Pemberton's Fluke

by Ralph Henry Barbour

For an hour and a half Yale and Princeton had been battling on thegridiron; for an hour and a half the struggling lines had advanced andretreated from goal line to goal line; for an hour and a half the ball hadgone arching up against the blue November sky, had been carried in short,desperate plunges or brilliant runs to and fro over the trampled whitelines of Yale Field; for an hour and a half twenty-five thousand personshad watched the varying fortunes of the contest with fast-beating hearts,had waved their flags, sang their songs and shouted their cheers; and now,with the last half drawing toward its close, the score board stillproclaimed: "Yale, 0; Opponents, 0."Pemberton had found the contest exciting, breathlessly so at moments, butdisappointing. Being a freshman, as well as a 'varsity substitute of aweek's standing, he was intensely patriotic, and the thought of a tie gamewas unbearable; to a youth of his enthusiasm a tie was virtually a defeatfor the Blue; and a defeat for the Blue was something tragic,inconceivable! Pemberton was a sandy-haired, blue-eyed, round-faced chap ofeighteen; in height, five feet nine; in weight, one hundred andsixty-eight; neither large nor heavy, but speedy as they make them, abundle of nerves, endowed with a fanatical enthusiasm and a kind ofbrilliant, dashing recklessness that often wins where larger courage fails.At Exeter he hadn't gone in for football until his senior year; thePhysical Director couldn't see the thing from Pemberton's viewpoint;physical directors are narrow-minded souls; Pemberton will tell you so anyday. With three years of lost time to make up, Pemberton had put his wholemind into football with the result that he had made the team in time toplay for five short, mad minutes against Andover. This fall he haddistinguished himself on the Freshmen Eleven, and the game with the Harvardyoungsters, if it hadn't resulted in a victory for Yale, had, at least,made the reputation of Pemberton, left half back. In that somewhatone-sided contest he had shown such dash and pluck, had eeled himselfthrough the Crimson's line, or shot like a small streak of lightning aroundthe ends so frequently that he had been called to the 'varsity bench. Andon the 'varsity bench, one, and quite the smallest one, of a long line ofsubstitutes, he had sat since the beginning of the Princeton game, with anexcellent chance of staying there until the whistle blew.He wasn't a fellow to accept inactivity with gracefulness. That "they alsoserve who only stand and wait," he was willing to accept as true; but thatwasn't the kind of serving he hankered for; Pemberton's ideal of usefulnesswas getting busy and doing things--and doing them hard.On opposite sides of the field rival bands were blaring out two-steps, thestrains leaking now and then through the deep, thundering cheers. Down onYale's thirty-five-yard line Princeton was hammering at right guard forshort gains, edging nearer and nearer the goal, and thousands of eyes fixedthemselves expectantly on Princeton's left half back, dreading or hoping tosee him fall back for a kick. On the thirty yards Yale's line braced andheld. Princeton tried a run outside of left tackle and got a yard. The ballwas directly in front of goal."Sturgis is a dub if he doesn't try it now," said the big fellow onPemberton's left."But he couldn't do it from the forty-yard line, could he?" askedPemberton."Search me; but from what he's done so far to-day I guess he could kick agoal from the other end of the field. Nothing doing, though; they're tryingright guard again. There goes Crocker."Yale's line gave at the center and a Princeton tackle fell through for twoyards. The Princeton cheers rang out redoubled in intensity, sharp,entreating, only to be met with the defiant slogan of Yale. Pembertonshuffled his scarred brown leather shoes uneasily and gnawed harder at hisknuckles. Princeton was playing desperately, fighting for the twenty-yardline. A play that looked like a tandem at right guard resolved itself intoa plunge at left tackle and gave them their distance. The Yale stands heldstaring, troubled faces. The Princeton stands were on their feet, shouting,waving, swaying excitedly; score cards were sailing and fluttering throughthe air; pandemonium reigned over there. Pemberton scowled fiercely across.His left-hand neighbor whistled a tune softly. Princeton piled her backsthrough again for a yard."Oh, thunder!" muttered Pemberton.The other nodded sympathetically."Here's where Old Nassau scores," he said.A last desperate plunge carried the little army of the Orange and Blackover the coveted mark. The left half walked back; there were cries,entreaties, commands; the cheering died away and gave place to the intensesilence of suspense; Pemberton could hear the little Princeton quarterback's signals quite plainly. Then, after a moment of breathless delay, theball sped back, was caught breast high by the left half, was dropped on theinstant and shot forward from his foot, and went rising toward the goal.The Yale forwards broke through, leaping with upstretched hands into thepath of the ball, yet never reaching it. The field was a confusion ofwrithing, struggling bodies, but the ball was sailing straight and true,turning lazily on its shorter axis, over the cross bar.Over on the Princeton side of the field hats were in flight, slicing up anddown and back and forth across the face of the long slope of yellow andblack; flags were gyrating crazily; the space between seats and barrier wasfilled with a leaping, howling mass of humanity, and all the while thecheers crashed and hurtled through the air. Well, Princeton had somethingto cheer for; even Pemberton grudgingly acknowledged that."Have we time to score?" he asked despondently.His neighbor turned, stretching out his long, blue-stockinged legs."There's about five or six minutes left, I guess," he answered. "We've gottime to score, but will we?"Pemberton didn't think they would. Life seemed very cruel just then."Hello," continued the other, "Webster's coming out! I guess here's whereyour Uncle Tom gets a whack at Old Nassau--maybe." He sat up and watchedthe head coach alertly. The next moment Pemberton was peeling off hissweater for him.Princeton ran Yale's kick-off back to her forty yards. The Blue's rightguard was taken out, white and wretched, after the first scrimmage.Princeton started at her battering again, content now to make onlysufficient gains to keep the ball. But with a yard to gain on the thirddown a canvas clad streak broke through and nailed her tackle behind theline. Pemberton, shouting ecstatically, saw that the streak was hiserstwhile neighbor, and was proud of the acquaintance. Then Yale, with theball once more in possession, started to wake things up. Past the fortyyards again she went, throwing tackles and full back at every point in theTiger's line for short gains, and showing no preference. But, all said, itwas slow work and unpromising with the score board announcing five minutesto play. The Yale supporters, however, found cause for rejoicing, andcheered gloriously until there was a fumble and the Blue lost four yards onthe recovery. Time was called and the trainers and water carriers trottedon the field. The head coach and an assistant came toward the bench,talking earnestly, the former's sharp eyes darting hither and thithersearchingly. Pemberton watched, with his heart fluttering up into histhroat. The head coach's gaze fixed itself upon him, passed on up the line,came back to him and stayed. Pemberton dropped his eyes. It isn't good formto stare Fate in the face. Was it a second later or an age that his namewas called?""Go in at left half; tell Haker to come out. And--er--Pemberton, here's apretty good chance to show what you can do."Pemberton peeled off his white jersey with the faded "E" and raced into thefield. Haker looked down uncomprehendingly at him from the superior heightof six feet when he delivered his message. Pemberton repeated it. Hakershoved him aside, mumbling impatient words through swollen lips. It wasonly when he saw the head coach beckoning him from the side line that heyielded and took himself off with a parting insult to Pemberton:"All right, Kid."Pemberton's eyes blazed and his fists clenched. Kid! Well, he'd show Hakerand everyone else whether he was a kid! Then he looked at the score boardwith sinking heart. Only four minutes left! Four minutes! But he tookheart; after all, four minutes was two hundred and forty seconds, and ifthey'd only give him the ball! He had run a mile in 4:34 1-5! Suddenly thewhistle blew and the players staggered to their places. It was second downnow, with nine yards to gain. The tandem formed on the left, and Pembertonranged himself behind the big tackle disapprovingly. Where was the use, heasked himself, of wasting a down by plunging at the line? What had they puthim in there for if not to take the ball? Then the signal came and the nextmoment he was in the maelstrom. When the dust of battle lifted, the ballwas just one yard nearer the Princeton goal.Princeton expected Yale to kick, for it was the third down and there wasstill eight yards wanted, and so the Princeton right half trottedtentatively to join the quarter. Yale placed a tackle, full back and lefthalf behind her tackle guard hole on the left. Her right half fell backabout six yards to a position behind quarter. It might mean a kick or atandem, or a run around left end; Princeton's right half hesitated andedged back toward his line. Pemberton, puzzled, awaited the signal. Ofcourse the ball was his, but why was he placed so far away from it? Theonly play from just this formation that he was acquainted with was one inwhich he merely performed the inglorious part of interference. However,maybe the quarter knew his business, though deep down in his soul hedoubted it.Now, for an understanding of the remarkable events which followed, it isnecessary to take the reader into the confidence of the Yale quarter back.Despite Pemberton's misgivings he really did know his business, which wasto get that pigskin over the Tiger's goal line in the next four minutes,taking any risk to do it. And the present play was a risk. As planned itwas this: at the snapping of the ball the head of the tandem, the tackle,was to plunge straight through the line between tackle and guard as thoughleading a direct attack at that point; full back and left half were to turnsharply to the left before reaching the line and clear out a hole betweenend and tackle; right half back, standing well behind the quarter, was toreceive the ball on a toss and follow the interference; quarter was to stoptacklers coming around the right end of his line; in short, it was a playapparently aimed at the left center of Yale's line, but in reality goingthrough at the left end. But the Yale quarter had reckoned withoutPemberton.The play started beautifully. The ball was snapped back into quarter'swaiting hands, tackle plunged madly ahead into the Princeton's defenses,the quarter swung around back to the line, ready for the toss to the righthalf, who was on his toes, waiting to dash across to where the hole wasbeing torn open for him. And then something went wrong! A figure spedacross toward the right end of the line between quarter and right half justas the ball left the former's hands. The ball disappeared from sight; andso, in a measure, did Pemberton.His excited brain had confused the 'varsity with the freshman signals.Starting on the supposition that he was to receive the ball, the numbershad somehow conveyed to him the idea that the play was around right end.The fact that he was to be practically unprovided with interference did notbother him; if he had had time to consider the matter he would probablyhave decided that they knew his ability and were not going to insult him byoffering assistance. But Pemberton wasn't one to be worried over details.What was wanted was a touchdown, or, failing that, a good long gain. So,with the rest of the back field plunging toward the left, Pemberton startedon his own hook toward the right.He was glad the quarter tossed the ball so exactly; otherwise he would havehad to slow down. As it was he was going like an express train by the timehe swept around the Princeton line outside of end. Pemberton could not onlyrun like the wind, but could start like a shot from a rifle. That he gotclean away before the opponents had found the location of the ball waspartly due to this fact and partly to the fact that Yale's backs weremessing around in a peculiarly aimless manner which, to the Princetonplayers, suggested a delayed pass or some equally heinous piece ofunderhand work. So Princeton piled through Yale's line to solve thedifficulty, thinking little of the absurd youth who had shot around herleft end without interference.From Princeton's center to her right end everything was confusion. It was aglorious struggle, but futile. For the ball was snuggled in Pemberton'sright elbow, and Pemberton was down near the thirty yards sprinting forgoal. In front of him was the Princeton quarter back; behind him, racingmadly, came a Princeton half. To his left was a long, dark bank splotchedand mottled with blue; from it thundered down a ceaseless cataract of soundthat held as a motif entreaty and encouragement. Pemberton saw the wavingflags from the corner of his eyes; and the chaos of cheers and shoutsdrowned the thumping of his heart and the pat, pat of his feet on thetrampled turf. Pemberton was enjoying himself immensely, and was gratefulin a patronizing way for the coach's confidence in him. Then the quarterback engaged his attention. He glanced back. The foremost of thepursuers--for now the whole field was racing after him--was still a goodten yards behind. Pemberton was relieved. The twenty-yard line, dim andscattered, passed under his feet, and the Princeton quarter was in hispath, white and determined, with fingers curved like talons in anticipationof his prey. Pemberton increased his speed by just that little that isalways possible, feinted to the left, dug his shoes sharply in the turf andwent by to the right, escaping the quarter's diving tackle by the length ofa finger. The quarter dug his face in the ground, scrambled somehow to hisfeet, and took up the chase. But now he was second in pursuit, for the halfback had passed him and was pressing Pemberton closely. If the latter hadbeen content to make straight for the nearest point of the goal line theresult would never have been in doubt; but Pemberton was not one to besatisfied with bread when there was cake in sight. Nothing would do but thevery center of the goal line, and for that he was headed, running straightat top speed.There the pursuing half back found his advantage, for he held a coursenearer the center of the field. It was a pretty race, but agonizing to thefriends of Yale and Princeton alike. At the ten-yard line the flying Yaleman was a yard to the good; at the five-yard line the Princeton. player hadhim by the thighs and was dragging like a ton of lead.Pemberton's fighting spirit came to his rescue. Did that idiot whose armswere slipping down around his legs think that he was going to be stoppedhere on the threshold of success? Did he know he was trying to holdPemberton? Gosh! He'd show him! Every stride now was like pushing hisknees into a stone wall; one, two, three, four, and still the line wasthree yards away. And now the tackler's arms had slipped down about hisknees, holding them together as though with a vise. For an instantPemberton fought on--a foot, half a foot--then further progress wasimpossible and he crashed over on his face, midway between the goal posts,the ball held at arms' length, his knuckles digging into the last streak oflime. Some one thumped down on to his head and strove to pull the ballback. But he locked his joints and strained forward until somewhere behindhim a whistle shrilled. Then he rolled over on his back, closed his eyesand fought for breath.Few could have missed that goal; certainly not Yale's quarter back. Oncemore the ball went over the exact center of the goal line, but this timeabove the cross bar; and wherever one or more Yale men were gatheredtogether there was rejoicing loud and continued. For the figures on thescore board told a different story: Yale, 6; Opponents, 5.A few minutes later, in the car that was to take them back to town,Pemberton allowed the head coach to shake him by the hand, and strove tobear his honors becomingly. Congratulations roared in his ears like atorrent until he was moved to an expression of modest disclaim:"Oh, it wasn't anything much," said Pemberton. "I ought not to have allowedthat Princeton chap to get near me. But the fact is"--he addressed the headcoach confidentially--"the fact is, you see, I didn't quite understand thatsignal."

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