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!”
IX
You’re cracking under the strain, he cautioned himself. He’s calling you Danny, that’s all!
But he came up off the bench fast.
All Stoney said was: “In for Pfieff.” He took Dan’s arm, walked to the edge of the field, holding him until Coco’s first play was completed. “Tell Coco to slug the 50s.”
“Right.” Dan’s stomach did a flip-flop. Maybe the coach had called him Janny. If he was gambling on Dan now after that stink in the newspaper, he must know.
Stoney gave him a pat that was a shove.
Somebody, high in the stands, gave a piercing war whoop:
“Yee-owww-wow! DYNAMITE!!”
The brass drum boomed. Somebody shook a cowbell. The cheering section, gave a short yelp for Webb-Webb-Webb. He didn’t mind the damn name so much, coming this way.
He reported, was cuffed wonderingly by Coco, joyously by Ship. They were full of questions… but this was no time for gab. Work to do.
They huddled. Wide end sweep to the left. It was second and seven.
Dommy carted it for two.
Dan said huskily: “Coach says bet fifties. On the nose.”
Coco growled: “So say we all. Fifty. Right. Talk it up, men.”
They hit positions chattering:
“Here we go!” “On our way!” “In yere, ev’body!”
The ball socked in. The hole was there. Dan roared through, onto the backup man before the Indian could get set. For sheer satisfaction at the chance to let off the steam of boiling anger, Dan smashed into him savagely, head on.
The Indian lost interest. Dan slanted away from the moose-shouldered Stanford left half. At the instant of tackle, he swerved, knees riding high, stiff arm pounding like a 2x4 at the white helmet.
The half back held him… to a seven-yard gain. The last three yards Dan dragged two tacklers with him.
“Pour it on,” Coco snarled in the tight ring. “Same! Over! Harder!”
Stanford began to barber it up, too.
Also, they were expecting Dan this time. The hole wasn’t there, when he bulled up to the line.
He rammed it, anyway, — felt bone and beef give, — exploded through… into that same fullback. He spun, wrenched, tore loose, stumbled, went down under an avalanche of white wool.
Net four. Second and six… on the 9.
“How ’bout it?” Coco gauged him in the huddle. “Mix ’em up?”
“Same dish for me.” Dan wiped sweat off his mouth, was surprised to find it was blood. “With plenty whip cream.”
The enemy played it cagey. Too cagey. Nobody banged away with the same buck three times in a row, when they were 20 points behind.
“Pass,” their defensive signal-caller warned.
The blue-backed line opened the gate just a little, driving the defensive right down on his knees to block the gap. Dan socked through, lunging into the Palo Alto center, caroming off into the left half, savaging his way to the two before they cut off his legs at the knees.
First… and goal to go.
Coco started to call “Fifty” again but Dan panted “No.”
The quarterback called “Twenty.” His own number.
Stanford piled in as if to bury Dan six feet under. Coco sneaked through, standing up. To score.
Everson toed it between the uprights. The 7 looked better, up on the scoreboard. But the 20 was still big. And time marched on. They were starting the fourth quarter.
High in the glass booth on the rim of the stadium, Stan Llewellyn reported, in his excited nasal drawl, to ten million seated on the 760 kilocycle line:
“Lewis scoring, Everson converting. But it might be worth casual mention that Dynamite Dan-I won’t call him by his last name because I left my program in my other pair of pants so I can’t tell what it is, — this newly injected fullback lugged that hoghide eighteen yards on three tries, which averages six yards a shot unless somebody wants to correct my arithmetic. Dynamite is a soph, — but if anybody comes up with that oldie about a soph touch, kindly refer him to Stanford for particulars.”
Southern kicked to Stanford. Dan had a blurred impression of seething stands, a cheering section hoarsely chanting “Fight-Fight-Fight”, drums booming, and the Indian quartet being dumped on his 10-yard line by Piet De Fano.
The white jerseys kept the ball for sixty yards and four endless minutes. Then the big left half coffin-cornered a brilliant punt across on the Southern three.
Dan carried it. Took it down to the 12.
Dommy lost four, slipping on the grass. Third and five.
Coco was uncertain: “We’re not fifteen in, now. What think, Ship?”
Ship held both fists out. “Can do.”
“Ninety,” Coco yapped. “Webb. And crys, — block, guys!”
Ball back. To Coco. To Dan. The fake. The retreat. End diving at him. Let him dive. Ships not cutting back. Take your time. Don’t look at Ship. Wait… now!
It never went better. Ship snagged it on the sixteen. First down! Four more chances!
The west stands were jubilant. The Stanford side almost as noisy, pleading: “Break it up… Smear ‘at man!”
Coco arranged the breaking up, — to suit himself. He faked a smash with Dan blasting into the guard slot, — switched to send Dommy slashing off tackle… into the clear, — almost. The safety man ran him out of bounds at midfield.
“Now we’re moving! Yet’s GO!!”
Coco houdinied the ball himself. Faded, searching way downfield for Dommy and Ship… then lacing a swiftie to Coddington who spun on the Stanford thirty-five for a neat, sweet buttonhook.
“Now, Dan.” Coco was raring. “Fifties. Left. Zok!”
They boxed out that Indian right guard for him. A reaper could have gone through the hole. Dan went through, with the throttle wide, gaining momentum every yard.
He stiff-armed the Stanford right half fiercely. A lance of pain stabbed up his wrist… but the half plowed turf with his nose.
The safety man committed a shade too soon. Dan turned on that galvanic spurt, ripped through a clutching arm, pounded clear to the six-point stripe and over.
The gang hugged him, frenzied. He hung his head bashfully, dug a toe in the turf.
“Shucks. Twan’t nothin’. Any one of you’d of done the same, if you’d got the chance.”
Coco patted his helmet. “You’re a card, son. But we haven’t all day to play you. Just five minutes left to beat these buzzards.”
Everson called for a towel. He wiped the ball. Wiped sweat out of his eyes. Wiped the toe of his kicking shoe.
Then he booted the oval solidly between the uprights.
20-14. Pandemonium. Stanford receiving. Ship hurling himself through a swarm of blockers to slam the Indian fullback into the ground on the fifteen.