Then the line of march was taken up toward Sailors' Field, where they
arrived just in time to see the beginning of the practice game between
the Varsity and the scrub. Joel had been excused from attendance that
day, and so he took his seat beside the others on the grand stand and
strove to elucidate the philosophy of football.
"You see the scrubs have the ball. They must get it past the Varsity
down to the end of the field, where they can either put it down over the
line or kick it over that cross-piece there. That's center, that fellow
that's arranging the ball. He kicks off. There it goes, and a good kick,
too. Sometimes the center-rush isn't a good kicker; then some one else
kicks off. Blair has the ball. Look, see him dodge with it. He gained
ten yards that time."
"Oh!" It was Joel's mother who exclaimed. "Why, Joel, that other man
threw him down."
"That's part of the game, mother. He did that to keep Blair from getting
the ball any nearer the scrub's goal. He isn't hurt, you see."
"And do you mean that they do that all the time?"
"Pretty often."
"And do _you_ get thrown around that way, Joel?"
"Sometimes, mother; when I'm lucky enough to get the ball."
"Well, I never."
"Football's not a bad game, Mr. March," West was saying. "But it doesn't
come up to golf, you know. It's too rough."
"It does look a little rough," answered Mr. March. "Do they often get
hurt? Seems as though when a boy had another fellow on his head, and
another on his stomach, and another on his feet, and the whole lot of
them banging away at once, seems like that boy would be a little
uncomfortable.
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