Stewart Sterling
The Fumbling Phantom
I
“Going in at right end, replacing Loftis,” droned the undergraduate spotter, “Number Eighty-one, Cady.”
Baldheaded Tim Murfree kept his eyes on the screen of the control set, but cupped his hand over the mike. “Who’s Yehudi?” he inquired out of the corner of his mouth. “Another of those scholarship sensations Snub Garret snagged by offering plenty of pocket moo?”
“Guess so.” The spotter shrugged. “Hope this Cady’s better’n the rest of those free-mealing footballers, though. He’s a soph. Transfer from Redlands. Dope on him in the program.”
Murf signaled his alternate announcer to take over, took his eyes off the black-and-white figures on the video screen to glance through the windows of the telebooth at the bright colors and hot shadows down there under the California sun.
Toward the group of Stallion players kneeling or lying face-down on the vividly green turf, loped a tall, rangy youngster with a cautious gliding gait.
The new wingman’s height was emphasized by his narrow shoulders, the startling effect of thinness was increased by the absence of any regulation shoulder-harness. Apparently there was no more padding under the golden jersey with the big white 81 than would ordinarily be sewn into a fifth grader’s ‘premium’ uniform.
Guy doesn’t look as if he’d be able to keep his feet against a stiff wind, let alone the rough-’em-up stuff of those USC linemen, thought the sportcaster, flipping the pages of his program until he found the explanatory paragraph about Cady, Wm.
Murf’s eyes narrowed with surprise as he skimmed past the statistics to the wing-man’s football background. He wigwagged to his alternate. When the commercial was finished, Murf leaned close to the mike:
“While USC is taking time out, we’ll grab a few seconds to tell you something about this flankman Snub Garret’s sending in for his side.
“Bill Cady’s a tall stick of timber, as you can see... six-two-and-a-half. Weighs a solid one-eighty. Nineteen years old. A sophomore from Banning, down near Palm Springs. Last season he was on the freshman team at Redlands University, where he set up a pretty sweet mark as a pass receiver.”
Pretty sweet, hell! he said to himself. If that isn’t a misprint — that 21 touchdowns — then it’s damn near incredible! That’s close to three scores a game for an eight game schedule. And the guy’s an end!
The spotter said: “Here we go.”
Muff squinted at the screen, raised his voice to the shrill pitch of play-by-play:
“Time’s up. Stallions are bunching in the huddle. They may kick. It’s third and six, on their own forty-five, here in the closing minutes of the third period, and though Snub Garret’s outfit is still on the short end of that 14 to 7 score they may decide it’s safer to punt and pray for a break than to try and make headway against a line they haven’t been able to dent all afternoon. Now they’re in the T. The ball goes back...”
“Zomby”, grunted the spotter without taking the binoculars from his eyes.
“Zombrorowski back. Punt formation.” Murf lifted his shrillness a notch higher. “He’s going to boot, takes two strides. No! It’s a pass... a long one... wa-a-a-y down the field... intended for Cady... but he’s nowhere near... WAIT! He got it!!! Cady GOT IT!!!”
Murf shook his head in disbelief as he stared at the dancing images on the face of the bulb, as if he was unable to accept the action on the glass as having reproduced the events on the field faithfully. There was no need for artificial pitching of his voice now. Murf was as keyed up as any of the forty thousand howling spectators who sent up a thunderous roar to rattle the windows of the booth:
“If you didn’t get that clearly on your set, we’ll try to picture that play for you. It looked as if Cady, the new end Garret just rushed in, was going to miss that long looper by at least five yards.
“Zombrorowski threw it ’way over Cady’s head over toward the west sideline; it just didn’t seem humanly possible for him to get that ball. Besides, the Trojan safety man, Chuck Berry, was between Cady and the rocketing leather.
“But this sub wingman zoomed past Berry like a motorcycle passing a trailer on a steep hill; he went up in the air as if he was wearing pogo sticks instead of cleats. Somehow he got under that ball. Then Berry dropped him.
“So now it’s first and ten again for the Golden Stallions... and for the first time in two periods, Snub Garret’s Rampaging Remuda is close to the Trojan goal.”
The spotter did a couple of jubilant tap steps. “What a deal! What a dilly of a deal! Most of these so-called ‘stars’ who’re supposed to shine on athletic scholarships turn out to be very dim bulbs. But show me the joe who’s going to squawk about putting out dough for this Cady kid!”
The camerman on the west unit trailed Cady with his finder. On the screen in front of Murf the lanky wingman didn’t seem winded by his spectacular effort.
Nor did his broad, amiable face, with the high, prominent cheekbones the bony, jutting nose and the wide, humorous mouth, — show any reaction to the wild thumpings on the back and slaps on the stem with which his teammates congratulated him. He remained perfectly expressionless.
A smug lug, Murf decided, pretending a circus catch like that was no more’n what might be expected of him! Probably a one-shot wonder, — getting away with a down-the-field pass like that, the first time, because of its unexpectedness. Wait till he tries that again. Those Trojans will toss him up for grabs.
A moment later Murf made a swift revision. On first down, Hustling Mike Agaro, the Stallion’s bouncy little signal-caller, shot Dit Zombrorowski off right tackle on a tricky spinner.
Cady was key lineman; he had to handle the Trojan left tackle single-handed while his own guard and tackle ganged up on the USC guard. With the passback, Cady drove fiercely into the bulky Trojan tackle, rode him out wide. Zombrowski went for six.
“Begins to look as if the Stallions might stampede to a touchdown,” Murf informed his audience, excitedly. “Up to a few minutes ago, it seemed as though Snub Garret’s boys were merely battling to prevent the Trojans from piling up first downs and rolling along to more scores. But now all of a sudden, they’ve got some zing!”
Resist that impulse to dramatise, he warned himself. Just because the Stallions started to go places soon’s this new boy came in the lineup, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s the spark that jolted the plug, does it? There are twenty-one other guys down there, doing their stuff, in addition to this comet, Cady!
But there wasn’t any doubt the Stallions; were rearing to go now. A few minutes ago they hadn’t had any more fire than a soggy cigarette. Murf called the shots with rising excitement.
Agaro stabbing through guard on a sneak, made the first down.
Zombrorowski, sledgehammered through for five on a deep reverse.
O’Doul, fumbling on a spinner, recovered for an eight-yard loss.
Third and thirteen. Murf called it as he saw it. “The Stallions’ chances of a score are hanging in the balance here, on Agaro’s next decision.”
“Zomby,” said the spotter.
Murf forgot the screen, stood up, shielding his eyes from the sun. The men at the video camera might miss this one. Murf couldn’t take that chance.
“Agaro hands it off to Zombrorowski. He’s starting wide around right end. He’s cutting back tossing a long lateral out to his left... to O’Doul... O’Doul juggles it, has it. He’s shooting a high one, clear into the end zone. Cady’s down there, but he can’t — he’ll never— Oh, oh! It looks as if he stole that ball right smack out of Chuck Berry’s hands! It’s hard to tell what’s going on there. We may have to wait a few seconds for the officials to—”