They said good-bye to Molly at the steps and then ambled back to West House, munching as they went.
[CHAPTER XVII]
CAL BUYS A SUIT
“House Eleven: Practice at 3:45 sharp today. No cuts. Brooks, Captain.”
“Sounds like business, what?” asked Spud of Cal as he read the notice in School Building Monday morning. “Say, I hope Brooksie won’t take it out on The Fungus for that beastly fumble. Wasn’t that the meanest luck ever? Between you and me, Cal, Fungus ought to have recovered that ball. He had lots of time. It looked like a case of stage-fright. I guess Fungus was so horrified at what he’d done he couldn’t move for a second. But he will make good all right if Brooksie doesn’t take him off today. But I don’t believe he will. Cap has got a whole lot of common-sense. I guess that’s one thing that makes him such a dandy captain.”
Spud was right in his surmise. The Fungus went back to his place at left half-back that afternoon just as though there hadn’t been any fumble. The only change made was in the substitution of Folsom for Boyle at full. It was the hardest practice of the season and lasted until it was almost too dark to see the ball with any certainty. Brooks was trying to make his machine run smoother. All the parts were there and they represented plenty of power, but so far the full power hadn’t materialized. A football team is like, we will say, an engine which is rated at twenty horse-power. If the engine runs smoothly it will develop its twenty, but if the parts aren’t assembled just right, if each one isn’t timed exactly with the others, there’s a loss of power and the twenty is perhaps no better than a fifteen. So it was with the House Team. Brooks, who had, as Spud said, a lot of common-sense—and a good deal of football sense added to it—realized that his team represented the best of the material at hand and that if it was to develop the power of which it was capable it must be perfectly adjusted. So that afternoon and every other afternoon that week the constant cry was “Get together!” The back-field was the chief offender. Play after play was pulled off—the team had a repertoire of fourteen at this stage—and always someone was too early or too late. Brooks argued and explained and pleaded and scolded. Ned gave way to H. Westlake at right half and Morris took M’Crae’s place at quarter, and still things went wrong. Hoop went into the line for Brooks so that the captain might coach from back of the team. A thing that exasperated Brooks was that over on the Hall gridiron the rival team was running through its signals with all the smoothness that the House eleven lacked. But Rome wasn’t built in a day and Brooks told himself that it was something accomplished if he had only made the fellows understand what was wanted. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day they would put his preaching into practice. It was a very tired group of players and substitutes that trailed back to the gymnasium at dusk. The Hall Team had long since disappeared and they had the gymnasium to themselves. Brooks, attired scantily in a generous bath towel, spoke a few words to his weary team-mates on his way to the shower.
“You fellows can play this game the way it ought to be played,” he said, “play it well enough to lick Hall. But you won’t until you can get it into your heads that a football team isn’t made up of eleven fellows each acting for himself but of eleven fellows acting like one. You know your plays but you don’t know how to use them. That’s what the trouble is. Hall hasn’t any better material than we have in spite of the fact that she has more fellows to draw from. But Hall gets together. The line and the ends and the backs work like so many different parts of a watch, and the result is nice smooth football. You fellows in the line are doing pretty well, but the backs aren’t helping you along. Now tomorrow I want to see this team take hold and run through its plays like clock-work. If it doesn’t there’s going to be another victory for Hall on Saturday. I’m doing all I can. Now it’s up to you fellows.”
Brooks disappeared into the bath and there was a sound of rushing water beyond the canvas curtain. That’s all the sound there was for a minute. Then Brad Miller whistled a tune softly and stole bathward and one after another the rest followed, as many as there was room for, while the balance waited, subdued and chastened.
On Tuesday practice was no less vigorous, but Brooks let them off after an hour and a quarter. There was some improvement noticeable. Cal got in at left tackle for a while and did very well; so well that Dutch, relegated to the substitutes, looked distinctly anxious. It was almost supper time when West House reached home. On the steps sat Molly, a red ribbon pinned to the front of her gown in honor of the Houses. Mrs. Linn had been talking to her from the doorway but hurried kitchenward when the boys appeared.