The hot wind twisted it a little and it fell out of the reach of the safety running over to get it, rolled out on our thirty-one. A hell of a fine kick.
They made some switches and our offensive backfield came back on. Several of the Big Green yelled, “Here he comes, guys. Let’s send him back south of the border.”
Again Juan gave no indication that he’d heard.
Chris called Les on an end sweep that made two, then faked to Les, then Juan, then Junior, stepped back and passed a short one to Les. It made a nice eight yards, but it was nearly intercepted. The sticks came out and they called it a first down.
The next number was the one that Steen did so well on the year before. A naked reverse with some slick faking by Chris MacLay.
The big difference was that Chris was sending Juan around there bare and alone instead of our scat cat.
Stan Blount gave Chris a nice pass from center, but Chris made the unusual error — for him — of trying to turn before he had the ball in his hands. He hobbled it once, stepping back as he did so. It threw the timing of the play off. What little Chris MacLay should have done was cancel out the play right then and take it back to the line of scrimmage by himself. But everybody has those blank moments when thought processes work too slowly.
After hobbling it, with everybody sweeping right, he managed to thrust it into Juan’s hands. Juan was going left all alone. Chris might just as well have hung a sign on him that said BALL–CARRIER.
The whole backfield of the Big Green plus a couple of linemen cut Juan off and swung in to smear him. Juan was over near the sidelines. I got up onto my knees and the whole play was like slow motion. Like a bad dream. One chunky little ball carrier with more drive than speed, and the thundering herd roaring down on him.
Me, I would have taken it right over the sideline for the four-yard loss.
Juan faked toward the sideline, cut back hard, put his head down, and with knees high, he hit the massed tacklers — one hundred and seventy-five pounds trying to run right over a ton and a half. For a moment he bent them back and then they gathered their forces and tossed him hard. The officials were in close on the play and they had to unwrap the bodies like an artichoke. Everybody got up but Juan. He was out like a Christmas candle on New Year’s, but somehow he had the leather tucked under his chest and his arms wrapped around it.
The referee marched the ball back to the farthest point of the advance, and we found that Juan had, impossibly, banged us out one yard on that mangled play.
We called time and pretty soon Juan gagged and tried to sit up, a green look around his mouth. He coughed and gave a weak grin, but he was able to answer the usual questions.
Doc said, “You’ve had enough.”
Juan came up fast then. He stood up and he stuck his chin out at Doc and he said in a tone loud enough to reach the ears of the Big Green. “I’m in here to stay. They want me out of the game, they better bring out a pistol and shoot me.”
Doc gave him a long look. “Okay, okay. Save it for them. Don’t waste it on me.”
Juan turned toward Chris. We expected him to take a hack at Chris. Chris had set him up as a clay pigeon. Juan said, “Amigo, shall we try that one again?”
Chris’s baby-blue eyes were wide. The grin was slow, but it was a good grin. He said, “What do your friends call you?”
“Juanito. Or Johnny, if you like that better.”
“Juanito suits me, amigo. Now leave us play a little ball.”
“Viva Villa!” yelled Brownie Elvers, and thus a new battle cry was born.
There was snap in the lineup. It was number four on the twenty-two series. Chris took the pass from center, spun and flipped it straight back to Junior Temple. Junior lateraled it out to Juanito who heaved a long one down to Louie DeJohn. Louie tipped it straight up into the air, but caught it on the second try and was downed.
I heard the Big Green call time and I looked back and saw one of their number stretched out at Juanito’s feet. Junior had a smug look on his face.
“Nice block,” Les Schuman said. He and Junior and Juanito traded grins.
I don’t know what the right word for it is, but all of sudden we had it again. It was there, just as in what we had begun to look back on as the good old days. Everybody had snap and everybody was getting a kick out of the game. From their thirty-eight, Junior smashed through for six and five. On the twenty-seven we spread a little hole for Juanito and he came through spinning like a top. We broke through and gave them a series of blocks in the secondary that took their minds off Juanito. And he carried the mail right on down to their eleven. Somehow Junior got to him as he was tackled. As a Big Green came plunging to pile on, Junior got the back of his jersey and pulled him back onto the seat of his pants.
“Play’s over, son,” Junior said gently.
Chris was beginning to talk it up. He yelled, “Which of you guys wants the honor of carrying it over? Or shall I?”
“Let me,” Les said loudly.
“Okay,” Chris said. He took the snap, handed it to Les. Les carried it three strides and handed it off to Junior coming in the other direction. That gave us a chance to make a nice delayed hole for Junior. I went through it myself and brush-blocked the line backer before creaming the next Green suit I could see. When I spooned the dirt out of my eyes Junior was across the goal line, drawling, “Now you boys shouldn’t have believed us. You should have known it was my turn for a touchdown. Next time Juanito will make one.”
Les Schuman made a perfect conversion. The new spirit had infected the defensive lineup. I went off this time with the backfield and the two ends and sat and watched three Big Green plays dumped for no gain.
Les Schuman said, “Lift it off the bench, Norsemen.”
I watched Juanito. The grim look was gone. His eye was slowly closing, but there was a little twist to his mouth.
One lineman made a mumbled remark about “busting a leg off that greaseball.”
On the next play said lineman made a perfect and beautiful parabola and landed on the top of his head. After that, they all seemed to get the idea.
And it was just one of those days. We’d been playing gloomy ball for so long that it felt wonderful to start getting a kick out of the game again. Tired legs picked up and muscle-ache was forgotten. Junior Temple, the Big Freight, plunged through the line like a man possessed. There was no stopping us, till in the closing minutes of the half we had it first and three on their three; goal to go. They stopped the first two plays cold.
Juanito said, “My turn.”
He tucked his head down and smashed the left side of the line just as Junior, on a fake, smashed into the opposite side. Juanito slid on his face six feet inside the goal line.
In the third quarter each of the ends pulled in a touchdown pass and in the last quarter Les made paydirt on a wide end sweep during which Juanito cut the legs out from under two of the Big Green, on one and the same block.
We were bunched at the goal line, hammering at the door when the last second ticked off the big clock.
Juanito’s eye was completely closed, but he still had that little smile hiding at the corners of his mouth.
And right then was when the Big Green captain bulled his way up to Juanito just as we were turning to race for the lockers.
I moved in fast and so did Junior. We were expecting a little trouble. Juanito stood his ground and stared into the captain’s face with his one good eye.