Bert Wilson on the Gridiron

CHAPTER XI
A Desperate Fight

THE day for the game with the "Maroons" broke dark and lowering. Clouds chased each other across the sky, the air was saturated with moisture and, although rain had not yet fallen, there was every prospect that it would before the day was over.

The team had been "tuned to the hour." There was not a man on it that was not fit to put up the game of his life. Each one had brought himself down to the weight at which he was most effective, their flesh was "hard as nails," and their lean bronzed faces betokened the pink of condition. If they were doomed to be beaten there could be no excuse put forth that they were not at the top of their form.

Not that they anticipated any necessity of making excuses. An air of quiet confidence was everywhere apparent. The old indomitable Blue spirit was as much in evidence as their splendid physical condition. Not that they underestimated their opponents. The "Maroons," despite their defeat of the week before by the "Greys," were formidable opponents and still full of fight. In fact, their loss of that game might be counted on to put them in a savage mood of retaliation, and nothing was more certain than that they would fight like demons to down the Blues. But the latter welcomed the prospect of a bitter fight, and were fully convinced of their ability to give harder blows than they would have to take.

"We've simply got to win to-day, fellows," said Tom as they strolled back to their rooms after breakfast.

"It's the only way we can have a clear title to the championship," remarked Bert. "It won't do us much good to lick the 'Greys' next week if we fall down to-day. In that case it will be 'even Steven.' Each team will have won and lost one and we'll be as much at sea as ever as to which has the best team."

"Then, too," added Dick, "we're fighting to-day on our own grounds and next week we'll have to play the 'Greys' on a neutral field. If we can't win now with that advantage it will be doubly hard to win then."

"We'll cop them both," said Bert with an air of finality. And this solution received the hearty approval and implicit faith of his companions. In one form or another every man on the team was swearing to himself that the prediction should come true, if it lay in human power to compass it.

As the day wore on the town took on a festal air. Flags and bunting fluttered everywhere. Special trains drew in from every point of the compass and disgorged their thousands to swell the crowds. The streets resounded with the raucous cries of the fakirs, and their wares of canes and flags were soon sold out. Groups of college boys accompanied by pretty girls wandered over the campus, and the walks under the elms resounded with song and laughter. From every city in the country "old grads" came down to renew their youth and shout themselves hoarse for their favorites. The clouded sky and threatening rain daunted them not at all. They were there to make holiday, and serenely ignored everything else. Only an earthquake or a cyclone could have kept them from coming. It might rain "cats and dogs," rheumatism and pneumonia might hang out danger signals, but they cared not a whit. They were out for the time of their lives and bound to get it.

The game was to begin at two o'clock, and after cleaning out all the restaurants in town, put to their utmost to feed the ravening horde of locusts that had swarmed down upon them, the throngs set out for the stadium. That gigantic structure could hold forty thousand people and, long before the time for the game to begin, it was crowded to repletion. On one side were the stands for the Blues and directly facing them were those reserved for the "Maroons." The occupants yelled and shouted and waved their flags at each other in good-natured defiance. At the upper end a band played popular airs that nobody cared for, and half the time in the din and tumult did not even hear. In front of the stands the cheermasters jumped up and down and went through their weird contortions, as they led the cheers and gave the signal for the songs.

The Blues were gathered in their training quarters, ready and anxious for the fight. They were like a pack of hounds straining at the leash. Reddy and his assistants had gone over every detail of their equipment, and the coach had spoken his last word of appeal and encouragement. This he had purposely made short. There was little dwelling on the game to be played, nor any attempt to rehearse signals. The time for that was past. If they were not ready now, they never would be. He had done his utmost and now the result must be left to the team and to fate.

At half past one a slight drizzle set in. Old Jupiter Pluvius had lost patience and refused to hold off until the game was over. But the general hilarity abated not a particle. It would take more than rain to drive that crowd to cover. The field had been strewn with straw to keep the ground beneath as dry as possible. Now, however, it was time for practice, and a crowd of assistants appeared and raked the straw away, showing the glistening newly-marked yard lines underneath.

Then a gate at the end of the one of the stands opened and the "Maroons," in their gaily colored jerseys, trotted on the field. The "Maroon" stands rose en masse and a torrent of cheers swept over the field as they gave the team a greeting that must have "warmed the cockles of their heart."

The boys peeled off their jerseys and commenced punting and falling on the ball. They kept this up for ten minutes and then gave way to their rivals.

Out from the other side of the field scampered the Blues. Then Pandemonium broke loose. The yells were simply deafening, and, as the home crowd let itself go, the fellows grinned happily at each other and their muscles stiffened with ardor for the fight.

"Seems as though they were glad to see us," laughed Tom, as he sent the ball whirling in a spiral pass to Bert.

"You bet," answered Bert, "and we must make them yell louder yet at the finish."

The practice was short and snappy. There was ginger in every movement and Bert's tries for goal elicited the unwilling admiration at the same time that it awakened the fear of the "Maroon" supporters.

Then the signal was given and the captains of the two teams clasped hands cordially in the middle of the field and tossed a coin for position. The "Maroons" won and, as there was not enough wind stirring to favor either goal, elected to take the kick off. The teams lined up on the "Maroon's" forty yard line. Miller kicked the ball thirty yards down the field and the game was on.

Martin made a fair catch, but before he could run back was downed in his tracks. The teams lined up for the scrimmage. Dick plunged through left guard and tackle for a gain of five yards. Axtell went through right for two more. Then the ball was given to Bert, and he went through the hole opened up by Drake and Boyd for eight more. They had gained their distance and the ball was still in their possession on the fifty yard line.

Their bucking had been so successful that they were still inclined to try the plunging game. But the "Maroons" had braced. Three successive downs failed to yield the coveted ten yards and Bert dropped back for a kick. The ball was handled with superb precision by Tom and Dick, who made a perfect pass to Bert. It was off from his toe like a flash, just escaping the "Maroon" forwards as they broke through to block. Miller made a great jumping catch, but Axtell's savage tackle downed him where he stood. The ball was now in "Maroon" territory on their twenty yard line.

It was altogether too close for comfort, and the "Maroons" made a gallant and desperate effort to get it further down the field. The Blues, however, were no less determined. Against the bull-like plunges of the enemy they held like a stone wall. Three times in succession they refused to let their foes gain an inch. It was clear that other tactics would have to be resorted to. Halliday, the "Maroon" quarter, tried a forward pass. Richmond at right end caught it and started down the field. Warren tackled him, but slipped in the mud and Richmond shook him off. His interference was good and he was off like a frightened rabbit. He had made twenty yards before Bert caught and threw him heavily. But he held on to the ball and the "Maroons" breathed more freely. The ball was still theirs, forty yards from their goal line.

"Never mind, old man," called Bert cheerfully to Warren. "A bit of hard luck, but don't let it get your goat. Any one might have slipped in such muddy going."

The narrow escape heartened the "Maroons" and they fought like wildcats. They were on the defensive and the ball stayed in their territory. But the utmost efforts of the Blues failed to make substantial gains, and when the whistle blew at the end of the quarter neither side had scored.

By this time the rain was coming down in torrents. The stands were a mass of glistening umbrellas and shining raincoats. The flags and decorations no longer waved defiantly, but hung dank and dripping. The field beneath the rushing feet of the players had been churned into a sea of mud, and this was plastered liberally on the uniforms of the teams. In the minute's interval between quarters a host of trainers' assistants rushed from the side lines with sponges and towels and tried to get their charges in some kind of shape.

When the next quarter started the play was fast and furious. The teams had sized each other up and got a line on their respective line of play. Each side realized that the battle was for blood, and that it had in the other a worthy foeman. There would be no walkover for anybody that day.

Floundering and slipping in the mud, the Blues steadily pounded their way down to the "Maroon's" goal. Morley made a successful dash around left end, netting twenty yards. On a forward pass Caldwell fumbled, but Tom made a dazzling recovery before the enemy could pounce upon the ball. Bert found a gap between left and tackle and went through with lowered head for twelve yards before the "Maroons" fell on him in a mass. Then the Blues uncovered the "Minnesota shift" – one of "Bull" Hendrick's pet tricks – and they went through the bewildered "Maroons" for twenty yards. Another trial of the same shift was smothered and a daring end run by Hudson of the "Maroons" brought the ball to the middle of the field. Four unsuccessful attempts failed to advance it and it went to the Blues on downs.

The ball was now on the "Maroons'" forty yard line and there were only two minutes left of playing time. The "Maroon" defence had stiffened and it was a practical certainty that line bucking could not avail in that limited time, so Bert dropped back for a kick. Tom snapped it back to Dick, who with the same motion made a beautiful pass to Bert. With all the power of his mighty leg he swung on it and lifted it far and high. Straight as an arrow it winged its way toward the "Maroons'" goal.

A tremendous shout had gone up as the ball left his toe, but then followed a deadly silence as they watched its towering flight. Would it go over the posts and score three points for the Blues or would it go to one side just enough to give the "Maroons" a new lease of life?

Now the ball had reached its highest point and was falling in a swift curve toward the goal. As it neared the posts it seemed for a moment to hesitate. Then, as though it had made up its mind, it swooped suddenly downward and crossed the goal bar, just grazing it. The goal had counted and a groan went up from the "Maroon" stands, while those in the Blues leaped to their feet waving their flags and cheering like madmen.

Tom danced a jig on the field and threw his arms about Bert, and the other fellows coming up swarmed around him with frantic congratulations. And just then the second half ended and both teams went to their quarters for the fifteen minutes' rest that marks the half of the game. Here they changed quickly into fresh uniforms and braced themselves for the second and decisive half. Naturally the confidence was on the side of the Blues, but the lead was not large, and as yet it was anybody's game.

"You've got them started," exhorted Hendricks. "Now keep them on the run. Don't let up for a minute. Hit them, hammer them, tear their line in pieces. I want you to roll up a score that will scare the 'Greys' before we tackle them."

The advice was good in theory and the will was not lacking to carry it out in practice. But the "Maroons" had other views and from the moment they came on the field it was evident that they had taken a brace. They were yet a long way from giving up the ghost. After all, the field goal had only counted three points, and a touchdown would not only even this up but put the Maroons in the lead.

To get that touchdown they worked like fiends. Berriman kicked the ball out of bounds and Flynn fell upon it, sliding along in the mud and water as he did so. The ball was brought in at the Blues' forty yard line and the teams lined up for the scrimmage. Adams slammed through left tackle for five yards. Gibbons with lowered head butted into center, but Dick threw him back for a loss of two. Hudson skirted left end, cleverly dodging Caldwell and making twelve yards, before Tom leaped upon him and downed him heavily. But the ball was under him and the "Maroons" had more than made their distance on the four downs.

Once more they lined up, and now the Blues were on the defensive. Boyd had hurt his knee and Chamberlain came running out to take his place. Instead of reporting to the referee, he spoke first to one of his comrades, and for this violation of the rules the Blues were penalized five yards. A moment later they lost five more through off-side play by Warren. Ten precious yards thrown away when every one was beyond price! And now the jubilant "Maroons" were within fifteen yards of the goal, and their partisans were on their feet yelling like wild men.

Panting, crouching, glaring, the two teams faced each other. The "Maroons" consulted for a moment. Should they try a kick for goal, yielding three points if successful and tieing the score, or buck the line for a touchdown which would put them in the lead? The first was easier, but the latter more profitable if they could "put it over." They might never be so near the line again, and they thought that they saw signs of wavering among the Blues. They decided then to try for the greater prize and buck the line.

Berriman, their halfback, bowled over Chamberlain for a gain of four yards. Richmond tried to make a hole between Dick and Tom, but was nailed without a gain. Once more Berriman ploughed in between Warren and Chamberlain, which seemed to be the weakest part of the defense, but, anticipating the move, Bert had posted himself there and, meeting the rush halfway, dumped Berriman on his head. As he fell, the ball slipped from his hands and Tom, quick as a cat, picked it up and twisting, dodging, squirming, scuttled down along the southern line. Burke flung himself at him in a flying tackle and grabbed one leg, but the runner shook him off and, with his momentum scarcely checked flew down the field, aided by superb interference on the part of Drake and Axtell, who bowled over the "Maroon" tacklers like so many ninepins. He had made thirty-five yards and was going like the wind when, in eluding the outstretched arms of Miller, he slipped in a pool of mud and water and went down, skating along on his nose for several yards, while the whole "Maroon" team piled over him. But his nose guard had saved him from injury and, when the wriggling mass was disentangled, it was found that he still had the ball. He wiped the mud from his face and grinned happily while his mates gathered round him and billows of cheers swept down from the Blue stands, frantic with delight at the brilliant run.

"Splendid, old boy!" cried Bert, slapping Tom on the back. "That was classy stuff. You went down the line like a shot from a gun."

"It saved the goal line all right," panted Dick. "Jove! They were close. It looked for a minute as though they had us going."

The ball was put into play again but just as the teams lined up time was called. The game was three-quarters over and the remaining fifteen minutes would tell the tale of victory or defeat. The boys stood around in groups scraping the mud from their uniforms and rubbing rosin on their hands to get a better grip in tackling.

Just as the breathing spell was over the sun suddenly burst forth in a blaze of glory. Umbrellas went down like magic and even the "Maroon" supporters, chagrined as they were, joined in the cheer that rose from the drenched spectators. It put new life into the players also.

"Look!" cried Bert as the teams took their places. "The rainbow!"

All eyes were turned in the direction he pointed, where in a magnificent arch of shifting colors the bow of promise curved over the field.

"It's our rainbow," shouted Tom. "We saw it first."

"Come off, you dubs," sang out Halliday. "Don't you see that it's over our goal?"

"Sure," retorted Tom. "That's to show us where we've got to go."

"It is, eh?" said Halliday grimly. "You'll only get there over our dead bodies."

"You're dead ones already," taunted Drake good-naturedly. "You're only walking round to save funeral expenses."

But in the furious battle that developed from the kick-off, it was evident that the "Maroons" were very lively corpses. It was no use to play on the defensive. If they did that, they were beaten already by the three points that now loomed up in such tremendous proportions. Nor was there any reason to keep any of their plays up their sleeves. For them it was the last game of the season and now was the time to uncover their whole "bag of tricks."

So they threw caution to the winds and played with utter recklessness and abandon. Their "Wheel shift" was a new one on the Blues, and the "Maroons" had used it twice for a gain of thirty yards before the Blues solved and checkmated it. Then the forward pass was tried, usually without advancing the ball, though one clever skirting of the end gained fifteen yards. The ball was getting pretty well down into Blue territory when a magnificent drop kick by Bert sent it sailing to the middle of the field. In the momentary silence that succeeded the cheering, some wag from the Blue stands piped out:

"It's too bad that fellow Wilson is lame." And everybody laughed.

But the laugh of the "Maroons" had a pang behind it. Only five minutes of playing time were left, and the ball was in the hands of their enemies. They ranged up for the scrimmage with the desperation of men faced by advancing doom but bound to go down fighting.

And go down they did before the savage and exulting onslaught of the Blues. Fighting, raging, blocking, charging, they were forced back toward their goal. Drake and Dick and Axtell went ploughing through big holes opened up by their comrades in both sides of the line until, with two downs yet to go, the ball was in the hands of the Blues twelve yards from the enemy's goal.

Everybody was standing now. Flags were waving, voices yelling and the tumult was indescribable.

It was the supreme moment, and Bert was called on for the final plunge.

"Go to it, old man, the instant I snap it back," whispered Tom.

"For the sake of the old college," urged Dick.

Bert stiffened.

"Watch me," he said.

It was a perfect snap from Tom to Dick, who passed it to Bert so swiftly that the eye could scarcely follow it. At the same instant Drake and Axtell opened up a hole between left guard and tackle and Bert ploughed through it like an unchained cyclone. The whole "Maroon" team was on him in an instant, but the fearful headway of his charge had carried him through nine of the coveted twelve yards and the goal post loomed almost directly overhead.

"Buck up, fellows, buck up," screamed Halliday wildly. "For heaven's sake, brace!"

Bert's head was buzzing with the impact of that mighty plunge, but his eyes blazed with the light of coming triumph.

"Not an inch, boys, not an inch," yelled Halliday. "Throw them back. It's their last down."

But their hour had struck. Once more the ball was passed and, charging hard and low, Bert went into the line. The "Maroons" hurled themselves savagely against him, but a regiment could not have stopped him. He crumpled them up and carried the fragments of the broken line on his head and shoulders, coming at last to the ground five yards over the goal for the touchdown. And the Blue stands promptly went stark raving mad.

Bruised and dizzy but smiling, Bert rose to his feet. At that moment he would not have changed places with an emperor.

The ball was carried out to the twenty-five yard line and Dick, lying flat on the ground, steadied it for the kick. Bert took careful aim and lifted it unerringly over the goal. It had scarcely touched the ground when the whistle blew and the game was over. The Blues had triumphed, ten to nothing, but only after a desperate battle that left the "Maroons" vanquished, but not disgraced. Their gallant foes gave them a rousing cheer that was returned by the victors with interest.

Then the crowds swept down like a tidal wave from the stands and submerged the doughty fighters. The Blues, all muddy and disheveled as they were, were hoisted on the shoulders of their exulting comrades and carried from the field. And it was all they could do to get away from them and repair to their shower and rubdown, never before so needed or so welcome.

The campus blazed that night with bonfires and resounded with noises that "murdered sleep." But all the pleading that the team might take part in the festivities fell unheeded on the ears of the two inexorable tyrants, Hendricks and Reddy. Happy and exulting tyrants just then, but tyrants none the less.

"Not until they lick the 'Greys,'" was "Bull's" decree. "If they do that they can split the town wide open. Until then the lid is on."

There was no appeal from his decision, and by nine o'clock the weary warriors were tucked away in bed to dream of past and hope for coming victory.

Dick was just dropping off when a voice came from Bert's bed:

"Say, Dick, what's the greatest game in the world?"

"Football," was the prompt reply.

"And, Dick, what's the greatest team in the world?"

"The Blues," averred Dick stoutly.

"Right," assented Bert. "Now go to sleep."