Six Point Bombshell

IV

The scoreboard said there was eleven minutes of play left in the fourth quarter and College of the Pacific was trailing Southern on the low end of a 27-7 tally. But Stoney Hart was not happy.

Southern had been chalking up gains on punt runbacks and long passes, had racked up four t. d.’s on buttonhooks and wide end sweeps. Through the Visitors’ scrappy line, they’d rammed over but one first down all afternoon.

Three of Southern’s scores had been in the first half; Dominque’s flashy runback of the kickoff after Pacific’s lone marker accounted for the rest of the 27 points. Even the passes had been smelling this half. The team from up north had found out they didn’t need to worry about line smashes; they were opening up in a 5-3-2-1 defense and beginning to intercept, instead of knock down, Southern’s aerial attack.

Mason Boyd sized it up. “Be different if we had Quayley in there as a threat.”

The head coach snorted. “If we go up against Washington with no more power than this next week, they’ll rub our noses in it.” He signalled to the third blanket from the end of the bench. “We haven’t any ace in the hole. Might as well gamble on the joker.”

Dan trotted up.

“In for Smith, Webb. Tell Coco to crack the middle.”

“Wide open.” Dan turned.

“—and Webb. Tell him to use the 50’s.”

Dan sprinted to the thirty-five, where Pacific had it, second and seven. The 50’s were guard bucks, straight smashes. His dish…

Pacific faked a sweep, pulled a lateral out of the hat, ran it clear across the field for a one-yard gain.

They lined up quickly, short punt formation. Everson called “Pass”. It was. A longie, down to the five… where Coco snagged it and was dumped on his duff by the Pacific right end.

Southern went into conference.

Dan said: “Coach wants 50’s.”

Coco called for a wide reverse, Pfieffer toting. Dan blocked his man solidly, felt the old fierce satisfaction in the crashing contact. The play picked up only two yards.

They huddled. Coco wiped sweat off his chin. “Left shift. Fifty-two. Webb goes. Poosh ’em up, guys.”

Dan relaxed, so he wouldn’t give the play away by being too obviously set. The ball rammed into Coco’s palms. The lines charged. Dan bored in. Coco slammed the leather at him.

There was a hole, but it closed instantly as a Pacific guard drove through the two-on-one block. Dan could have gone through the guard’s arm, maybe gained a yard before he was pulled down. Instead he butted straight ahead, with every ounce he could put into the drive.

The guard grunted “Unhh!” caromed off. Dan tripped over him, stumbled ahead.

The Pacific fullback roared in. Dan couldn’t get away from him, smacked into him with that galvanic burst of speed that gave him a little more impetus than the tackler. Dan’s knees were pumping high and hard. The fullback’s jaw met one, flush. There was a fraction of a second when it seemed as if Dan had been stopped. Then he was past, and the fullback’s hands were slithering off him.

A sharp yell went up from the Southern stands. Dan ran with short, choppy, tied-in strides until the Pacific left half came in swift and low, lunging at him. Then there was that instantaneous acceleration; a twisting spin… and the yell became a roar.

But the halfback caught Dan’s ankle, held on. Dan hopped and hobbled another two… but then they piled on.

The head linesman was pointing toward the Pacific goal, when Dan got to his feet. Over in the Southern cheering section, excited undergraduates asked: “Who is that?” “Who’s that fullback?”

Somebody spotted his number on the program.

“Webb. Soph. He went through there, didn’ he!”

“One second they got him — then Voom! he’s away.”

“First down… an’ Pacific takin’ time out.”

While the team was moving around, waiting for the visitors to send in a replacement for the fullback, Everson pounded Dan between the shoulderblades. “Atsa old zok, boy!”

“I oughta go out for the lotto team!” Dan was disgusted. “Lettin’ that guy hook my ankle like that.”

Coco grinned. “Hey, bull o’ th’ woods! Care for some more of same?”

“With chocolate sauce,” Dan said, solemnly.

The clock began to move. They went into the single wing, shifted, set.

The jarring up had softened the visitors’ aggressive guard a little. There was a hole. Dan rocketed through.

The fullback replacement was waiting for him. For that same fragmentary moment, Dan seemed to be halted. Then the fullback was clinging to his knees and Dan was storming ahead. One stride, a turn. Two strides, a twist. Three… he was loose.

This time the stands came up as one man—

“Yea-a-a-a!” “Yo-o-o-w!”

The little group of Pacific rooters screamed, too:

“Gat heem!”

The halfback came in. Dan practically tore his helmet off with a bludgeoning stiff arm.

The safety man raced over, warily.

Dan drew him over to the sidelines — feinted — and was nailed on the fifteen. The stands groaned.

But Boyd Mason was jubilant:

“He may not be another Norm Standlee. But he sure as hell can dynamite that line!”

Stoney Hart snarled: “Smith. In for Webb. Go!”

Coco Lewis stepped to the end of the springboard, turned around so only his toes were on the wet canvas.

“Try this on your okarina.” He glanced briefly down at the blue-green surface of the pool, bounced high, arched over backward, flinging his arms wide. Ten feet from the water his arms snapped together. He chunked in with a noisy splash.

He bobbed up, shook wet hair out of his eyes, floated on his back to watch Dan teeter on the edge of the board.

“That must be one of those low dives they warned me to keep out of, when I came to the coast.” Dan held his hands at his sides, kept his body rigid, let himself topple forward, stiffly, his feet still on the board. When he was at a thirty-degree angle from the water, he gave a little push. His entrance into the pool was smooth and quiet.

He swam to the edge of the pool before surfacing. Then he hoisted himself out onto the green tiling.

“Crazy country — swim in the ayem, play football the same day. Back in my corner of th’ woods, the only thing you can do with water in football season is fish in it.”

Coco backstroked lazily. “You can fish here, too.” He sang, in a slightly waterlogged baritone:

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.” Dan made a back-of-me-hand-to-ye gesture. “There’s a lot of pretty swell things about Michigan.”

“I’ll have to admit they put together quite a football team.” Coco swam to the ladder. “How come you didn’t go out for it, keed?”

“Busy earning a living last year.” Dan switched the subject. “The lad who owns this little bungalily doesn’t have to worry about things like that, I guess.” He admired the long, redwood ranch house with its enormous picture windows, the barbecue fireplace with its awninged brick bar.

“Frankie frets more about dough than you or I do.” Coco stretched on the emerald-bright grass by the pool-side. “More you have, more you stew about it.”

“Sure. But you can worry better when you’re packing your ribs with those three-inch sirloins every night.” All Dan knew about the owner of this fifty-acre paradise was that T. Francis Caytron, producer of Western movies, had married a cousin of Coco’s.

“He’s been on a milk-toast diet for a year,” Coco bicycled his legs, to keep from stiffening up. “He’s got enough ritzy liquor in there,” he waved at the ranch house, “to fill this damn pool. All he can drink is fermented goat’s milk. I wouldn’t swap places with him for all the cuties in Earl Carroll’s. Only fun he gets out of life is his share in the Gaters.”

“The Golden Gaters? The pro club, up in—”

“He owns half of it.” Coco flopped over on his stomach to get sun on his back. “That’s one reason I thought you’d like to come out and make howdy with him. Never can tell. He has a lot to say about who gets hired…”

Dan picked up a badminton racket, experimented with keeping the feathered bird in the air. “He been mixed up with pro football very long?”

“Four or five years. You ever think about taking a crack at that, after graduating?”

“Not much.” Dan tried to keep his tone casual. “Hey, you know what time it’s gettin’ to be?”

“Around eleven.”

“Later than that. Tell by the sun…”

“What’s your hurry?” Coco sat up, surveying him curiously. “Frankie’ll be home for lunch. He’ll be sore if we don’t stay.”

“You stick around, Coco.”

“Thought you said you didn’t have any class until two!”

“Haven’t.” Dan moved across the lawn toward the house. “Just remembered. Date with dentist.” He opened his mouth wide, pointed a finger at it. “Cavity.”

“Goes right up inside your skull, you ask me. Hi-yo, Platinum!”

Dan nearly bumped into a man of forty or so with the wide-shouldered build of a wrestler and the shrewd, sharp face of a prosecuting attorney. His hair was iron gray. He wore beribboned oxford glasses which glittered in the sunlight.

“What goes, you case of retarded development,” Frank Caytron called genially, keeping his eyes on Dan. “Well, well and ding-dong bell! As I live and behave myself. Janny!”

Dan left his mouth open; opened his eyes wide enough to match it. His forehead furrowed. “Huh?” he grunted. Only thing you could do to make yourself look more like an imbecile would be to snatch at your thumbs!

The producer stared.

Coco trotted over. “Slip five to Danny Webb, Frank. He’s the stick of dynamite Stoney threw at Pacific, Sattiday.”

Dan took Caytron’s proffered palm.

The producer chuckled. “Line cracker, aren’t you, Webb?”

“Just one of the wrecking crew.” Dan knew this big shot would think it was odd if he didn’t come back with a query of his own. “Who’d you think I was?”

“For a second, there, you reminded me of a back I saw play in Chicago last year.” Caytron put his arm around Dan’s shoulders. “But that boy wasn’t as heavy as you are. He was only a ring-ding scat-back, besides. He couldn’t crack peanuts. I didn’t see your game Saturday. But I read about it. You must be the answer to the maiden’s prayer.”

“Wish you’d tell Stoney that.” Dan tried not to appear conscious of the fact that Coco was watching both of them like a kid determined not to be fooled by a magician. “Stoney thinks I’m pretty crude raw material. I’ll need a lot of drilling—” he snapped his fingers. “That damn dentist! I’ll have to scramoose, muy pronto!”

“Aw, Dan!” Coco protested. “For cat’s sake…”

“Stay to lunch,” urged Caytron. “Come on now—”

“Can’t. Wish I could. Late now. Just have time to change and buzz back. Sorry. Hope to see you again, sir.”

Dan did a fast duck.