Free The Moth by James M. Cain Page A

in the middle and spill him cold so the runner can go on for a touchdown. And occasionally that’s how it happens. But mostly what they hit is fresh air first and green grass second, and the runner gets smeared. So I thought: Why not aim for the tackler? Why not just bump him? If you bump him hard enough it takes him out of the play but not necessarily you, if you hold your feet
    So that’s how we did, and from the speed we both had, and the weight we got into it after we caught the hang of it, it looked like we were going to be bad news for somebody, sooner or later.
    The day we began pulling our stuff with the third team Denny went down for so many touchdowns everybody kind of lost count. But the word must have been sent over, because pretty soon the coach was there and next day Denny was back with the first squad, and I was right at his side. So our next game was with an outfit I’ll call Chesapeake, and we went over to the stadium with paper streamers on our cars and making quite a little noise. What they did to us was murder, for about a quarter and half the next quarter. In our stands was nothing but gloom, because they ran up three touchdowns on us before we could turn around, and kicked two goals. Denny and I sat with the other subs on the bench, and it wasn’t till the third touchdown had been made that we got sent out, both of us together. “Don’t forget to report to the referee.” A fat chance we’d forget. They called an off-tackle slice, which was what they’d been doing so well with before, and Denny busted it up before it got to the line of scrimmage. Second down, twelve to go frontwards, but only thirteen backwards, to be sitting on their own goal line. They tried it again and Denny smashed it again, a little quicker that time. Third down, fifteen to go frontwards, ten to the rear. The fullback dropped back. So did we, me and Denny, he to take the kick, I to cover. But when he caught it he did just what I’d told him to do. He let me lead him, headed for the sideline, for maybe ten or fifteen yards, with the whole Chesapeake team coming over at us, and our guys splitting up to block them.
    When they were nearly on top o£ us I cut right, hit it up, and let them see, for the first time, how fast Denny could run. They all cut over, but of course losing speed as they went. As soon as I saw they were going to pass to our rear I let them go. They’d never catch Denny that day. I ran on, headed for the kicker, who was laying back as safety man. I aimed and caught him. He staggered and I did. It jarred me so bad I thought I’d never get my breath. But that was all Denny needed. He hooked it up, and before I even got the ring out of my ears there he was over the goal line. We did it three more times.
    The street was jammed with girls after we dressed, and I don’t think Denny even thought about me, or knew I was there, or even considered thanking me. He was gone before I was even through the mob, and I drove home alone. But by accident, I put it over on him anyhow, anyway in the papers. They had pictures of him, that had been taken earlier in the season, when he went up with the first squad. But they had none of me, except the other stuff, with the Little Boy Blue suit and the Come Blow Your Horn collar. So that hit them funny, and there was I, smeared all over the Saturday-morning sport pages. My aunts called people up on the telephone, and I could listen and feel a little proud. My father kind of passed a few remarks at breakfast, and seemed pleased. Myself, I began to get that tingly feeling again, that I hadn’t had in a long time. I went out and bought an extra Sun and clipped the story out and went upstairs and wrote Miss Eleanor and put the clipping in with the letter.
    College, after three years at Poly, taking Denny over goal lines, catching his passes, and protecting his kicks, was just a matter of calling our shots. Just like he said he would, we got bids from all over, especially from