“I stopped him,” protested Russell.
“Sure, you stopped him! But, man alive, don’t you know that he was carrying the ball? Don’t you know that a smashing hard tackle will sometimes make the runner drop the ball? I’ve seen a college game won by the team that tackled the hardest. Sooner or later a runner will get a jar that’ll send the ball out of his arms. It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen, and it’s worth counting on, Emerson, for games have been won before now because of a fumbled ball.”
“But I don’t want to kill any one!”
“Don’t worry about that. Players don’t get hurt by hard tackling, beyond a bruise or two. It’s because we count on hard tackles and stiff blows that we train for the game as we do. No fellow who learns to take a fall the right way gets anything broken. Emerson, you can’t play football and consider the other fellow’s feelings. Now, as I’ve said, I’ve watched you, and I like your style, but, by gumbo, son, you’re not doing yourself justice! And you’re not playing fair by me! You’ve heard me tell the team over and over that when the game starts those other chaps aren’t friends of ours, they’re the enemy. And the enemy is something to lick! I don’t care if the man playing opposite you shares your room here, Emerson. When you’re playing against him he’s just as much your foe as if he wore the red K on his sweater! Funny I can’t drill that into you chaps. I’ve tried hard enough!”
“Seems to me,” said Russell, “that’s carrying it pretty far.”
“No, it isn’t. You think a minute. What are we in business for? To give practice to the first team, eh? Sure! All right. Now suppose we’re a poor lot. What’s the result? First gets feeble opposition. She walks through us, holds us for downs, fools us on plays, out-punts us. She gets the notion that she’s pretty good and is right pleased and cocky. Then she runs up against a real team and gets knocked into a cocked hat. What good’s that?”
“I know all that,” acknowledged Russell, “but we aren’t that bad, Gaston.”
“Of course not, but don’t you see the point? We’re here to do our honest, level best, Emerson, to fight hard every minute, to show the first that she’s just a bunch of mutts, to knock her down and rub her face in the mud and teach her to fight, fight! That’s our part in licking Kenly next month. That’s our share of the big moment. The better we are, the better the first will be.”
Russell sighed. “Maybe that’s all true, Gaston, but it doesn’t seem to me that we have to play like muckers to do our share.”
“Muckers! Gosh, no! But there’s nothing muckerish in playing hard. Hard playing isn’t dirty playing, Emerson. I’ll chuck any fellow on the second who plays dirty, and do it before the umpire can open his mouth. But I want my men to give me everything they’ve got, Emerson. When they give it to me they’re giving it to the School. Next month you’ll sit and watch the big team wallop Kenly, and you’ll say to yourself: ‘Some team that, some team! And I helped build it! I blamed near wore myself out, and maybe I won’t get the last bandage off before Christmas, but it was worth it! That’s my team that’s winning, and I taught it how!’ Well, I must be going. There’s a conference at Johnny’s in ten minutes. Think over what I’ve said, Emerson. Good night.”