Six Point Bombshell

VIII

Saturday was as advertised in the Chamber of Commerce circulars — clear, bright and sunny. But it didn’t look good to Dan.

Coco Lewis started it off wrong over the ham and eggs by showing him Llewellyn’s Lockerroom Lowdown in the News:

“For crying!” Coco moaned. “What is this hodelyo!”

Dan laid the paper down, picked up his fork.

“The creep is doing his damndest to say I’m a pro, that I’ve been wearing a Southern uniform under false pretenses, — and that I’ve mucked up our chances of being Coast champs or Rose Bowl candidates. You don’t believe that horse, Coco!”

The quarterback played with a salt cellar.

“Hell, no, keed. But, — Stan Llewellyn’s generally a right guy. Where’d he get this guff?”

The muscles along Dan’s jaw tightened. “Lin Hollet in the Athletic Director’s office, probably. I’ve been going around some with his secretary. Marla Gilman. Guess he goes for her, too. So he goes gunning for me.”

“You oughta beat his face off!”

“Wouldn’t help.” Dan dug into his breakfast. “Don’t run a fever. I’ll be at the gym this aft.” He didn’t say he’d be on the field.

He couldn’t say that.

Coco got up. “Your name is Webb, isn’t it?”

“Not exactly.” Dan mumbled through a mouthful of toast. “I was christened Daniel Webster. But I was afraid peep would always be expecting me to bust into oratory, an’ since I’m practically tongue-tied… why… y’see, I just shortened it a little.”

“Yeah.” Coco grinned, clapped him on the shoulder. “Natch. Wear your frock coat to th’ festivities. An’ bring your best gestures. We’ll need ’em. Those Palo Altos are gonna be tough.” But the puzzled expression was still in his eyes, when he left.

The morning was sheer misery. Dan avoided everyone; shunned the telephone. He put off going to the field until the last possible moment. When he walked into the locker-room, there was a sudden lull in the noisy chatter.

He had thought there might be word for him to report to Hart’s office immediately. But there was nothing.

Ship Morey ribbed him cautiously:

“You hire a praise agent for y’self, Dynamite? I see th’ notices in th’ morning rag…”

“Just a build-up,” Dan agreed quietly. “They’re fixin’ for me to be the next Walkin’ Man on that goof radio show.”

My’ Blumenthal stuck his thumbs in imaginary galluses, teetered back and forth on his heels, addressed the squad in sonorous tone:

“I rise to call the attention of this gathering to one of our fellow members who has been libelously traduced in the scurrilous press. True it may be that he is a man of dubious morals an’ limited intelligence, but are we to permit this outrageous—”

“Shuddup,” called Everson. “Lay off.”

That suited Dan. He didn’t want to talk about it or hear talk about it. Coco had passed on the christening story, and that was oke, far as it went. It didn’t go anywhere near far enough. He realized that.

There was an uneasy tension in the locker-room, all the time he was getting into his pads. It didn’t lessen when the coaches came in, in a group.

Here it comes! Dan warned himself. They’re going to throw it at you, now! Why bother to climb into your nice, clean, blue jersey with the white 67! They’re going to rub that number right off your back!

But they didn’t. They gave him the silent treatment. Stoney glanced at him once, out of the pale gray eyes, then passed on to Dommy, Klupper, the rest.

The head coach began to talk about Stanford. The scouts had brought in last minute reports: the Indians had a trick lateral which they’d kept pretty well under cover. Probably they’d use it, today. Stoney briefed them on defense against it.

The clock above the trainer’s table moved sluggishly around toward game time. Finally, Mason Boyd read off the starting lineup. In the backfield, Lewis, Blumenthal, Everson, Pfieffer.

Dan kept a poker face. He sensed the glances the others were shooting at him.

This was the way it was going to wind up, then! There hadn’t been time to investigate Lin Hollet’s charges. They weren’t going to take any chances. He’d sit this one out. Hell, it would have been better if they’d thrown him out. A slow anger began to burn, deep inside him.

It fed the fire to realize, when he’d clattered up the ramp out onto the field and over to the bench, that the gang was taking it for granted he was responsible for the coach’s shifted lineup. If they lost, he’d be the louse.

He kept getting madder all the time he watched the warmup, the signal practice, the toss for goal. By the time the Stanford captain elected to receive and the teams were strung out across the field, he was ready to pop the first person who made a crack at him.

You’d be out there now, he raged inwardly, you wouldn’t be parked here stewing about Marla and what would happen after the game and all the rest of the mess, if it wasn’t for—

The long shrill blast on the whistle seemed to cut through the turmoil in his mind:

Don’t ever tell anybody!

Dan sweated out a first half that lasted for years. Stanford ran wild, passed Southern dizzy, broke up Stoney’s carefully drilled attack. Replacements went in. Nobody looked at Dan, or spoke to him.

Half time found the White Indians on the long end of a 20-0 score… and knocking on the door for another.

Jogging off to the ramp, Dan didn’t have heart to lift his head and search for Marla in the stands. But he saw her, anyway.

A girl’s voice called shrilly, “That’s Webb. Number 67! Look, Eddie!”

Dan glanced up, briefly. He couldn’t place the girl who’d cried out. But there was no mistaking the other, — the one with the blonde page-boy bob further along the aisle. Or the man sitting beside her.

Why it should have made things blacker to have Marla watch this particular game, in company with Lin Hollet, Dan couldn’t have said.

In the locker room, Dan was left strictly to himself. Doc Gurley worked over the first eleven. Yokum stalked around glowering. Mason Boyd sat talking to Coco.

It would have been a sad session under any circumstances. But Dan couldn’t duck it. The gang figured him for the monkeywrench in the machinery. Nobody else.

The realization made him sick. Actually and physically sick. He scarcely heard what Stoney was saying to the squad…

“…they aren’t that much better… those passes won’t get through you this next half… I’ll go out on a limb and say you’re going to pull this one out of the fire yet… all the confidence in the world in you…”

While Mason was calling out the second half starters, Dan wondered whether it wouldn’t save a lot of unnecessary hard feelings if he just slipped into the johnny and didn’t go out on the field again.

Hell with that! he swore at himself disgustedly. Don’t let these crumbs get you down and put the calks to you!

They went out of cool concrete into hot sunlight. The university band was wailing the final strains of the Alma Mater.

The Stanford stands thundered welcome to white jerseys.

Dan plunked on the bench, glad he wasn’t out there for the kickoff. Way he felt, he couldn’t make it to the sideline.

Everson caught the low, looping ball, tore to the 28 before being slapped down. They tried a wide reverse. Good for six inches. They slammed Pfieffer off tackle. Maybe three yards.

Here’s your spot for that Paycheck Pass, Coco! Dan found himself trying to send a telepathic message to the quarterback. Hold that ball now, in our own territory, maybe it’ll give the gang a lift.

It was 90. Dommy to Ship. Almost to Ship. A yard short. Incomplete.

They had to boot now. Everson got away a high one.

The flashy Stanford quarter lost it in the sun. He found it — tried for it — foozled it.

Dan came up on his feet with fifty thousand others as the oval hopped crazily toward the Stanford goal. He saw three men dive for it. One wore a blue jersey. Coddy. He recovered on the 25.

Next to Dan on the bench, Klupper Smith pounded his arm.

Dan grunted. “Nice work.”

“Coach wants you, you jerk!”

Dan scrowled, turned.

The pale gray eyes were on him. The head coach was calling:

“Janny!”