Ted Hall nudged him in the ribs and said in a confidential undertone, “Never mind digging through that junk, Andy. I’ve got booties for your little number tens saved out for you.”
Ted climbed up on a stool and with his short arms began groping for the promised shoes, far back out of sight on top a row of steel lockers. Meanwhile Andy had peeled off his shirt and was trying on a set of shoulder pads for size. Right next to where Andy was seated on one of the long dressing benches, two sophomores were good-naturedly scuffling with each other.
Out of the corner of his eye Andy saw one of the sophomores give the other a quick push that sent the boy reeling back into the stool on which Ted was standing on his tiptoes.
The stool went flying out from under Ted. With a quick dive Andy flung his body across a hard bench over the spot where the back of Ted’s head was about to strike. Ted landed on him with an indignant grunt and bounced to his feet.
Just then Andy felt a firm hand on his arm, and Coach Dorman said, “What’s your name, Son?”
“Andy Carter, sir,” said Andy.
Coach Dorman nodded approvingly. “I like the way you think fast, Carter. If you hadn’t broken that boy’s fall with your body, he might have received a serious head injury.” Then the coach turned sternly to the others. “There will be no more horseplay in the locker room from now on. The next offender will be asked to turn in his uniform, and I don’t care whether he is a star or a scrub. The playing field is the only place for rough-and-tumble.”
Coach Dorman swept the squad with another stern look, then left the locker room.
Ted Hall straightened up his glasses, which had been dangling from his right ear, and grinned at Andy. “You owe me one of Wally’s Banana Split Specials for this. My backward-dive act got you a swell introduction to the new coach.”
Ken Blair, a junior, came over and said to Andy, “I was nearer to that bench than you were, Andy. But you beat me to it. All I ask is that you’ll be in the backfield blocking for me this year. And I promise to block my best for you when you’re carrying the ball.”
Ken, though an inch taller than Andy, was a year younger. Toward the end of the previous football season he had developed rapidly as a triple-threat backfield man.
But somehow Andy had never really cottoned to Ken. For one thing, it had been pretty hard to sit on the substitute bench as a junior last year and watch a sophomore winning the varsity letter that Andy was trying for.
Down in his heart, of course, Andy knew that Ken—last year, at least—had been the better backfield man. But this year Andy had been working hard all summer, swinging a pick and shovel with a construction gang and practicing forward passing—all with the determination to report for his last season of football in the best physical condition of any man on the squad. And that included Ken, one of those unusual boys who always seem to be in perfect physical condition.
So, for the moment, Andy was thrown for a one-yard mental loss by Ken’s neat little speech. All he could think of to say was, “Thanks, and the same to you.”
Ken did not seem to mind either the shortness of Andy’s reply or the gruff tone in which it was spoken as he turned and walked out of the locker room, headed for the practice field with a football in his skillful hands.
Ted Hall, who always managed to see what was going on, waited until all the rest of the squad had left the locker room; then, just as Andy’s eyes showed through the jersey that he was pulling on, said, “Old horse, I know you didn’t mean it that way, but to the rest of the gang it sounded as if you were still sore at Ken for beating your time last year.”
“What am I supposed to do now?” retorted Andy, feeling more uncomfortable than ever. “Should I run up to Ken in front of the whole squad and kiss him to show how much I really think of the guy as a football player?”
“For crying out loud,” said Ted in that disgusted tone that only a close friend dare use (Incidentally, Ted could use that tone on any member of the squad, including Ken Blair, without being resented.), “this isn’t last year. We’ve got a new coach; we’ve got more letter men and game-experienced backs, like you, back this year than we’ve ever had. This year we’ve got the best chance of winning the conference championship by beating Mansfield that we ever had.”
Ted gave Andy an emphasizing poke in the ribs with a stubby forefinger, adding, “But it is going to take better team spirit than we had last year to do it. And that’s your main job, old horse. You’ve got to show these sophomores and juniors a real sample of team spirit—all the time, every minute, I mean.”
Ted started to add another point, but Andy cut him off with a quick grin. “Get off your soapbox and come out and watch me show ’em.”
Andy darted out of the locker room. He sprinted past the other leisurely jogging members of the squad and was the first to arrive at the practice field, where he finished with a dive and roll-over on the hard sun-baked turf that carried him to his feet again.
Coach Dorman, who had been standing back of a large tree at the east side line, shook his head at Andy and said, “I don’t recommend that sort of thing this early in the season. Wait until you’re in better condition.”
Andy could have told the new coach that he had been practicing that dive and roll-over all summer long, and that he was in top playing physical condition already. But there was something in the look in the coach’s eyes that made Andy feel he was being suspected of showing off to attract attention.
Andy said, “Yes, sir,” and walked to the back to the circle of players who were now waiting expectantly for their first instructions from their new coach.
While Andy’s ears were still red, a long arm draped itself over his shoulder and “Cornstalk” Shaw, a senior end, said with a mock groan, “Don’t do that to me, my friend. I ache all over from just watching you hit the dirt like that. I’ve got at least two caved-in ribs, I know. Doctor, doctor—I need a doctor, somebody! Even a dog and cat doctor will do!”
Out of the corner of his eye Andy saw Coach Dorman standing with his gray flannel-clad legs well apart and his big bronzed fists resting on his hips. From the way the coach’s jaw was set, Andy had a sinking feeling in his stomach that Cornstalk was in for a sharp reprimand. Then he saw a twitching muscle at the corner of that firm mouth.
Coach Dorman dropped his hands from his hips and said crisply to Cornstalk, “If you can still clown like that at the end of the tough season ahead of us, Son, I’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
The coach turned away abruptly, waved the squad onto the practice field, barking, “Line up, everybody, for grass drill!”
Led by their new coach, the squad went through fifteen minutes of bends, squats, and push-ups—and some new ones the boys had never seen before. The final exercise was to lie flat on their backs and bring their feet up over their heads, touching the ground with the tips of their shoes.
“. . . nine—ten, halt!” barked the coach, then put his hands back of his head, jerked his heels under his body, and stood erect.
A few boys with a little breath left tried to do it too, but they all failed and had to roll over on their knees in order to stand up—including Andy.
Standing right back of Andy was Cornstalk. But this time the tall end was careful not to allow his remarks to be overheard by the coach.
