“Try it again,” he ordered, “and hold your leg straighter. Lock your knee and keep it so.”
After the next attempt he called down the field. “Where did you catch that, Morton?” he asked. The back turned and counted the lines.
“About the forty, sir,” he shouted.
“Not bad,” commented the coach. “We’re on the twenty-five here. Try a low one now. And follow through with your foot. Don’t stop when you strike the ball: keep your foot going right on up: there’s plenty of room for it!”
Four more punts, varying in distance from a wretched twenty yards to a glorious forty-five, followed, Myron seeking to profit by the coach’s instructions. Then: “I guess that’s enough, Foster,” said Mr. Driscoll. “You’ll stand a lot of practice, but you’ve got a good swing and I wouldn’t be surprised if you could make a pretty fair punter. I’ll give you a chance to show what you can do at full-back. If you buckle down and try hard you’ll stand a chance of a place, for we need another man there. Wish you had about ten more pounds on you, though. Go around with Warren’s squad over there for a while and watch how Houghton does it. I’ll see you again.”
Blanket-wrapped, for Billy Goode had sharp eyes for his charges and the weather had turned colder overnight, Myron followed the first team substitutes in their signal practice for a good twenty minutes. Now and then he caught Chas Cummins’ eye as the squad trotted by, but that youth’s expression was blank and innocent. Finally the benches filled again, coach and captain and manager compared notes like three gentleman burglars meditating a midnight sortie, the trainer busied himself with blankets and the sparse audience on the stand kicked their feet against the boards to put warmth into them. Then Mr. Driscoll faced the benches.
“First and second squads,” he called. “First will kick off. Second, take this goal. Who’s playing right half for the second? You, Robbins? Well, we want you on the first. Morton, you go to the second. All right now? What’s that, Grove? Left tackle? Oh, all right. Simkins! Go in on the first: left tackle. All right, Hersey! Start it up!”
Myron wondered if the coach had forgotten his promise, for Williams was playing full-back on the first squad and Houghton on the second and he, Myron, was adorning the bench with some twenty-odd other subs. Perhaps Mr. Driscoll had changed his mind, thought Myron. At that moment Chas called to him and led him down the side-line a ways. “Drop your blanket, old chap,” he said. “Coach says I’m to pass you a few, though I’m blessed if I know how he expects me to work in a pair of trousers that are two inches too small for me! Get over there by the end of the stand. If you miss them you won’t have to chase them so far. Now then, perhaps you know that in the modern game of football, the full-back is called on to take the snap-back straight from the centre on numerous occasions. Well, I’m the gentlemanly centre for the nonce. That’s a bully word, ‘nonce.’ Now we will suppose”—Chas’ voice diminished to a murmur as he turned his back and placed the ball he had brought on the sod before him. Myron spread his hands as he had seen Houghton do, Chas cast a backward glance at him and swept the ball toward him. By leaping two feet off the earth Myron was just able to tip it with his fingers. Chas laughed delightedly.
“Gee, that’s just like Cantrell does it!” he exulted. “In fact, I believe I got it two or three inches higher than he ever did. Guess I’ll get Driscoll to let me play centre!”
Myron recovered the ball and tossed it back. “Maybe I’d better get a soap-box or something to stand on,” he suggested.