All-American (17 page)

Swell! Atta boy, Meyer, great work, Meyer. 19-14. Great work for you, too, Ned. Boy, you’re hot! “C’mon now, gang, c’m here, c’m over here. Look. We got eight minutes to score. Let’s get this one for Jim, gang. You bet, we’ll get this one for Jim.”

It was the longest eight minutes of his life. In that eight minutes he lived a hundred lives, died and was reborn a hundred times. In that space of time he suffered ages of agonies. For he was weary, beaten, his whole frame ached as it had never ached before, he seemed to be carrying around twenty pounds of heavy mud. Each step was a horrible effort. Every fall, every tackle, jarred him badly.

They kicked off, downed them close to their goal line, held them after several rushes, and got the ball near midfield.

“Ok, gang, here’s our chance. Here’s where we go. 48 on 3. Hip-hip. Hike.” Get outa the way, Mike, get outa the way or I’ll tattoo your backbone. No gain? Shoot! Third and eight to go.

He punted, poorly. But then their own line held and once more the Academy was forced to kick back. Now he gave everything he had, a delayed straight buck, a short forward to Ned which was knocked down, a forward to Bob which was incomplete. Again he had to kick.

For the third time they held despite the fierceness of the Academy attack. Dusk was descending fast in the wet and mist. You could hardly see the opposite goal posts. He called for 80. It was one of the coach’s favorites, a play in which he handed the ball to Meyer who tossed it to Bob, the man in motion. His play which had been stopped three times in the first half for no gain went for twenty yards. They were creeping along, well in enemy territory now; but time was running out fast.

A fumble! A fumble! The ball slithered through the mud. He could see it, in the open. Then a figure shot toward it almost parallel to the ground. How he ever managed to hold that greasy object Ronny never knew. There he was, however, with the ball in his stomach when six men piled on top.

Ned LeRoy! Good boy, Ned! You saved us that time. Gee, that’s great work, Ned, that’s really super. They went into the huddle. Why not? Sure it was growing dark. Sure the ball was wet and hard to handle. But why not try it?

The defensive backs were sneaking up again, so he called for a pass down the sidelines in which the left end ran down and cut over to take the ball. Number 86 on 3. He leaned over, panting. Whew! Gosh, I’m all in. The words of the coach came suddenly to mind.

The test of a player is what he can do when he’s tired.

He looked at them. Meyer on his knees in a pool of water, Ned with his mouth open and his white teeth showing, Don hardly able to stand up, Mike with the gash in his forehead open and bleeding, everyone done in, beaten, exhausted. But the test of a player is what he can do when he’s tired.

“Look, gang, let’s give ’em one good one for Stacey. What say, hey, gang... let’s give ’em this one for Jim. One good play. Everyone in it. 86 on 3. Dave, watch that defensive halfback. Jake, fade out a little more. End around direct pass. Everyone got it? Remember, they’re scared now. They’re plenty worried. And they’re just as tired as we are. Ok, gang, let’s make this one a good one for Jim.”

They went into formation. He leaned over, took the ball, and faded slowly back. Meyer and Bob and Jake ran out ahead to form interference; Ned slipped around and then, going ahead, cut toward the sidelines. Ronald saw a form rushing toward him, dodged, and then let loose. This time he had the whole panorama of the play before his eyes.

The pass was true and straight out to the side. This time Ned was there waiting. Gee, if he only holds it. Cool as ice, the end gathered the ball in, turned and cut across the field behind Jake and Meyer. Someone went down. Gosh, is that Ned? Nope, they’re still after him. The pursuit continued. Running forward, Ronny could see scattered bodies writhing on the ground in the mud and mist up ahead. Ned was crossing over now, heading for the opposite sideline. He was in the clear.

A wild spontaneous cheer came from his side. From Abraham Lincoln High.

Y
OU’RE SORE. YES
, you’re plenty sore. And weary. And tired, and lame all over, even a day and a half after that last whistle blew. Sore? Why not? Imagine Keith Davidson, one hundred and eighty pounds of uniform and armor, charging down on you at full speed. He’s wearing heavy cleated shoes and considerable extra padding, not to mention a stiff leather helmet that’s supposed to protect his skull. Actually it’s a first class battering ram, and if it should smack you just right can bash in your nose or break your jaw.

Sore? Yes, you’re sore all over; stiff and lame, too. Everything aches, everything. But the aches and pains are forgotten in the warm sensation which comes as you walk down the aisle at assembly in the auditorium between Jim and Meyer. Ronny and Meyer and Jim.

“Nice work, Ronny...”

“Hey, Ronny...”

“Great going, Meyer, great going, Ronny, nice work there, Jim.”

“’Atsa boy, Jim.”

“Yeah, Ronny.”

And all the kids slapping at you and reaching for your hand and hollering, and the stiffness gone and the soreness also as you came down the long aisle and sank into your seat with the seniors. The whole auditorium was clapping in steady unison, and the clapping continued while LeRoy walked to his place in front. He was wearing the same badly fitting greenish sweater with the checked shirt underneath. If he felt anything he did not show it. His face was as set and impassive as ever while the school thundered. Gee, that’s great, that is. There’s the boy who really won things for us; he’s a sweetheart, that baby.

Mr. Curry came forward on the platform. Ronny reflected how the Duke would enjoy an aftergame scene such as this, what a kick he’d get from standing before the Academy telling his stories, praising the team in well-chosen sentences. Mr. Curry didn’t. He began reading a series of announcements in a dry, dull voice, apparently anxious to get it over as soon as possible, to hurry off that platform away from the school to the emptiness of his own room.

“Following members of the team and substitutes will make the trip to Miami a week from Saturday.” He began calling off their names; but the cheers after each one were so loud you could hardly catch them even toward the front where Ronny sat. “For faithful work on the scrubs during the past two seasons, Coach Quinn has also decided to take along Jerry Richards and Bob Benedict.” More cheers.

“Please pay close attention. The band and fifteen cheerleaders will accompany the squad. The drill squad will be permitted to go on payment of ten dollars apiece toward expenses. Unless at least seventy members of the drill squad sign up, their trip will be canceled.” He fumbled with the notes in his hand.

“Any members of the team who wish their parents to go may bring them in the special train. Fare, including hotel expenses in Miami, thirty-seven fifty. Please get in touch with my office. All applications for places must be in by Friday evening. We have to notify the Central Railroad on Saturday morning of the exact number of persons making the trip. The train will leave the Union Depot on Thursday, the 22nd, at 9:45 A.M. and return Monday morning in time for the first period study.” Groans rose over the auditorium; titters followed the groans to which he paid no attention. “We shall stay in the Seminole Hotel while in Miami. If you have any questions about the trip, consult Miss Robbins in my office who has charge of arrangements.”

They stumbled back up the aisle, the team in a body. That was the coach’s idea; in assemblies and the cafeteria he had them all sit together as much as possible. So down the corridor to his homeroom through a welcoming chorus of shouts and yells. It was the same thing in every class. The game! The game against Miami. That was on everyone’s mind. No one expected him to be prepared and even Mrs. Taylor looked at him with an understanding gaze.

“No use asking you to translate for us today, I presume, Ronald.” He observed that she failed to pick up her little black book as usual, but went right on to the next pupil.

Then after the Latin class it hit him. It hit him and made him reel, as if he had actually been slapped in the face. That was just the way it felt, too. A couple of kids walking behind him in the corridor did it.

“Yeah, but who’ll he play in left end?”

“Guess he’ll use Stacey’s sub, most prob’ly.”

Left end! Let’s see; why that’s Ned’s position. Ned LeRoy.

The horrible thought came to him for the first time. Of course. He stood for a minute collecting himself. No, it couldn’t be true. They wouldn’t do such a thing. Down the corridor came Ned walking slowly, half-smiling as the kids shouted at him. Underneath he was the same quiet, decent boy, waiting as usual to speak until you spoke first.

“Ned! C’m over here.” Ned was startled as Ronny hauled him to one side by the lockers. He took him by one shoulder. “Ned! Tell me, tell me straight. You coming down with us, aren’t you? I mean, you’re playing Intersectional, aren’t you?” His heart fell as he watched the big brown eyes look up. There was no change of expression on that passive countenance.

“Nope, Ronald. Guess not.”

“Why? Why not? What d’you mean?”

“They don’t like to let colored boys play down there, that’s all.” Then nothing. He said nothing. Ronald couldn’t think what to say. Suddenly Ned added, “I sure hope they broadcast that game.”

It was this, his simple acceptance of the situation, that made the most impression, that hurt Ronny most of all.

The next period was a study period, and with the excuse that a lame wrist needed taping Ronald went across the hall into the office of the coach near the gym and the lockers. He was sitting at his desk completely surrounded by an ocean of letters and papers.

“Well, Ronald! How you feel this morning? How’s that wrist? No bad effects, are there? Sore? Here, let me have a look at it a minute.”

“Nosir; no, Coach. I didn’t come for that. I came to ask is it true that Ned LeRoy can’t play Intersectional?”

The silence seemed to last and last. The coach was looking at him queerly, saying nothing. He nodded. “That’s correct, Ronald.”

“But, Coach! You know we couldn’t have won that game without Ned, you know that, everyone knows that: unless he plays, our forward passing attack is all shot. They can lay for Stacey; they know his sub on the other side is useless catching passes; he’s always late.” The words poured out fast and faster.

The coach, that hard-bitten gentleman, leaned over and patted him on the shoulder. Ronald recoiled. He had not come for sympathy. He had come for an explanation, for the righting of a wrong. It was a long while coming.

“Take it easy, boy, take it easy. I know all about it. But the fact is they don’t permit colored boys to play down there.”

“Aw, gee, Coach, we can’t play without Ned. Why he won that game for us! Coach, we can’t go down there without him.”

The coach stood up. “Take it easy, Ronald. This is just one of those things. There isn’t anything you or I can do about it. We have to accept the situation. That’s life. You see, you can’t change human nature. I realize of course that it’s tough for Ned; well, sure, it’s tough for you, tough for a fine captain like Jim to have to play without one of his reliable men, tough for the whole team. But we can’t do anything, so we better just forget it.”

Ronald went back bewildered to the class. Maybe Mr. Kates could help. Of all the teachers in Abraham Lincoln High Mr. Kates was the most sensible, the fairest in his marking. So instead of going up to the cafeteria in his lunch period, Ronald stayed down and caught him coming out of the faculty room on the ground floor.

“Mr. Kates, can I speak to you for a minute? See, it’s about Ned LeRoy; maybe you heard, Mr. Kates. Yeah. Uhuh. That’s right. Ned can’t go down, he can’t play Intersectional against Miami. It doesn’t somehow seem fair to me.”

“Fair!” The little man looked at him. There was fire in his voice which was encouraging. “Fair! Naturally not. Who said anything about fairness?”

“Well then, if it isn’t fair, there must be something we can do about it.”

“What makes you think so?” This wasn’t quite so encouraging.

“Mebbe we could... mebbe we could insist on playing him. They’d have to let us if we insisted. If we just brought him along.”

“H’m. Yes. But would that be pleasant for LeRoy, Ronald?”

“Why, no, I guess it wouldn’t. I really hadn’t thought of that. But there oughta be something we could do just the same. I wonder isn’t there something?”

Yet not even Mr. Kates was much help in this problem. Nor his dad. That evening he was explaining it all to Sandra.

“Now take Dad; he listens and sucks on his pipe and says he understands and all that; he says, sure, it’s hard; but what you gonna do about it? They all say the same thing.”

“But, Ronny, what could you do?”

“Darned if I know. Only it’s so unjust, it’s so unfair. Here’s Ned, played three years on the team, won goodness knows how many games for the school, and Saturday, well, you saw him out there Saturday. This hurts, Sandra, you understand? I can’t exactly explain, but it hurts.”

“I know. I understand, Ronny.”

“So they reward him by keeping him home. That’s his reward. Three years our regular end and about the hottest thing we got in cleats... and he’s my friend, too, Sandra. You know how you feel when a friend you’ve been through something important with gets a raw deal.”

“It’s rotten. What about Mr. Quinn?”

“Onions to him. That’s the worst of it, none of the older people seem to mind. They say, sure, it’s tough; ok, but what are you going to do about it? They’re sorry for him and that’s all. The coach is sorry to lose a reliable end and go down there with a sub; but he isn’t terribly upset, seems like. He takes it quietly. You know the stuff the older people peddle. Same old line. They tell you how you can’t change human nature, so go away and forget all about it.”

“It’s sick-making. That’s what.”

“Sure is. He’s a member of the team or else he isn’t. He’s good enough to play against Broadwood and Hillsborough and the Academy and the rest; why isn’t he good enough to play against Miami? I don’t get it. Y’know, Sandra, here’s an idea. I got an idea. I b’lieve if two or three of us made a row, we might do something. Like if Meyer and Jim and me...”