Behind the Line: A Story of College Life and Football

"44–64–73–81!" came Reardon's muffled voice. Then the second's backs plunged forward. Neil and Gillam met them with a crash; cries and confusion reigned; the lines shoved and heaved; the backs hurled themselves against the swaying group; a smothered voice gasped "Down!" the whistle shrilled.

"Varsity's ball!" said the referee. "First down!"

The coaches began their tirades anew. Mills spoke to Foster aside. Then the lines again faced each other. Foster glanced back toward Neil.

"14–12–34–9!" he sang. It was a kick from close formation. Neil changed places with full-back. He had forgotten for the moment the rôle he had set himself to play, and only thought of the ball that was flying toward him from center. He would do his best. The pigskin settled into his hands and he dropped it quickly, kicking it fairly on the rebound. But the second was through, and the ball banged against an upstretched hand and was lost amidst a struggling group of players. In a moment it came to light tightly clutched by Brown of the second eleven.

"I don't have to make believe," groaned Neil. "Fate's playing squarely into my hands."

Five minutes later the leather went to him for a run outside of left tackle. He never knew whether he tried to do it or really stumbled, but he fell before the line was reached, and in a twinkling three of the second eleven were pushing his face into the muddy turf. The play had lost the varsity four yards. Mills glared at Neil, but said not a word. Neil smiled weakly as he went back to his place.

"I needn't try any more," he thought wearily. "He's made up his mind to put me off."

A minute later the half ended. When the next one began Paul Gale went in at left half-back on the varsity. And Neil, trotting to the locker-house, told himself that he was glad, awfully glad, and wished the tears wouldn't come into his eyes.

CHAPTER XIX

ON THE EVE OF BATTLE

Neil was duly pronounced "fine" by the trainer, dosed by the doctor, and disregarded by the coaches. Mills, having finally concluded that he was too risky a person for the line-up on Saturday, figuratively labeled him "declined" and passed him over to Tassel, head coach of the second eleven. Tassel displayed no enthusiasm, for a good player gone "fine" is at best a poor acquisition, and of far less practical value than a poor player in good condition. It made little difference to Neil what team he belonged to, for he was prohibited from playing on Wednesday, and on Thursday the last practise took place and he was in the line-up but five minutes. On that day the students again marched to the field and practised their songs and cheers. Despite the loss of Cowan and the lessening thereby of Erskine's chance of success, enthusiasm reigned high. Perhaps their own cheers raised their spirit, for two days before the game the college was animated by a totally unwarranted degree of hopefulness that amounted almost to confidence. The coaches, however, remained carefully pessimistic and took pains to see that the players did not share the general hopefulness.

"We may win," said Mills to them after the last practise, "but don't think for a moment that it's going to be easy. If we do come out on top it will be because every one of you has played as he never dreamed he could play. You've got to play your own positions perfectly and then help to play each other's. Remember what I've said about team-play. Don't think that your work is done when you've put your man out; that's the time for you to turn around and help your neighbor. It's just that eagerness to aid the next man, that stand-and-fall-together spirit, that makes the ideal team. I don't want to see any man on Saturday standing around with his hands at his sides; as long as the ball's in play there's work for every one. Don't cry 'Down' until you can't run, crawl, wriggle, roll, or be pulled another inch. And if you're helping the runner don't stop pulling or shoving until there isn't another notch to be gained. Never mind how many tacklers there are; the ball's in play until the whistle sounds. And, one thing more, remember that you're not going to do your best because I tell you to, or because if you don't the coaches will give you a wigging, or because a lot of your fellows are looking on. You're going to fight your hardest, fight until the last whistle blows, fight long after you can't fight any more, because you're wearing the Purple of old Erskine and can't do anything else but fight!"

The cheer that followed was good to hear. There was not a fellow there that didn't feel, at that moment, more than a match for any two men Robinson could set up against him. And many a hand clenched involuntarily, and many a player registered his silent vow to fight, as Mills had said, long after he couldn't fight any more, and, if it depended on him, win the game for old Erskine.

On Friday afternoon the men were assembled in the gymnasium and were drilled in signals and put through a hard examination in formations. Afterward several of the coaches addressed them earnestly, touching each man on the spot that hurt, showing them where they failed and how to remedy their defects, but never goading them to despondency.

"I should be afraid of a team that was perfect the day before the game," said Preston; "afraid that when the real struggle came they'd disappoint me. A team should go into the final contest with the ability to play a little better than it has played at any time during the season; with a certain amount of power in reserve. And so I expect to-morrow to see almost all of the faults that we have talked of eliminated. I expect to see every man do that little better that means so much. And if he does he'll make Mr. Mills happy, he'll make all the other coaches happy, he'll make his captain and himself happy, and he'll make the college happy. And he'll make Robinson unhappy!"

Then the line-up that was to start the game was read. Neil, sitting listlessly between Paul and Foster, heard it with a little ache at his heart. He was glad that Paul was not to be disappointed, but it was hard to think that he was to have no part in the supreme battle for which he had worked conscientiously all the fall, and the thought of which had more than once given him courage to go on when further effort seemed impossible.

"Stone, Tucker, Browning, Stowell, Witter, Carey, Devoe, Foster, Gale–"

"Good for you, Paul," whispered Neil. Then he sighed as the list went on–

"Gillam, Mason."

Then a long string of substitutes was read. Neil's name was among these, but that fact meant little enough.

"Every man whose name has been read report at eleven to-morrow for lunch. Early to bed is the rule for every one to-night, and I want every one to obey it." Mills paused; then he went on in softer tones: "Some of you are disappointed. Some of you have worked faithfully–you all have, for that matter–only to meet with disappointment to-day. But we can't put you all in the line-up; I wish we could. But to those who have tried so hard and so honestly for positions in to-morrow's game, and who have of necessity been left out, I can only offer the sympathy of myself and the other coaches, and of the other players. You have done your share, and it no doubt seems hard that you are to have no better share in the final test. But let me tell you that even though you do not play against Robinson, you have nevertheless done almost as much toward defeating her as though you faced her to-morrow. It's the season's work that counts–the long, hard preparation–and in that you've had your place and done your part well. And for that I thank you on behalf of myself, on behalf of the coaches who have been associated with me, and on behalf of the college. And now I am going to ask you fellows of the varsity to give three long Erskines, three-times-three, and three long 'scrubs' on the end!"

And they were given not once, but thrice. And then the scrub lustily cheered the varsity, and they both cheered Mills and Devoe and Simson and all the coaches one after another. And when the last long-drawn "Erskine" had died away Mills faced them again.

"There's one more cheer I want to hear, fellows, and I think you'll give it heartily. In to-morrow's game we are going to use a form of defense that will, I believe, enable us to at least render a good account of ourselves. And, as most of you know, this defense was thought out and developed by a fellow who, although unfortunately unable to play the game himself, is nevertheless one of the finest football men in college. If we win to-morrow a great big share of the credit will be due to that man; if we lose he still will have done as much as any two of us. Fellows, I ask for three cheers for Burr!"

Mills led that cheer himself and it was a good one. The pity of it was that Sydney wasn't there to hear it.

The November twilight was already stealing down over the campus when Neil and Paul left the gymnasium and made their way back to Curtis's. Paul was highly elated, for until the line-up had been read he had been uncertain of his fate. But his joy was somewhat dampened by the fact that Neil had failed to make the team.

"It doesn't seem just right for me to go into the game, chum, with you on the side-line," he said. "I don't see what Mills is thinking of! Who in thunder's to kick for us?"

"I guess you'll be called on, Paul, if any field-goals are needed."

"I suppose so, but–hang it, Neil, I wish you were going to play!"

"Well, so do I," answered Neil calmly; "but I'm not, and so that settles it. After all, they couldn't do anything else, Paul, but let me out. I've been playing perfectly rotten lately."

"But–but what's the matter? You don't look stale, chum."

"I feel stale, just the same," answered Neil far from untruthfully.

"But maybe you'll get in for a while; you're down with the subs," said Paul hopefully.

"Maybe I will. Maybe you'll get killed and Gillam'll get killed and a few more'll get killed and they'll take me on. But don't you worry about me; I'm all right."

Paul looked at him as though rather puzzled.

"By Jove, I don't believe you care very much whether you play or don't," he said at last. "If it had been me they'd let out I'd simply gone off into a dark corner and died."

"I'm glad it wasn't you," answered Neil heartily.

"Thunder! So'm I!"

The college in general had taken Neil's deflection philosophically after the first day or so of wonderment and dismay. The trust in Mills was absolute, and if Mills said Fletcher wasn't as good as Gale for left half-back, why, he wasn't; that was all there was about it. There was one person in college, however, who was not deceived. Sydney Burr, recollecting Neil's "supposititious case," never doubted that Neil had purposely sacrificed himself for his room-mate. At first he was inclined to protest to Neil, even to go the length of making Mills cognizant of the real situation; but in the end he kept his own counsel, doubtful of his right to interfere. And, in some way, he grew to think that Paul was not in the dark; that he knew of Neil's plan and was lending his sanction to it; that, in fact, the whole arrangement was a conspiracy in which both Neil and Paul shared equally. In this he did Paul injustice, as he found out later.

He went to Neil's room that Friday night for a few minutes and found Paul much wrought up over the disappearance of Tom Cowan. Cowan's room looked as though a cyclone had struck it, Paul declared, and Cowan himself was nowhere to be found.

"I'll bet he's done what he said he'd do and left," said Paul. But Sydney had seen him but an hour or so before at commons, and Paul set out to hunt him up.

"I know you chaps don't like him," he said; "but he's been mighty decent to me, and I don't want to seem to be going back on him just now when he's so down on his luck. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Sydney found Neil quite cheerful and marveled at it. He himself was oppressed by a nervousness that couldn't have been worse had he been due to face Robinson's big center the next day. He feared the "antidote" wouldn't work right; he feared Robinson had found out all about it and had changed their offense; he feared a dozen evils, and Neil was kept busy comforting him. At nine o'clock Paul returned without tidings of Cowan, and Sydney said good-night.

"I don't believe I'll go out to the field to-morrow," he said half seriously. "I'll stay in my room and listen to the cheering. If it sounds right toward the end of the game I'll know that things have gone our way."

"You won't be able to tell anything of the sort," said Neil, "for the fellows are going to cheer just as hard if we lose as they would had we won. Mills insists on that, and what he says goes this year."

"That's so," said Paul; "and it's the way it ought to be. If ever a team needs cheering and encouragement it's when things are blackest, and not when it's winning."

"And so, you see, you'll have to go to the field, Syd," said Neil as he followed the other out to the porch. "By Jove, what a night, eh? I never saw so many stars, I believe. Well, we'll have a good clear day for the game and a good turf underfoot. Good-night, Syd."

"Good-night," answered the other. Then, sorrowfully, "I do wish you were going to play, Neil."

"Thanks, Syd; but don't let that keep you awake. Good-night!"

The room-mates chatted in a desultory way for half an hour longer and then prepared for bed. Paul was somewhat nervous and excited, and displayed a tendency to stop short in the middle of removing a stocking to gaze blankly before him for whole minutes at a time. Once he stood so long on one leg with his trousers half off that Neil feared he had gone to sleep, and so brought him back to a recollection of the business in hand by shying a boot at him.

As for Neil, he was untroubled by nervousness. He believed Erskine was going to win. For the rest, the eve of battle held no exciting thoughts for him. He could neither win the game nor lose it; he was merely a spectator, like thousands of others; only he would see the contest from the players' bench instead of the big new stand that half encircled the field.