Tony Strega muttered curses deep in his throat.
Greely, taking advantage of their gift from nowhere, bucked, plunged and elbowed their way into two first downs that carried them just over the mid-field stripe before they were forced to kick. The kick, angled toward the sidelines, went out at the fourteen.
Forsi took over again, sharp mind clicking, using the judgment that Tony Strega had beaten into him.
Maroney around left end for three. Jabella off tackle for four. A pass into the flat for five. A sneak for three more. End around for six. Jump pass to the end in the flat for seven. Jabella through the middle for two, then three, then eight
A precision march. And the deeper the march went, the tougher it got. Tony watched the ends, and he knew that Forsi watched them also.
Down to the Greely forty-eight. Forty-four. Thirty-eight. Thirty-seven. Thirty-one. Twenty-six.
Each thrust forward into the heart of Greely-land enabled the defense to concentrate their forces.
On a long-delayed buck where a hole opened, was closed, and opened again in the nick of time, Maroney carried it on down to the twenty.
Forsi fed a jump pass to the left end at the line of scrimmage. The end flipped it laterally out to Stanisk who, with Jabella running interference, plunged it on down to the twelve as the quarter ended.
First and ten on the twelve. With some beautiful faking, Forsi shook Stanisk loose again. Stanisk was downed on the three, but the horn had blown on the play. Adams had drawn the offside penalty and it was first and fifteen.
First and fifteen. A pass into the end zone was incomplete. A second try at the end around was nailed at the line of scrimmage. Third and fifteen. Tony Strega tensed as he saw the left end wide.
Once again the same play. The end was swept out of the play, the guard was blocked in toward the center of the line and Stanisk was dropped on the two.
Jabella, crashing into the entire center of the Greely line, made it a first down by inches.
Jabella tried twice more for no gain. Third and goal to go. Forsi faded back, evaded a tackier, ducked away from another, moved on back to the ten, the fifteen. There he was nearly trapped. Maroney was running at full speed laterally along the end zone. He moved in front of the man covering him. Forsi got the pass off. It was too far ahead of Maroney. Maroney made a flat dive, gathered in the ball at shoe-top level and the big six was racked up. The kick was good and the Adams band blared the touchdown march as the tired team drifted back into position to kick.
Greely took the ball on the ten and, in four successive downs, brought it up beyond mid-field before a fumble lost them twelve yards and they were forced then to kick.
Forsi gnawed out two first downs before kicking. Greely had it back up to mid-field and the half ended as a long, towering pass was knocked down by Brankoff in the end zone.
Andy Fels, the trainer, was prodding Stanisk’s shoulder as Tony came into the locker room. Men were stretched out on the benches, chests heaving.
“Anybody hurt?” Tony asked.
“Nothing serious, Mr. Strega,” Andy said.
Tony walked slowly through the long low room. He cuffed Forsi on the chest and winked at him. They seemed m fair shape. Weary, but still confident.
Chapter Three
Touchdown Castouts
Back in the center of the room he said, “Nice going, guys. We got one. We might have had two. Sims is over there with them giving them hell. They’ll come out after blood. It’ll be tough holding them off. But I think we can do it. Play it smart and hard and fast. Do your jobs. Remember your assignment. Keep your heads up. They’ll be eager enough to bobble a few. Fall on the ball. This is the last game. With a win we’ve got a good season. A loss and we’re all dogs. A good season and we get the breaks next year. You know what I mean.”
He turned toward the door, found his way unexpectedly blocked by Frank Mercer. Mercer, uncertain and ill at ease, said, “Coach, I—”
“Speak up, boy.”
“I wondered if I was going to get in this game. You see I—”
Strega smiled. It wasn’t a very friendly smile. “I know, kid. The history books say this is your day to be a hero. You talk to Forsi. You ask him to punch another one or two across and I’ll shove you in for the closing moments.”
Mercer drifted away, his eyes hurt, his lips tight Tony Strega left and slammed the door after him.
The first ten minutes of the third quarter turned into a kicking duel, with the educated toe of Greely’s Jeffer providing a slight advantage.
Each team, hot after the ball, smothered the defensive efforts of the other team. Tony, trying to weigh the remaining strength of his men, glanced along the bench. Everybody had been in but Mercer, White and two tackles. Tony sent in the two tackles.
At last Jeffer hit the jackpot with a kick which took an odd bounce, went over the safety man’s head and rolled out inches from the goal line.
The kick by Adams was bad, barely reaching the mid-field stripe. Greely got down to the forty where it became fourth and three. Jeffer kicked magnificently, and the hankerchief was dropped on the two.
Loots went back as safety.
Stanisk got off a beautiful kick, his best of the day. It sailed, wide and handsome, way back over Loots’ head. Loots raced back, picked it up on his own twenty-five, spun away from a driving tackle, angled toward the sidelines. Two men closed in on him. He sidestepped the shot of one, broke through the other with a punishing straight arm. He toe-danced down the sideline until he was blocked. He cut back but he had picked up protection. He moved nicely in back of his interference, racing down the cluttered field. He spun out of another tackle, reversed his field, made it down to the thirty. Sharma and Maroney closed in on him. Sharma was blocked out. Loots feinted but he couldn’t fake Maroney off line. Loots put on a burst of speed and ran Maroney down. It caught Maroney by surprise. He managed to trip Loots. But Loots, after stumbling wildly, managed to stay on his feet.
In the end zone he slowed, stopped, and burlesqued the heaving of a huge sigh.
They tried hard to block the kick, but fingers failed to reach the ball and it sailed through, straight and true.
With the score tied, the quarter ended just as Adams ran the first play from the twenty for a three yard gain, second and seven.
After the first play in the fourth quarter, Maroney tried to hobble back to position. Time was called and he came off, limping badly. It was the first serious loss. Some men had been badly enough bruised to need a rest and several had had the wind knocked out of them, necessitating a time out, but this was the first man out of the game for keeps.
Mercer helped Maroney back to the locker room where his ankle could be tended.
Brankoff was almost as good as Maroney. Just a shade slower on his feet and quite a bit slower in the head. Forsi, with Brankoff in the right-half slot, would have to skim off and discard the top precision layer from the bag of tricks.
Tony wondered if Loren understood his predicament, and then he realized with a deep and heavy sense of loss that she wasn’t there.
Forsi had to slam ahead for the winning points. Jackson sent down a report that one of the Greely guards was too eager and might fall for the old mouse trap.
Tony sent a tackle in with the information. Forsi slammed Jabella through the hole where the too-eager guard had been. Jabella made eleven yards, running the last three with tacklers hanging all over him.
Brankoff fumbled and suddenly it was third down, eleven to go. Greely drew a roughing-the-kicker penalty. And so the kick wasn’t necessary.