Two further Red Socks were wrecked and now the Giants had possession of the ball. The whistle blew, the ball traveled into the backfield. Tom Bell was himself watching closely and saw Jack Bates escaping while storming the line. Tom Bell with a great leap threw himself astride Jack, dragging the latter to the ground, and butted him with his head. But the Giants had won four-and-a-half yards.
Twice again they sought to run the ball. This time, encircling their opponents, the linemen of the Giants played the ball by throwing a long pass. Bobby Locke, one of their fastest people, ran onwards at full speed--5, 10, 20 yards (each a little smaller than a meter--author's note) and reached the goal-line. An ear-deafening roar filled the stadium as Bobby Locke touched the ball down behind the goal-line. It was six points!
Now, in addition they possessed the opportunity to send the ball over the crossbar between both of the tall goalposts. One man held the ball, its pointed end up. Bobby Locke ran up: BOOM!--jubilation in the stadium--now it was seven points for the Giants. The first fifteen minutes were over.
Big Brother Is Watching
Crippled and sweating, the Red Socks returned to their dressing room. Astonished, they saw on the door in white chalk: "Gormee is with you in spirit." As they entered the room, staring at them from the walls and floor, the white script said "Gormee sees your game!" "Think Upon Gormee!" Noisily, the players collapsed on the benches thinking that these signs were just like Tom Graham, the business manager.
No one asked them what they looked like. Pat Brown already lying in the hospital; Bill Caladon had two broken ribs; Rusty Neill had had to spit out five teeth; and Jimmy Beagle had a dislocated hand.
The manager appeared. "Boys, I have been expecting more from you. I have been dumbfounded by your cowardice. You're not worth the money that You're each paid. You must win! Note that! Think what you owe Gormee. So what do you think about that?"
Bill Jackson sat back in his corner, pulled off his pants and massaged his knee. "Boss," he said, 'I have a wrenched tendon. I just can't bear it any longer. Knew it wasn't much good any more when a little while ago I could barely run on it."
Spinning around, Tom Graham graciously replied "Damn coward, so you'll let a little thing like a wrenched tendon stop you. Well, listen attentively to me --so long as you can run, you will play!"
Coach Harry Coldstone also pressed in here: "Listen Bill, you are a miserable shirker. T'hell with you if you leave the team now!"
The thoroughly battered men painfully picked themselves up, and tramped back onto the playing field. The battle went on and on. It stood 13-7 for the Giants at the end of the second quarter. Once more there were injuries. Bill Jackson was brought to the hospital with a torn tendon. In the closing stages of the last period, it stood 19-14 for the Giants.
Hardly a Red Socks man hadn't yet been injured. Harry Coldstone had only the consolation that a great many Giant players also in this condition had dropped out. The battling players rolled themselves around on the greensward. Diabolic curses, bloodthirsty roars, and fiery cheering poured from the grandstands, and the cheering "corps" directed by whiteclad maidens. All this combined to make an indescribable scene.
Endlessly the armored robots hurled each other to the ground, that they might slam their plated helmets into each other. They tried to dislocate the extremities of their enemies by slugging their opponents in the jaw or put them out of commission by some more devious method. At the same time, the managers sat in the grandstands chewing gum and watching boredly.
"I'm affraid, Harry," Manager Graham told Coach Coldstone, "that you'll have to go into action as a scout next week. Them clowns down there are anemic bums. They've got no meat on their bones. Some way you've got to figure out a way to shanghai some reinforcements. Forget the expense. If we don't manage that, we won't get any decent opponents; that means no spectators either, and our racket is finished. I understand there are a few more bruisers in Wisconsion (sic). You bring them here. The cost plays no part in it."
"OK, Boss." Harry Coldstone got up as the final whistle blew. "Day after tomorrow, I'll be on my way."
Exhausted, and literally annihilated, the players slogged off. The Red Socks had lost. No comforting word accompanied them into their locker-room. Only the cold, contemptuous looks of the manager and the coach. . .