Football for Player and Spectator. Fielding Yost
being downed.
"First down, five yards to gain", again sings out the referee. The rush has netted the requisite distance without the third attempt and the foe can now begin all over again. On all sides of us the home team is adjured to "Hold them", while from the hostile camp across the gridiron rings out a stentorian cheer for the man who made the gain and the school for which he made it.
Again the full back assaults our center, but this time, with a thud of human bone and muscle, plainly audible where we sit, he is stopped as solidly as if it had been a brick wall instead of a human rampart which he was battering with his head and shoulders. Again the human missile is launched at our center and again the gallant fellow stops the play, although the runner manages to wiggle a scant yard while he is falling.
Once more rings out the signal. The foe's formation suddenly changes. The backs form a wedge with the full back, ten yards back of the center, at the open end. It is the formation for a punt, the kick productive of the greatest possible distance and the inevitable result when a team fails to gain by carrying the ball. Another futile attempt at the ends or the line would have handed over possession of the ball to our team with but 30 yards to travel to a touchdown, and this would have been poor generalship.
Back from the center comes the ball as the kicker holds out his hands and on that instant our men charge. The ball, dropped from his hands and meeting the kicker's foot just before it reaches the ground, is booted high in air and down the field. Under it scurries our own full back, 50 yards behind his own line, while his comrades in front of him are doing their best to keep the opponents from getting through in time to make a tackle far down the field. The catch is beautifully executed and the runner starts sprint ing back. One of the enemy's ends does succeed in getting through, however, and rushes to meet him. The full back dodges, eludes him and comes tearing up the field while, all about us, men are urging him on. Friend and foe now mingle alike before him, one helping him, another endeavoring to bring him down. Full 30 yards he comes and then, dodging one tackler, rushes right into the arms of another. It is our ball and our turn to carry the oval.
But that visiting team has a defense that is every bit as strong as its supporters have told us. Twice our plays are thrown back and it becomes the duty of our quarter to call for a kick, as theirs did a few minutes ago. The punt sails high in air, although not so far as the effort of the opposing full back, who has the assistance of the wind. The oval twists deceptively and seems to travel a spiral course. The man in the enemy's backfield, there to catch it, runs in, stretches out his arms, misjudges a bit and the ball strikes him, falls, takes a bound to the side and rolls away.
"A fumble", shriek ten thousand throats. Like a shot, through the rush of men one of our ends tears in, dives for the ball, rolling over and over. He grasps it in both arms and tries to regain his feet for a run to the opponents' goal, but there is a man who throws himself at him and flattens him to earth again. It is our ball, however, but 15 yards from the goal, and a touchdown almost within our grasp. Can the team make it?
Percy Field, Cornell, 1904.
Almost before the enemy's eleven has recovered from the consternation into which the fumble has thrown it, our men sweep them off their feet again. Straight through the center tears our full back for six yards on the first down. Our left half turns three yards more around their end. We have them on the run and our wise little captain knows it. Through the line the full back again plows his furrow, and when he is stopped there is but a yard left to go. Once more the full back is called on but this time the desperate foe is waiting for him and he fails. An attempt at an end run is also thrown back by our plucky foe. It is do or die this time. There is a feint of two or three men at one end, the enemy's defense is drawn away from the center, and once more the full back, with but two men helping him this time, assaults this position.
The play is in plain sight of every spectator except those directly in front of it. Thousands of people give a mighty shove as if to help the runner. He goes through, he keeps going. He falls over the line. It is a touchdown, the regular method of scoring, and the scene in the stands and bleachers beggars description. The undergraduates cheer and do it in defiance of the yell masters who vainly try to infuse into the demonstration some of the system which has been so prominent up to this time. Women shriek, men of middle age throw their hats high in air and forget what directions the headgear take. It is simply pandemonium.
But the referee pulls off the men, and our captain, with a chosen player, accurate in kicking ability, walks out in direct line with where the ball was carried across the goal line. The touchdown has scored us five points. If a goal can be secured by a place-kick, one more point will be added. About 25 yards from the line, almost in front of the goal, the little captain stretches himself prostrate, holding the ball at arm's length a scant inch above the ground. The opponents line up on their goal line. The kicker measures his distance. With an almost imperceptible motion the ball is lowered to the ground, the foot meets it and the opposing ranks rush forward to block the kick. Squarely over the bar and between the posts sails the ball. The score is 6 to 0.
But there is no rest for the players and, having changed goals, they speedily line up for another kick-off. This time it is the opponents who have the chance to start the play, and our men scatter themselves over their half of the field to handle the kick-off. The kick is made and caught and the runner is downed.
The pride of the home university again carry the ball toward the opponents' goal.
But this time the entire length of the field stretches out before them. These visitors have gotten over their panic and are playing the game. A punt is necessary at our 35-yard line and the enemy's little quarter catches truly and circles wide. Watch him, for he is fleet of foot and a famous dodger. One of our ends makes a dive for him with outstretched arms, but grasps nothing but empty air. Clear back to the line of scrimmage he twists, dodges and runs through that open field. From far down near his own goal our full back rushes to intercept him. It is the last chance for a tackle. Right down the edge of the field tears the runner with the ball. There is no room to dodge this time without carrying the ball out of bounds. A clutch follows the dive and the man with the ball rolls over the sideline, stopped, but only after a 40-yard run that is destined to be chronicled as the feature play of the game.
If you are an old habitué of the football bleachers, my friend, you have found a moment in which to take your glance away from that flying runner to the section across the field where his friends are herded, comparatively quiet through all the play that has come before. The glance is well worth the reward. The moments while that runner was tearing down the field were sweet ones over there. Still as the Pacific on a calm day, the dark-hued banners had rested, streamers down, through the gloom that had preced ed. The change is something wonderful. A volcano suddenly sprung into activity could not seeth or roar like that. It is their first chance and how they are making the most of it. But we return their cheer for their runner, with one for the man who made the tackle and saved an almost certain touchdown, then settling our eyes on the visitors' eleven to see what they will do now within striking distance of our goal.
Thirty yards from our goal line the visitors walk back into the field, the referee pacing off 15 yards toward the middle where the teams line up again. Can we hold them?
A half back rushes straight for our goal from his position on the side nearer the center of the field, but is thrown for a gain so slight as to be practically nothing. A wide circling run places the ball squarely in mid-field but no closer to the goal line. It is the third down and the cheers for the plucky defense are deafening. They cannot rush our line; so much is certain, yet there is something else which they may accomplish.
The enemy forms for a drop kick. Back from the center comes the ball, squarely into the hands of the full back, well behind his line. Clear to the ground in front of him the kicker drops the ball, as he swings his foot, while our warriors charge through in a vain endeavor to block the kick. The ball strikes the ground, the foot meets it with a steady swing and the oval rises high, spinning like a top. On it floats, perfectly in line with its desired course. It clears the bar with a foot or two to spare and again the visitors split their throats, while the thousands about us are silent. It has scored four points for the enemy,