A Football Yarn.
by F.W. Hollingham.
Originally published in The Novel Magazine (C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.) vol.2 #12 (Mar 1906).
Telling of what depended upon the result of a football match.
There is no doubt that I was very much in love with pretty Lucy Blake.
She was acknowledged by all to be the belle of Stickley, one of the outlying suburbs of London, and the girls of my native Broomfield were simply not in the same street with her. All who knew her loved her even more for her sweet nature than for her pretty face and dainty figure.
She was such a thorough "sportsman," too. She would never take any advantage offered her at games; on the golf links or tennis lawn, at billiards or cards, in croquet or cycling, she could take defeat with a quiet smile and own the superiority of her conqueror, or she could, and often did, win without undue conceit.
Needless to say, I was not the only one in love with her, and although she was twenty-one the following March, and it was then Christmas, she had not shown the slightest preference for any particular one of her numerous suitors. She was good chums with all, but what man in love was ever satisfied with a chum?
Now to introduce myself. My name is James Sargent. I had the questionable advantage of a public school and university education; had never distinguished myself particularly either at study or sport, and eventually had drifted into the Civil Service, in which I held a comfortable position, drew a comfortable salary, and led a comfortable life.
At the time of my story I was thirty years old, and although, through a couple of unfortunate accidents, I had retired from active participation in the more bustling sports, I often refereed at football matches, and, indeed, was appointed a referee to the South-West Suburban Football League, in which Broomfield and Stickley were running neck and neck for first place. This carried with it a gorgeous silver shield for the club and neat gold medals for the members of the team.
It was Christmas Day, and the weather being fine and the roads in good condition, I thought a cycle ride would improve my appetite for dinner.
Naturally, I went towards Stickley, which was about four miles away, and greatly to my delight I had not gone far when I saw Lucy's well-known figure riding in front of me. She did not see me until I overtook her, and then she pretended to be very angry because I had caught her napping.
However, I appeased her wrath, and after passing the compliments of the season, soon found myself urging my suit with more than usual fervency. I pressed her for a decisive answer, and although she seemed half-inclined to yield, I suppose the natural coquetry there is in every woman would not allow her to give in without a struggle. At last she said:
"If Stickley head the league I will marry you before next football season."
This took the wind out of my sails altogether, for I was an ardent supporter of Broomfield, and she knew it. I pointed this out, and also that it was hardly fair to allow such a serious question to both of us to rest on the result of football matches in which a little luck may turn the advantage to either side. But I argued in vain, and at last, putting on a deliciously domineering air, she closed the discussion by saying:
"What I have said, I have said. I withdraw nothing; I qualify nothing."
Then we both laughed, and the matter ended for the time.
The months passed by and at the end of March there was only one more game to be played in the league. That was Broomfield v. Stickley, at Broomfield. Early in the season Broomfield had played a drawn game, one goal each, at Stickley, and now were considered to have a good deal the better chance.
The league table read:—
Thus it will be seen that the club I belonged to had the better record, the advantage of playing on their own ground, and had only to draw to win the championship.
All my friends were jubilant, and I tried to be also, but it was a dismal failure. My club's success meant that I should never win my wife, for I knew Lucy would keep to her word.
The eventful day came at last, and in the morning, while at work in my office, I was rung up on the telephone by Jimmy Stewart, the secretary of the league, who informed me that as the chosen referee was indisposed I was to take charge of the match.
"But I am a member of Broomfield Club—I can't referee for their matches," said I.
"That doesn't matter; I have wired the Stickley Club, and they agree—say they have perfect confidence in your fairness and prefer you to any of the others. And, you know, now Gunner's laid up, you are the best available man, and you've simply got to do it."
"Oh, all right! Ring off!" I replied, inwardly cursing the chance that placed me in such an awkward position.
I am afraid that for the rest of that morning the Government got very little work done. My mind was in a turmoil, and I was torn fifty different ways by conflicting ideas.
"Stickley must win; I am referee, and they shall win. But Lucy will be there—she knows the game well, and if I don't do the square thing, it will be all U.P. with her. Then I won't referee. I'll ring up Stewart and tell him so. Hang the man! Why did he pick on me?"
I rang him up, only to find he had gone out, and was not expected back. Then I raved and finished up with the heroic resolve to do my duty fairly and leave the issue "on the knees of the gods."
The hours passed by; I went and ate a miserable lunch, and then took train to Broomfield. Lucy was on the ground, looking charming in a blue tailor-made costume, violet toque, and white furs (blue and white are the Stickley colours), and humbly I tendered my votive offering of blue and white violets, which were accepted with a pleasant smile. Blake père came up and greeted me heartily:
"Good afternoon, Sargent! Are we to have the pleasure of getting a good beating to-day?"
"I am afraid so—that is to say—er—let us hope it is a good game, anyhow," I said. "I am referee this afternoon."
"You! Referee!" exclaimed Lucy in a startled tone.
"Yes; Gunner is ill, and I have to take his place."
Just then the teams came on the field, and I had to hasten off to take up my duties.
It was a ding-dong struggle all through the first half. Broomfield got one goal and once the ball was netted for Stickley, but unfortunately the player was just offside, and I was in a position to see it.
"Just my luck!" I thought, as I gloomily gave a free kick; "if I had been anywhere else on the field I could not have seen it, and should, as was always my rule, have given the benefit of the doubt."
Half-time came at last, and in the interval I again had a few words with Lucy. But she was evidently nervous and excited and I was miserable, so I was not sorry when the game restarted and my attention was given to it.
Again the teams were evenly matched, and the game swayed from end to end of the field without material advantage to either side.
l Ten minutes to go and still Broomfield led.
The spectators were excitedly cheering their teams, and then the Stickley right wing put in a beautiful run, tricked the half back, drew the back, and centred.
Like a flash the centre-forward swooped on the ball and banged it past the goal-keeper into the net. Joyfully my whistle went and I pointed to the centre of the field.
The Stickley contingent yelled themselves hoarse, and the excitement was taking hold of the players, who realised that these last few minutes would indeed be a tense struggle.
I looked at my watch—only eight minutes to go.
Immediately after the kick-off Broomfield went down the field with a rush and simply rained shots on the Stickley goal. It seemed as if they must score; the defence, excepting the goalkeeper, for the time seemed paralysed. But the goalie rose to the occasion; he was always on the spot and made some marvellous saves. But it seemed a hopeless task.
Oh, if the time would only fly!
Five minutes still remained for play, and just then one of the Stickley backs fouled a Broomfield forward within the dread penalty area.
For an instant I hesitated. I would not give the penalty kick. Who could say I saw the foul? But it was only for a second. I would win her fairly or not at all, and, blowing my whistle, I gave the penalty.
The teams drew off to each side and the goalkeeper stood in his charge, faced by the opposing centre-forward, who was taking the kick. The spectators were silently awaiting the issue with hope or apprehension.
But what hope was there? I knew the Broomfield man to be a sure and safe kick, and thought the game settled. Again my whistle sounded, and as the man went for the ball, the goalkeeper jumped about as though doing a savage war dance. I suppose this gymnastic display somewhat disconcerted the kicker, for he sent the ball straight at the goalkeeper, but with such force as to bring him to his knees to save it from going into the net.
However, he held it and threw it away, but before the shouts of the Stickley supporters had subsided a groan went up, for the ball fell at the feet of a Broomfield forward, who at once shot with all his might at the far corner of the goal. Straight and true went the ball, but the goalkeeper, with a superhuman effort, flung himself across the goal, and, lying full length on the ground, just managed to tip the ball round the post. It was a wonderful save, and the partisans of both sides gave a rousing cheer.
Three minutes only were left for play, and the danger was not over yet, for the corner kick had to be taken. The excitement was intense; the rival factions among the spectators were cheering and counter-cheering. Victory depended on this kick, and the players were fully alive to the critical situation.
The teams crowded round the goal, and as the ball came down there was a struggle. It was a splendid kick; the ball curled in the air and came dropping right into the goal-mouth. But just in the nick of time the goalkeeper jumped, got both fists to the ball, and sent it a good twenty yards up the field.
The first to realise the position was the Stickley centre-forward, who sprinted for the ball, and he was the fastest man on the field.
In the excitement of the game both Broomfield backs had edged further and further into their opponents' territory until they were up with the other players. Now they saw their mistake, for there was no one but their goalkeeper to save the situation. Up the field flew the forward, after him pell-mell, both teams, a roar went up from the spectators, and excitement was at fever-heat.
As the Broomfield goal was neared the keeper seemed inclined to run out; the forward saw this, and with splendid judgment kicked the ball just about half-way between himself and the goal.
Goalie could not resist the temptation and rushed for the ball. What a race it was! The game depended on which got there first. But the forward's lure was successful; he had placed the ball in the right spot and reached it a fraction of a second before the goalkeeper. He flicked it to one side, and, before the other could recover himself, had dribbled the ball into the goal.
It was a grand effort, and the best piece of football I ever saw.
Just as the men had lined up again my whistle sounded for time and the teams went off, the Stickley men chairing their goalkeeper and centre-forward, who had won them the game and the league championship.
When I saw Lucy our glances met, and we understood each other. She whispered to me:
"Jimmy, if you had not given that penalty I should have hated you!"
I will not go into details of our love-making, but somehow our story got about, and not the least valued of our wedding presents was a silver tray from players in the league as a memento of my impartial refereeing.