The play that won

by Ralph Henry Barbour

“Morely! Get in there! Hurry up!” he called.

Ted squirmed from his sweater and raced. Panting, he slipped between Breadwell and Moore under the cross-bar and waited. A hand waved downward, the ball flew toward them, there was a moment of suspense and a roar of relief arose from the Staunton stand. Fairfield had failed at the goal. Six points to nothing was the score, and virtually half the game remained to be played.

Larry Logan shot a dubious look at Ted as the latter fell into place beside Moore when Fairfield had the ball again on her own thirty-four yards. But he managed a cheerful: “All right, Ted! Let’s see what you can do! Hard, now!”

But it was Fairfield’s policy to slow up now, and she halted in her signals and wasted all the time she could without risking a penalty. Staunton held gamely and then spoiled a forward pass and took the ball on downs. The wide-open attack was still working, for Fairfield’s men were a bit heavier and a bit slower and Logan was getting a lot of jump into his plays. Ted got his chance and crashed through for a scant three yards, got it again and was downed almost in his tracks by an unguarded end. Then Moore slipped around right tackle and ran twelve yards before he was forced over the side line. Staunton got to the enemy’s twenty-three before she was held, and then Farnsworth tried a place kick and missed the goal by five yards.

And so it went, Fairfield sparring for time, Staunton forcing the playing, smashing desperately, running hard, aching to score. Changes were made. Morris went out at center and young Joyce took his place. Greenough came in for Breadwell. With three minutes of the quarter left the ball was Staunton’s in mid-field. Loring had wasted a down on a weird trick play that had lost four yards and now Farnsworth was called on. It was the old fake kick and wide run, but it worked, just as it so often does, and the big full-back galloped over three white streaks before they stopped him. Then, with the line-up close to the side of the field, Logan called on Ted. Moore crossed over in front of him, Farnsworth ran with him. Larry hid the ball a moment and then, as Ted rushed past, thumped it against his stomach. The Fairfield line was wide open in the middle and Ted went through like a shot. After that he had to spin and feint and dodge, but he kept going forward, kept wresting himself from clutching hands, kept passing the lines underfoot. The goal came closer and closer and for a wonderful moment he thought he was going to make it. But the Fairfield quarter spoiled that. He refused to believe in Ted’s move toward the side line and got him firmly about the knees and wouldn’t be kicked loose. And then, when Ted toppled to earth, clutching the ball frenziedly, a pursuing end crashed down upon him and a million stars blazed before Ted’s astonished eyes and he fainted.

When he came around, barely a half-minute later, they were pumping his arms and he had to gasp with the pain of it. Then came Tinker and the water pail and the big, dripping, smelly sponge, and Tinker’s anxious: “Where’d they get you, boy?”

Ted did a lot of thinking in something under a second. Too often already this season had he had to be led off the field. He dared “Tink’s” searching eyes and gasped: “Nowhere ... Tink. I’m ... all right!”

“You’re not! Don’t be telling lies.” Tinker’s crafty fingers went exploring. Up one leg, down another, over the boy’s chest—Ted never flinched. He smiled railingly.

“Let me up, you ninny,” he expostulated. “I’m all right. That fellow knocked the breath out of me, that’s all.”