Chapter 1

Produced by Al Haines

[Transcriber's note: Extensive research found no evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

INTERFERENCE

AND OTHER FOOTBALL STORIES

BY

HAROLD M. SHERMAN

THE GOLDSMITH PUBLISHING COMPANY

CHICAGO

COPYRIGHT 1932 by

HAROLD M. SHERMAN

Made in U. S. A.

CONTENTS

Interference A Case of Nerves The Bright Token "Butter Fingers" For the Glory of the Coach

INTERFERENCE

"Can I see you a minute, Coach?"

"Yes, Mack. Come in."

Mack Carver, substitute back on Grinnell University's varsity squad, stepped across the threshold of Coach Edward's office. He carried his one hundred and eighty-seven pounds easily and with an athletic swagger. But he scowled as he entered, indicating that his call was about an unpleasant matter.

"Well, boy--what's on your mind?" smiled the Coach, straightening up from a mass of papers which contained diagrams of the plays Grinnell was to use in her season's big game against Pomeroy, now less than a week away.

"Plenty!" was Mack's bluntly grim answer. He stood now, facing his coach, across the desk.

Coach Edward's smile faded as he met Mack's challenging glance.

"I want to know why I've been kept so much of the time on the bench?" the substitute back fired, point blank.

"Because," answered Coach Edward, evenly, "there were eleven better men on the field. That's ordinarily the only reason any man's kept on the bench."

"I don't believe it," retorted Mack, feelingly. "You've had it in for me because my brother is coach at Pomeroy. That's the reason! And you'd like to be coach at Pomeroy yourself!"

Coach Edward drew in his breath, sharply. "Perhaps I would!" he said. "But that's a strict matter of business--nothing personal!"

"No?" flashed Mack. "You and brother Carl have been rivals for the last two years. You've been out to beat each other on the gridiron and now that you've turned out some cracking good teams with the smallest college in the State, you think you've got my brother on the run!"

"I'm tickled, naturally," admitted the coach. "Wouldn't _you_ be? Don't you suppose your brother enjoys his triumphs over _me_? ... It's all in a spirit of good sportsmanship!"

"That part of it may be all right," conceded Mack, "but you feel strong enough against my brother, just the same, to not want to give _me_ a break!"

"That's bunk!" branded Coach Edward. "But there's one thing I've always wanted to know ... why is it you quit Pomeroy after two years and came to Grinnell?"

"That's an easy one to answer. I discovered I could never hope to make the team that my brother was coaching. He was bending over backward to keep from showing me any favors. When I found that out, I figured I'd better save him from any further embarrassment and give myself a fair chance by changing schools. That's why I came to Grinnell!"

"But why Grinnell--Pomeroy's bitterest rival? Of all the schools you might have picked...!"

Mack grinned, sardonically. "My brother didn't think I'd ever make a good football player. I'd hoped to be able to show him."

"That's just your greatest fault," spoke the coach, frankly. "You want the limelight every move you make. You're wondering all the time if everyone's looking at you ... and it's hurting your game. No good player can be thinking of starring and playing at the same time."

Mack stared hard for a moment.

"You've got me wrong," he said, slowly. "I naturally want to do the best I know how. And maybe I've looked to you like I wanted to attract attention. If I have, it's only because I hoped _you'd_ take a shine to what I was doing. The spectators didn't matter."

"You didn't need to worry about me," the coach replied. "It's my business to keep tab on each man on the squad. I'm sorry if you feel I've legislated against you but you force me to say that, up to the present, I'm inclined to agree with your brother."

"You will excuse me a minute?" requested the Coach, on observing that Mack had no comment to make for the moment, "I've an air mail letter I must post at once."

"Okay," Mack assented,, and sank disconsolately in a chair beside the desk as Coach Edward strode from the room, envelope in hand.

"This is a swell fix I'm in," Mack bemoaned, with the Coach having gone. "Talk about being hoodooed! How should _I_ know that Coach Edward would ever be out after my brother's coaching job? I'll bet you every time Coach sees me he thinks of my brother and that kills my chances. But I was good enough so he had to make me a sub anyhow." Mack's gaze suddenly fell upon Coach Edward's pile of papers. Diagrams of football plays caught his eye. He leaned forward that he might see them better, then gave a glance toward the door and arose from his chair. "Hello! Pretty nice!... Maybe my brother wouldn't give a lot to have a copy of all these plays!... He's probably had his scouts covering Grinnell games ... but here's some plays we haven't used all season. Boy--that lateral pass opening out into a forward is a pip!... Coach Edward's been saving the fireworks to shoot on Pomeroy all right!... Guess he'd give his left ear to beat my brother's team this year. Huh! I'd give my right ear to get in the game!"

Impelled by curiosity, Mack lifted some of the papers and studied other diagrammed plays. He became more engrossed than he had intended when he was seized with the uncomfortable feeling that someone else was in the room.

"Well?" spoke Coach Edward, standing quietly just inside the door.

"Oh! I ... er ... a ...!" stammered Mack, badly fussed. "Pardon me!... I saw these plays here and I...!"

"... and you thought you'd get them _memorized_," said the Coach, bitingly.

"No, sir!" flashed Mack, stung at the insinuation. "I was just interested. I...!"

There was nothing further that he could say. It dawned on him in that moment that his relationship to the coach of Pomeroy's eleven was apt to cause many actions of his to be misconstrued. He would have to be more careful. Coach Edward was even now regarding him suspiciously.

"I hope, Mack, that I can trust you," he was saying.

"You sure can," Grinnell's disgruntled substitute answered, inwardly resenting the suggestion that he might use such information as he had gleaned against his school.

"I am surprised," Coach Edward finished, "that you would have permitted yourself to examine anything on my desk."

"I'm sorry, sir," Mack apologized, realizing that the Coach had reason for complaining. "But I wouldn't think of passing anything on to anyone else."

"It wouldn't be exactly wise," said Coach Edward as the two stood face to face.

Mack, who had toiled so long in the hopes of becoming a varsity regular and whose disappointment had finally assumed proportions of a grudge against his Coach, now made one final appeal.

"Coach, everything I do seems to be wrong. I can't get over the feeling that you don't like me. I swear I didn't mean anything by looking at those plays ... but you've an idea that I did. As for my being on the team and not getting a real chance to play--there must be some reason ... some big reason, if it's not prejudice. Whatever that reason is--I want to know it."

"That's what you _say_," rejoined Coach Edward. "But you're the sort, Mack, who won't be told. You're proving that fact right now even though you claim you want to know what's wrong. I've done the best I could for you on what you've shown me... I'm not in the habit of arguing or discussing a player's merits or demerits with him off the field so I'll have to ask you to consider this interview at an end."

"Okay!" rasped Mack, his pride deeply wounded and his feelings running away with him. Turning on his heel, he strode to the door, but whirled impulsively to throw back an angry taunt: "And here's hoping you get trimmed by Pomeroy!"

"Thank you," replied Coach Edward, icily. "I might have expected just such a remark from you."

And a very unhappy youth, leaving the Coach's presence with a wave of remorse sweeping over him, knew that now he most certainly had sealed his doom. He could hardly expect to be given an opportunity of playing in the Pomeroy game after this.

Grinnell's football schedule was so arranged that the Pomeroy game was always the last of the year. This permitted the small college eleven to throw its complete strength against an ordinarily more powerful team in the annual hope of creating an upset. For Pomeroy, the Grinnell contest had customarily been booked as a "breather" between big games. There had been little disposition in previous years, as a consequence, to take Grinnell's opposition too seriously. Thus, most of the excitement and enthusiasm had been provided by wide-eyed Grinnell supporters who had hypnotized themselves almost to the point of believing that the impossible was about to happen--a Grinnell victory! That these loyal rooters had been disappointed as regularly as the annual conflicts arrived, did not seem to dampen the ardor of the next season's support. "Hope springs eternal" was the trite but simple explanation offered by certain zealous followers who steadfastly refused to concede Pomeroy's vaunted superiority. Coach Edward's advent at Grinnell had served to heighten the interest when the small college had held Pomeroy to a 20 to 7 count the first year of his mentorship. Things commenced looking decidedly up as Grinnell, under the new coaching regime, came back the following fall with even more stubborn opposition, losing to Pomeroy in the last quarter, 13 to 7. No longer could Pomeroy consider the smaller college a set-up and this alone was sufficient for Grinnell supporters to claim a "moral victory." But even bigger things were expected this season--Grinnell's first undefeated eleven going into its major contest against a Pomeroy team which was fighting hard to sustain its prestige of former years.

Secret practice sessions were announced by Coach Edward the final week before the Pomeroy game, adding an air of mystery and high tension to an already pulsating feeling of suspense.

"Coach has a genius for inventing new plays," Frank Meade, left half, remarked to Mack Carver as the two dressed for practice on Tuesday afternoon. "Don't you think?"

"He figures out some good ones all right," Mack admitted.

"I'll say he does!" echoed Frank, with enthusiasm. "That one he taught us last night--a forward pass breaking out of that lateral!"

Mack's face colored. He was too familiar with this play from having seen it in diagram form on the Coach's desk.

"Yes," he mumbled. "That's a peach."

"If it's properly executed," Frank went on, "it should be good for a touchdown."

"Absolutely," Mack agreed, bending down and fingering with his shoe laces.

"Of course the right half has to block off any tacklers who may be trying to get through at the man with the ball," Frank continued. "The ball carrier's got to be given plenty of chance after taking the lateral to spot a receiver for the forward. If he can do this--the play ought to be a wow."

"I'd like to be in there on that play," Mack said, impulsively.

Frank laughed. "You may get the call yet. Anything can happen in this game!"

"Yeah?" retorted Mack, sarcastically. "All I've gotten so far is slivers in the seat of my pants from sitting on the bench. I'm getting tired of being shoved in for a couple minutes before the end of the half to give you birds a chance to get under the showers and take a rub-down before the second half opens. And then rushing in after the game's in the bag to hold 'em for dear old Grinnell. There's no kick in that."

"But somebody has to do it," returned Frank, regarding Mack, curiously. "I did that the last two years before they put me to work as a regular."

"Yes, but this is my _third_ year," rejoined Mack. "At that rate, if I'm any good, I ought to be out there with you, too."

"You're playing in hard luck," Frank replied, pulling on his sweater. "Grinnell has the best material she's ever had and the regulars are so good that even good substitutes don't have the chance they might have." He made a little bow, winking mischievously. "Of course, I'm excluding myself. I'm rotten!"

Mack forced a grin. This whole situation was too serious to him to be taken lightly. "Yes," he retorted. "I'd probably be a regular if I was as rotten as you are!"

"Cheer up!" chuckled Frank, slapping Mack on the back. "Maybe some day--you _will_ be!"

"I won't unless Coach gives me a better break," said Mack, a bit bitterly. "I've played in enough games to get my letter but it hasn't meant anything ... an average of five minutes a game. Even at that--don't you think I'm as good a back as Dave Morgan?"

Mack bit his lips as he asked the question. It was perhaps unfair to so embarrass Frank but Grinnell's substitute back was tempted to "fish" for compliments as a defensive gesture against Coach Edward's analysis of his ability. Should Frank agree that there was very little difference, in his opinion, between Dave and himself, Mack felt that this alone might prove the Coach to be biased.

"You--as good a back as Dave?" repeated Frank, cagily. "Well, I'd be a hard one to answer that. Dave happens to team together with me just about perfectly. He's cleared the way for most of my long runs, as you know."

"Probably I could have done that, too," Mack argued. "But I've never been put in the game when you were in. I've gone in with the second string backfield. We don't have an open field runner in that crowd who can get away like you can."

"Thank heaven for that!" grinned Frank. "Say--you've asked _me_ a question. Now let me ask _you_ one. Since your brother is coach of Pomeroy you ought to know something about our chances for beating them this year. What do you think? Are we going to break the jinx?"

Mack hesitated. Frank, who had raised his voice to command the attention of fellow teammates, was enjoying Mack's discomfiture.

"That's what I call putting a fellow on the spot," sympathized Dave Morgan, sauntering up. "If you can't think of a good answer, Mack--I suggest the old reliable 'yes and no'."

Fellow team members laughed.

"Hey, Mack!" called fullback Steve Hilliard. "Isn't your brother handicapped with poor material this year? His team's not done so well ... sort of an in and out eleven ... one Saturday looking like a world beater ... the next Saturday looking like a bunch of dubs. What's the low-down?"

"You fellows know as much about it as I do," replied Mack, reluctant to venture a comment. "For one thing, I think my brother's team has played the stiffest schedule in their history ... and he's had trouble keeping them at their peak every game. But Pomeroy's liable to make plenty of trouble for us--as usual."

"Meaning you think we still can't take them over?" pressed Frank, jovially.

"We'll have to go some!" was Mack's well guarded opinion.

"Which leaves us just where we were before," summarized Frank. "Too bad, guys! Here we've got a man--the actual brother of Pomeroy's coach--and he can't give us a better inside on what to expect. Was for two years on the squad, too!... I was hoping he could tell us all of Pomeroy's weaknesses and what his brother might be having up his sleeve. But now it begins to look like 'no soap'!"

"Don't you even know his standard plays?" joshed Steve. "If you know the formations, you might tip us off so we could shift to meet them."

"I'd have to be in the line-up to do that," said Mack. "Each play would have to be diagnosed. Even then I wouldn't want to do it."

"Why not?"

"Wouldn't seem hardly fair--taking advantage of what I know about my brother's plays ... or system."

"All's fair in love and football," kidded Steve. "Shouldn't think that would make any diff. Your brother has scouts out, trying to discover what he can about us. Our coach has scouts giving your brother's team the once-over. So there you have it! Fellows have changed colleges before. You're entitled to bring what you know about football at Pomeroy to Grinnell. Why be close-mouthed about it?"

Mack shook his head decisively.

"As far as my football in Pomeroy is concerned," he gave answer, "it's a closed book. I'm here at Grinnell just as though I'd come here at the start. Of course I can't forget, with the Pomeroy game coming up, that my brother's coach of the team and that I'm really opposing him..."

"How do you feel about that?" Frank asked.

Mack drew in a deep breath as team members looked at him with intent interest.

"All right, boys!" broke in Coach Edward, entering the locker room. "Snap out of it! We're going to have our last scrimmage of the year tonight. Going to try out those new plays I ran you through yesterday. Let's go!"

The players, springing to their feet, jostled each other through the doorway onto the field, Mack joining with them, secretly glad of the coach's interruption. Inwardly he was in such a turbulent state that he didn't really know how he felt about the Pomeroy-Grinnell clash. He should be intensely loyal to Grinnell, without question ... but there were other factors crowding in. If to lose the Grinnell game actually meant the loss of his brother's coaching job ... it also meant the loss of his mother's support. Carl had been assuming this responsibility until he, Mack, could finish his schooling and help out. Under these circumstances, with Carl's position probably wavering in the balance due to an unsteady season and the demand of Pomeroy alumni for winning football, the outcome of the Grinnell game took on added if not painful significance. The situation was even beginning to take the edge off Mack's original desire to compete against his brother's team and show it up. There was always drama in the idea of brother against brother. Newspapers were already hinting at the possible conflict and would make much capital of the matter if it did come to a head. But Mack did not now relish the thought of being in any way instrumental in the loss of his brother's coaching job.

"I'm getting in more and more of a jam, it seems to me," he muttered, as he trotted out on the field. "Maybe I'd be better off if I quit this game entirely."

Opportunities often come when least expected. Coach Edward suddenly decided that he wished the regulars to face the strongest lineup he could possibly throw against them as a severe test of the new plays. As a result, Mack Carver found himself at right half on the Second Eleven which had been trained in Pomeroy plays.

"You've run through many of these Pomeroy plays yourself," Coach Edward said to him, "so we're depending on you to carry the brunt of the Second Team offensive and give us a good idea of what to expect next Saturday."

There was nothing in the coach's attitude to indicate a remembrance of the unpleasant interview between them. Mack's heart bounded at the thought that Coach Edward was recognizing him to this extent. Here was, at least, a chance to demonstrate what he could do in practice--much more of a chance than he had been given hitherto.

"I'll try to impersonate Dizzy Fox, Pomeroy's star right half," Mack told Alf Rigsbee, Second Team quarterback. "He's the man our fellows will have to look out for!"

"Okay, _Dizzy_!" grinned Alf. "You're going to be in for a busy afternoon!"

"And listen!" cried Mack, with more spirit than he had felt all season. "Let's give this Varsity bunch more than just a work-out!... If we all hang together, I think we can outscore 'em!"

"We can try!" volunteered Bob Hayes, fullback. "Seeing as how we've got some of you first team subs in here to help us!"

Coach Edward, assuming the role of referee, blew his whistle, signalling the two teams to take the field. It was to be the Varsity's kick-off.

Frank Meade, carefully toeing the ball, looked over the boys opposing him.

"Don't be too hard on us, you guys!" he joshed. "We're just learning the game!"

"Then we'll teach you a lesson this afternoon!" quarterback Alf Rigsbee called back to him. "We're out to _get_ you babies and we don't mind saying so!"

The threat brought howls of good-natured derision from the Varsity team members but the chiding ceased when, with Franks kicking off over the goal line and the ball being brought out to the Seconds' twenty yard line, Mack Carver made fifteen yards on the first play with one of his brother's clever wing back formations.

"I'll show Coach Edward whether I'm a ball carrier or not!" Mack told himself, highly flushed with his early success. "Call my number again!" he begged.

Quarterback Rigsbee shot him the ball a second time and Mack skated through tackle on a delayed wing back for seven yards.

"This Varsity isn't much!" kidded the Seconds' linesmen, elated at Mack's gains.

"Wait till we've solved these new plays and we'll stop you cold!" promised Bert Henley, Varsity quarterback.

But the Seconds were well drilled and Mack Carver, in particular, functioned remarkably well, skirting the ends and knifing through the line on plays with which he had long been familiar.

"Wonder what Coach thinks now?" he said to himself as the Seconds landed on the Varsity's ten yard line for a first down.

Mack found himself regretting that there were no student spectators and no newspaper reporters on the sidelines watching his performance. All such had been banned for this week of secret practice.

"Come on, gang! Let's stop this advance right here and now!" appealed Varsity quarterback Donner. "We've played with these little boys long enough!"

The Varsity had taken a time-out to get reorganized. The so-called Scrubs hadn't made things this interesting throughout the entire season.

"They'll be expecting another wing back," counselled Mack. "My brother had another good play you fellows haven't been taught. What do you say we try it?"

"No--we'd better stick to the plays that have been given us," replied quarterback Alf Rigsbee.

"It's simple," insisted Mack, "and we want this touchdown. Listen--you feint a pass behind the line to me and I shoot to my left like I've got the ball but the left half really gets it--only, after he does, he fades hack into the backfield and then throws a forward pass out to me. It's a grand scoring play. We ought to be able to work it without rehearsal and it should catch the Varsity flat-footed!"

Quarterback Rigsbee looked to his fellow team members questioningly.

"Sounds like a peach to me," endorsed left half Bill Grady. "What do you say we try it?"

"Well, if you guys think it's okay," agreed Alf. "Now this'll be the signal...!"

With play resumed, the Seconds sprung their surprise play. A quick crisis-crossing behind the lines, Mack lunging to the left, Bill Grady taking the ball and dropping into his backfield...!

"Look out for a pass!"

The Varsity shouted its warning as Bill suddenly wheeled and hurled the pigskin to his left where a crouching figure straightened up, raced toward the goal, jumped into the air to catch the ball and was tackled almost immediately, only to fall over the line for a touchdown.

"Atta boy, Mack!" shouted delirious Seconds, dragging the tickled Varsity substitute to his feet.

"How about it, you Varsity?" Mack taunted. "A march of eighty yards!"

"Yea, Pomeroy!" razzed Second team members. "You can't stop Pomeroy!"

"Just a minute!" broke in Coach Edward, abruptly. "What play was that you fellows just pulled?"

Alf Rigsbee, Seconds' quarterback, looked a bit uneasy.

"Why, er ... it was a play Mack suggested to us ... one his brother used. Not so bad, hey?"

"Since when is anyone giving you men plays without my authority?" the Coach demanded, picking up the pigskin. "Ball's on the ten yard line. Use the plays in which you've been instructed!"

Mack stared, open-mouthed. "But, Coach, I...!" he started, biting off the protest.