Just after the ball has flown between the
goal-posts, amid thunders of triumph from our enemies, the umpire calls
time.
Suffice it to state that the second three-quarters of an hour is
largely a repetition of the first--short, furious rushes, everlasting
scrimmages, and here and there a punt. The ruffians look still more
ruffianly from frequent contact with mother-earth and the clutches of
one another. Ominous gloom and depressing silence take possession of
the friends of Harvard; their very cheers are anxious, and with good
reason. Yale has kicked another goal from the field in the first
twenty minutes and the crimson is being gradually and steadily
outplayed. My heart bleeds for my son; he will be so disappointed if
he loses. And I shall be so happy when the game is over and I am sure
that he is not maimed for life. He is doing wonders still, dear boy.
Twice I see him lying flat and motionless on the field with the wind
stamped out of him, to borrow Sam's euphemism, while his mother
wriggles in her seat in the throes of uncertainty and is hardly to be
restrained from going to him. Twice, after the doctor has fumbled over
him and water has been dashed in his face, I see Sam's diagnosis
vindicated, and my half-back rise to his feet, and the game go on as
though nothing had happened.
Pages:
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85