The Half-Back: A Story of School, Football, and Golf

by Ralph Henry Barbour

"Some one wants to see you at the door, March," called the trainer, and Joel found Outfield West, smiling and happy, waiting there.

"How are you?" he whispered. "All right? How are the rest? Great Gobble, Joel, but these Yates Johnnies are so sure of winning that they can't keep still! There's a rumor here in the lobby that Yates's center is sick. Know anything about it?" Joel shook his head. "Well, I'll see you out at the field. We're going out now; Cooke, and Caldwell, and some of the others. So long, my valiant lad. Keep a stiff upper lip and never say die, and all that, you know. Adios!"

There was a cheer below, and Blair, at the window, announced the arrival of the conveyances. Instantly the lethargy of a minute before was turned to excited bustle and confusion. Pads and nose-guards, jerseys and coats, balls and satchels were seized and laid aside and grabbed up again. Cries for missing apparel and paraphernalia were heard on every side, and only a loud, peremptory command to "Shut up!" from the head coach restored order and quietude. Then the door was thrown open and down the narrow stairs they trooped, through the crowded lobby where friends hemmed them about, patting the broad backs, shouting words of cheer into their ears, and delaying them in their passage.

Into the coaches they hurried, and as the crowd about the hotel burst into loud, ringing cheers, the whips were cracked and the journey to the field began. The route lay along quiet, unfrequented streets where only an occasional cheer from a college window met their advent. Restraint had worn off now, and the fellows were chatting fast and furiously. Joel looked out at the handsome homes and sunny street, and was aware only of a longing to be in the fray, an impatient desire to be doing. Briscom, the substitute centre, a youth of twenty-one summers and one hundred and ninety-eight pounds, sat beside him.

"I was here two years ago with the freshman team," he was saying. "We didn't do a thing to them, we youngsters, although the Varsity was licked badly. And all during the afternoon game we sat together and cheered, until at five o'clock I couldn't speak above a whisper. That was a great game, that freshman contest! It took three hours and a half to settle it. At the beginning of the second half there were only three men on our team who had played in the first. I was one of them. I was playing left guard. Story there was another. He gave up before the game was through, though. I held out and when the whistle sounded, down I went on the grass and didn't stir for ten minutes. We had two referees that day. The first chap got hurt in a rush, and it took us half an hour to find a fellow brave enough to take his place. That was a game. Football's tame nowadays."

Across the coach Rutland, the right guard, a big bronze-haired chap of one hundred and ninety-six, was deep in a discussion with "Judge" Chase, right end, on an obscure point of ruling.

"If you're making a fair catch and a player on the other side runs against you intentionally or otherwise, you're interfered with, and the rules give your side fifteen yards," declared Rutland.

"Not if the interference is accidental and doesn't hurt your catch," replied Chase. "If the other fellow is running and can't stop in time--"

"Shut up, you fellows," growled Captain Button. "You play the game, and the referee will look after the rules for you."

"If you go on," said Briscom, "you must be careful about holding. De Farge (the referee) is awfully down on holding and off-side plays. Last year he penalized us eight times during the game. But he's all right, just the same. He's the finest little ref that ever tossed a coin."