Hitting the line

The big game took place at Greenbank that year, and at a quarter to four two days later the first half of the contest came to an end with the score 7 to 6 in Mount Morris’s favor. Perhaps one who held the fortunes of neither team at heart would have voted that first half uninteresting and none too well played, but to the five hundred boys who cheered and sang and flaunted banners from opposite sides of the field the contest had been exciting from end to end, and if there had been some poor playing, at least it had been pretty equally shared by the contesting elevens. An amazing deal of fumbling and poor judgment had featured the first ten minutes, and both teams had been guilty. Stage-fright had affected everyone, it had seemed, and it was not until a misjudged punt had gone over Nick Blake’s head and been captured by a Mount Morris end on Grafton’s twelve yards and then been worked across the line for the first touchdown that either side pulled itself together. Mount Morris had converted the resulting six points into seven by a well-aimed kick. Against this handicap the Scarlet-and-Gray had fought unavailingly until within six minutes of the end of the second period. Then Fortune had, in turn, smiled on the visitors.

A long forward-pass by Mount Morris had been captured by Milford, playing at right end, and Milford had dodged and feinted his way past the whole green-and-white team and would have scored then and there had he not slipped on a none too dry turf and been pounced on by a pursuing enemy some eight yards from the last line. But that only stayed the touchdown for a few minutes, for Grafton had no idea of being stopped virtually on the threshold. Winslow and Ordway and then Monty had each sliced off his share of the remaining distance, and then Winslow, skirting left tackle, had gone rolling across the final mark. But the captain had made a mess of his goal-try and when, a minute or two later, the whistle had blown, Mount Morris had trotted off with one point to her advantage.

During half-time the spectators pulled their collars up around the necks and plunged chilled fingers into pockets and stamped numb feet, for the afternoon was gray and cold. Earlier, there had been one or two brief glimpses of the sun and a pale yellow radiance had promised warmth, but the promise had not been fulfilled. There was a light but chilling breeze from the northwest that stole searchingly up sleeves and down unprotected necks. Grafton and Mount Morris adherents sang their songs and cheered lustily while they awaited the reappearance of the teams and managed occasionally to forget their discomfort. But the time went slowly, as it always does when a close score has made the next half-hour of play so vitally important, and it seemed much more than a quarter of an hour before the blanketed teams reappeared and the cheer leaders dashed to the front of the stands and waved their arms. Then the last sustained “Grafton!” died away and the voice of the referee came distinctly from the field.

“Ready, Grafton? Ready, Mount Morris?”

Then came the whistle, a moment of waiting and the ball arched away from Pete Gowen’s boot.

Monty watched now from the bench, for they had given his place to Caner. Why this was so Monty couldn’t fathom. He was sensible of having conducted himself at least worthily. He didn’t have to accept his own judgment only as to that, for in the little bleak shed in which they had spent the intermission more than one fellow had told him as much; not in words, to be sure, but in approving thumps and looks that meant more than words. Monty had been roughly used in those first two quarters, for Mount Morris was out to win, and gentleness was no part of her method, but his injuries were not important and most of them were in plain sight in the shape of a swollen left eye and a two-inch cut on his chin, the latter chastely hidden by a strip of plaster. However, there was no use in whining. Caner had the job and Caner was doing it well. Monty strove to be philosophical and snuggled his hands into his sweater sleeves and hunched the red blanket more closely about him and watched every play with his heart almost in his mouth. When you have taken part in a game it is hard to be relegated to the rôle of looker-on. You see so many things happen that, you are firmly convinced, could not have happened had you been in there! As when Ordway, running the left end, was brought thumping to earth for a six-yard loss because the interference had straggled. Or as when Caner, trying a straight plunge from kick formation, which had fooled no one for an instant, had chosen the wrong hole and been brought up standing and pushed back and back!

Monty could only hope that Caner, without being badly hurt, would be put out of it before the game was over. Even then, however, he reflected morosely, it might be Fenton who would pull his head harness on and go loping into the line-up.

Mount Morris put a scare into the hearts of Graftonians in the third quarter by working the ball steadily up the field by end runs and tackle plays interspersed with three successful forward-passes as far as the visitor’s eighteen. There, though, Grafton met the succeeding onslaught heroically and, while retreating to her twelve yards, finally forced the enemy to try a place-kick. That Mount Morris did not by that means add another three points to her seven was only because her line did not hold. The ball started true enough, but someone’s canvas-clad chest got in its way and Nick Blake fell on the pigskin far back up the field and for the time danger was averted. A minute or two later Weston replaced Blake and Hanser went in for Ordway. The result of Weston’s substitution was at once apparent, for Grafton started to kick in the endeavor to reach a point from which Winslow might lift a field-goal over the bar and so forge ahead. And Grafton gained slightly on each exchange, for Mount Morris accepted the challenge and punted back regularly on third down, but the gains came slowly and time was flying and almost before anyone expected it the quarter was up.

It was Grafton’s ball then on her own forty-five-yard line, Hanser having just reeled off five yards through left guard with the rest of the Grafton backfield piling through on his heels. The teams changed positions and Hanser again banged at the Mount Morris left and got a scant two. Winslow punted on the next down and Mount Morris made a fair catch—she was taking no chances of fumbling—on her twenty-two. Two tries at the line netted six yards and again the ball was in air. Winslow caught on his forty-seven and rushed to the enemy’s forty-six. A yard by Caner made it second down and Hanser got seven around the left end on a delayed pass. Weston punted from close up and the ball went out at the opponent’s twenty-one. Then Mount Morris faked a forward and sent a back circling around Derry’s end and gained nearly her distance. A forward-pass grounded and she punted to Grafton’s thirty. Weston fumbled the catch, but recovered before he was tackled. Caner went back and tried a forward to Milford that grounded. Winslow smashed off three at right tackle but fumbled, Weston recovering for a loss of seven yards. Winslow punted.

Mount Morris ran back for a dozen yards before she was stopped and time was called for Grafton. Hanrihan was hurt and made way for Gordon. The timer announced nine minutes left. Two attempts at the Grafton line failed and Mount Morris punted to Grafton’s twelve. Weston missed the catch, but Hanser recovered it and gained a few yards before he was thrown. Blake replaced Weston. Winslow got free around the right side and ran to the thirty-two. On a fake-kick he again gained, getting six through center. Caner added four more and made it first down on the forty-two yards. Caner got three through center and Blake ran the right end for three more. Winslow was stopped for no gain and punted to the enemy’s ten yards, a kick that brought a roar of applause from the Grafton side. The Mount Morris quarter signaled a fair-catch, but muffed the ball and finally fell on it just inside the goal line. Mount Morris kicked on first down from behind her goal and Blake caught on the thirty-seven and was downed for no gain. There were six minutes left. Longley replaced Musgrave at center and Derry went back at left end. Grafton was cheering imploringly, incessantly now.

Winslow tried to find a hole at right guard, but was stopped, and Hanser had no better luck on the other side. Winslow went back to kicking position and launched a lateral pass to Derry and the end got eight yards straight along the side line. From kick formation Blake dived through for first down. On this play Winslow was injured and Boynton was sent in. Mount Morris also made changes. The home team was plainly on the defensive now and showing weakness. Boynton tried to run the left end and was downed behind his line. Caner got four through the line, but off-side was called and Grafton took her third penalty of the game. Hanser sent a forward to Derry and gained the distance. Hersum went in for Kinley at guard.

The ball was now near Mount Morris’s eighteen yards and close to the right side of the field. Hanser and Caner failed to gain and Boynton took the ball on an end run and gained four yards, placing the pigskin on the enemy’s fourteen yards and in front of her goal. Mount Morris called time for an injury and Blake conferred with Derry, acting captain.

At that moment Monty, absorbed in anxious speculation as to the next play, felt a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, Crail,” said Coach Bonner, and Monty followed the latter along the line. “Do you know who gave you that eye?” he asked.

Monty nodded. “Their left guard, sir.”

“He’s still in there, isn’t he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Think you could get through him if you had the chance?”

“I know it,” replied Monty grimly.

Mr. Bonner clapped him on the back. “Go ahead then,” he said. “Tell Blake not to kick. Tell him we want a touchdown. Tell him to use the three-abreast formation and hammer that guard!”

Only fourteen to go and a good three minutes left! Monty ran in with his message to Nick Blake and took Caner’s head-guard from that player’s unwilling hand. Then he went back to position and awaited the whistle and the signal, and as he waited he fixed a speculative eye on the Mount Morris left guard. That player glared back from a disfigured countenance and Monty smiled secretly and trod the half-frozen sod to limber his legs. And then Mount Morris, having used her full allowance of time, formed her line again, and Blake looked around at his backs and cried “Formation B! Signal!” and Monty fell in between Hanser and Boynton and crouched.

Then he sprang ahead and Blake clapped the ball against his stomach and he smashed straight into that guard position and went on ripping and tearing through, yard after yard, until arms at his neck and arms gripping his legs and arms tugging at his waist brought him to a stop and he grunted “Down,” and let them push him back.

There was one anxious moment, with the official, astride the ball, peering through the early twilight toward the linesman’s upraised hand. Then came the verdict, curt, decisive: “First down! About seven to go!”

Monty’s heart thumped triumphantly. He had gained a good six! And he had gained it through that left guard position! He went panting back to his place again, his face lighted with a huge smile.

He wondered if Blake would let him try it again. He knew he could do it. There was never a doubt in his mind as to that. And something told him that that green-and-white stockinged left guard knew it, too! But Blake didn’t know it, and Blake slapped the ball at Boynton, and Boynton, crossing the backfield, slammed past tackle for a scant yard. And Mount Morris shouted hoarsely in defiance. The timekeeper was edging in, step by step, his gaze alternating from watch dial to players. Monty hated him intensely.

Blake was begging them to hurry.

“Come on now, Grafton! Let’s put it over! Hurry up! Hurry up! Signals!”

Then Monty’s heart leaped, for the ball was his again. He felt it jam against his stomach, clutched his hands across it and slammed ahead. The hole was not there this time.

He struck fairly into that left guard and felt his bones rattle. But he meant to get through and he was going through, and he put all his strength into his pushing legs and all his weight into his straining body and the mass about him gave before him or followed after. A yard, half a yard, a foot, another foot, an inch or so——

All about him the sound of rasping canvas, of stertorous breaths, of inarticulate cries, a welter of heaving bodies, of grasping arms! And then, suddenly, he was looking straight into the face of that left guard from the distance of six inches, and the face was despairing! And Monty called on every last ounce of strength and felt his heart swell with the effort and his muscles creak. And the face in front of him passed aside, the eyes very wide and troubled, and Monty’s legs found a stride that they had despaired of and he went on again, at first slowly and then with a sudden rush, and at last, stumbling and falling, he crashed against a canvas-padded post, caromed off it, measured his length on the turf and felt the jar of bodies plunging down upon him and smiled contentedly because the ball was still clutched safely in his arms and he knew that Grafton had won!