Chapter 6 — Tigers

The faculty was sitting at coffee in the Common Room after dinner; drawing breath at the end of a long day. Mr. Johnson, who had the study hall duty, put out his cigarette, drained his coffee cup, picked up his clipboard and, holding it over his head as if sheltering himself from a storm, shut the hall door behind him.

Mr. Henderson, varsity soccer coach, tall, grey athletic, a living example of the young man who never grows up, asked, “Gus, how did you ever draw XY soccer for a fall sport? I thought you were a crosscountry man.” “He is.” said Mr. Allbright, “I saw him the first day of school running the Ancient History class around the driveway to shake the devil out of them. He did it, too.” “I guess,” said Gus Cunningham, “that I was odd man out. It seems everyone wants to coach crosscountry and tennis these days and no one wants XY soccer.” “Sure don’t,” said Henderson, “It’s the pit of perdition and a sink hole of athletic iniquity. It is the last refuge of the incompetent and apathetic. Every mother’s son of them has two left feet and couldn’t hit the butt end of a cow with a shovel.” “They aren’t all that bad,” said Gus, “It’s true that there are some pretty clumsy boys there. Little Joe Manson runs like a duck. I put him in the Allagash game when we were seven goals behind. When I called him off the bench, he looked alarmed and confused. “Little Joe, take out Sandy at left inside on the next whistle. Do you know what to do?” “Run.” said Little Joe. “Which way?” I asked, and he had it wrong. But he tried. The ball came to him once. He took a swing at it. It spun off his foot and he fell down, but he had a foot on the leather.” “Has Sandy been out to practice in the last two weeks? He keeps hanging around the infirmary asking for excuse notes, or he has an extra help session, or he falls asleep in the dorm.” “No,” admitted Gus, “he hasn’t done much and neither have several others.” “It must have been a long season,” said Mr. Henderson. “What is your record, coach of the year?” “We are three and four right now. We wouldn’t be that good except that Fairfield and Naples have the same problem we do with a bottom team and we got lucky for 30 seconds with Hastings.” “Big game Saturday, Gus?” “Yep, Penobscot.” “You’ll get slaughtered.” “Probably, but we’re going to have fun doing it.” “How do you figure that? Those guys, if you can round up eleven of them, won’t do anything. They are intellectuals who would rather do something else, or dead beats who would rather do nothing.” “Just let me use your Varsity locker room for ten minutes before the game, OK?” During the study hall break Little Joe Manson and Sandy were arguing about a geometry problem. Well how would you find the height of the flagpole and measure the rope?” said Little Joe. “Stupid duck foot,” said Sandy “Yeah, well if you’re so smart, how are you going to get out of playing in that moldy soccer game tomorrow? It’s a fool’s game.” “I’ll find a way.” But neither boy found a way. Indeed, all fifteen of the team answered the roll call when Coach 29

mustered his forces in the locker room. They were curious. He had announced at lunch that the Tigers would meet in the Varsity locker room before the game. The school had roared with laughter; but the team was there.

“What is this guy doing?” asked Sandy. “He’s bananas. He’s out of his tree,” said Little Joe. Mr. Cunningham reached into a box in front of him and pulled out a sweatshirt. He took off his coat and pulled it over his head. It said COACH in huge letters on the front. He hung a whistle around his neck on a shoelace. “All right, men,” said Gus addressing his motley group of gangly fifteen-year-olds. “This is it. This is the big one. If we want a .500 record, we have to beat Penobscot. He reached into the box and pulled out a bright red shirt in Kennebec colors with a snarling tiger in yellow on the front. You’re Tigers now. Every one of you is a Tiger. Put these on.” He tossed, them out one by one, calling each man’s name: “Little Joe, George, Andy, Eddie, Sandy, Alec.” Last of all came a red and yellow striped shirt, with a tiger, “Billy Harvey, our impenetrable goalie.” Sandy didn’t quite know what to make of this. Funny things were happening inside him. He knew that XY soccer was no tiger team. He knew as well as he knew a2 + b2 = c2 that they were going to get slaughtered. He knew Mr. Cunningham knew it too and that he was just kidding all the way, but he looked so serious, even in that silly sweat shirt, that Sandy put on the tiger shirt to go along with the gag. “Listen, men,” went on Gus; the red-shirted Tigers clustered around. “No team like ours ever had a .500 record and we’re going to be the first. Number 1, get it? We’re going out there to win that game. We’ve won three and we’ll win this one. We are going to use just one play. It is called Dynamic Defense.” “He must be kidding,” thought Sandy. “He must be.” Gus looked fiercely serious, just like the coach in the Frank Merriwell books. “Fullbacks feed the center half. That’s Sandy. Halfbacks feed the wings. That’s Alec and George. Wings shoot at the goal, insides shoot at the goal. Center shoot at the goal and score. Now when you trot out on that field, go all together and remember; we’re the Tigers. No one gets by us. Let’s go!” Those gangly boys, too clever, too sophisticated to fall for this phony pep talk, caught a glint in Gus Cunningham’s eye that said “Play along with it and let’s pretend we’re big time athletes.” And they did it, laughing at the big time athletes and laughing at themselves. Taking it half seriously and half in jest, they trotted out on the field. Still half kidding each other, beginning to mean it, they clustered round the coach all joined hands and cheered, and ran out on the field, almost proud of being Tigers. The whistle shrilled, and the game began. Back and forth flew the ball mostly in the Kennebec end. The fullbacks were terrific – fearless. Whenever the ball came near, they charged it. Sometimes they charged the man too. Tommy at left fullback got a yellow card for unnecessary roughness and a little later he charged again and knocked his man endways. The ref came over to Gus. “Coach, that left fullback is too rough. I am going to have to throw him out.” “Do what you have to do.” said Gus. “You’re the ref.” The ref warned Tommy again and the game went on. Again the opposing wing came in. Tommy, who had never knocked anyone down in his life before, was intoxicated with his newly discovered physical power. Again he charged the ball. Again fouled his man. Whistle. “Leave the game, Number 23.” Incredible. Tommy Brown, poet, musician, debater – kicked out of a game for roughness! Tommy came to the sidelines, almost tearful. “What does he think I am, coordinated or something?” sniffled Tommy. Penobscot scored.

Kennebec’s XY soccer had seen this before. “Here,” said coach Gus, to himself, “we die.” But this was a new team: Tigers. Again the ball came into their end. The right fullback, Tim Feineman, a violinist, swung his big left foot at the ball, almost missed it, put a terrific spin on the ball. It hit his own post and bounced in. 2-0 Penobscot. Seconds remained in the half. On the kickoff the ball came back to Sandy at center half. For once he hit it square and hard, high over the heads of rushing Penobscots. Duckfooted Little Joe saw it fly and paddled down under it as fast as he could. It landed ahead of him and bounced toward the Penobscot goalie. Little Joe ran faster than ever he had before. Just as he came up to the ball, he crashed to the ground, cut down from behind by the Penobscot fullback. Whistle. “From the rear,” shouted the ref. Penalty kick for Kennebec. And the half ended 2-1. Coach Cunningham gave the Tigers a mental massage in the halftime. No one knew whether he was kidding any more. He didn’t quite know himself. In the second half the battle swayed to and fro, Kennebec supported by red shirts, an entirely new feeling of desperate loyalty, and very little skill. Gus kept the four substitutes on the sidelines. Alec had been out for the whole third period, and the game was getting tighter. Again and again the tailbacks fed Sandy who tried to get it to the wings. They missed it, they weren’t there, or the ball went out. Sometimes they got it and tried to cross it. Never could they get it close in. Alec, still on the sidelines was frustrated out of his skull.

“Put me in, coach, put me in.” pleaded Alec, the chemist who never played if he could get out of it. “Put me in, coach. I want to taste blood.” Coach Cunningham nearly choked to death on that and put him in at wing. “Dynamic Defense.” shouted Sandy. “Dynamic Defense.” echoed Little Joe and Bill and Alec. “Dynamic Defense!” To halfback, to wing, flew the ball. Across the field it came, high and fast. Alec, carried away, saw it coming down, knew he should head it, didn’t dare, stood under it and shut his flatfooted eyes. It bounced off his head and he crumpled to the ground. Groggily he got up. Tigers were pounding him, cheering, messing up his hair. He had actually scored and tied the game. As the fourth quarter drew toward a close, and it began to get dark, Varsity and JV players on the next field felt that something was happening next to them. They clustered along the sidelines, first laughing, then cheering derisively, then really cheering. “Go, Tigers – Aaargh!” Little Joe was playing inside in a daze of exhaustion, of heightened emotion and of determination hitherto untested. Again and again the ball came down the field and again and again he missed or lost out to a Penobscot or kicked it over the sideline. Once more it came down. Alec on the wing crossed it over once again. Little Joe would not be beaten again. He rushed the ball, took a mighty swipe at it, hit it sideways and sent it spinning toward the far post, which it hit and spun in. Deafening cheers from the sidelines. His team piled all over Little Joe. Even Coach Cunningham rushed out on the darkening field to mess up his hair. And the game ended 3-2. Out on the field, the Kennebec teams, cheering and yelling. The Tigers didn’t know what to do. They were overwhelmed, dazed. Varsity Coach Henderson ran up to Little Joe, not clear as to just how the play had developed or what position Little Joe had played, wing, inside or center. “Hey, Web-foot,” said Henderson excitedly, “what are you?” “Me?” said Little Joe, the mathematician, “Me? I’m a Tiger.”