“We’ll have the first scrimmage with the other gang about Friday. That gives us four days to get ready. I’d suggest that before the Freeburg game you elect a captain. But don’t do it just yet. Wait until you’ve played together awhile. Until you choose a leader for yourself you’ll need some one in authority, though, and so I’ll appoint Henning temporary captain.”
“Cheer for Captain Clem!” laughed some one.
Clement Henning grinned sheepishly. He was a big First Class fellow who had played guard for two years on scrub teams. He was steady, hard working, good-natured and slow. Last season, for a brief and glorious fortnight, he had been transferred to the big team, but he couldn’t hold down his job there, and had returned, untroubled, it appeared, to the Scrub. Clem could play football to a certain point, but he never could get beyond that point. It is probable that all the coaches in the country, working together on him in relays, would have failed to make Clem play any better than he had played last year or would play this. But if he lacked football genius he was long on popularity. Every one knew Clem Henning and every one liked him.
The cheer wasn’t given, but the selection met with sounds of approval from all. “Cocky” went on, briskly now:
“We’re going to start right at the very bottom, fellows. No one who can’t make a good tackle or handle the ball properly is good enough for this outfit. We’ll have some passing now to warm up, and as soon as the First is through with the dummy we’ll go down there, and eat some dirt. We’ll divide the squad, Captain Henning, and you’ll take half and I’ll take half. All right, let’s have those balls, Hoppin. Over here, a bunch of you. Now then, Scrub, let’s get going!”
CHAPTER VIII
MR. BINGHAM PAYS A VISIT
That first feeling of exaltation didn’t last long, but it had served its purpose. The Wyndham Scrub members had shared it together and, since the experience of a common emotion creates a bond, had become imbued with a solidarity that was to prove the foundation of greater unity and cohesion. Which was all that Mr. Babcock had expected.
On Tuesday the Scrub had its first line-up and ran through a few formations. Adams was at left end, Ames at left tackle, Greene at left guard, Ridgway at center, Henning at right guard, Coles at right tackle, Bingham at right end, Jackson at quarter, Kemble at left half, Stiles at right half and Thayer at fullback. But as “Cocky” explicitly stated that no one could be sure of his position until he had definitely earned it, and as none save Henning and “Wink” Coles kept his place throughout the whole half-hour, neither Clif nor Tom indulged in self-congratulation. Clif had Patch and Gosman to fight for the right end position, and Tom was always aware that Gillespie and Heard were following close behind, awaiting their turns. Mr. Babcock made them work hard, but they had plenty of enthusiasm and liked working. Now and then a word, or perhaps a brief halt while the coach stared silently toward the First Team players, kept the incentive in mind. They were there to mold themselves into a first-class fighting unit so that they might meet the friendly enemy on fairly even terms, and so serve as the whetstone against which the latter was to be shaped and edged into a conquering weapon. But—and they dwelt relishingly on this—if the whetstone sometimes proved too hard for the steel, why, so much the better for every one! In other words, duty demanded that they prove themselves a worthy foe, and inclination kept a full jump ahead of duty! There were no personal grudges being nursed: no player on the Scrub had a bone to pick with any member of the other team; but there was, nevertheless, the conviction, shared by all, that the wisdom of the Head Coach’s selections had yet to be proved, and it was up to them to show that proof didn’t exist! In such a spirit, then, the Wyndham Scrub Team—or “Mr. Babcock’s Team,” as the Lantern called it—started forth.
The first meeting of the Scrub and the First took place in a drizzle of rain and, partly for that reason, but more especially because Mr. Otis’s charges had a game the next day, the encounter was slow and tame. There were two scrimmages of some ten minutes each, the first with the first-string line-up, and the second with the substitutes. Play was continually stopped by the Head Coach for criticism and instruction, the ball was brought back half a dozen times because something had not gone just right, and, finally, when the pigskin had been slapped down on the soggy ground close to the Scrub’s fifteen-yard line by Captain Lothrop after a savage romp through the enemy’s left wing, “G.G.” ordered a dropkick, and Houston, playing quarter, mishandled the wet ball so that it banged into the crowd, and was chased to the side-line and downed by Clif. It was only in the second period, however, when faced by the First Team substitutes that the Scrub could show any offense. Then, with fewer interruptions, the Second’s backs got to working and made the most of the opponents’ right side, slamming through a dozen times before they were finally stopped. But the First Team’s twelve yards was the nearest the Scrubs could approach to the goal, and from there, when two tries had been smeared, Sim Jackson booted for a miss. A few minutes later a First Team substitute, and a third-string man at that, scooped up a trickling ball and galloped for some forty yards to the Scrub’s goal-line, making the only score of the day, and registering the Scrub’s first defeat. On the whole, Mr. Babcock’s warriors didn’t cover themselves with glory during their première. The coach, patiently and cheerfully explaining their shortcomings afterwards, was, it seemed, far less depressed than the players.