Six Point Bombshell

IX

You’re cracking under the strain, he cautioned himself. He’s calling you Danny, that’s all!

But he came up off the bench fast.

All Stoney said was: “In for Pfieff.” He took Dan’s arm, walked to the edge of the field, holding him until Coco’s first play was completed. “Tell Coco to slug the 50s.”

“Right.” Dan’s stomach did a flip-flop. Maybe the coach had called him Janny. If he was gambling on Dan now after that stink in the newspaper, he must know.

Stoney gave him a pat that was a shove.

Somebody, high in the stands, gave a piercing war whoop:

“Yee-owww-wow! DYNAMITE!!”

The brass drum boomed. Somebody shook a cowbell. The cheering section, gave a short yelp for Webb-Webb-Webb. He didn’t mind the damn name so much, coming this way.

He reported, was cuffed wonderingly by Coco, joyously by Ship. They were full of questions… but this was no time for gab. Work to do.

They huddled. Wide end sweep to the left. It was second and seven.

Dommy carted it for two.

Dan said huskily: “Coach says bet fifties. On the nose.”

Coco growled: “So say we all. Fifty. Right. Talk it up, men.”

They hit positions chattering:

“Here we go!” “On our way!” “In yere, ev’body!”

The ball socked in. The hole was there. Dan roared through, onto the backup man before the Indian could get set. For sheer satisfaction at the chance to let off the steam of boiling anger, Dan smashed into him savagely, head on.

The Indian lost interest. Dan slanted away from the moose-shouldered Stanford left half. At the instant of tackle, he swerved, knees riding high, stiff arm pounding like a 2x4 at the white helmet.

The half back held him… to a seven-yard gain. The last three yards Dan dragged two tacklers with him.

“Pour it on,” Coco snarled in the tight ring. “Same! Over! Harder!”

Stanford began to barber it up, too.

Also, they were expecting Dan this time. The hole wasn’t there, when he bulled up to the line.

He rammed it, anyway, — felt bone and beef give, — exploded through… into that same fullback. He spun, wrenched, tore loose, stumbled, went down under an avalanche of white wool.

Net four. Second and six… on the 9.

“How ’bout it?” Coco gauged him in the huddle. “Mix ’em up?”

“Same dish for me.” Dan wiped sweat off his mouth, was surprised to find it was blood. “With plenty whip cream.”

The enemy played it cagey. Too cagey. Nobody banged away with the same buck three times in a row, when they were 20 points behind.

“Pass,” their defensive signal-caller warned.

The blue-backed line opened the gate just a little, driving the defensive right down on his knees to block the gap. Dan socked through, lunging into the Palo Alto center, caroming off into the left half, savaging his way to the two before they cut off his legs at the knees.

First… and goal to go.

Coco started to call “Fifty” again but Dan panted “No.”

The quarterback called “Twenty.” His own number.

Stanford piled in as if to bury Dan six feet under. Coco sneaked through, standing up. To score.

Everson toed it between the uprights. The 7 looked better, up on the scoreboard. But the 20 was still big. And time marched on. They were starting the fourth quarter.

High in the glass booth on the rim of the stadium, Stan Llewellyn reported, in his excited nasal drawl, to ten million seated on the 760 kilocycle line:

Southern kicked to Stanford. Dan had a blurred impression of seething stands, a cheering section hoarsely chanting “Fight-Fight-Fight”, drums booming, and the Indian quartet being dumped on his 10-yard line by Piet De Fano.

The white jerseys kept the ball for sixty yards and four endless minutes. Then the big left half coffin-cornered a brilliant punt across on the Southern three.

Dan carried it. Took it down to the 12.

Dommy lost four, slipping on the grass. Third and five.

Coco was uncertain: “We’re not fifteen in, now. What think, Ship?”

Ship held both fists out. “Can do.”

“Ninety,” Coco yapped. “Webb. And crys, — block, guys!”

Ball back. To Coco. To Dan. The fake. The retreat. End diving at him. Let him dive. Ships not cutting back. Take your time. Don’t look at Ship. Wait… now!

It never went better. Ship snagged it on the sixteen. First down! Four more chances!

The west stands were jubilant. The Stanford side almost as noisy, pleading: “Break it up… Smear ‘at man!”

Coco arranged the breaking up, — to suit himself. He faked a smash with Dan blasting into the guard slot, — switched to send Dommy slashing off tackle… into the clear, — almost. The safety man ran him out of bounds at midfield.

“Now we’re moving! Yet’s GO!!”

Coco houdinied the ball himself. Faded, searching way downfield for Dommy and Ship… then lacing a swiftie to Coddington who spun on the Stanford thirty-five for a neat, sweet buttonhook.

“Now, Dan.” Coco was raring. “Fifties. Left. Zok!”

They boxed out that Indian right guard for him. A reaper could have gone through the hole. Dan went through, with the throttle wide, gaining momentum every yard.

He stiff-armed the Stanford right half fiercely. A lance of pain stabbed up his wrist… but the half plowed turf with his nose.

The safety man committed a shade too soon. Dan turned on that galvanic spurt, ripped through a clutching arm, pounded clear to the six-point stripe and over.

The gang hugged him, frenzied. He hung his head bashfully, dug a toe in the turf.

“Shucks. Twan’t nothin’. Any one of you’d of done the same, if you’d got the chance.”

Coco patted his helmet. “You’re a card, son. But we haven’t all day to play you. Just five minutes left to beat these buzzards.”

Everson called for a towel. He wiped the ball. Wiped sweat out of his eyes. Wiped the toe of his kicking shoe.

Then he booted the oval solidly between the uprights.

20-14. Pandemonium. Stanford receiving. Ship hurling himself through a swarm of blockers to slam the Indian fullback into the ground on the fifteen.

The blue line caught fire. They fought like men full of benzedrine. They held two battering-ram bucks to a scant yard total.

The Palo Alto tribe punted on third. Coco, reversing his field, brought it up to the blue forty.

Dan banged and butted off left tackle for three.

Everson, battling for a high pass far down, missed by a fingernail. A penalty on the play, anyway. An over-eager blue guard. Holding. Third and twenty to go!

“Too far for a 90,” Coco said through his teeth. “Dan?”

“Fifty, on the snoot,” Dan spat blood. “Right.”

Lineup. Shift. Pass-back.

The ball slapping against his ribs. He cracked into the thin wedge of a hole hard enough to take a bank door off its hinges.

The guard got him, got a knee in the face, too, — and a pile-driving hand-heel on his helmet.

Dan shook him off.

The fullback missed him, — except for a hand-hold on the neck of his jersey. Dan pulled him along until Everson bodyblocked him out. Two more Indians dived in for the kill. Dan split them like an axeman working on dry pine.

When they smothered him, he was on the Stanford thirty-eight, — the blue-sweatered cheer leaders were doing nipups, — the bass drummer was beating the hide off his instrument.

First, ten and two minutes to go.

“Stand back, ev’body!” Coco tongue-lashed them. “Gonna be blood spatterin’ ever’ which way. Fifty… left!”

The spring was gone from Dan’s legs. His right wrist ached. His lungs felt as if he’d inhaled flame.

He surged up to the slot. The Stanford center slammed the door in his face. He went through somehow. A clutching hand tore his helmet off. Somebody ripped his jersey. He couldn’t see where he was going because an arm was clamped around his head. He rolled, fought, slogged ahead. They dropped the boom on him.

“First…” screeched Everson, in his ear. “Yatta boy!”

On the twenty-five. Less than a minute left.

Coco looked at him, pleading. Dan shook his head. “Ninety. Ship.” If they could do it on third, they could click with it on first, couldn’t they? Then maybe Dan could slam it over for the needed three or four yards.

It went. Slick and smooth. Ship flat on his face on the eighteen. Thirty seconds on the clock.

“Now,” Dan grunted. “Fifty, right.”

Coco shook his fists at them. “One good punch, bunch.”

A roaring in his ears, which might be the stands in hysteria… and might not. An ache… not any special place… just all over. He sucked air into his seared lungs. The ball came back.

He never did know the details until he read them in Llewellyn’s down-by-down account next morning. He had a nightmare notion he was back in the woods in a Saginaw bull fight… only now there were three men in front of him… they weren’t sticking to the rules… they were hanging onto him… trying to trip him.

Two of them were still hanging onto him when he was stopped by the post. He put out his hand, to make sure it was the goal post. He’d gone ten yards over that last white stripe.

He could barely make it back to the lineup. But Stoney let him stay in, until, — in a hush that made the ear-drums ring, — Everson carefully booted that point that made it a game… and a 1-point win!

There was still ten seconds left.

Stoney used it to send Prender in, and let Dan come off the field by himself, jogging wearily, while even the Stanford stands joined in a tumult that could have been heard halfway to Palo Alto.