Hitting the line

by Ralph Henry Barbour

The next afternoon he again followed Caner about during signal work, while Nick Blake barked his demands, and the squad scurried this way and that in response. Then he went to the bench and watched the second team hold the first to no score during two ten-minute periods. He wondered whether Mr. Bonner had forgotten him, and was sometimes inclined to hope he had. But he hadn’t, for when the third period began, after a five-minute rest, with half a dozen second-string men in the line-up, Monty found himself standing down near the east goal in company with Weston, who had taken Blake’s place, and Brunswick and Ordway, feeling a bit conspicuous and decidedly nervous. He sincerely hoped the kick-off would not put the ball into his territory, for he was certain he wouldn’t be able to catch it. Fortunately, perhaps, it didn’t. It was Brunswick who fell heir to the slowly-descending, revolving pigskin, and Brunswick, who, snuggling in behind the interference, plunged along for ten yards or so under cover, and then, deprived of assistance, swerved to the left, and gained another five at the cost of a long run across the field. Monty had been spilled early in the proceedings, and now he picked himself up, and trotted across to the line-up, trying hard to recall some of the advice so generously bestowed last evening.

But he forgot about advice in a twinkling, for he was doing his best to clear out a hole inside left tackle for Ordway, and doing it, too. His weight and strength told when he hurled himself between the panting linesmen, and Hobo followed through for a fine four yards. Someone met Monty’s charge with a hard shoulder, and he plowed up the turf. But he didn’t mind that, for the ball was four yards nearer the west goal, and the fighting spirit was aroused. Twice more Ordway was given the ball, and twice more he won through, and it was first down. Then came an unsuccessful plunge by Brunswick at the center, and then the signal that made Monty’s heart pound a little harder. It was a delayed pass to fullback that Weston called for, and to save his life Monty couldn’t resist the impulse that made him shift his body a little to the right. Instantly, Coach Bonner’s voice exploded.

“Hold up!” He darted in and faced Monty scowlingly, a very different Mr. Bonner from the one who had listened smilingly to his camping yarns. “You gave that play away, Crail!” he snarled. “Don’t shift toward the point of attack, don’t look toward it! A child could have guessed that play! Change signals, Quarter! All right! Let’s show something now, First!”

“All right! Now get this, fellows!” cried Weston, after an insulting glare at Monty. It was Brunswick again, around the end, with Monty leading the way. But the second team end was waiting, and there was no gain. Again came the signal with Monty’s number, but this time it was a straight plunge into the center. He tried not to even wink. Then he was plunging ahead, his eyes on the ball in Weston’s hands. He got it, clasped it to him and bored into the opening. The halfs had crossed in front of him, and were charging past right tackle, and the diversion was fooling the opponent’s secondary defense. Monty banged through, was stopped momentarily, squirmed another yard, and went down with a quarter of a ton of the enemy on him. He had won the better part of three yards, and, as someone literally lifted him to his feet, he was inclined to be a trifle self-satisfied. But the self-satisfaction vanished when Coach Bonner called: “You missed a foot then, Crail, by holding the ball too low. When you’re stopped swing the ball up to your chest. It’s just as safe there. Every inch counts, Crail. Remember that next time.”

It was second down and seven to go, and Brunswick went back to punt. Monty slipped into his place at left half. “Over further,” directed Weston. “Watch that second team tackle, Crail.” Then came the signals, the ball sped past Monty, the lines heaved, and a big second team man charged down on him. In that instant Monty thought, “Why doesn’t he hurry? Isn’t he ever going to kick?” Then the second team man was on him, and Monty had his hands full. How it happened he couldn’t have told, but somehow that opponent swung him to the left, and went inside him, and someone collided with him as he staggered, and he went down, sprawling. And when he could look around the teams, save for three or four players, who, like he, had capsized, were jumbled furiously in quest of a trickling ball.

“That was up to you, Crail!” called Mr. Bonner. “You let that man inside you. Keep them out if you can’t stop them! You’ll have to do better than that.”

The big second team fellow who had outmanœuvered him grinned at Monty as the latter came up. There was nothing unkind in the grin, however, nor in the comment that accompanied it. “You’ll learn, Crail,” said the second team tackle.

Monty set his lips firmly, and trotted subduedly back to position. Tray had captured the ball for the first, and it was first down back near the twenty-five-yard line. Brunswick got a couple of yards off left tackle, and Ordway added two more around right end. Then Brunswick again went back. This time the big tackle was stopped in the line, and the kick was not blocked. Second worked the ends for small gains, and sent a forward pass obliquely across the field. It was not caught, however. Then she punted, and Weston came back with the ball to the first’s twenty-seven. Again Monty was called on, and again he struck the line for three yards. Ordway got clean away past left tackle for twelve. Monty slid off the same tackle for four, and was so thoroughly jarred when he was downed that he had to have time called for him. Brunswick made it first down a moment later, with Monty interfering, and the ball was past the middle of the field. Offside put the first back, however, and Ordway’s attempt to knife through was stopped. Brunswick took the ball on a wide end run for no gain. Brunswick went back, but the pigskin was thrown to Ordway, and that fleet-footed youth made eight around the left of the line. Monty got the signals mixed that time and started the wrong way, and Weston was on him savagely.

“What was wrong with you, you idiot?” he demanded. “If you don’t get the signal, sing out.”

Brunswick faked a kick and threw forward to Tray, and the latter was forced over the side line. But the tape gave the first team its distance. Weston got two straight ahead through center, and Monty tried the right end and banged squarely into the arms of an opposing tackle for a yard loss. Brunswick punted to the second’s five yards, and Tray threw the catcher on the ten. Second was put back half the distance to goal for holding on the next play, and then punted to her thirty-two. Monty had the ineffable pleasure of diving into the big second team tackle as he romped down the field, and sending him sprawling over the ground. The tackle only grinned as he picked himself up. Monty experienced a fine glow of satisfaction. The quarter ended with the ball on the second’s twenty-eight in possession of the first team.