By this time the eager young faces were fairly hanging on these inspired words.
“Paul was a fellow who started out on the scrub team, and should have stayed there,” said Preacher Reed. “But he couldn’t stand the gaff! He was eating his heart out all the time because he couldn’t make the Varsity—and when there was a vacancy—when they needed a new quarterback, because, you see, fellow,” said Preacher quietly, “the Old One had died”—he paused for a moment to let this subtle bit sink in—“they put Paul in his place. And he couldn’t make the grade! He simply couldn’t make the grade. And in the end—what did he do? Well, fellows, I’ll tell you,” said Preacher. “When he found he couldn’t make the grade—he invented a new game. The old one was too tough. Paul couldn’t play it—it was too much for him! And so he invented a new one he could play—and that’s where Paul flunked out. You see, fellows, Paul was a fellow who made a Six where Christ always made a One. That’s the whole difference between them,” Preacher said with the easy and informative manner of “Now it can be told,” and then was silent for a moment, sucking vigorously and reflectively on his old briar pipe.
“In othah words, Preachah,” Jerry, who had made a One in logic and was accounted no slouch himself in the Hegelian metaphysic, now took respectful advantage of the silence that had fallen—“in othah words, Paul was a man who was defeated by his own Moment of Negation. He failed to absawb it.”
“Exactly, Jerry!” Preacher cried out instantly and heartily, with the manner of one saying, “You take the words right out of my mouth!”—“That’s it exactly! Paul was a man who got licked by his own Moment of Negation. He couldn’t absorb it. When he found himself among the scrubs, he didn’t want to play. Instead of using his Moment of Negation—realizing that the Moment of Negation is really the greatest friend and ally that a man can have—Paul let it get him down. He flunked. Now, Christ,” Preacher went on, paused a moment to suck reflectively at his pipe, and then abruptly—“You see, fellows, that’s the Whole Thing about Jesus. Christ never flunked. He always made his One. It was first down with him every time whether he was playing with the scrubs or with the Varsity. He was just as happy playing with one side as with the other. It didn’t matter to Him where he played…and if Christ had been there,” Preacher Reed went on, “everything would have been all right, no matter where He played.”
And again Preacher puffed vigorously on his pipe before he spoke:
“You see, Jesus would have kept Paul from making that Six. He’d have said to him, ‘Now, see here, Paul, if you want to play quarterback on the Varsity, that’s all right with Me. It doesn’t matter to Me where I play—all I’m interested in is the Game.’” Preacher paused here just perceptibly to let this sink in. “I’d just as lief’”—Preacher was noted for his gift of homely phrase—“I’d just as lief play with the scrubs as with the Varsity. So let’s change places if you want to. The only thing, Paul, let’s have a good Game.’” Preacher puffed a moment. “Let’s play according to the rules.’” He puffed again. “You may think you can change them, Paul—but, uh-uh, no you can’t—ah-hah-hah—’” again Preacher shook his head with a sharp, short movement, with a sharp, short laugh—“you cant do it, Paul. It won’t work. You can’t change the rules. That’s not playing the Game. If the rules are changed, Paul, that’s not up to us—that’s up to Someone Else—so let’s all get together now, no matter which team we’re on, and play the game the way it should be played.’…But,” his fine lean face was grave now, he paused and sucked his pipe a moment longer—then: “that didn’t happen, did it?…Alas, alas, the real Quarterback was gone!”
And in the awed hush that followed, he knocked his pipe out smartly on his heel, then straightened briskly, and got up, saying jauntily:
“Well! So silent, gentlemen? Come, come! For lusty fellows of our kidney this is very sad!”
So signified, the whole gathering would break up in general discussion, excited voices, laughter, young figures shifting through the smoke, plates of sandwiches, and lemonade. And in the center of it all stood Preacher Reed, his spare figure splendidly erect, his lean face finely and attentively aware, the clamor of the younger voices broken by his deeper resonance, his sandy and engaging warmth, the jolly brevity of his short and sudden laugh. And like moths infatuated by a shining light, all these moving and gesticulating groups would return inevitably to the magic ring of which he was himself the center.