Parkhurst Boys

Parkhurst Boys
And other stories of School Life
By Talbot Baines Reed

Part one. Parkhurst Sketches.
CHAPTER ONE.
MY FIRST FOOTBALL MATCH.
It was a proud moment in my existence when Wright, captain of our
football club, came up to me in school one Friday and said, "Adams,
your name is down to play in the match against Craven to-morrow."
I could have knighted him on the spot. To be one of the picked
"fifteen," whose glory it was to fight the battles of their school in the
Great Close, had been the leading ambition of my life--I suppose I
ought to be ashamed to confess it--ever since, as a little chap of ten, I
entered Parkhurst six years ago. Not a winter Saturday but had seen me
either looking on at some big match, or oftener still scrimmaging about
with a score or so of other juniors in a scratch game. But for a long
time, do what I would, I always seemed as far as ever from the coveted
goal, and was half despairing of ever rising to win my "first fifteen
cap." Latterly, however, I had noticed Wright and a few others of our
best players more than once lounging about in the Little Close, where
we juniors used to play, evidently taking observations with an eye to
business. Under the awful gaze of these heroes, need I say I exerted
myself as I had never done before? What cared I for hacks or bruises,
so only that I could distinguish myself in their eyes? And never was
music sweeter than the occasional "Bravo, young 'un!" with which
some of them would applaud any special feat of skill or daring.

So I knew my time was coming at last, and only hoped it would arrive
before the day of the Craven match, the great match of our season--
always looked forward to as the event of the Christmas term, when
victory was regarded by us boys as the summit of all human glory, and
defeat as an overwhelming disgrace.
It will therefore be understood why I was almost beside myself with
delight when, the very day before the match, Wright made the
announcement I have referred to.
I scarcely slept a wink that night for dreaming of the wonderful exploits
which were to signalise my first appearance in the Great Close--how I
was to run the ball from one end of the field to the other, overturning,
dodging, and distancing every one of the enemy, finishing up with a
brilliant and mighty kick over the goal. After which I was to have my
broken limbs set by a doctor on the spot, to receive a perfect ovation
from friend and foe, to be chaired round the field, to be the "lion" at the
supper afterwards, and finally to have a whole column of the Times
devoted to my exploits! What glorious creatures we are in our dreams!
Well, the eventful day dawned at last. It was a holiday at Parkhurst, and
as fine a day as any one could wish.
As I made my appearance, wearing the blue-and-red jersey of a "first
fifteen man" under my jacket, I found myself quite an object of
veneration among the juniors who had lately been my compeers, and I
accepted their homage with a vast amount of condescension. Nothing
was talked of during the forenoon but the coming match. Would the
Craven fellows turn up a strong team? Would that fellow Slider, who
made the tremendous run last year, play for them again this? Would
Wright select the chapel end or the other, if we won the choice? How
were we off behind the scrimmage?
"Is Adams to be trusted?" I heard one voice ask.
Two or three small boys promptly replied, "Yes"; but the seniors said
nothing, except Wright, who took the opportunity of giving me a little
good advice in private.

"Look here, Adams; you are to play half-back, you know. All you've
got to take care of is to keep cool, and never let your eyes go off the
ball. You know all the rest."
A lecture half an hour long could not have made more impression. I
remembered those two hints, "Keep cool, and watch the ball," as long
as I played football, and I would advise every half-back to take them to
heart in like manner.
At noon the Craven team came down in an omnibus, and had lunch in
hall with us, and half an hour later found us all in a straggling
procession, making for the scene of conflict in the Great Close. There
stood the goals and the boundary-posts, and there was Granger, the
ground-keeper, with a brand-new lemon-shaped ball under his arm.
"Look sharp and peel!" cried our captain.
So we hurried