The Purple Pennant

by Ralph Henry Barbour

“Just a minute, you fellows,” he said. “Now, look here. You, Hull, and you, Soper, have got your holes placed wrong. Your front hole, Hull, is too far from the mark for you. You’re losing distance every time. Put that front hole so that your instep will come opposite your right knee when you’re down, and dig your hole deeper, man; that scratch in the ground doesn’t give you any purchase. That’s the ticket, dig it out. Now then, try that. Better? Hold on, though; you’re straddled too much. The idea is that when you get away your rear foot will travel straight forward. Your back hole is too far to the right. Put it about here and see how it goes. That’s the trouble with you, too, Soper. Your back hole is too far back and too wide of the line through your body.”

The two boys followed instructions and presently tried another start. When they had run through their dozen or fifteen yards and walked back, Lanny began again.

“As near as I can tell, fellows,” he said, “neither of you really understand why you’re doing this. You appear to have the idea that when you start off you have to throw your body forward. The result is that you both go off with a jump and you don’t get your stride until you’re eight or ten yards away. Watch me a minute, please. You fellows, too; you’re none of you getting off well. Now, then, fingers back of the mark, spread enough to carry your weight easily, but not tense; there ought to be a little spring to them as they lift. Now in setting your weight goes forward on your fingers and the ball of your left foot. Don’t try to put your body over the line; only the head and shoulders. Now, when the pistol goes off, don’t give a jump as though you were going to play leap-frog all the way down to the tape. Let yourself fall forward naturally, as you’re bound to when you lift your hands, and then run. That’s the whole idea of that start. You’re falling forward and you run to keep from going on your face. Bring your rear foot forward on a straight line, raise your body slowly—don’t jerk your shoulders up—and get your stride in the first three or four steps at the most. Don’t try for long steps. Take short ones, at least at first until you learn to lengthen them without throwing yourself off. When you’re running the hundred yards, fellows, about fifty per cent. of it depends on the way you get off your mark. Races are won or lost right there. The idea is to get away quick, but get your stride at once. Now, then, watch me and see how I do it.”

That, thought Perry, as his gaze followed Lanny’s bare legs twinkling down the path, simplified the business. No one had told him that it was the falling forward of his body that gave him speed in getting away from the mark. He had been, in fact, struggling against that very thing, trying to recover his equilibrium at the earliest possible moment and, in that effort, making his second step a kind of leap in the air and wrenching his head and shoulders backward with an awkward and often painful motion. The result had been that for at least a half-dozen strides he had been “running up and down.” Having once grasped the “why and where for,” Perry found that the crouching start was the simplest thing in the world! Not that he mastered it that afternoon or for many succeeding afternoons, but each time it came easier and eventually he found that he could reach his stride within three or four steps of the mark and at twenty yards be running at top speed.

That afternoon’s work-out ended with a “hustle” over the two-twenty, and when, slowing up from that, Perry turned to seek Skeet and report, he caught a glimpse of Fudge, far down the field, hopping ludicrously on one foot with a shot poised in upstretched hand. Perry smiled sympathetically as the shot sped away for a scant thirty feet. Fudge, he feared, was not making a howling success of his athletic endeavors. There was a rumor of an impending cut in the squad and Perry wondered whether he and Fudge would survive it. He almost dared to think that he would, for, excepting Lanny and Kirke and, possibly, Soper, his work was as good as any so far. As for Fudge, however, he knew that Falkland, Partridge and Brimmer were all from six to eight feet better with the shot, and he doubted that Skeet would retain more than three fellows for the weight events. Having been released by the coach, with instructions to report a quarter of an hour earlier on the morrow, Perry sought the dressing-room, waited his turn at the shower, and finally dressed and went in search of Fudge. The shot-putters were not in sight, though, and, hesitating whether to remain and watch baseball practice or continue his search for his chum, he at last left the field and made his way back along Common Street to where, in the vacant block behind the field, the weight candidates were practicing with the hammer.

Partridge was in charge, and the squad consisted of Fudge, George Falkland and Thad Brimmer, while four or five spectators looked on from a safe distance behind the ring. Perry joined these and watched Harry Partridge whirl the twelve-pound weight and send it sailing far across the turf. None of them was making any great effort for distance, however, the matter of form still being the consideration. Fudge followed Partridge, and Perry, who had never yet seen his friend essay the hammer-throw, was prepared to resent the snickers or amused comments of the watchers beside him. But Fudge proved something of a revelation. Awkward with the shot he undoubtedly was, and it was much of a question whether he would ever learn to handle that object successfully, but when it came to throwing the hammer Fudge was another fellow. His sturdy body turned with the swinging weight, his arms outstretched, his feet twinkling marvelously above the trampled ground. Then he stopped quickly, the whirling hammer dipped, rose and, released, arched off like a shot from a mortar, and Fudge, recovering, pulled up with a foot against the wooden rim.

“Bully!” commended Partridge warmly. “That was all right, Fudge! And you see what I mean about not pulling back on the release, don’t you? That was mighty good form! Mighty good! Get your sweater on and keep moving. All right, George. Now see if you handle your feet better.”

Perhaps Falkland was so busy trying to manage his feet correctly that he forgot the flying weight. At all events, at the completion of the second turn the ball of the hammer struck the ground, plowed up a foot of the soft turf and sent Falkland head over heels before he could let go the handle! Fortunately, he picked himself up unhurt, and the laughter of the audience brought only a sheepish grin to his face. While he regained his breath Thad Brimmer took his turn. After that Falkland again tried and got the weight away without misadventure, although not to the satisfaction of Partridge. Fudge threw again and, while the result was not as good as that of his former performance, did very well. Partridge explained again, and again threw, and the practice was over.

“That was a peach of a throw, Fudge,” commended Perry, as he ranged himself beside his friend. “I didn’t know you could do it like that!”

“It isn’t hard,” replied Fudge carelessly, “if you know how.” But he managed to convey by his tone that it was hard and that a great deal of credit was deserved by one William Shaw. “I guess the time before the last I must have made a hundred and fifty feet easy!”