A One-Man Team

“Two thirty today, boys,” announced the Coach. “How many can be there?”

“I have a class till three,” said Dickie.

“Me too,” said big Wickham.

“Cut ’em if you can,” said the Coach. “If you can’t, hustle out as soon as you’re through. We don’t get any too much daylight.”

Monday lunch at the training-table was over. The squad, chatting noisily, dispersed to afternoon tasks. The Coach and his three aids remained seated, for there were things to talk over.

It was the final week of the season, and the Doane game loomed large ahead. Harris had scouted the big rival school’s battle with Monroe on the preceding Saturday, and the others waited for him to offer his report.

“It’s a one-man team, Coach, just as Wallace and Dana told us,” he said. “Just take Davis out of their backfield, and they couldn’t score on the North Side Y.M.C.A.”

“Yes,” said the Coach, “but who’s going to ‘just take Davis out of their backfield?’ ”

“Well,” said Wallace, “you oughtn’t to be afraid of these one-man outfits after what you did to Monroe and Benjamin. Benjamin was their whole team, and what did he do against us? He might as well have been muzzled and on a leash. If he got away with anything, it was between halves.”

“There’s a difference between Monroe and Doane,” put in Dana. “All those Monroe coaches know about working up an attack, you could put on a souvenir postcard and mail it anywhere for one cent. Benjamin didn’t have as much protection as a kewpie. There was nothing for him to work with. I’m not trying to take away any credit from Coach, but I never saw a team give less help to a star than Monroe gave to Benjamin. It will be another thing again with Doane. They’ll have stuff built up round Davis that they didn’t show when we were watching them. Smith’s no fool.”

“I didn’t say he was,” retorted Harris. “He’s a good, smart coach and can construct as shifty an attack as you’d want to see. I don’t claim he cut loose with everything he had, for my benefit. But you know as well as I do that ninety percent of his offense is Davis. And you know Coach’s reputation for making a monkey out of that kind of an offense.” He smiled at his chief. “You deserve the rep’, don’t you?”

The Coach smiled back.

“I guess I do,” he said. “I guess Pelham and Marshall will admit that I do. Either one or the other of them had a one-man team the last three years I was at Leighton, and in those three years I didn’t lose a game. One year, Marshall had Kirby. Another year, Pelham’s whole attack was built round a big kid named Hostetter, a plunger. And the third year, it was Marshall again, with Flynn.”

“Was that the kicker?” asked Wallace.

“That was the kicker, and he was the best I ever saw. Their stunt was to let him punt on first downs when the ball was within thirty-five or forty yards of their own goal. They depended on him to gain in the exchanges till they got into the other side’s territory. Then they had a few plays that were to carry them up to where he could dropkick. He might have been harder to beat if I hadn’t had a pair of ends whose middle name was Block, and a quarterback who didn’t know how to drop a punt.

“Another thing in my favor was that Flynn was a frail kid and they were afraid to let him carry the ball. So they couldn’t fake much with him.

“Well, sir, I never saw such an exhibition of distance kicking as he gave against us⁠—and I never saw punts run back as far as we ran them. I had two men, instead of one, to protect my quarter on his catches, and I had my ends lay back about fifteen yards and take the first fellows that came to them. My quarter ran seventy yards for a touchdown after one catch, and he carried another to within easy plunging distance of their goal. And Flynn never got close enough to our end of the field to see the posts.

“The year Pelham had Hostetter, I played my secondary defense so close up that he really had to plunge through two lines instead of one⁠—though he didn’t plunge through either. But he was all they had, and they kept trying him, even when the whole crowd was yelling at them to let up on their star before he was killed. He’d plunged Pelham to victory on seven successive Saturdays, but he did most of his plunging toward his own goal when he ran up against us.

“Then there was the year that Marshall had Kirby. He was a boy a good deal on the Davis order; he could run and dodge, and he could pass as far as most people can kick. Well, I had a live center, that season, and two good defensive backs. I picked those three to stop Kirby, and they went into the game with orders to watch him and pay no attention to anyone else. Say, I’ll give you a hundred dollars for every yard Kirby gained, either passing or running.

“I’m tickled to death when I hear there’s one big, individual star on a team we’ve got to play. That’s my favorite dish, a one-man team.”

“Well, then,” said Harris, “you’ll enjoy a hearty meal when we play Doane.”

“And it’s a cinch,” said Wallace, “that Davis will get more work next Saturday than he ever did in his life. He’s captain, and it’s his last game.”

“If my boys play as I tell them,” said the Coach, “he’ll be glad it is his last game.”

“What did you think of their left halfback, Byron?” asked Dana, turning to Harris.

“Byron looks as if he ought to play football,” Harris replied. “He certainly is big and strong enough. I wish we had him. We could put him to work. But all they use him for is protecting Davis on his passes and runs. I bet we’ll hear more of him next year. If he can do other stuff as well as he blocks, he’ll be a whale.”

“He can block his head off against us if he wants to,” said the Coach. “I’m not going to bother Davis on his passes. I’m going to let him throw that ball just as far as he can. But when he throws it, one of my men will catch it or else it won’t be caught. And when he runs, he’ll run into more tacklers than he ever thought were on one football team.”

“Where are they coming from?” asked Dana.

“Out of my line,” said the Coach. “When you’re playing a man who never does anything but forward pass or sweep round the ends, what’s the use of sticking to an old army defense? We know that Davis is practically their entire attack, and we know what he can do. One of the things he can’t do is plunge. So I don’t see any sense in keeping my linemen nailed to one spot. I’m going to play everybody loose, and I’m going to tell every man on the team that if he doesn’t tackle Davis at least twice, he won’t get his letter. You’ll see what looks like the craziest defense ever pulled, but it’ll do the business.”

“Those Doane ends must be basketball players,” said Harris. “They don’t miss that old ball once in ten times.”

“When they get close to it,” said the Coach. “But I’m going to see that they don’t get close to it.”

On Thursday night the Coach had a frightful dream. He dreamed that his team was playing Doane. Davis received the ball on the kickoff and ran to midfield before he was thrown. Then, in utter disregard of his teaching, his boys lined up in a defensive formation that might have been designed to stop the old “guards back” play. Taking quick advantage, Davis shot a forward pass thirty yards down the field, and one of his basketball-trained ends, catching it, raced the rest of the way to a touchdown.

The Coach cried out in his sleep. His words might have been part of a prayer, save for the volume of voice he put into them.

He awoke trembling and slept but fitfully the rest of the night. In the morning he was the first man at the training-table, and his waiter, who was specializing in archeology and considered football a criminal waste of time, had to feign interest in the story of a nightmare that he neither understood nor cared to understand.

The Coach was just finishing his second cup of coffee when big Wickham and four of his fellow regulars came in.

“Good morning, Coach,” said Wickham.

“Good morning, Wickham,” his mentor replied. “What do you do when you see Davis get the ball?”

“I leave my position and run out to one side,” said Wickham.

“What side?”

“The side I think he’s going to run to.”

“What do you do when you get out there?”

“I tackle him.”

“Whom do you watch besides Davis?”

“Nobody.”

The Coach ordered more coffee.

“How about you, Robbins?” he asked. “What’s your job?”

“I’m going to watch Davis,” said the boy addressed.

“There’ll be thirty thousand doing that,” said the Coach. “Aren’t you going to do anything else?”

“I’m going to stop him,” said Robbins.

“What are you going to do when he shoots a pass?”

“Block an end.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Yes sir.”

The table was filled when the Coach again recounted his dream.

“It was just a dream and a bad one,” he said. “If it should come true, how many of you Varsity men would get your letters?” He paused for a reply, but his audience seemed stricken dumb. “Not a one of you,” he went on. “If Davis gets away with one good pass, the man responsible for it will come out of that game quicker than if he broke his neck. You, Barrows! What’s Doane’s captain’s name?”

“Davis,” replied a picture of health.

“How many times are you going to get him?”

“At least twice, if I live,” said Barrows.

“Is he going to dodge you?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“You’d better help it. There’s a couple of good men hustling for your place.”

The couple of good men tried not to look it.

“Classes or no classes,” said the Coach, “I expect everybody out on the field at two o’clock. I won’t keep you long. And remember, we’re leaving at four thirty. I may not be able to get here for lunch. If I’m not here, you can practice this song.” The Coach’s raucous voice filled the room:

Hang Doane’s Davis on a sour-apple tree,
Hang Doane’s Davis on a sour-apple tree,
Hang Doane’s Davis on a sour-apple tree,
As we go marching on.

His three assistants joined in the chorus.

“There, boys,” said the Coach when the song was over and the applause had died out, “you see we don’t have to teach football for a living. We’re in the game because we like it. Whether we keep on liking it or not depends on what you do to Davis on Saturday. Now remember! Two o’clock at the field, and the station at four thirty.”

Thirty pairs of eyes followed him to the door.

“The old man’s full of pep,” observed Harris. “He thinks we’ve got Davis stopped.”

“Well,” said Wallace, “I think we have, too.”

Barrows rose from the other end of the table and started out.

“You, Barrows!” shouted big Wickham. “What are you going to do Saturday?”

Barrows paused and burst into song.

Hang Doane’s Davis on a sour-apple tree!

And if it hadn’t been such a disrespectful thing to do, one might have supposed, from the tone of his voice, that he was mimicking the Coach.

“ ‘The career of the greatest football player Doane ever had will end with tomorrow’s game. Davis’ record has never been approached by another wearer of the D. In his three years of competition for the Varsity, he has scored at least one touchdown against every opponent. Will he cross the Blue and White goal-line tomorrow and keep his record? All Doane believes he will.’ ”

Harris was reading aloud from the Doane Daily. He and the Coach, having sent their charges to bed in Doane’s new fireproof hotel, lounged in the lobby, knowing that for themselves a good night’s sleep was impossible.

“It’s an even bet,” remarked the Coach, “that all Doane is wrong.”

“ ‘Coach Belden of the visitors,’ ” Harris read on, “has the reputation of being a wonderful architect of defenses designed to stop one man, but Doane will stake all its worldly goods on Davis’ ability to gain against any defense. Belden has had his scouts in the stand at all of Doane’s games this year, and undoubtedly he knows just where Davis is strong. But the coaches of other teams have been as well informed, and with what result? Davis has invariably made good against all opponents.’ ”

“And that,” said the Coach, “is because the coaches of other teams have been afraid to take a chance.”

“ ‘A defense to foil the Doane captain,’ ” Harris read, “ ‘is extremely difficult of construction. If his running game is checked, he is still certain to get away with some of those long forward passes that worked so effectively last Saturday. In one way or another, despite the best-laid plans of the wily Belden, Davis will gain ground, yards and yards of it.’ ”

“They’re nothing if not chesty,” remarked the Coach.

“ ‘Captain Davis was not present at last night’s mass-meeting in Crilly Hall. But wherever he was, he must have heard the wild cheering with which every mention of his name was greeted.

“ ‘Speeches were made by other members of the team and by Coach Smith. The latter talked with much more confidence than is his custom. He expressed the belief that Davis, playing his last game, would extend himself to the limit and that if he did, all the defenses in the world would be powerless to stop him.’ ”

“We shall see,” said the Coach.

Harris tossed the paper aside.

“I think I’ll turn in,” he said. “You’d better, too.”

“What’s the use?” said the Coach. “It’s only two o’clock.”

Harris bade his chief good night. The latter picked up the Daily and stared for some moments at its three-column picture of Doane’s brilliant captain.

“You may be a whale,” he said aloud, “but if I don’t stop you, I’ll quit coaching.”

On the walk in front of the hotel, five Doane students⁠—with the accent on the first syllable⁠—paused in their uncertain journey homeward long enough to give their weary throats a final workout.

Yea, Davis! Yea, Davis! Yea, Davis!
Doane! Doane! Doane!
Yea!

“They’ve got it on me,” said the Coach to himself. “When they do get to bed, they’ll sleep.”

It must be recorded that the Coach slept too. From four till six he slept, and again he dreamed of Davis. But this time the dream was pleasant. Doane’s star, his passes intercepted time after time and himself tackled by full eleven men and thrown for repeated losses, at last led his team off the field, hopeless and disgusted.

“One thing more, boys,” said the Coach. “I’m responsible for this defense, and if it isn’t the right one, I’ll take the blame. All I ask you to do is play it, play it as I’ve taught it to you. Remember, it’s his last chance to shine, and he’ll want to do all the shining. Forget everybody else and go after Davis. Now get him! Get him! Get him!”

The squad raced out of the dressing-room onto the field. From ten thousand throats came a welcoming cheer. Ten thousand voices chanted the Varsity hymn, trailing not more than a beat or two behind the accompaniment of the Blue and White band.

The team lined up and hurried through a few simple formations⁠—formations learned for exhibition purposes only.

The band started another tune. Someone had introduced the Coach’s parody to the crowd.

“Hang Doane’s Davis on a sour-apple tree,” sang the Blue and White rooters, and the Doane section smiled its appreciation.

But now the song was drowned in a flood of riotous cheers. Davis had arrived, Davis and the ten men who were to help him stage a fitting climax for his career of glory.

Yea, Davis! Yea, Davis! Yea, Davis!
Doane! Doane! Doane!
Yea!

The Coach and Harris, on the sidelines, observed closely Doane’s practice formation. Davis stood back in the kicker’s position. Byron and the other halfback, Moxey, were three or four yards behind the tackles. The quarter crouched behind his center, hands outstretched. The ball was passed to him. He tossed it to Byron, and the team jogged forward as in a simple line play.

“They’re not fooling anybody with that,” said the Coach.

“That’s their regular formation for Davis’ stuff,” said Harris. “The ball usually goes straight back to him, and the halfbacks are there to block.”

The referee called the rival captains to the center of the field. The Blue and White leader made his guess as the coin spun in the air. The guess was wrong.

“They get the north goal and that little breeze,” said the Coach. “We can try out that defense right away.”

The ball was kicked off short, and a Doane tackle caught it. He was thrown almost in his tracks.

“Now,” said the Coach, “we’ll see what Davis can do against a bunch that’s ready for him.”

Doane’s team lined up for scrimmage, against the most open defense that had ever been seen on that field.

“Lord!” said Dana on the bench.

“They could drive a truck through that hole in our middle.”

“But they have no truck,” replied Wallace.

Doane’s quarterback called three numbers. Back came the ball, not to Davis, but to the quarter himself. Straight through the big gap in the center of the line he sped. But a Blue and White guard managed to throw him off his balance, and his gain was only four yards.

“They’re trying to draw us in,” said the Coach. “Fine chance!”

Again the teams lined up, and again Davis took his station on the spot whence passes and kicks are sent away. His ends, the basketball players, were far out. His halfbacks stood where they could block an aggressive lineman and give their star a chance to do whatever was in his mind. But the play was a duplicate of the first. This time, however, the quarter tripped himself before he’d gone a yard.

“I should think that’d be enough bluffing,” said Harris.

“You can bet your pile it’ll be Davis this time,” said the Coach.

Barrows, from his position far down the field, yelled a warning to his fellows:

“Watch him this time! Watch a pass!”

Doane’s formation was slightly different on this, the third lineup. Davis stayed back, and the ends remained far out, but Byron moved over behind Moxey, the other halfback, in a sort of tandem. And as the signals were called, Davis shifted a little toward the side the two halfbacks were on.

“He’ll throw to that other side,” said the Coach.

He had hardly finished speaking when the ball was passed⁠—passed to Byron. Through the open gate between the Blue and White’s right tackle and guard drove the tandem. Down the field they romped, Moxey brushing aside the only member of Coach Belden’s secondary line who was not too much surprised to move.

Barrows made a desperate effort to nail the man with the ball, but Moxey floored him. Byron was across the line for a touchdown, and the game was hardly a minute old.

“Yea, Byron! Yea, Byron!” yelled the Doane stands.

And “Yea, Davis!” as Doane’s captain added a point with a perfect kick.

Dana hurried to his chief’s side.

“Better close in a little,” he advised. “They’ll go through our line for fifty touchdowns if we play that defense.”

“No,” said the Coach. ‘What they want us to do is close in and give Davis a chance. That score surprised them as much as it did us. They were trying to scare us into tightening up, and they just happened to score in the attempt. My center can stop that plunger from going too far, and I don’t care, if he gains only two or three yards at a clip. They’ll never keep that game up when they’ve got a man like Davis to work the other, especially when he’s captain and this is his last appearance. I’m going to stand pat for a while, at least.”

Once more the Blue and White kicked off, and once more Doane started out with their quarter-through-center play. But the Blue and White center, big Wickham, knew enough by this time to dive in when he saw where the play was headed; and in two tries Doane’s gain was less than three yards.

“Now I guess they’ll open up,” said the Coach.

But with everybody expecting a direct pass to Davis, the ball was snapped again to the quarter and shot sideways by that young man to the waiting Byron. Straight ahead he plunged, for nine yards and a first down.

“That’s enough,” said the Coach. “That little game will stop right here.”

He beckoned to Ainslee, a sub.

“Go in for Hayes,” he said. “Tell those fellows to close up. Tell them to stay closed up till they actually see the ball in Davis’ hands. When they do, they can spread out fast and stop him. They’ll have to keep their eyes open and step lively.”

The quarterback had gone through for another yard or so before Ainslee delivered his message. Then, when they saw the Blue and White defense tighten up, the Doane backs held a council of war while one of their guards played dead.

“With us bunched like that,” said Harris, “Davis will throw it a mile.”

“I can’t help it,” said the Coach. “I’ve got to take the chance.”

The consultation was over. Doane’s quarterback began shouting his numbers. Doane’s ends ran far out, and the Blue and White ends went with them. Moxey and Byron again lined up tandem, behind a tackle.

“My holes are plugged now,” said the Coach. “They can’t gain with that. They won’t try. It’ll be Davis this time, sure.”

But it wasn’t. The quarter took the pass and started to the left as if to sweep the Blue and White right end. Then, as a tackle was about to grasp him, he shot a lateral pass to Byron, who had dug for the sideline as the ball was snapped. The Doane left end smothered his adversary. Moxey dashed down the field unchallenged and put a defensive halfback out of it. Byron, running alone and so close to the boundary that the Doane substitutes could almost have reached out and touched him, had only Barrows between him and another score.

“Chase him out! Chase him out!” shrieked the Coach and his aids in chorus.

But Byron, safe from rear pursuit, had left the sideline and wass heading straight for the posts. And Barrows, not yet over the shock of the last touchdown, allowed himself to be dodged as cleanly as ever man was.

Davis kicked another easy goal while the stands shook with cheers for old Doane.

“Licked fourteen to nothing,” said the Coach. “Licked before we’ve even had a feel of the ball.”

“We’re not licked yet,” said Harris.

“Don’t kid yourself,” said the Coach. “You know how they’ll fight with that lead. And it’ll take our bunch the rest of the half to recover. Davis can punt on first downs from now on, and still trim us.”

Well, Doane proceeded to punt on first downs, but it was Moxey who did it, not Davis. And Moxey’s punting was as much of a revelation as Byron’s running had been. How those ends did cover his kicks, too! They were shaking hands with Barrows before ever the ball came down, and they worried him so that along in the second period he made a square muff and gave them their third and last touchdown.

Between halves the Coach talked, as coaches will. But the Coach did not scold, because the Coach was a just coach.

“Boys,” he said, “they’ve made us look bad, and I’m taking most of the blame. I thought Davis was their football team, and I made you think the same thing. We paid entirely too much attention to him in practice. I thought if we stopped him, we had all the best of it. I thought they’d quit when they saw that he couldn’t get anywhere. But it seems they have two or three other fellows with speaking parts.

“But the game isn’t over yet, and you boys can still win by fighting. In this next quarter I want you to play the best football you know how, and to play just as if you’d never heard of Davis or anybody else on their team. Forget everything except that we’re behind and must catch up. They’ve had the luck so far, but it’s time for it to break our way. Give them everything you’ve got, and remember some of you are playing your last game. There’s no reason to hold back anything. It’s mostly my fault if you lose. If you win, the credit’s all yours. Now go to it!”

And his men went to it, with spirit and fight, which are better than almost anything except twenty-one points and a team full of confidence. They fought and they fought, and their reward was seven points, just one-third of what Doane had.

There was no problem of defense for the Blue and White to solve in the second half. Whenever Doane got the ball, it was kick, kick, kick. Four times did Coach Belden’s braves push the oval up to the shadow of Doane’s goal, and three times they were stopped just short of a score. Three times Moxey’s good right foot shot the ball back over acres of ground that Belden’s team had fought, yard by yard, to gain.

When the last quarter began, there was a substitute in Davis’ place.

“Their captain’s out,” said Harris.

The Coach did not reply at once. He was thinking.

And in the dressing-room, when the game was history and his poor beaten boys had shed their armor and departed, he spoke.

“Didn’t you think it was funny?” he asked Dana.

“There was no laugh in it for me.”

“Queer, then, if you’d rather,” said the Coach.

“Well,” said Harris, “it was queer that we scouts couldn’t see anything to their team but Davis. How we overlooked Byron and Moxey and those ends is beyond me.”

“I won’t apologize for overlooking them,” said Dana. “When I saw Doane play, all the ends did was catch Davis’ throws, and all the halfbacks did was protect Davis. The information I gave Coach was absolutely correct.”

“All right,” said Harris, “and so was mine. When I scouted them, Davis was the only man besides the center and the ends who had his hands on the ball.”

“Yes,” said the Coach, “and how many times did Davis have his hands on the ball today?”

“Hardly at all,” said Harris.

“Not ‘hardly at all,’ ” said the Coach. “No ‘hardly’ about it. If you’ll look back through that game, you’ll see that Davis never touched the ball except with his foot, and then only when he was kicking goals from touchdowns.”

“By George, you’re right!” said Dana.

“You certainly are!” said Wallace.

“You bet I’m right,” said the Coach. “And that’s what was queer. Here’s a star player, the captain of the team, playing his last game of collegiate football. He can run like a deer, punt pretty well and pass better than anybody you ever saw. But in his final game he kicks three goals from touchdowns and stands there the rest of the afternoon as idle as a goalpost.”

“Smith’s even smarter than we figured him,” said Harris.

“He knew we’d be laying for Davis, and he crossed us,” said Dana.

“He surely did cross us, and I’ll admit that he deserves credit,” said the Coach. “But I don’t believe he’s as much of a strategist as all that. I’ve read a lot about Napoleon, but I don’t recall his ever having kept his best army in the stable during a big battle, just to fool the other side. And did Hughey Jennings ever order Ty Cobb to go up and take three strikes in an important game because the other club expected him to hit? Hardly! If Smith, all by his lonesome, could sit down and think of the scheme they worked on us today, he wouldn’t be coaching football teams. He’d be Thomas A. Edison’s boss.”

“Who helped him, do you s’pose?” asked Harris.

“I’ll know when I see Smith,” said the Coach. “And you bet I’m going to see him.”

The Coach found Smith in the café of Doane’s new fireproof hotel. It was several minutes before he could get him away from a crowd of wild Doane rooters, who could imagine no greater treat than to shake his hand.

“Here’s Belden!” they cried. “What do you think of Smith, Belden? Is he the best coach in America, or isn’t he?”

“He is,” said the Coach, “and I want a chance to tell him so privately.”

So the Coach led his triumphant rival to a table in the corner, as far as possible from the mad throng.

“I want to congratulate you, Smith,” said the Coach.

“Thanks,” said Smith.

“You completely outguessed me, Smith.”

“Thank you for saying so,” said Smith.

“I never heard of a stunt like that before, keeping your star idle when you knew we were primed for him⁠—not letting him handle the ball in his last game and then taking him out before the game was over. Why, I had a defense framed that would have made Davis look foolish, if you’d given it a chance. And how in the world did you ever keep two men like Moxey and Byron under cover so long?”

“To tell you the truth,” said Smith, “I didn’t know till last Wednesday that they could play football.”

“So it wasn’t till last Wednesday that you thought of this stunt?”

“That’s right,” said Smith.

“Now, Smith,” said the Coach, “I don’t want you to think I underestimate your ability. But did this idea originate in your own head? Did you get it up all alone?”

“No,” said Smith, “I didn’t. I had help.”

“Who helped you?”

“Old Lady Necessity, the mother of invention,” said Smith.

“What do you mean?” asked the Coach.

“You know, of course,” said Smith, “that Davis is right-handed.”

“What of it?” demanded the Coach.

“Well,” said Smith, “in scrimmage practice, last Tuesday night, Davis broke his right wrist.”