f there's not plenty of fireworks in this game, I'll miss a good
guess!"

Mack, as he awaited the referee's whistle starting the game, felt his
heart throbbing in his throat. This was his big moment--a terrible
moment. For him--the world rested on his shoulders. Thanks to
unwelcome newspaper publicity his every move would be watched. He
would be playing as though followed by a spotlight. Keenly conscious
of the business rivalry between his brother and Coach Edward, Mack
thoroughly appreciated the gesture of his being placed in the opening
line-up. He even wondered what his own feelings would have been had he
been in Coach Edward's shoes. Could he have trusted the brother of a
rival coach in the big game--knowing how deeply rooted is family
loyalty? Not that he would have suspected said brother of deliberate
leanings toward the other side ... but he might have feared an
unconscious favoring and a partial let-down on the part of the brother
at critical times. Were a game the only thing at stake, such brotherly
consideration might be entirely discounted. But when the loss of such
a game might affect the family pocketbook, the situation took on
different proportions. And this was the tough spot in which the
Grinnell Coach and player found themselves. Coach Carl Carver had
never intimated any personal concern nor confessed to any embarrassment
at the possibility of Mack's playing. His attitude had been impersonal
... but he, of the three, was least in position to feel the strain.

The kick-off!

Mack's eyes followed the ball as it arched in the air and spun his way.
Out of the corners of his eyes he saw team-mates forming a phalanx in
front. Then he heard Frank Meade's voice off to his left.

"Take it, Mack--and follow me!"

The stands were rocketing sound as Mack, his throat suddenly dry as
paper, realized the pigskin was coming to him on his own seven yard
line ... that the Pomeroy eleven was rushing down ... trying to
penetrate Grinnell's quickly forming interference. He made the catch,
clutching the ball to him fearsomely, terrorized at the thought of
dropping it, and felt himself in motion as he slid in behind Frank who
crossed in front of him. Ten--fifteen--twenty yards he traveled ...
conscious that frenzied Pomeroy forms were being dumped heavily to
earth by fellow team-mates ... and that Frank, directly ahead, was
doing herculean work at clearing the way for him. On the thirty yard
stripe, Fra