Hitting the line

by Ralph Henry Barbour

Brunswick pushed and heaved past guard on the left for three yards.

“That’s the stuff, First!” encouraged Blake. “Once more now in the same place! You can do it! They’re groggy! They can’t stop you now! Signals! Kick formation!”

Brunswick fell back and Monty slid into his place. “Watch this!” shouted the opposing captain. “Watch for a fake! Block hard, Second!”

Brunswick dropped his outstretched arms, swung his leg. Hanser plunged straight ahead into the line. Monty heard his “Ugh!” as he banged into a second team player. Then he was grabbing the ball from Blake, who had crouched to hide it, and was ripping through the left of the second’s line, spinning as he went in his effort to straighten out for the distant goal. Arms clutched at him, he tripped over a fallen player as he emerged from the broken line. There was no time to select a course now. The secondary defence was all about him. He could only go as hard as he knew how, putting every ounce of weight and strength into each plunging stride. He shook himself free of one tackler by his very impetus and the effort sent him staggering fairly into the arms of another. But just as he expected to feel the clutch of desperate arms around his legs he saw the enemy crumple. Brunswick stumbled past in front of him. Then he was free for the moment.

Recalling that other run, when he had fled from one of his own side, he saw now that there had been nothing ridiculous in it after all. He might do the same thing now for all he could tell, for there was no time to look back. He knew that feet were pounding along behind him, although he couldn’t have said that he heard them. When one’s mind is very busy planning how to escape trouble ahead the faculties refuse to interest themselves in what is going on behind. Monty was wondering what would happen when he reached that determined looking quarterback ahead. Should he try to sidestep or should he try to dodge or should he go at him full-tilt, trusting to beat him down by weight and speed? Whichever it was to be, it must be done soon, for already the quarter was treading warily toward him, his hands unconsciously clutching emptily in anticipation of closing around the runner’s legs. Monty couldn’t remember having ever encountered a fellow whose whole appearance was more distasteful to him! He hated him with a big and burning hatred! And hating him so intensely, he found new determination to outwit him.

The last line was surprisingly near. There were the padded goal posts just ahead. To be stopped now would be criminal. He pressed the ball more tightly to his thumping ribs and stretched his right hand before him. But that beast of a quarterback meant to tackle from the left. Well, then he must shift the ball. But that is no easy matter when you are running as hard as you know how, and Monty funked it for an instant. Then time was almost up, the quarter was nearly on him. Desperately he groped for the pigskin and slid it quickly across and into the hollow of his right elbow. It slowed his stride, but only for the instant. Then he was staring into the hated, anxious eyes of the enemy. And then came the tackle.

Monty tried to meet the quarter with his left hand as the former dived for his legs. But the quarter got under the straight-arm and Monty felt the sudden shock as the enemy’s body hurled itself into his path. He swerved to the right, dug one heel hard into the turf and pivoted on it. An arm was across him, clutching, but the body was out of his path. The fingers closed on his knee padding, held, slipped, held again. Monty stumbled, turned around, wrenched loose, went falling backward. The quarter was on the turf, a queer huddle of khaki and scarlet. Monty seemed to go on staggering for minutes before he finally fell. The earth rose and knocked the breath from him and he wanted to lie there and, in his own quickly uttered phrase, “call it a day,” but he found his legs soaring above him as he turned completely over and then he was on one elbow and one knee again and it was as easy to get up as to stay there! And so he pushed the turf away from him with his free hand and found his feet under him once more and went staggering ahead across the remaining five white lines. As he saw the third disappear beneath him he became sensible of renewed danger. Footsteps raced beside him. He looked over his shoulder anxiously into the detestable face of the quarterback. He tried to hurry and couldn’t, tried to swerve away from the enemy. Then arms were locked tightly about his thighs, slipped to his knees and closed there like a vise. Monty clung to the ball and shuffled, even managed two short strides. Then it was all up. A trampled, yellow-white streak shot up into his face, he had just sense enough to fend it off with his hand and elbow and there was a crash.

This time, though, Monty had not run the breath from his body, and after the first short instant of shock he began to work himself onward, pulling the clutching quarter with him, inch by inch toward that last white line somewhere ahead. He heard the enemy panting incoherent words of remonstrance, but he paid no heed. It seemed to him that his one remaining duty in life was to somehow pull himself on and on until he came to the goal line. He was still squirming, digging the point of a sore elbow into the turf, when voices reached him.

“Get up, Stanley! They made it. Good work, son.” Someone seized Monty’s arm and pulled him to his knees. Still clutching the ball, he looked up at Nick Blake.

“He got me!” he gasped.