Candidates for the football team had been called for, and, as Andy had made good at Milton, he decided to try for at least a place on the freshman team.
So then, one crisp afternoon, in company with other candidates, all rather in fear and trembling, he hopped aboard a trolley to go out to Yale Field.
Dunk was with him, as were also Bob, Ted, and Thad, who likewise had hopes. There was talk and laughter, and admiring and envying glances were cast at the big men—those who had played on the varsity team last year. They were like the lords of creation.
The car stopped near the towering grandstands that hemmed in the gridiron, and Andy swarmed with the others into the dressing rooms.
“Lively now!” snapped Holwell, one of the coaches. “Get out on the field, you fellows, and try tackling the dummy.”
A grotesque figure hung from a cross beam, and against this the candidates hurled themselves, endeavoring to clasp the elusive knees in a hard tackle. There were many failures, some of the lads missing the figure entirely and sliding along on their faces. Andy did fairly well, but if he looked for words of praise he was disappointed.
This practice went on for several days, and then came other gridiron work, falling on the ball, punting and drop kicking. Andy was no star, but he managed to stand out among the others, and there was no lack of material that year.
Then came scrimmage practice, the tentative varsity eleven lining up against the scrub. With all his heart Andy longed to get into this, but for days he sat on the bench and watched others being called before him. But he did not neglect practice on this account.
Then, one joyful afternoon he heard his name called by the coach.
“Get in there at right half and see what you can go,” was snapped at him. “Don’t fuddle the signals—smash through—follow the interference, and keep your eyes on the ball. Blake, give him the signals.”