Six Point Bombshell

I

Dan Webb lay flat on his back with an armful of legs hugged to his helmet, a faceful of cleats grinding at his nose and mouth, half a ton of weight bouncing on his belly… and asked himself if the game was worth the candle.

The whistle peeled the pressure off his ribs. But there was no balm for bruised muscles in assistant line coach Yokum’s whip-lash words. Not that the coach was bawling him out. Yokum was merely ignoring him.

“Soletti!” The caustic tone was directed at the C team’s towering left tackle. “How many times I got to tell you! Check that guard before you pull out of the line on reverses!

“Check him!”

Soletti nodded grimly, stalked to his position, glowered at Dan.

The guard murmured sympathetically: “Don’t let it get you down, deep dish.

Anybody’d think he never heard of a check bouncing, before.”

Soletti grinned tautly. “Back in your bowl, wise cracker. You’re due to be crumbled.”

“Over,” Yokum barked irritably. “But good.”

The Cs shifted to unbalanced single wing. Dan crabbed over sideways to meet it. The man in motion cut across, crouching low, and getting up steam.

Coco Lewis, last year’s freshman Wonder-Boy signal caller, stooped, wheeled, passed off…

Southern’s famous wide reverse. ‘Stoney’ Hart’s patented specialty. The gilt-edged ground-gainer, that — when clicking — made it look as if subs were pouring off the bench to block for the ball-carrier.

It didn’t look that way now. Something gummed the works. The interference got balled up. The wing-back crashed. The leather bobbled loose.

“No..o..o..o!” Yokum squinted as if in pain. His whistle peeled them off the pileup.

Again, the last blue jersey to move belonged to Dan Webb. His helmet was jammed down over one eye. Grass stuck to blood on his mouth. And the ball, to his waist pads.

He spat out grass. “Been fun, fellas.” He hoisted himself erect by hooking his fingers in Coco Lewis’s belt. “Have to get together over at my place, next time.” He flipped the ball casually to Yokum.

Somebody sniggered. The coach’s weather-burned face went deeper red as he waved the D-team center to take possession of the ball.

“Save those corny gags, Webb. We’ll audition your comic stuff some other time.”

Dan murmured: “Don’t bother. I’m strictly sustaining talent.” He said it low enough so nobody except Soletti could hear him. Still… he meant it.

That’s all he was. Talent for free. Competing with a huge squad, most of them here at Southern on cushy ‘athletic’ scholarships… with enthusiastic alumni boosters rooting for them. A few weren’t getting any Athletic Office handouts. But those were the boys who’d checked in with big buildups from prep schools; they’d been tried out on last year’s yearling squad.

There wasn’t any ballyhoo background for Dan. No flashy freshman-record behind him. He was starting from scratch. And that would be all right with him — if they’d only rate him on the basis of his ability on cleats. They wouldn’t, of course. He couldn’t honestly claim there’d been enough time for the coaches to find out what he could do… and they had nothing else to go on. Outside of his tendency to horse around on the field. And that was no help.

He didn’t resent Yokum’s attitude. It was only natural for Southern’s high-powered coaching staff to concentrate on material they knew something about. They didn’t know anything about him. And that was all right with Dan, too. Less they knew about him, the better…

Yokum growled to Brad Sully, the D-team quarter. “Roll your own. Mix ’em up. Sock it in.”

In the huddle, Sully decided: “Inside buck. To left. Right tackle’s your meat, funny boy.”

He looked at Dan.

“When better mousetraps are built, Webb will—” Dan broke off, suddenly.

A girl strode smartly along the sidelines. Girls weren’t common at early-season practices. This one wouldn’t have been common anywhere, anytime, he thought.

Not too tall, not too plump. Nice and neat. Slim, trim legs. A figure that made her fireman-red sweater envied among all sweaters. Hair that flowed like clearsmooth, lustrous honey down over the nape of her neck. Eyes that — he couldn’t be sure about the color of her eyes at that distance.

“Hep!” The ball shot back.

Dan was a split-second slow in pulling out, pivoting. He tried to make it up, plunging over to trap the moose-shouldered right tackle. He bumped his own blocking back, was dumped on his tail. The tackle bulled through, wrecked the works.

“Whatsamatter, Webb?” Yokum’s voice dripped acid. “Maybe we better let you rest up a bit. Must be pretty wearing to think up those nifties, all the time.”

Dan shook his head, apologetically. “Couldn’t see where I was goin’, coach. The blonde got in my eyes.”

He flipped his fingers up to his helmet in salute to the girl.