Right End Emerson

by Ralph Henry Barbour

“You take right end, Emerson,” ordered Coach Gaston. “Look out for Harmon on forward passes, boy. All right, Second! Go to it! You fellows who aren’t playing, keep your blankets on. You’ll be wanted before this ruckus is through.”

The second lined up across the field for the kick-off, a whistle shrilled and big Jim Newton, center, lifted the ball well toward the first team’s goal. Russell, following down under the kick, scanning warily the hastily forming enemy interference, told himself that it was good to feel the sod underfoot again, to hear the soft rasp of canvas and creak of leather. Then he was swinging on a heel to dash across the field toward where Moncks, the pigskin clutched tightly, was coming along behind his interference. It was not Russell who stopped Moncks, but Captain Falls. The best Russell could do was topple Richards, in doing which he got a fine rap on the side of his head that, partly broken by the edge of his helmet, was yet hard enough to make his senses swim for a moment. When he got unsteadily to his feet again the teams were lining up near the thirty-five-yard line. Behind each team was its coach, and their voices were already to be heard. Russell, skirting the first team line to his position, saw that Captain Proctor was at his place again. Then Ned Richards yelped the signal, the lines swayed, met, there were gasps and grunts, an angry, stifled exclamation from Wells, the scrub’s right tackle, a hoarse bellow from Falls, and Harmon was crashing out of the welter of brown canvas bodies. Russell, playing out and back, sprang in, eluded the savage spring of an interferer and got his man, aided by Reilly, a half. But Harmon was hard to stop, and both tacklers gave ground for another yard ere the runner was down. Russell, blocking with one knee Harmon’s attempt to thrust the ball forward, muttered: “No, you don’t!” Then the whistle piped just as reënforcements plunged down on the group. Harmon had made four yards outside Wells, and Wells was mad. He muttered aloud as he crouched with swaying arms at the end of the line, and Russell caught his threatening, taunting words.

“Come on! Try that again, you big stiff! I’ll put that long nose of yours on the blink for keeps! Send it this way, Ned! Come on, you Sore-Heads! Oh, you would, eh?”

This latter remark was to Mart Proctor, who had feinted inside Wells as the ball was snapped. There was an ecstatic moment for Wells, and then Mart deposited him neatly against his guard and tore outside him. Russell, already crossing behind the backs, left the invader to Reilly and met the play which was coming through left tackle. It was Greenwood this time, and the full-back added another three yards to the total. On the next attempt there was a fumble by Moncks, recovered by Richards for a yard loss. Then first team punted, Richards dropping the ball in Goodwin’s arms on the scrub’s twenty-yard line and the left half reeling off seven strides before he was downed by Crocker.

Carpenter, the scrub quarter, made two on a wide run and then Reilly, red-headed and hard-fighting, squirmed through Rowlandson for three more. But that ended the advance and Kendall punted well into enemy territory. First gained three on a criss-cross, Harmon carrying, and then Richards passed diagonally across the line to McLeod, and the latter, catching the heave unchallenged, went half-way to second’s goal before Carpenter stopped him. Play was held up while first team and second team coaches criticized and instructed, and while Russell, his last breath about gone, sat on the ground and longed for the horn to sound the end of the period. Then he was up again, almost on his fifteen-yard line, set for a forward pass that didn’t materialize. Harmon carried past Wells once more and fought and squirmed to the scrub’s twenty-one. Falls went down the crouching line and slapped perspiring backs and implored his men to hold, and Gaston, deep-voiced, shouted to Goodwin to close in and watch that guard! Then came the play again, and, over the heads of his plunging team-mates, Russell saw Richards, ball in hand, trotting back and back, saw Harmon sneaking fast across the turf to the left, saw Squibbs dash headlong at Richards, saw the latter side-step, calmly, smilingly, and saw the right arm go back for the long throw. All about him were warning voices as he forced his tired legs and tuckered lungs to new exertion.

“Pass! Watch that man! Stop that throw!”

Russell, running, glanced back. Overhead was the ball, a dozen yards ahead was Harmon, walking sidewise, hands ready. Behind Russell streamed the field, coming fast but too late to get into the play. Carpenter was closing up the gap between his position and the side line. Russell called on his flagging strength for one last supreme effort. Harmon had stopped, was facing the descending ball, had raised his arms. Russell was still a good six yards distant and he knew that Harmon would be off before he could reach him. There was but one chance and he took it. Throwing his arms high, he leaped into the air, hoping against hope. But fortune was with him. The flying pigskin grazed his left hand. The touch of it was so light that Russell scarcely felt it, but it served to deflect the ball. Harmon swayed to the right, the ball spurned his eager grasp and went trickling, bouncing across the turf toward the side line. Russell paid no further attention to it. He eased himself gently to the ground and turned onto his back. A minute later Lawrence pulled him to his feet and put a strong arm under his shoulders.

“Good work, Emerson,” he panted. “Better step out. Gaston’s looking. All right now?”