“Yes, we might have lost the whole team,” responded Jud sarcastically. “Oh, I suppose we can pull through if nothing worse happens, but I’m expecting Katie to fall off a roof or Brown to get kicked by a mule tomorrow. This has got me going for fair!”
“You look after Number One,” advised the coach. “The best way to kill a trouble is to laugh it to death!”
Jud expressed incredulous surprise when Wednesday passed without further misfortunes. There was a monster meeting that night and a march through town and a speech by the Principal from the porch of his residence and much enthusiasm and noise. Myron did not take part in the observances, for the players were now required to remain in their rooms evenings as far as possible and to be in bed promptly at ten o’clock. So far, Myron had felt no nervousness, nothing approaching stage-fright, but when Thursday arrived and the field was well surrounded with cheering youths and townsfolk and the band that was to play on Saturday was adding to the din and there was only light signal work, followed by punting and catching for the backs, instead of the relief of a good, hard scrimmage, why, then he felt a trifle fluttery about the heart. It meant so much to all those eager-eyed, laughing but secretly earnest boys about him, that hoped-for victory, and he was chosen to aid in the securing of it! The realisation of responsibility sobered him and then left him a trifle panic-stricken. Suppose he failed them, the coach and Captain Mellen and the school! For the moment it seemed that in such an event he would not have the courage to stay on and face them all. He almost wished that Coach Driscoll would let Kearns play instead! But that wish didn’t last long, and the panic was short-lived, too. There was still a vague uneasiness disturbing him, however, and that uneasiness was due to remain with him during his waking hours until the whistle blew on Saturday.
The second team, its usefulness at an end, cheered and was cheered and performed a dignified ceremony behind the east goal, to which, since the first team players had trotted back to the gymnasium, the audience flocked. Gravely, reverently, torn jerseys, worn-out pants, shoes beyond aid and various other disreputable articles of football attire and use were piled on the jumping pit. Then a football rules book was laid on top of all, a gallon of kerosene applied and around the blazing pyre the members of the second team slowly circled with joined hands, chanting a strange jumble of atrocious Latin and scarcely more acceptable English. Gradually the pace grew faster and the pæan brisker until, presently, the scene was a ludicrous whirl of bodies amidst a wild shriek of song and a cloud of smoke. In such manner the second team disbanded, at the end, spent with laughter and breathless from their exertions, giving three feeble groans for Kenwood and “nine long Parkinsons”!
Friday was a long and gloomy day. There was little use trying to do anything at recitations if you were on the team, and not much more if you weren’t. You just bluffed, if you could, or threw yourself on the mercy of the instructors, trusting that they would prove human enough to be lenient. They usually were, for long experience had proved to the Parkinson faculty that for a week before the big game and for several days after it normal members of the student body were incapable of interest in studies. To make matters more dismal on Friday, it rained. It didn’t rain in a cheerful, whole-souled way, but drizzled and stopped and sulked and drizzled again, and you wanted to be outdoors if you were in and wanted to be back again as soon as you were out. There was blackboard work for the players in the afternoon and signal drill in the evening. Afterwards Myron and Joe and Andrew chatted in Number 17 until bedtime, while from over in front of Parkinson Hall the cheers of some five hundred youths arose to the cloudy sky. Then came ten o’clock, and Andy went, and the room-mates got thoughtfully out of their clothes and crept beneath the covers, each a trifle more silent than usual. To Myron’s surprise, sleep came after a very short time, and when he awoke the sun was bright in a crisp November world and there were roystering sounds from the bath-rooms down the corridor.
The first Kenwood invaders appeared well before noon, and every hour after that brought more until by two o’clock the streets of the town, already fairly impartially arrayed as to shop windows with the blue and the brown, wore a decidedly cerulean hue. For the team, dinner was served at twelve instead of one, and after that there remained a long hour and a half before they could find relief from inaction. They were at liberty to do as they liked within reasonable limits, and Myron and Joe and Chas wandered across the campus and down School Street in search of diversion. Chas was, in his own language, “too old a bird to have nerves,” and he didn’t intend that either of the others should either. He was bubbling over with good spirits and kept Myron and Joe laughing from the time the three of them left the campus. Perhaps his cheerfulness was largely due to the fact that, at the eleventh hour, Coach Driscoll had chosen him over Brodhead for left guard. And perhaps the coach had never intended to do anything else. Chas never knew as to that. But he did know that had things turned out differently for him his plans for next season would have been of as much interest as a last year’s bird’s nest!
Their progress through the unusually thronged streets was frequently interrupted while Chas greeted an acquaintance, generally one of the enemy. In front of the hotel quite a crowd had collected to peer through doors and windows at the Kenwood heroes, who, having eaten dinner, were herded in the lobby about coach and trainer and rubbers. The three pushed into the throng until they could glimpse their adversaries, and Chas pointed out several of the notables to the others: Leeds, captain and right tackle; the much-respected McAfee, left half-back; Odell, full-back and goal kicker extraordinary; Garrity, the Blue’s clever quarter. “And the others I don’t know the names of,” said Chas, “although that whaling big, pop-eyed monster must be Todd, their centre. He’s a new one this year. Wonder which of the bunch is Lampley, the chap I’m up against.”
“And I wonder which is my man,” said Joe. “I hope he’s like his name!”
“Frost, isn’t it?” asked Chas. “They say he’s good, but you’ll know more about him along toward four-thirty.”