Full-Back Foster

  CHAPTER V

  ON THE GRIDIRON

  Myron's connection with Parkinson School began inauspiciously. After aneleventh-hour effort to get his studies scheduled, and the discoverythat he was required to take two courses he didn't want to take and toomit one that he did, a summons came to him to visit the Office. ThereMr. Morgan, assistant to the Principal, reminded him that attendance atchapel was compulsory and then announced that there appeared to be somedoubt that he could enter the second class owing to the fact that hisLatin was not up to the requirements. That was disheartening, for Myronhad coached on Latin during the summer and been pronounced fit for thethird-year class at Parkinson or any other preparatory school. Yesterdayhe would have received the announcement with unconcern, but today,since the arrival of that disappointing telegram, he found cause in itfor real alarm. At well past seventeen one doesn't like to be put inwith fellows who average sixteen, Myron held. As a matter of fact, thethird class contained more students of his age than it did of fellowsyounger, and he would not have found himself out of place there. But hedidn't know that, and as a result he pleaded very hard to be allowed toenter the class above. In the end, after much hesitation, and with novery good grace, Mr. Morgan consented.

  "But you'll have to do some hard work, Foster, if you're to stay there.Unless you're willing to, I'd advise you to go into the third."

  "I'll work, sir. Maybe I could coach in Latin."

  "Yes, you could do that. If you like, I'll give you the address of afellow who does a good deal of tutoring and gets excellent results." Hewrote the address on a slip and Myron tucked it in his pocket. "Well,that's all, I think. I hope you will get on nicely, Foster. Let me see,your adviser is----"

  "Mr. Cooper, sir."

  "Good. Don't hesitate to consult him. He's a fine man and you'll likehim immensely, I think. Good morning."

  Myron had a spare hour after dinner and spent it unpacking. When some ofhis things had been distributed around the study the place really lookedfairly homelike and attractive, and he began to look forward to a yearat Parkinson with more equanimity. If only he wasn't handicapped withhis Latin, he thought, things wouldn't be so bad. With Dobbins out ofthe way and the study and bedroom to himself, he guessed he could getalong fairly comfortably. There was a half-hour of physics at three, andafter that he was through for the day. He returned to Sohmer and changedinto his football togs, which, unlike the nondescript garments worn byJoe Dobbins, were fairly new and of the best materials. When he hadexamined himself critically and appreciatively in the glass he sauntereddownstairs, skirted the end of the gymnasium building and had his firstreal look at the playfield.

  Nearly twelve acres of still green turf stretched before him, his viewuninterrupted save by the grandstand directly before him. To his leftwere the tennis courts, both clay and grass, and about them white-cladfigures darted. Nearer at hand, the blue-grey running track inclosed thefirst team gridiron. Beyond that two more pairs of goal-posts met hissight, and then the baseball diamonds filled the balance of the field.Track and gridirons and diamonds were already occupied, and the nearergrandstand held a handful of boys who had gathered in the warm sunlightto watch the activities. Football practice was called for three-thirty,and it was nearly four when Myron reached the field. He was in no hurryto join the panting and perspiring squads that trotted around over theturf, and so he perched himself on one of the lower seats of the standand looked the situation over.

  Not far away the manager and assistant manager, both earnest-lookingyouths, talked to a stout man in a faded brown sweater who later turnedout to be the trainer, Billy Goode. Myron wondered where the coachmight be, but he couldn't find any one who much resembled his idea ofwhat that gentleman should look like. However, with more than a hundredfellows at work out there it was easy enough to overlook him. A squadof advanced players trotted near, going through elementary signal work.Rather to Myron's surprise, Joe Dobbins was amongst them, sandwichedbetween two capable-looking youths in togs quite as disreputable as his.Joe was acting as right guard, it seemed. Myron's opinion of Joe as afootball player went up a peg, for it was fairly evident that this squadwas made up of last-year fellows and probably contained the nucleus ofwhat in a few days would be known as the first squad. About this timeMyron became aware that some of the fellows about him on the grandstandwere viewing him curiously. Doubtless they were wondering why, being inplaying togs, he didn't get down there and go to work. Of course it wasnone of their business, but maybe it was time he found the coach andreported.

  He made inquiry of the manager, a slim, very alert youth armed witha formidable notebook in which he was making entries when Myronapproached. "Mr. Driscoll? He's around here somewhere." The manager,whose name was Farnsworth, looked frowningly about the field. "Yes,there he is down there, the man with the blue sweater. Are you justreporting for practice?"

  "Yes," answered Myron. "I wasn't out yesterday."

  "What's the name?" asked Farnsworth briskly.

  "Foster."

  "Foster?" The manager fluttered the leaves of the big notebook until hefound the F's. Then: "What are the initials, Foster?"

  "M. W."

  "Class?"

  "Third."

  "Ever played before?"

  "Naturally." Farnsworth shot a quick glance.

  "Where?" he asked.

  "Port Foster High School Team, Port Foster, Delaware. I played two yearsthere."

  "Line or backfield?"

  "Backfield: before that at end."

  "Had your physical exam yet?"

  "No, I didn't know about it. Where do I take it?"

  "See Mr. Tasser, in the gym. Any time between ten and twelve and fourand six. Better do it today. Rules are rather strict, Foster. All right.Report to Cummins. He's handling the new men. You'll find him down thereby the east goal: ask any one."

  "I though I'd tell the coach----"

  "Not necessary. Cummins'll look after you."

  Myron shrugged mentally and turned his steps toward the indicatedlocation. "One of those smart Alecks," he thought. "Thinks he's thewhole push. All right, it's not my business to tell him his. If theywant me to waste my time with the beginners it's their funeral."

  Cummins wasn't difficult to find. Myron heard his bark long before hereached him. Nearly thirty youths, most of them youngsters of fourteenand fifteen, although here and there an older boy was to be noticed,were learning to handle the ball. Cummins appeared to be about eighteen,a heavily-built chap with a shock of reddish-brown hair and a roundface liberally spattered with freckles. Just now the face was scowlingferociously and Cummins was sneering stridently at his charges. Myrontook an instant dislike to Mr. Charles Cummins, and, or so it appeared,Mr. Charles Cummins took an equal dislike to Myron.

  "Well, well, _well_, WELL!!" barked Cummins as Myron came up. "What doyou fellows think this is? A lawn party or a sewing circle or what?Maybe you're waiting for the ice-cream to be served? Listen just oneminute, will you? _Stop that ball_, you long-legged fellow! Now then,let's understand each other. This is football practice. Get that? Theidea is to learn to hold that ball without having it get away from you,and to catch it and to pass it. We aren't doing aesthetic dancing or--oracting in a pageant. This is _work_, W-O-R-K, work! Any of you who areout here just to get the air or to tan your necks can quit right now.I'm here to show you hopeless ninnies how to handle a football, andI propose to do it if it takes from now to Christmas, and the sooneryou put your minds on what you're doing and _try_ a little, the sooneryou'll get through. Now start that ball around again and, for the loveof limes, remember some of the things I've told you. When you catch it,grab it with both hands and hug it. It isn't an egg. It won't break.That's the idea, Judson, or whatever your name is. Go ahead, go ahead!Get some ginger into it! Pass it along! Don't go to sleep. I said hugit, not fondle it, Whittier! When you--Hello, more trouble?"

  "The manager fellow told me to report to you," said Myron as Cumminsturned a baleful gaze on him.

  "Oh, the 'mana
ger fellow' told you that, did he? What does the 'coachfellow' say?"

  "I haven't seen the coach yet," answered Myron coldly.

  "Haven't you? Why, say, maybe you won't like him! Don't you think youought to look him over first? It would be fierce if you didn't happen toapprove of him. What's your name?"

  "Foster."

  "All right, Foster, you push right in there and show me how you catcha football. Something tells me that my troubles are all over now thatyou've joined this aggregation of stars!"

  Myron suppressed the angry retort that sprang to his lips and took hisplace in the big circle. "Bounder!" he muttered as he did so. The boynext to him on the left heard and snickered, and Cummins guessed thereason. Unseen of Myron, he grinned. "When you can get 'em mad," he saidto himself, "there's hope for 'em."

  When the ball was passed to Myron he caught it deftly, bending his bodyover it, and then promptly sped it on to the youth who had snickered.The latter was unaccustomed to such speed and was not ready, and theball bounded away. He lumbered after it and scooped it up, returning tohis place with an accusing scowl for Myron.

  "Think you're smart, I suppose," he grumbled.

  "Sorry," said Myron, "but you ought to be ready for it."

  "Is that so? Well----"

  "Cut out that talking!" barked Cummins. "Speed it up, fellows!"

  There was ten minutes more of the dreary work, during which Myronmechanically received the pigskin and sent it on to the next in thecircle without a hitch. If he expected to win commendation from Cummins,however, he was disappointed. Cummins was eloquent with criticism, butnever once did he utter a word of approval. At last:

  "That'll do for that, fellows," he called. "You may rest a minute. Maybesome of you'll get your strength back." He approached Myron with anaccusing scowl. "What are you doing in this bunch?" he demanded. "Youdon't belong here."

  "I was sent here," replied Myron warmly.

  "Didn't you have sense enough to tell Farnsworth you weren't a greenie?Think I've got nothing to do but waste my time?"

  "Well, you're not the only one who's doing it, are you? What about mytime?"

  "That's your affair. I didn't want you, believe me! You ought to havetold him you knew something about a football. He's no mind-reader, youknow."

  "I told him I'd played two years on a high school team----"

  "Oh! That explains it. You high school ginks usually don't know enoughfootball to make the first year team. Guess Farnsworth thought you werelike the run of 'em."

  "Maybe," replied Myron indifferently, "but it's not my business to teachyou fellows how to run your affairs."

  "Hard luck for us, isn't it? Well, say, Mr. 'Igh and 'Aughty, you trekacross there and tell Farnsworth I say you're graduated from my bunch.Get it? Tell him to put you somewhere else, and tell him I don't carewhere it is!"

  "Thanks," returned Myron with deep sarcasm. "I'm horribly sorry to leaveyou, though. It's a real pleasure working under such a gentlemanlyinstructor, Mr. Cummins."

  Cummins watched him for a long moment with his mouth open. "Well, whatdo you know about that?" he murmured at last. "The cheeky beggar!" Thenhe grinned again and, surprising amused and delighted expressions on thecountenances of those of his squad who had been near enough to overhearthe conversation, quickly changed the grin for a scowl. "All right now!"he barked. "Line up along there. Who's got the ball? Let's see what youpin-heads know about starting."

  Myron's message to Farnsworth resulted in his finishing the practicewith a group of fellows whose education had progressed beyond therudimentary stage. Toward the last of the period he was put to catchingpunts with a half-dozen other backfield candidates and performed tohis own satisfaction at least. There was no scrimmage today, norwas there any for several days following, and at five o'clock CoachDriscoll sent them off to the showers. Later Myron went upstairs andfound the physical director and underwent his examination, obtaining achart filled with perplexing lines and puzzling figures and officialpermission to engage in "any form of athletics approved by theCommittee." After which he returned rather wearily to Number 17 Sohmerand Joe Dobbins.