[CHAPTER XVIII]
NOT IN THE GAME
Sunday morning at school is always a time of reckoning. On Saturday events are likely to succeed each other too swiftly to give one time for reflection or realization, and when bedtime comes sleep arrives quickly to a tired body. But Sunday is different. There is that added half-hour of slumber, the later and more leisurely breakfast at which one eats a little more heartily than on weekday mornings, the following period of repletion and calm, and, subsequently, a long day interrupted by few duties. Under such circumstances even the least thoughtful are given to thought, even to introspection. Yesterday’s events, the events of the week, present themselves to the mind, pleasurably or otherwise, insisting on consideration. Even consciences have been known to stir on Sunday morning!
This particular day of reckoning brought one realization to each and every fellow at Alton, which was that the football situation was desperate. Some phrased it one way, some another, but that was what they meant. The team was variously described as “punk,” “shot full of holes” and “sunk without trace.” Certain morbid youths took to figuring the size of the score that Kenly Hall School would roll up against her helpless opponent. The figures ran all the way from 10 to 0 to 36 to 3. The youth accountable for the latter prediction explained that 3 by stating that even so implacable an enemy as Kenly would let Mart Proctor put over a field-goal under such circumstances, seeing that it was Mart’s last game and everything! But there were many who felt that the youth in question was unjustifiably optimistic.
How Coach Cade felt about the situation I don’t know. No one did know, probably, unless, possibly, it was Captain Mart. The coach never wore his heart on his sleeve, and his sharp dark eyes saw much more than they told. It was no secret that there was a conference in the coach’s room that Sunday night that lasted well after ten o’clock, but those who attended it gave out no news. Rumors, of course, were rife. Mart Proctor had resigned the captaincy after a falling-out with Johnny. Coach Cade had resigned after a row with Captain Proctor. They were going to scrap the first team, all but one or two fellows, and play the second against Oak Grove and Kenly. Hurry calls had been sent to all quarters of the East for assistant coaches. Ned Richards and Mart were at outs because the latter had taken the running of the team away from Ned in the last quarter yesterday. These were some of the wild rumors that circulated through the school on Sunday and Monday. There were others, but they were less sensational, and so less popular.
On Monday, however, things looked much as usual on the field. There were no cuts allowed, even those who had sustained injuries being out. The hospital list was also in evidence to a man; Neirsinger, with his neck swathed in bandages, Nichols with his left shoulder under leather, Harmon with a right ankle sporting much silk elastic, Smedley looking sad and pale after a ten-day bout with bronchitis; and one or two others. But they were all there, and while a few did no more than look on most of them performed at least some slight labor. There had been a short but earnest talk in the dressing room before practice and the members of the team had worn more serious countenances than usual when they had reached the field.
Contrary to the usual procedure, the second team was called across at half-past four and lined up against a first eleven consisting largely of second-string players. They looked easy to the scrubs, and the latter visioned another jolly massacre, but something went wrong with their vision. With Coach Cade and Captain Mart driving as mercilessly as in a mid-week scrimmage, that patched-up first eleven got together as no first eleven had for a fortnight and gave the scrubs the fight of their lives.
Russell had no difficulty that afternoon in following Coach Gaston’s injunction and forgetting that the opponents were Altonians. Butler, who played left tackle in Proctor’s place, erased all merciful tendencies from Russell’s mind shortly after the first clash when he sent a none too heavily padded elbow against the opposing end’s face, an all-encompassing attention that set his head ringing, almost jarred his teeth loose and, proceeding further, put his nose temporarily out of plumb. Of course, it was quite accidental. That is to say, Butler held no personal animosity toward Russell. He would have done the same no matter who had been playing scrub end. Perhaps Russell should have taken that into consideration and felt better about it. But there wasn’t much time for judicial consideration of anything, and so, occasionally removing the sanguine evidence with a sleeve, he forgot that Butler was a school-mate, a neighbor in Upton Hall, a brother member of the Debating Society and a good fellow generally, and, in football parlance, proceeded to “smear” him. So successful was he that Appel soon stopped sending plays at that end—greatly to Wells’ chagrin, a chagrin he didn’t hesitate to voice—and the two deadly opponents did more glaring than battling. That was a pretty struggle while it lasted, and it was watched enjoyably by non-combatants and approvingly by Coach Gaston. When the trouble began again after the first no-score period and a five-minute breathing spell it was Mart Proctor who occupied left tackle position on the first and Russell’s supremacy was at an end. Not that he allowed Mart to walk over him often, however. Russell played real football that Monday afternoon, and his deeds were respectfully spoken of afterwards. He and the passionate-spoken Wells formed on defense an outer guard that turned back most invasions.
Coach Cade whipped and spurred and the first fought as it hadn’t fought for two weeks and more. One by one the substitutes were withdrawn whenever possible and first-string men took their places, and there was a last whirlwind, breathless five minutes that took the ball half the length of the field and landed it under the scrub’s goal. There, spurning half-measures, Ned Richards, who had replaced Appel, sought to drive across. A field-goal would have been possible, easily possible from the eighteen-yard line, but a touchdown was still something that the first was incapable of against a team which, like the scrubs, had been fed for a fortnight on victory. Coach Cade stormed and thundered, Captain Mart shouted encouragement, Ned Richards scolded and goaded, and each time the second team gave back grudgingly, growlingly a scant yard or two yards. It was fourth down on the thirteen yards, with five to go, and Ned took matters into his own hands. A fake forward by Linthicum, standing well back of the line, the ball to Ned instead, a moment of delay and concealment, and then a lightning dash inside tackle on the right. It was Goodwin who stopped the runner barely on the eight yards. There was doubt about the distance and talk of measuring, but the second team captain pushed the hesitant official aside.