The Greek contests? We read about them in literature.”
“No, no,” the Senator chuckled. “The modern Olympics. They’re held every four years. A different place each year. The next one is to be in Paris, in 1900. The last one, incidentally, was held in Athens, a year ago. More coincidence.”
“But what has that to do with … ?”
The Senator waved the query aside.
“Let me continue, John. As you know, I’m deeply interested in Carlisle, and specifically in athletics. It is my hope to help athletes with potential. And I would hope to have world-class competitors in the Olympics to represent our Carlisle program in track and field. I want the world to know about our Indian athletes.”
“You mean … Me?”
“Of course, John. You and others. I’m always looking for talent.”
John sat numbly, still not quite understanding, still distracted by the blue eyes and friendly smile of Miss Jane Langtry, across the table.
“The girl really likes you,” said Little Horse later in the dorm.
“Nonsense!” snorted John. “She was just being friendly because of her father.”
He knew better, of course. And Horse didn’t even know about the chance encounter under the table. John’s foot had chanced to touch that of Miss Langtry. He had jerked it back quickly, hoping that she hadn’t noticed, or that she’d think it was an accident. But her smile suggested that it was no accident. It was a smile of intrigue and shared secrets. Oddly, it did not seem to him that she was experienced in such things. On the contrary … She was as new and fresh and childlike as he at the ways of romance. They shared something for a moment or two that was new to both; mysterious and wonderful and full of promise.
“She does like you, though,” Horse was saying as John returned from his wonderful daydream. “Your attract-medicine is good. A lot better than mine.”
“I don’t believe so, Horse. I have hardly any, I’m made to think. You are far better looking.”
Little Horse chuckled. “Not really. But it has little to do with looks, anyway, no? Your medicine and hers are good together. It could be felt.”
John admitted to himself that it was true. There had been a wordless communication, a promise not yet fulfilled … . One that had hung there between them so plainly that it nearly shouted its presence. Little Horse had felt it. It seemed odd that Senator and Mrs. Langtry had not been aware of it, too. But the Senator had been preoccupied with his talk of the Olympics, and Mrs. Langtry … Well, she might have noticed, but said nothing. John had been concentrating on the daughter, not the mother, and could not be sure. But, he had found that whites were less attuned to such things of the spirit, anyway. He had thought that to be strange. It was as if they were taught to deny things like medicine-feelings, rather than enjoying them as gifts.
Maybe it had something to do with the white man’s strange approach to religion and God. Many whites, especially their holy men, seemed to think that if anything was fun, it must be wrong.
His thoughts were interrupted by Charlie Smith, who observed that neither John Buffalo or Little Horse had much attract-medicine anyway, and that he and Will Clark should have been selected for the dinner party. The four laughed together.
“Seriously,” Smith said finally, “what did the Senator want? White men don’t do favors with no reason.”
“He wants John to work hard on his sports,” suggested Horse. “He told us about the Olympics.”
“What’s that?” asked Charlie.
They explained the Senator’s enthusiasm and his devotion to the Carlisle school.
“ … and the next Olympiad, in 1904, is to be held in St. Louis,” Little Horse finished. “I think the Senator wants John to try to qualify.”
“At football?” asked Will.
“No … track and field,” explained Horse. “They don’t play football in the Olympics. I am made to think John will hear more about it.”
At the suggestion of the coach, John and Little Horse wrote notes of thanks to the Senator.
There were other football games. In fact, one nearly every weekend through the autumn. John was getting in more playing time. He had proved himself by means of the dropkick, but the injured player was out for the season because of a broken leg. John found himself carrying the ball more. He was quick on his feet, and the coach praised him for his running ability. He could be best described as “slippery,” dodging tackles and threading his way among opponents, rather than relying on brute force. But he still enjoyed putting a smashing tackle on an opposing quarterback.
Senator Langtry attended a few more games, always visiting with John at some point, encouraging him on to bigger and better things. He did not bring his family again. He was apologetic that his legislative duties had prevented not only time with his family, but his attendance at many of Carlisle’s athletic events.
John, making progress in matters of politeness and the social graces, asked that his best regards be extended to Mrs. Langtry and to their daughter, Jane.
“Why, thank you, John. That’s very thoughtful of you. The ladies were quite impressed with you and Mr. Horse at our dinner outing. I will certainly carry your message.”
John dared not think that his real message to Miss Jane Langtry might find its way, but he knew of no way to make that contact. It would be unseemly to write to her directly, unless invited to do so. Maybe, if the Senator actually did carry John’s regards, she would understand. If not, nothing lost … .
The Senator made one remark which certainly gained the attention of John Buffalo.
“Next spring, if my schedule and yours permit, perhaps you’d enjoy a visit to our farm. You’ve been around horses, I trust?”
The remark about horses was accompanied by an odd sidelong glance, as if it were a joke. John was puzzled. He had been with horses all his life, until he was sent away to school. He longed to be with them again.
Years later, he realized the subtle meaning behind the remark. The honorable practice of stealing horses to prove one’s manhood, practiced among the natives of the great plains, was not understood among whites, and was frowned upon.
TEN
Late in the fall football season, Carlisle’s squad traveled by train to Massachusetts to play a team at Springfield College, a professional school for youth leaders and clergy. This college, the coach warned, was at the forefront of physical education in America. Many of the instructors and coaches in the widespread programs of the Young Men’s Christian Association were receiving their training at Springfield.
“We can expect to be competing against some top athletes,” warned McGregor. “These folks are hardworking and innovative.”
This prediction proved true. Although friendly and accommodating, the men of Springfield College proved to be tough on the gridiron. There were new formations and maneuvers, as well as brute strength. As the shadows grew long, the game seesawed back and forth, the lead and the momentum changing several times. The clock ran out with the game tied, 35—35.
Carlisle would spend the night before traveling home, and there was entertainment planned. After a friendly banquet with a lot of good-natured fun, it was announced that there would be a special demonstration at the gymnasium. A new game … An activity for the winter months when the weather prevented outdoor sports, and young athletes needed something to keep in shape. They moved to the gym, and a young instructor, James Naismith, from Canada, explained how it had originated, mostly by accident.
As a graduate assistant at the college, Naismith had been work
ing part time at another job at the downtown YMCA, with younger boys. At the end of the class sessions, it was sometimes difficult to induce the students to return the soccer balls to the storage boxes without a lot of delay and horseplay. The instructor had decided to make it a contest, dividing the class into two teams: Who could put the equipment away faster?
From there, things began to change rapidly, and somewhat unexpectedly. Several of the youngsters found that they could speed the process by throwing the soccer balls into the bins from a distance. At this point, many instructors might have stopped the fun, but to Naismith it was merely another challenge. Why not make that a part of the game? With a storage box at each end of the gym, he had announced the game of “box ball.”
A few rules evolved, and sometime later, he conceived another idea. Around the balcony of the YMCA gym was a running track, banked at the turns, for the track-and-field runners to use in inclement weather. Why not fasten the boxes to the rail of the balcony? Someone stationed above at either end could retrieve the ball after each score, to hasten the game along. He had requested the custodian to find two uniformly shaped boxes, but none were immediately available. The custodian suggested that perhaps a pair of bushel baskets might suffice. Always flexible, Naismith quickly agreed. They could, he observed, change the name of the game to “basket ball.”
The game could be played, Naismith continued, with almost any number of players. They had experimented with as many as twelve to fourteen on each side. However, it had proved more practical and a more open and exciting game, if there were no more than five or six on each team.
Rules were evolving. No body contact. No walking or running with the ball, but it could be bounced repeatedly … . The students were calling this a “dribble.”
After the brief explanation, the demonstration began, with six on each team. The game was amusing—sometimes hilarious—as the ball moved back and forth, up and down the floor.
The Long Journey Home Page 6