Sam must know.
"Rah! rah! rah! Harvard!" I cry with the rest unflinchingly.
There is a second yell, this time from our enemies. Harvard has lost
the ball and Yale has it. And now before my bewildered eyes scrimmage
follows scrimmage with fierce iteration, and one pile of bodies, arms,
and legs succeeds another. The player, fortunate enough to carry or
force the ball a yard or more toward the rival goal by a frantic rush
before he is overwhelmed and squashed, reaps a whirlwind of applause
from the absorbed multitude. Every inch of ground is disputed. Once
in a long interval when the ball gets dangerously near a goal, someone
on the imperiled side kicks it half the length of the field, and the
scrimmages are renewed. But it is rarely kicked at all except at such
junctures. Foot-ball! I say to myself that it is a gladiatorial
combat with an occasional punt thrown in by way of identification. But
every one around me is declaring that the play of both sides is
magnificent, that the team work is perfection, and the head qualities
displayed unique in the annals of the game. Sam tells me again and
again that Fred is doing sheer wonders and is the backbone of the
Harvard side, and I wonder how he can distinguish so easily which is
Fred and whether he has any backbone left.
Pages:
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81