Forward Pass: A Story of the "New Football"

by Ralph Henry Barbour

Dan put the speaker down for Payson, the coach. He was a large, broad-shouldered man of about thirty with a determined jaw and a pair of quick, restless black eyes that seemed capable of seeing the whole field at once. In weight he must have been nearly two hundred pounds, but he had the height to carry the weight; and, besides, there was an alertness about him and an easy manner of carriage that gave him a suggestion of speed as well as weight and strength. In college—he had played on both the Cornell and Yale teams—he had been known as “Whopper” Payson, and that was in an age of big men, too. He had played guard, and for one year full-back in those days, and there are plenty of folks who remember his work in the Yale-Princeton game in his last year at New Haven. At Yardley the older boys liked him well, but the younger ones, and especially those who had failed to please him, called him hard names, “bully,” “bear” and “big brute” were some of the more popular ones. He was a hard taskmaster; Dan soon saw that for himself; and he was impatient of shirking or awkwardness or stupidity. When he spoke—and he was not a man who talked when he had nothing to say—he said things in a quick, decisive manner that reminded one of cold steel.

There were a good many fellows at Yardley who believed that Payson didn’t take enough trouble with new candidates, that every year he missed good material for the reason that he was not willing to accord a sufficient amount of patience to green players. There may have been truth in this, yet, on the other hand, Payson, although he had failed the preceding year, had managed during his four-year régime to turn out two winning teams. There was his side of it, too.

“I can’t bother,” he said once, “to spend valuable time teaching the rudiments of football to fellows who may never make good. I have only eight weeks at the most to build my team, and I need every moment of those eight weeks for perfecting. Let the novices learn how to handle the ball on their class teams. Next year I’ll try them out. But a coach can’t conduct a kindergarten and turn out a decent team in eight weeks. Anyhow, I can’t.”

That was John Payson’s side of it, and doubtless there was a good deal of sense in his contention.

Dan liked the coach’s looks very well on the whole. He seemed honest and capable and dependable; above all dependable. He was just the sort of a fellow, thought Dan, that one would want to find on the bridge of a steamer when the rockets were soaring, and just the sort one would be glad to find waiting on the side-line when you trotted off after having been worsted in the first half of your Big Game. Dan approved of Payson. That sounds rather presumptuous, to be sure, but in the same way that a cat may look at a king, doubtless a candidate may pass judgment on a coach.

It was a warm afternoon, and presently Andy Ryan, the trainer, a brisk little, middle-aged Irishman with sandy hair, red face and a pair of eyes as green as his own beloved emerald sod, sought out the coach and secured the release of all candidates save a half-dozen or so unfortunates who, having unwisely taken on unnecessary fat during the summer, were doomed to two laps around the track. The others trotted up the path to the gymnasium and showers, the little gallery of spectators melted away, Andy busied himself with gathering the footballs into the big canvas bag and Dan found himself practically alone with the head coach. Payson was watching the little bunch of players jogging along the cinders across the field, but he was thinking of other matters, wondering, in fact, just how much recognition it would be best to accord to this “new football” which was entering on its second season. He had all of the old-style player’s contempt for the new-fangled tricks like the forward pass and the on-side kick. Last Fall the game with Broadwood had gone against him just by reason of one of those same idiotic tricks, a forward pass, which, after having been handled and dropped by most of the players of the two teams, had been finally captured by a Broadwood tackle on Yardley’s five yards, the tackle managing to fight his way across for a touchdown with the entire playing force struggling about him like chips on the edge of a maelstrom. Instead of accepting this as a vindication of the new game Payson declared it the veriest fluke and added it to his arguments in opposition.

“What science,” he demanded of Andy, “is there in throwing the ball down the field for the whole bunch of players to claw at? What if you do make it go once in ten times? or once in five times? Why, I dare say I could kick a placement from the middle of the field as often as that, but you wouldn’t call me anything but an idiot if I tried it! The onside kick has some sense to it; it might be possible to develop that into a scientific play, but this forward pass business—! Piffle!” And Andy, who was still smarting over Yardley’s defeat, agreed enthusiastically.

Still, Payson wasn’t blinding himself now to the fact that this same forward pass had possibilities in the hands of a fast, well-drilled team, and he would have given a good deal at this moment to have known what Myers, the Broadwood coach, was planning. As far as Yardley was concerned the new football would suit better than the old, for the material was not the sort which promised a powerful attack. Well, he would know better what to do in another week. Probably a mixture of old football and new would be the safest campaign to prepare for. As he turned his eyes encountered Dan’s and he presumed that the boy had been waiting to speak to him.

“Well?” he demanded sharply.

Dan didn’t know whether he had intended speaking to the coach or not, but the opportunity had presented itself and he decided to seize it.