“How do you mean, Loring?” Clif asked.
“I mean that if I were a football coach I wouldn’t ask my quarterback to carry the ball much. Football’s a lot like war, Clif. The coach is the commander-in-chief who lays out the plan of the battle. The quarterback is the general who carries out his orders. But the coach can’t plan in detail because there’s no way to know beforehand what situations will arise. That’s where the quarter is called on for generalship. There’s no chance to confer with the coach. He’s got to size up each situation as it arrives and decide what to do. It’s up to him to move his forces so as to win. I’ve never played quarterback, but I think I know pretty well what a quarter’s up against. He’s got to consider a lot of things, such as the situation of the ball in regard to the goals and the side lines, the number of the down, the distance to be gained, the strength and weakness of the enemy, the ability and condition of his backs, a dozen more things. And he’s got to reach a decision in mighty short time usually. Well, now I think all that’s quite enough to saddle one fellow with when his side is on the offensive. He’s got enough to do without being called on to carry the ball, and if he was my quarter he wouldn’t be asked to get into the interference too often. If he could run the team I wouldn’t care whether he ever gained a foot of ground himself. Just knowing what plays to call and calling them correctly and keeping his team fighting every minute—why, I’d forgive him even if he wasn’t a wonder on defense. He could fumble a punt now and then and I’d still call him a corking quarter!”
“Yes, that’s so,” said Tom. “Still, lots of fellows can run the team and carry the ball, too. Some of the finest quarterbacks have been all-around men.”
“I know, but they aren’t so numerous, Tom. The average fellow, especially if he is prep school age, can’t do a lot of things at once and do them all well. Any quarter, I don’t care who he is, will be of more value to his team if he just has to run it and isn’t expected to carry the ball himself.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Tom doubtfully. “If he’s a cracker-jack runner and hard to stop—”
“Make him a halfback then and find another quarter,” said Loring.
“Yes, but he might have ability to run the team, too,” objected Tom. “No, I don’t believe I agree with you, Loring. I’ve seen some mighty good quarters who could do both things.”
“I’m not saying there haven’t been some or won’t be more,” replied Loring pleasantly. “But they’re the exceptions. A fellow only has one brain and it will hold only so much. When he tries to get too much into it he crowds it. If he has too much on his mind he’s bound to trip up now and then, and now and then is far too often. To-day Stoddard wouldn’t have made three or four glaring mistakes in judgment if he’d had only the running of the team to think about. I’ve never played the game, Tom, but you can’t make me believe that a fellow, the average fellow, anyhow, can take the ball, run thirty yards with it, dodging three or four tacklers, be thrown hard and sat on and then get up with a clear head and know almost instantly what the next play ought to be!”
“He surely can’t,” agreed Clif. “I think you’re dead right, Loring.”
“Heck, might as well let the quarter sit on the bench alongside the coach, then,” grumbled Tom. “Nothing to do but call his signals!”