Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1930-10-05


2 west already one side Of the sta
A dunn lay in chill shadow Half
time; the teams were going of the
- field; the score was tie, nothing to
nothing.
steve Arnold, passing through the aisle under
the stands toward the field house, walked
slowly, head hanging, feet dragging. He was
all right, but he was saving himself He'd taken
a bad beating in that first half, and there was
worse to come He wouldn't play the whole
Of the next half, of course, but he'd need all
the strength he had. They'd been lucky to hold
them so far.
Steve Arnold had always been-he was TO
remain for nearly another hour-one OF those
colorless, extremely useful backs who are the
delight Of every foot bah coach A great defen-
siye player q sure tackler, a master OF the
difficult art of blocking, Steve was the sort OF
back who, time and again through season,
makes possible the long, spectacular runs that
win for other men place on the all-America
eleven, glory in the newspaper and, ultimately,
jobs with the better bond houses Of Wall street.
CTEvE didn't care He took good work for
~ granted, his own or another mans. And
he didn't anyway, care for the fuss and clannor
and hysteria that went with the game. There
was in him q deep seated and outstanding
resentment Of all that side of foot ball. Now,
trudging OF the field, he didn't even listen TO
the cheering the blaring Of the bands, the
deep-throated singing.
He was thinking of the 10 or Is minutes Of
bruising work that lay before him as a losing
game wore to its bitter end. He'd pulled that
tendon again; he'd have to favor his right leg
And pain stabbed his shoulder every time he
raised his left arm. That could be helped
though: his rubber knew what to do.
Alphabetically, in the field house, he bent his
head to let Tony pull OF his torn, mud-caked
jersey; loosened the lacings Of his moleskins;
submitted to having shoes and stockings re-
coach, stopped to speak to him; he was nervous
and anxious.
How you feel Steve?" he asked. Thought
I'd leave you in and let you rest in the third
quarter.
90 K," said Steve. IT can take another
quarter"
you'll have to- They'd have scored that
time Terry got loose if you hadn't smeared that
play on the fourth down" Thurston lowered
his voice. "It doen't look SO good Steve
NO" Steve agreed dispassionately. "Know
what think coach? We're not going to shake
Pete loose-not with the line cracking the way
It is. They're smothering me every time before
even see their end. Tiff we tried passing
on first down, and then switched to that play
We worked on Brown-with Buck taking the
ball on Petes plays?"
Maybe" said Thurston. Don't you worry.
Relax"
"Relax," Steve, lying face down, grinned.
Easy enough Only man who has played
foot ball knows the sheer luxury Of lying fat
on wooden bench while skilled hands pound
and rub and knead sore muscles.
Steve lay still and the game passed from his
thoughts The din Of voices in the big room
came TO his ears from far away; he let his
mind wander back among the years that had
brought him, on this November afternoon Of his
Junior year, to this bench
rT'HE grin no one could see was twisted into
- curiously bitter smile He was remem-
berng things Always, as far back as his MEM
DRY ran there had been foot ball. He thought
of his father, Arnold, 49, captain of the team,
quarter-who, through Steve's boy
he I'd and adolescence, had remained just that,
ard somehow had never become an adult. He
re nembered q series of reunions; cold Novem-
Der afternoons when, a shivering youngster, he'd
sat with Arnold, '99, high up in the wooden
stands of the old field, and had been sweeps
down afterward to take reluctant part in the
snake dance of victory.
His part had been reluctant because, oddly
enough, even as kid he'd never risen to that
sort Of thing He'd never been thrilled by it;
never, except perhaps just at first, taken any
great pride in his fathers name. He'd been
queer, precocious kid, he supposed. Anyway,
he perceived, much too soon for his own hap
piness, the contrast between Arnold &c. going
back to be a hero on class day and at the big
game, and the ineffective, queruous, unsuccess-
full man who all the rest of the year was his
father.
He hadn't seen it all at once, of course; per-
ception Of the truth had come to him gradu-
ally. But he'd faced the TRUTH clear eyed, at
an age when most boys still look UP to their
fathers Is the greatest men In the world. Ned