Johnstown High School - Spectator Yearbook (Johnstown, PA)

Page 7 text:

I THE -SPECTATOR Another goal is kicked, and now The score stands twelve to naught: When time up comesg both teams run off, All enmities forgot The second half is called, the boys Unto the field draw nighg No spirit lacking, every man Resolved to do or die. Again the kick-off, and the ball Is held just at its fall: We play with all our might, but yet We make no gain at all. Play after play is tried, until The time is almost outg The crowd begins to break and leave 3 There's left no room for doubt. The game is ours by twelve to naught, We've beaten them indeed! But suddenly a man starts toward Our goal at lightninglspeed. A He has the ball ! The field is clear! They'll surely score this timeg But now our men are after him, And passing line on line. One of our men comes up until There's but a yard between: And with a leap he tackles him, And lays him on the green. Once more the whistle blows, and once Again they form aboutg But, ere the signals are begun There comes the cry, Time's out ! The game is ours! Its twelve to naught ! The crowd of rooters cry, For Johnstown High School, V-I-C-T-O-R-Y. Dona W. GRAZIER, '09

Page 6 text:

THE SPECTATOR All eyes are turned at once that way, To see what foreign band Has nerve enough to come and take Defeat from out our hand. They're husky fellows-every one, And some begin to doubt Whether or not our High School team Will put them down and out. With deftness and precision, too, They run their tactics thru: Each man of them so confident . That they're the ones who'll do, Soon time is called, the other team The kick-off gets, and now The ball goes fiying thru the air To waiting arms below. Our captain has it, see him run! But lo! with leap and bound Their fieetest man has tackled him, And stretched him on the ground. The whistle blows, the boys spread out, The signals to await, The way they block our play this time, Is surely something great, Once more the signals, then a rush, Our man has got the ball, And straight away for twenty yards He runs, ere comes his fall. Two plays are triedg both fail to bring For either gain or loss, But, in the next successive runs We bear the ball across. The ball is placed, the goal is kicked, Our hopes begin to soarg But many things may happen yet, Before the game is o'er. The kick-oif comes, we rush the ball Up to their forty yard, And now both sides get down to work, Fast, furious, and hard. We rush them hard and push them back, By playing strong and fastg And slowly gaining yard by yard, A touch down's ours at last,

Page 8 text:

6 THE SPECTATOR ' The Yellow Man UEURE he's yellow, grumbled the big tackle, as he tugged at his stockings in the dressing room. Well, I don't know, interposed the captain hesitat- ingly, he certainly did tackle Bings prettily this afternoon. Anybody couldtackie a man from behind. Why yes- terday, when Jim got loose, he - ' Now look here, Joe, said the captain sharply, I don't blame the poor dago in the least, and besides, I think he is doing fine, considering that he never say a football un- til he came here, and I want you to cut the beefing. You are enough to discourage the whole team. Five minutes later the captain and the tackle strolled out on the campus arm in arm, leaving the object of their conversation sitting silently on a locker, his head buried in his hands. Poor Domenico! What a change from the exalted pos- ition ofthe son of President Goldare, the chief executive of a little Central American comic-opera republic to a poor scrub of the Bevon Academy eleven. An American friend of Pres. Goldare had urged him to send Domenico to the Statesfor an education, recommending Bevon Academy, his alma mater. Domenico was able to enter the Sophomore class, and as he was tall and wiry, Coach Bangs put him at quarter- back on the scrub eleven. There he played a fast game, but there seemed to be something in him which prompted him to do queer things at critical times. It was what his American schoolmates called-a yellow streak. In his heart, he reviled himself. Notwithstanding, the streak would come out, until Hnally, he decided that after practice the next afternoon, he would hand in his uniform. The practice the following day brought a black cloud over the spirits of the Bevon school. There, in alittle heap, with Coach Bangs supporting his head, lay the 'var- sity quarterback, Andrews. Collar-bone, muttered the coach, and the inert form was silently carried into the dressing room. Looking at the circle of mournful faces around him, the Coach suddenly sprang up and said: Goldare, its up