Freddy Plays Football

by Walter R. Brooks

  “I want you to hold back during the first quarter, Freddy,” said Mr. Finnerty. “You’ll have to play hard, of course, but don’t get through their line too fast, and when you block, act sort of clumsy, so they’ll get the idea you can’t do them much harm. We’ll try to get them off guard, so that when you really do go in we can give them the works. Jason, you better play a passing game at first, and let Jimmy Witherspoon punt as early as the second down. OK, I guess we’re ready.”

  Centerboro kicked off, and Black Beard caught it and came pounding down the field behind four of his team mates. The Centerboro players converged upon him, but Freddy hung back, trotting now this way and now that, as if bewildered. Angry voices from the home fans shouted at him: “Come on, pig! Get in there and play! What are you doing—looking for four-leaf clovers?” But Freddy paid no attention. When Black Beard was finally pulled down on Centerboro’s thirty-yard line, he was off at the other side of the field.

  The angry yells went on, but they were drowned out in a shout of laughter from the Tushville supporters. The Tushville principal, a big red-faced man, came over and slapped Mr. Gridley on the back. “So that’s your famous pig!” he jeered. “You better put a fence around the field to keep him from getting lost!”

  Mr. Gridley just shrugged his shoulders and moved off.

  Tushville went into a huddle, and then snapped into position. The tackle opposite Freddy was a giant who scowled ferociously at him. “Know my name, pig?” he growled. “It’s Joe Butcher. Butcher—get that? I’m the butcher and you’re the pig, and, boy, are you on the chopping block now!”

  “Oh, dear!” said Freddy. “Oh, dear!” And he pretended to shiver. For he wasn’t scared any longer. “If this guy is trying to scare me,” he thought, “it must mean that he’s scared himself. Though why he should be, after that last play, I don’t know.” So when the center passed the ball, he crouched low, and as Butcher came at him he sprang and drove his snout right into the man’s stomach.

  A pig’s snout is pretty tough. Mr. Butcher said Whoosh! and doubled up on the ground. But the play, a sweep around left end, went on and Tushville scored a touchdown.

  While they were waiting for Butcher to get his wind back, Jason said: “Take it easy, Freddy. Mr. Finnerty said never mind if they score.”

  Tushville kicked off, and Clip Brannigan, who played right end, got the ball and managed to reach the middle of the field before he was downed. Then Jimmy Witherspoon dropped back and punted. It was a beautiful punt, and a Tushville back fell on it on his ten-yard line.

  When they took position for the next play, Butcher didn’t make any more faces at Freddy. But he looked pretty determined as he crouched, with one hand protecting his stomach, and the other on the ground. “I mustn’t let him take me too seriously yet,” Freddy thought; so when the ball was passed and Butcher plunged at him, he just turned and ran away. He circled round to the right, and then he saw that Black Beard was in the clear, only a few yards from him, and just catching a long pass. It looked like a sure touchdown, for as the man started to run there wasn’t a Centerboro player anywhere near him. Except Freddy.

  Freddy knew that he ought to hold back, and yet he didn’t want that touchdown made. Black Beard was running straight towards him. He was grinning and evidently quite sure that Freddy couldn’t stop him. So Freddy didn’t try to tackle. As the man came on, he squealed despairingly, and then zigzagged, as if trying to dodge. “Out of my way, old lard bucket!” Black Beard said. And then Freddy, as if completely demoralized, threw himself down on the ground. But as he fell, he rolled. He rolled right into Black Beard’s legs. And Black Beard turned an elegant cartwheel, dropped the ball, and ended, very much perplexed, lying flat on his back.

  The ball bounded off to one side and Jason fell on it, and the entire crowd, Tushvillers and Centerboroites alike, burst into yells of laughter.

  Again Centerboro punted, and the game went on. The Tushville team felt sure of winning; they had lost any anxiety they might have had about the much-talked-of pig, who was evidently half scared to death; and they took things fairly easy. At the end of the quarter they had scored another touchdown, and led, 14–0.

  With the game apparently already won, Tushville played carelessly at the beginning of the second quarter, and nobody bothered much about Freddy. They had made several plays from a single wingback formation, pulling Butcher over to the other side of the line, and they were so sure that Freddy couldn’t do anything that they scarcely bothered to block him. Again they shifted in the same way and then Jason gave Freddy a nod. “I’ll be right behind you,” he said.

  The instant the ball was passed Freddy was through the line. There was no opposition. Black Beard had the ball and was just about to throw a long pass when the pig hit him. He went into the air as if he had stepped on a land mine, the ball popped up, and Jason, who was right behind the pig, caught it before it touched the ground and ran down the open field for a touchdown.

  He went into the air as if he had stepped on a land mine.

  At first the Tushvillers thought that had been merely a lucky break for Centerboro. But when, on the next kick-off, Freddy tore down the field under the ball, looking like a small charging buffalo in his headgear and padded jersey, and knocked over Johnny Gibbs just as he had caught the ball, they began to take notice. First they shifted tackles, replacing Butcher, who was now permanently breathless from having been butted in the stomach a second time—with a boy named Clint. Then when Clint seemed unable to hold the pig, they began to gang up on Freddy.

  But it isn’t easy to gang up on an active pig, as any farmer knows. He is fast and tricky, and it is practically impossible to get hold of him. Freddy was through on every Tushville play, and when Centerboro had the ball, he could knock a tackler off his feet and be off after another one almost before the first man had hit the ground. In that quarter Centerboro made three touchdowns. The score was Tushville 21, Centerboro 20.

  There were three ringers on the Tushville team: Butcher, Black Beard, and a hard-faced tough named Canner. And at the beginning of the next quarter it became plain to Freddy that the three had decided, by fair means or foul, to put him out of the game. In the scrimmages, when they thought the referee couldn’t see, they slugged and kicked him; once Canner got hold of his tail and twisted it till he squealed. Frequently, of course, the referee saw them and each time it cost Tushville fifteen yards for unnecessary roughness. After that they were more careful, for the Tushville captain had to keep calling them down too. But they kept right on.

  The crowd on the Centerboro side was getting mad about it. They jeered the ringers and threatened them, and once, when Canner kicked Freddy in plain sight of everybody, they poured right out on to the field and surrounded him, shouting menacingly, and old Mrs. Peppercorn flew at the bully and whacked him over the head with her umbrella. I don’t know why she had it with her, but it was nice that she did.

  The game might have broken up right there in a free-for-all fight, for the Tushvillers were moving down towards them, and Mr. Gridley and the Tushville principal were shaking their fists at each other. But Freddy and Jason and Mr. Finnerty managed to get them to listen. And then Mr. Finnerty said: “Ladies and gentlemen, please go back to your places. We want to win this game, and we know we can. We know Tushville has three men who have no business on any school team. But we’re going to show them that that kind of dishonest football doesn’t pay off. We’re going to force Tushville to play clean football after this, and we’re going to do it by giving them an almighty licking.”

  “That’s all very well,” said Judge Willey angrily, “but how about Freddy?”

  Freddy was now mad clean through. He had no grudge against the regular Tushville players, but he had a good big one against the three ringers, who stood there with sneering smiles on their faces. “I’m all right, Judge,” he said. “I’m going to get these boys to apologize to me after the game.”

  Butcher laughed right out at that, but the judge and t
he sheriff looked at each other and winked. They both knew something about pigs.

  Centerboro had the ball, and the team went into a huddle. “Try some straight line drives, Jason,” said Freddy. “You don’t have to worry about me. If those ringers want to rough it up, I can play rough too.”

  “All right,” said Jason. “We might start off with your plough play.”

  The plough play was one that they had developed in practice, and depended on Freddy’s ability to upset, and really plough up, the whole opposing line. When Jason called the signal the Centerboro line, instead of plunging forward, sprang back and swung around right end ahead of the ball carrier. This left the men in the Tushville line suddenly with no opposition, and off balance, and it was then that Freddy, instead of shoving through, turned right, and with his snout close to the ground drove right down the enemy’s line, upsetting in succession their right guard, center, left guard and left tackle. The first time he got clear through and joined the sweep around end, which gained forty yards.

  Then it was first down on Tushville’s fifteen-yard line. Freddy mixed up the line all right, and Clip Brannigan got around for a touchdown. But Freddy had been stopped, and a number of players had piled up on him—among them, Black Beard, who gave him several short arm jabs in the stomach. But Freddy had had enough of that. He twisted around and bit Black Beard in the leg. The man let out a screech, and at the same minute the whistle blew for the end of the quarter.

  A pig can give a terrible bite. Freddy could probably have taken a piece right out of his tormenter’s leg; as it was, he crunched down pretty hard. Black Beard got up slowly and limped over to the referee. “He bit me!” he yelled. “That pig bit me!”

  The referee had had about enough, too. He looked at the man coldly. “Yeah?” he said. “Why didn’t you bite him back?” And walked away.

  The Centerboro crowd had gone wild with delight. They cheered Clip and they cheered Freddy, and they gave three long boos for Black Beard. “What grade you in, whiskers?” they yelled. “Can you spell ‘cat’?” “Did he hurt his wittle leg? Let Freddy kiss it and make it well.” Some of the Tushvillers shouted for Freddy to be taken out of the game, but there were others who really didn’t care for the brand of football their team played, and there was a lot of arguing and one or two small fights.

  Black Beard limped around, glaring at Freddy until Butcher and Canner came over and helped him off the field. They were whispering together, and evidently planning to get back at Freddy; but he was too mad to care. “Don’t worry, Freddy,” Mr. Finnerty said. “The referee’s watching them. And I don’t think he’ll watch you too carefully. We’re 27 to 21 now; let’s go in and give them the works, boys.”

  So Centerboro did. They had been holding back one play, and now they tried it. Freddy couldn’t carry a ball, but he figured that if he slipped his headgear down so that it hung under his chin, somebody could shove the ball into it and the chances were, the first time at least, that Tushville would never notice him until he was over the goal line. And that was just what happened. He dropped back, pulled the headgear down, and when Jason pushed the ball into it, he ran right around left end for a touchdown without being intercepted.

  Of course Tushville complained and there was a huddle over the rule book, but there didn’t seem to be any rule covering just that play, and the touchdown stood. A little later he tried it again, but this time he was caught. He knocked over Johnny Gibbs, but Canner fell on him, and then Butcher, and Black Beard piled on top. And they all began punching him. “Soak him, boys,” Butcher muttered. “We can put him out of the game if the referee won’t.”

  Now down at the end of the field was the buggy, with Hank hitched up to it, and the Beans and Mr. Doty sitting in it. Right up to the last minute Mr. Bean had said that he wouldn’t go to the game. “That pig,” he growled—“I’ve disowned him. He ain’t one of my animals any more. I’m not interested in anything he does.”

  “Unless he returns the money, Mr. B.,” Mrs. Bean put in.

  “Nope,” said Mr. Bean firmly. “I don’t ask my animals to agree with me in everything. But I do expect ’em to be ruled by my decisions. He set his judgment up against me, and acted on it. You can’t run a farm that way.”

  “Well, land of Goshen, Mr. B.,” Mrs. Bean said, “you ain’t running a farm when you go to a football game.”

  But Mr. Bean still said no.

  But about an hour before the time the game was scheduled to begin, Mr. Bean came into the house. “Well,” he said testily, “ain’t you got a hat on? Expect me to wait all day?”

  “Well, well,” said Mr. Doty, looking out of the window, “you got Hank harnessed up to the buggy.”

  Mrs. Bean didn’t say anything. She didn’t even smile, though she probably wanted to. She hurried up and got her hat on, and they went out and climbed into the buggy.

  Freddy had been too busy to pay much attention to the crowd, and Mr. Bean had pulled up Hank some distance back of the goal posts. “Hank’s kind of skittish—don’t want to get too close to all the wavin’ and bellerin’,” he said in explanation. Mrs. Bean didn’t say anything. She knew that he didn’t want people to know that he had come to watch Freddy play.

  When the three ringers got Freddy down and started to pummel him, the referee started for them. But the fight was over before he got there. For Freddy knew what he was in for. The three had figured out that they would get their revenge by beating him up, and then the referee would call the game off and Tushville would claim that it had not really been defeated at all. So he went into violent action. He squirmed out from under them, biting and snapping. He tore off Black Beard’s jersey, gave a good crunch on Butcher’s thumb, and took the seat out of Canner’s pants, in about three seconds. But once clear of them, he didn’t run; he whirled and went at them again. They couldn’t get up, for as soon as one of them got to his knees Freddy would either butt him in the stomach, or grab an arm or leg and pull him down again. The crowd streamed out and formed a circle around them, but no one dared to try to separate them.

  Far up the field, Mr. Bean couldn’t see very well what went on. He stood up in the buggy and peered down towards the crowd. All at once he grabbed the whip out of the socket. “They’ve got Freddy down! Go on, Hank!” he shouted. And the old white horse, as determined as Mr. Bean to dash to the rescue, started. He swung from a trot into a gallop, and down the field they swept, with Mr. Bean standing up and waving his whip, and Mrs. Bean and Mr. Doty hanging on for dear life. Mrs. Church said afterwards that if the chariot races in the Roman forum were anything like that, she wished she had been born a thousand years earlier.

  The crowd scrambled to get clear as the buggy dashed up. Mr. Bean jumped out with the whip in his hand. “Get away from my pig, you tarnation rascals!” he shouted.

  “You get him away from us!” wailed Black Beard, then gave a yelp as Freddy nipped him in the side.

  Indeed the ringers were all through. They rolled and crawled to get away, but Freddy herded them together, distributing nips to any surfaces that seemed to invite them. But when he saw Mr. Bean he left them and went over to the buggy.

  “Oh, Mr. Bean,” he said, “did I hear you say that I was your pig? I—I thought you’d disowned me.”

  Mr. Bean frowned. “I have. ’Tain’t you I’m helping, and don’t you think it! Would have done the same for any animal. I won’t see even a centipede abused.” And though obviously none of the three men was at the moment doing anything but trying to get away as quickly as possible, he gave a few cuts at their calves with his whip. Then he got back in, looking rather embarrassed, and shook the reins. “Giddap, Hank,” he said, and drove off.

  In the meantime the captains and the referees had held a conference. Tushville had demanded that Freddy be taken out. “You take out your three ringers and we’ll take out the pig,” said Centerboro. And at last it was decided that way. The teams, now evenly matched, now held each other without scoring. But the final score was Centerboro
40, Tushville 21.

  While he was sitting on the sidelines, watching, Freddy saw Canner coming towards him, and he braced himself to jump. But the man was holding out his hand. “You sure can take it, pig,” he said, “and you can dish it out in lumps, too. You said you were going to make us apologize, and I’m one that’s doing it right now. Those other boys—” He shook hands with Freddy and dropped down beside him. “They ain’t very good sports,” he said lowering his voice, “and I’ll give you a tip. They’re cooking up something for the next game—when is it, two weeks?”

  “You mean you’re not sore at me?” Freddy asked.

  “What for? I got no business playing here on a school team. It’s pretty cheap stuff and I’m through with it.” He got up as the whistle blew. “Game’s over,” he said. “So long, pig; I’ll be seeing you.” And as the cheering Centerboro crowd made for Freddy and Jason and swung them up on their shoulders, he waved his hand and walked off the field.

  Chapter 17

  It was midnight and Mr. and Mrs. Webb were sitting on the ceiling of the Beans’ spare room. They were sitting upside down, but that is no trick for a spider—indeed it is much more pleasant, because it takes the weight off your body and makes you feel very light and comfortable. Just try it some time.

  Below them in the bed Mr. Doty was sleeping peacefully.

  “Well, father,” said Mrs. Webb, “he’s settled down now for good. Better do your stuff, my pet.” She had picked up some rather deplorable phrases in Hollywood.