For Yardley: A Story of Track and Field

by Ralph Henry Barbour

But life wasn’t all discouragement for Gerald to-day, for this morning the long-delayed summons to the track and field candidates had appeared on the notice board in the corridor of Oxford.

“There will be a meeting of all candidates for the Track Team in the Gymnasium at four-fifteen this afternoon. New men are wanted in all events, and any one who has ever done any distance running or would like to try it is especially urged to come out.

“Albert T. Maury, Captain.”

Gerald gloated over that request for distance men, for he meant to try for the team as a miler, and the acknowledgment that the squad as it was composed now was weak in that department meant that he would be welcomed and given attention by the trainer. There was very little conceit in Gerald, but he possessed the excellent attribute of believing in his ability to do a thing until he had conclusively proved that he couldn’t. Just now Gerald was pretty sure that with proper training he could run the mile fast enough to secure a place on the team and get into the Dual Meet with Broadwood the last of May.

Gerald was one of the first to reach the gymnasium after English was over. So early was he, in fact, that he had to cool his heels a good half-hour before the meeting began in the Trophy Room. About thirty fellows appeared in response to the summons, many of them Fourth Class fellows, showing more ambition than promise. Tom, with whom Gerald sat, didn’t speak enthusiastically of the new material.

“Still, though,” he added, “it’s usually like this. The real stuff comes dribbling along after work begins outdoors. Fellows hate to have to do the gym stunts.”

Bert Maury, the captain, reminded the fellows that Yardley had won two legs of the present Dual Cup, and that if they were successful this spring the trophy would become Yardley’s property for good and all. “It isn’t going to be so easy, though,” he said. “I happen to know that Broadwood is making a big effort to get a good all-around team together this year. Their trainer, as you know, is a mighty good man, and while I guess he can’t hold a candle to our own Andy——”

“Oh, you Andy Ryan!” shouted some one, and Maury had to wait for the laughter and applause to stop.

“Anyhow, Broadwood’s going to do her level best, and we’ve got to buckle down and do better,” he went on. “There are some things I guess she can’t touch us at this year; the sprints and the high hurdles and the pole vault and the shot and the hammer; I guess we can be pretty certain of those events, but we’re weak at the jumps especially and none too strong in the mile and the quarter. We’ve got to develop two or three good milers and as many fellows for the four-forty; and some good jumpers. And we want hurdlers, too. I hoped more fellows would turn out to-day. We’ve got to have more if we’re going to win. Now you fellows talk it up and see if you can’t get more candidates, will you? We are going to have practice in the gym here until the track is in shape, but I guess we will be able to get out of doors in another week if this weather holds on. Now I’ll ask Mr. Ryan to say a few words.”

Andy Ryan, the trainer, was a short, red-haired, green-eyed little Irish gentleman, mightily popular with the fellows, and when he got on his feet the thirty-odd occupants of the trophy-room cheered for all they were worth and made noise enough for twice their number. Andy spoke with a slight brogue that, when he was excited, became almost unintelligible.