“There was no hole at guard, sir. That man was in the way, and so——”
“I don’t care who was in your way, Tyson! The signal told you to carry that ball through guard. If the hole wasn’t there for you that’s none of your business. That’s up to the linemen. You go where you’re supposed to. Now, then, whose place was it to open up that hole? Yours, Doyle? All right, then it’s up to you. Now try it again. And don’t try to push them back; get down and lift ’em up!”
The play was tried again, and this time a second squad back plunged through and upset the runner in the line. The coach jumped into the mêlée.
“Who got through then? Watson? That’s the way to do it, Watson!” He thumped the second squad man on the back. “That was dandy! You keep on playing like that and I’ll have you over on this side, by jingo! Now, then, you first team, what have you got to say? Who let that man through? That was you, Pounder. Look at him! Weighs half what you do! Now you fellows quit this half hearted playing and get down and work! I want to see that play go and go right! Same signals, Quarter! And make it good!”
“A formation! 34—45—87! Hep!”
Back came the ball to Stacey, away plunged the fullback, the pigskin went to Tyson at a hand pass and, following in the wake of the big fullback, the right half tore through for three full yards, in spite of the fact that the second knew where the attack was coming and had concentrated its secondary defence there. The players scrambled or were pulled to their feet, panting, and Mr. Cotting voiced approval.
“That’s better, fellows! Put some punch into it! All right now! Fourth down and six to go!”
Then, with Gordon back and his arms outstretched for the ball for all the world as though he meant to dropkick it over the crossbars, now only twenty odd yards away, the pigskin went to Tyson again, and that youth skirted the second team’s right end and, with the coach crying “Cut! Cut!” finally found his opening and cut for a good twelve yards and a first down.
And so it went for thirty minutes or so of the hardest sort of work, with no let-ups. When a player showed signs of exhaustion he was sent off and a substitute summoned on from the waiting line at the edge of the field. There was no loafing that afternoon. And all the time the coach’s sharp voice barked criticism or censure or, less frequently, commendation. “Clean up that line, Second! Get under ’em! Put ’em back!” ... “Ball! Ball! Bring it back five yards here, First. Don’t let me catch you doing that again, Watson! All right. Third down and five to go!... Rotten! Rotten, Second! Look where your guards were playing. Spread out your line! Try that again!” ... “Signals! What are you giving ’em, Trowbridge? What? On their twenty yard line? Use your brain, man!... Fuller! Fuller! Come in here and play left tackle! Show these fellows how to hold that side of your line!... Low, low! Play low, Second! That’s better!... Wynant, where were you then? Fall asleep, did you? Start with the ball, man! You were all out of the play!”