Tate had had possession of the ball exactly three times. They had rushed it exactly thrice, gaining six yards. Then they had each time been forced to punt, being too far in their own territory to risk further offensive.
No wonder the Union State hosts were jubilant as they sang their songs and stood up to stretch and visited between the halves. The Tate songs were just as loud, but they lacked that spirit of defiance. The Union State Band paraded on the field and formed a "T" in front of the Tate stands. The Tate Band returned the compliment with a slightly ragged "U. S." for the visitors. All the traditional between-the-halves ceremonies were carried out.
Meanwhile, in the Tate field house, Mike Cavendish was exhorting his young and failing charges. Mike professed to believe that beating Union State was a cinch, that the Tate eleven had been lying down on the job and ought to be ashamed of itself. The beleaguered Tate linemen, nursing bruised thighs, black eyes and cut faces, stretched out panting on benches and took Mike's tonguelashing.
"What of it if they're heavier than you are?" roared Mike. "Beef don't count. It's nerve. And you fellows aren't showing the nerve. Trask is the only one that's playing the game. You block that big bloke
