"I feel like a slave-driver, pushing these poor chaps around in this
heat. How's the game going? No score? We must be playing pretty punk, I
guess. What sort of a team has--Jones, you missed your starting signal
again. For the love of mud, keep your ears open!--Thacher must be as bad
as we are. Who's playing in my place? Gordon? Is he doing anything?--Try
them on that again, McPhee, will you? Robbins, you're supposed to block
hard on that and not let your man through until the runner's got into
the line.--I could have played today all right, but that idiot, Danny,
wouldn't let me. My knee's perfectly all right."
"Then why do you limp?" asked Don innocently.
"Force of habit," said Tim. "What time is it?"
Don consulted his silver watch and announced a quarter to four.
"Thank goodness! That'll do, fellows. You'd better get your showers
before you try to see that game. If Danny catches you over there the way
you are he will just about scalp you! By the way, McPhee, you saw what I
meant about that end-around play, didn't you? You can't afford to slow
up the play by waiting for your end to get to you. He's got to be in
position to take the pass at the right second. Otherwise they'll come
through on you and stop him behind the line. There ought to be
absolutely no pause between Smith's pass to you and your pass to
Compton, or whoever the end is. You get the ball, turn quick, toss it to
the end and fall in behind him. It ought to be almost one motion. Of
course, I know you fellows were pretty well fagged today, but you don't
want to let your ends think they can take their time on that play, old
man, for it's got to be fast or it's no earthly good. Thus endeth the
lesson. Come on, Don, and we'll go over and add the dignity of our
presence to that little affair."
They reached the bench just as the two teams trotted back and
Brimfield's supporters raised a faint cheer. Don imagined that there was
a little more vim in the way the maroon-and-grey warriors went into the
field for the second half and the results proved him right.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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