“I’m tickled to death when I hear there’s one big, individual star on a team we’ve got to play. That’s my favorite dish, a one-man team.”
“Well, then,” said Harris, “you’ll enjoy a hearty meal when we play Doane.”
“And it’s a cinch,” said Wallace, “that Davis will get more work next Saturday than he ever did in his life. He’s captain, and it’s his last game.”
“If my boys play as I tell them,” said the Coach, “he’ll be glad it is his last game.”
“What did you think of their left halfback, Byron?” asked Dana, turning to Harris.
“Byron looks as if he ought to play football,” Harris replied. “He certainly is big and strong enough. I wish we had him. We could put him to work. But all they use him for is protecting Davis on his passes and runs. I bet we’ll hear more of him next year. If he can do other stuff as well as he blocks, he’ll be a whale.”
“He can block his head off against us if he wants to,” said the Coach. “I’m not going to bother Davis on his passes. I’m going to let him throw that ball just as far as he can. But when he throws it, one of my men will catch it or else it won’t be caught. And when he runs, he’ll run into more tacklers than he ever thought were on one football team.”
“Where are they coming from?” asked Dana.
“Out of my line,” said the Coach. “When you’re playing a man who never does anything but forward pass or sweep round the ends, what’s the use of sticking to an old army defense? We know that Davis is practically their entire attack, and we know what he can do. One of the things he can’t do is plunge. So I don’t see any sense in keeping my linemen nailed to one spot. I’m going to play everybody loose, and I’m going to tell every man on the team that if he doesn’t tackle Davis at least twice, he won’t get his letter. You’ll see what looks like the craziest defense ever pulled, but it’ll do the business.”
“Those Doane ends must be basketball players,” said Harris. “They don’t miss that old ball once in ten times.”
“When they get close to it,” said the Coach. “But I’m going to see that they don’t get close to it.”
On Thursday night the Coach had a frightful dream. He dreamed that his team was playing Doane. Davis received the ball on the kickoff and ran to midfield before he was thrown. Then, in utter disregard of his teaching, his boys lined up in a defensive formation that might have been designed to stop the old “guards back” play. Taking quick advantage, Davis shot a forward pass thirty yards down the field, and one of his basketball-trained ends, catching it, raced the rest of the way to a touchdown.
The Coach cried out in his sleep. His words might have been part of a prayer, save for the volume of voice he put into them.
He awoke trembling and slept but fitfully the rest of the night. In the morning he was the first man at the training-table, and his waiter, who was specializing in archeology and considered football a criminal waste of time, had to feign interest in the story of a nightmare that he neither understood nor cared to understand.
The Coach was just finishing his second cup of coffee when big Wickham and four of his fellow regulars came in.
“Good morning, Coach,” said Wickham.
“Good morning, Wickham,” his mentor replied. “What do you do when you see Davis get the ball?”
“I leave my position and run out to one side,” said Wickham.
“What side?”
“The side I think he’s going to run to.”
“What do you do when you get out there?”
“I tackle him.”
“Whom do you watch besides Davis?”
“Nobody.”
The Coach ordered more coffee.
“How about you, Robbins?” he asked. “What’s your job?”
“I’m going to watch Davis,” said the boy addressed.
“There’ll be thirty thousand doing that,” said the Coach. “Aren’t you going to do anything else?”
“I’m going to stop him,” said Robbins.
“What are you going to do when he shoots a pass?”
“Block an end.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yes sir.”
The table was filled when the Coach again recounted his dream.
“It was just a dream and a bad one,” he said. “If it should come true, how many of you Varsity men would get your letters?” He paused for a reply, but his audience seemed stricken dumb. “Not a one of you,” he went on. “If Davis gets away with one good pass, the man responsible for it will come out of that game quicker than if he broke his neck. You, Barrows! What’s Doane’s captain’s name?”
“Davis,” replied a picture of health.
“How many times are you going to get him?”
“At least twice, if I live,” said Barrows.
“Is he going to dodge you?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“You’d better help it. There’s a couple of good men hustling for your place.”
The couple of good men tried not to look it.
“Classes or no classes,” said the Coach, “I expect everybody out on the field at two o’clock. I won’t keep you long. And remember, we’re leaving at four thirty. I may not be able to get here for lunch. If I’m not here, you can practice this song.” The Coach’s raucous voice filled the room:
Hang Doane’s Davis on a sour-apple tree,
Hang Doane’s Davis on a sour-apple tree,
Hang Doane’s Davis on a sour-apple tree,
As we go marching on.
His three assistants joined in the chorus.
“There, boys,” said the Coach when the song was over and the applause had died out, “you see we don’t have to teach football for a living. We’re in the game because we like it. Whether we keep on liking it or not depends on what
