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FOOTBALL DAYS
MEMORIES OF THE GAME AND
OF THE MEN BEHIND THE BALL
BY
WILLIAM H. EDWARDS
PRINCETON 1900
WITH INTRODUCTION BY
WALTER CAMP
YALE 1880
MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY
NEW YORK
1916
Copyright, 1916, By
MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY
NEW YORK
Dedicated to John P. Poe, Jr.
Princeton '95
HONORED AND BELOVED BY HOSTS OF FRIENDS, HE REPRESENTED THE HIGHEST
IDEALS OF AMERICAN FOOTBALL, NOT ONLY IN LIFE, BUT IN HIS DEATH UPON THE
BATTLEFIELD IN FRANCE.
AS I THINK OF HIM, THE STIRRING LINES OF HENRY NEWBOLDT COME TO ME AS A
FITTING EULOGY:
VITA LAMPADA
There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night--
Ten to make and the match to win--
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned-coat
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his captain's hand on his shoulder smote,
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
The sand of the desert is sodden red--
Red with the wreck of a square that broke,
The gatling jammed and the Colonel dead
And the Regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed its banks,
And England's far, and honor a name--
But the voice of a school boy rallies the ranks,
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
This is the word that year by year
While in her place the school is set
Every one of the sons must hear,
And none that hears it dares forget.
Thus they all with a joyful mind--
Bear their life like a torch in flame--
And failing, fling to the host behind,
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
GREETING
I value more highly than any other athletic gift I have ever received,
the Princeton football championship banner that hangs on my wall. It was
given to me by a friend who sent three boys to Princeton. It is a
duplicate of the one that hangs in the trophy room of the gymnasium
there.
How often have I gazed longingly at the names of my loyal team-mates
inscribed upon it. Many times have I run over in my mind the part that
each one played on the memorable occasion when that banner was won.
Memories cluster about that token that are dear and sacred to me.
I see before me not only the faces of my team, but the faces of men of
other years and other universities who have contributed so much to the
great game of football. I recall the preparatory school days and the
part that football played in our school and college careers. Again I see
the athletic fields and the dressing rooms. I hear the earnest pleading
of the coaches.
I see the teams run out upon the field and hear the cheering throng. The
coin is tossed in the air. The shrill blast of the referee's whistle
signals the game to start. The ball is kicked off, and the contest is
on.
The thousands of spectators watch breathlessly. For the time the whole
world is forgotten, except for the issue being fought out there before
them.
But we are not dressed in football suits nowadays. We are on the side
lines. We have a different part to play. Years have compelled a change.
In spirit, however, we are still "in the game."
It is to share these memories with all true lovers of football and to
pay a tribute to the heroes of the gridiron who are no longer with us
that I have undertaken this volume. Let us together retrace the days in
which we lived: days of preparation, days of victory, and days of
defeat. Let us also look into the faces of some of the football heroes
of years ago, and recall the achievements that made them famous. And let
us recall, too, the men of the years just past who have so nobly upheld
the traditions of the American game of football, and helped to place it
on its present high plane.
William H. Edwards.
[Illustration: MY CORNER
"Fond memory sheds the light of other days around me."]
PROLOGUE
They say that no man ever made a successful football player who was
lacking in any quality of imagination. If this be true, and time and
again has it been proved, then there is no more fitting dedication to a
book dealing with the gridiron heroes of the past than to a man like
Johnny Poe. For football is the abandon of body and mind to the
obsession of the spirit that knows no obstacle, counts no danger and for
the time being is dull and callous to physical pain or exhaustion. It is
a something that makes one see visions as Johnny saw them!
There is no sport in the world that brings out unselfishness as does
this great gridiron game of ours. Every fall, second and scrub teams
throughout the country sacrifice themselves only to let others enter the
promised land of victory. It is a strange thing but one almost never
hears any real football player criticise another's making the team,
either his own or an All America. Although the player in this sport
appreciates the loyal support of the thousands on the stands, every man
realizes that his checks on the Bank of Cheers can never be cashed
unless there is a deposit of hard work and practice. Perhaps all this in
an indistinct and indefinite way explains why football players, the
country over, understand each other and that when the game is attacked
for any reason they stand shoulder to shoulder in defence of what they
know down in the bottom of their hearts has such an influence on
character building. And there is no one better fitted to tell the story
of this and of the gridiron heroes than Big Bill Edwards, known not only
as a player but far and wide as one of the best officials that ever
handled the game. "A square deal and no roughing" was his motto, and
every one realized it and accepted every decision unquestioningly. His
association with players in so many angles has given him a particular
insight into the sport and has enabled him to tell this story as no one
else could.
And what names to conjure with! The whistle blows and a shadowy host
springs into action before one's misty eyes--Alex Moffat, the star of
kickers, Hector Cowan, Heffelfinger, Gordon Brown, Ma Newell, Truxton
Hare, Glass, Neil Snow and Shevlin, giants of linemen. But I must stop
before I trespass upon what Bill Edwards will do better. Here's to them
all--forty years of heroes!
Walter Camp.
[Illustration: WALTER CAMP
Yale's Captain, '78-'79.]
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Hillebrand, Cochran, Edwards _Frontispiece_
My Corner
Walter Camp, Yale's Captain '78-'79
The Old Fifth Avenue Send-Off 1
Old Yale Heroes--Lee McClung's Team 5
We Beat Andover 11
Lafayette's Great Team 24
House in Disorder 30
Hit Your Man Low 32
Repairs 34
The Old Faithfuls 39
Jim Rodgers' Team 45
Cochran Was Game to the End 48
On to New Haven--All Dressed Up and Ready to Go 54
Hillebrand's Last Charge 60
Al Sharpe's Goal 64
Touching the Match to Victory 67
Alex Moffat and His Team 82
Old Penn Heroes 100
Pa Corbin's Team 108
Breakers Ahead--Phil King in the Old Days 125
Lookout, Princeton! 130
Barrett on One of His Famous Dashes; Exeter-Andover
Game, 1915 142
Bill Hollenback Coming at You 147
"The Next Day the Picture Was Gone"--Jim Cooney Making a
Hole for Dana Kafer 158
Johnny Poe, Football Player and Soldier 181
Northcroft Kicking the Field Goal Anticipated by the
Navy and Feared by the Army 200
Cadets and Middies Entering the Field 224
Two Aces--Bill Morley and Harold Weeks 251
Vic Kennard's Kick 255
Sam White's Run 261
King, of Harvard, Making a Run; Mahan Putting Black on
His Head 268
Princeton's 1899 Team 272
"Nothing Got by John DeWitt" 277
John DeWitt About to Pick Up the Ball 280
The Ever Reliable Brickley--A Football Thoroughbred--Tack
Hardwick 284
The Poe Family 296
Just Boys 298
Hobey Baker, Walter Camp, Jr., Snake Ames, Jr. 303
The Elect 310
How It Hurts to Lose 337
Cornell's Great Team--1915 344
One Scene Never Photographed in Football 349
Harvard, 1915 354
The Greatest Indian of Them All 357
Learning the Charge 363
Billy Bull Advising with Captain Talbot 367
Michigan's Famous 1901 Team 370
Columbia Back in the Game, 1915 381
Close to a Thriller. Erwin of Pennsylvania Scoring
Against Cornell 386
Crash of Conflict. When Charge Meets Charge 407
Ainsworth, Yale's Terror in an Uphill Game 416
Two to One He Gets Away--Brickley Being Tackled by Wilson
and Avery 422
Snapping the Ball with Lewis. "Two Inseparables"--Frank
Hinkey and the Ball 428
Marshall Newell 434
McClung, Referee, Shevlin and Hogan 450
CONTENTS
Chap. Page
I.--PREP. SCHOOL DAYS. 1-17
My First Glimpse of a Varsity Team--The Yale Eleven of 1891--Lee
McClung--Vance McCormick--Heffelfinger--Sanford--Impressions
made upon a Boy--St. John's Military School--Lawrenceville--Making
the Team--Andover and Hill School Games.
II.--FRESHMAN YEAR. 18-29
The Freedom of Freshman Year is Attractive--Catching the Spirit
of the Place--Searching for Football Material--The Cannon
Rush--Early Training with Jack McMasters--Tie Game with Lafayette
at Easton--Humiliation of being taken out of a Game--Cornell
Game--Joe Beacham's Fair Admirer in the Bleachers--Bill Church's
Threat Carried Out--Garry Cochran's Victories against Harvard
and Yale.
III.--ELBOW TO ELBOW 30-41
Dressing for Practice--Out upon the Field--Tackling--After
Practice, Back to the Dressing-room--How a Player Finds
Himself--The Training Table--Team Mates--A Surprise for John
DeWitt's Team.
IV.--MISTAKES IN THE GAME. 42-53
If We could only Correct Mistakes We All Made--Defeats
might be Turned into Victory--The Fellow that let Athletics
be the Big Thing in His College Life--The '97 Defeat--No
Recognition of Old Schoolmates--My Opponent was Charlie
Chadwick--Jim Rodgers the Yale Captain--The Cochran-De
Saulles Compact--Cochran Injured--His Last Game--Ad Kelly's
Great Work--Mistakes Caused Sadness--Cornell Defeating
Princeton at Ithaca in 1899--No Outstretched Hands at
Princeton for our Homecoming.
V.--MY LAST GAME 54-67
A Desire to Make the Last Game the Best--On to New
Haven--Optimism--The Start of the Game--Bosey Reiter's
Touchdown--Yale Scores on a Block Kick--Al Sharpe's Goal
from the Field--Score 10 to 6, Yale Leading--Arthur Poe's
Goal from the Field--Princeton Victory--The Joy of
Winning--The Reception at Princeton.
VI.--HEROES OF THE PAST--EARLY DAYS 68-92
Treasured Memory of Those who have Gone Before--Where are
the Old-time Heroes?--Walter Camp--F. R. Vernon--Camp as
a Captain--Chummy Eaton--John Harding--Eugene Baker--Fred
Remington--Theodore McNair--Alexander Moffat--Wyllys
Terry--Memories of John C. Bell.
VII.--GEORGE WOODRUFF'S STORY 93-101
His Entrance to Yale--Making the Team--Recollections of the
Men he Played With and Against--The Lamar Run--Pennsylvania
Experiences.
VIII.--ANECDOTES AND RECOLLECTIONS 102-124
Old-time Signals--Fun with Bert Hansen--Sport Donnelly--Billy
Rhodes and Gill--Victorious Days at Yale--Corbin's 1888
Team--Pa Corbin's Speech when his Team was Banqueted--Mr. and
Mrs. Walter Camp, Head Coaches of the Yale Football Team in
1888--Cowan the Great--Story of His Football Days--He was
Disqualified by Wyllys Terry--Tribute to Heffelfinger--Going
Back with John Cranston.
IX.--THE NINETIES AND AFTER 125-163
The Day Sanford Made the Yale Team--Parke Davis--Sanford
and Yost Obstructing the Traffic--Phil King--The Old
Flying Wedges--Pop Gailey--Charlie Young--An Evening with Jim
Rodgers--Vance McCormick and Denny O'Neil--Dartmouth and Some
of Her Men--Dave Fultz--Christy Mathewson at Bucknell--Jack
Munn Tells of Buffalo Bill--Booth Tells of his Western
Experiences--Harry Kersburg--Heff Herring at Merton
College--Carl Flanders--Bill Horr.
X.--COLLEGE TRADITIONS AND SPIRIT 164-180
College Life in America is Rich in Traditions--The Value of
College Spirit--Each College Has its Own Traditions--Alumni
Parade--School Master and Boy--Victory must never Overshadow
Honor--Constructive Criticism of the Alumni--Mass Meeting
Enthusiasm--Horse Edwards, Princeton '89--Job E. Hedges.
XI.--JOHNNY POE'S OWN STORY 181-193
Private W. Faulkner, a Comrade in the Black Watch, Tells of
Poe's Death--Johnny's Last Words--Paul MacWhelan Gives
London Impressions of Poe's Death--Anecdotes that Johnny
Poe Wrote While in Nevada.
XII.--ARMY AND NAVY 194-225
Character and Training of West Point and Annapolis
Players--Experience of the Visitor Watching the Drill
of Battalion--Annapolis Recollections and Football
Traditions at Naval Academy--Old Players--A Trip de Luxe
to West Point--West Point Recollections--Harmon Graves--The
Way They Have in the Army--The Army and Navy Game.
XIII.--HARD LUCK IN THE GAME 226-246
In Football, as it is in Life, We have no Use for a
Quitter--Football a Game for the Man who Has Nerve--Many
a Small Man has Made a Big Man look Ridiculous--Morris
Ely Game Though Handicapped--Val Flood's Recollections--Andy
Smith--Vonabalde Gammon of Georgia.
XIV.--BRINGING HOME THE BACON 247-285
Billy Bull's Recollections of Yale Games--The Day Columbia
Beat Yale--Dressing Room Scene where Doxology Was
Sung--Account by Richard Harding Davis--Introducing Vic
Kennard of Harvard Fame--Opportunist Extraordinary--His
Experience with Mr. E. H. Coy--Charlie Barrett, of
Cornell--Eddie Hart of Princeton--Sam White--Joe Duff--Side
Line Thoughts of Doctor W. A. Brooks and Evert Jansen
Wendell--New Haven Wreck--Eddie Mahan talking--His Opinion
of Frank Glick--George Chadwick of Yale--Arthur Poe--Story
of his Run and of his Kick--John DeWitt's Story--Tichenor,
of Georgia--"Bobbing Up and Down" Story--Charlie Brickley.
XV.--THE BLOODY ANGLE 286-295
Going Back to the Rough Days--Princeton vs. Harvard Fall
of '87 at Jarvis Field--Luther Price's Experiences in the
Game--Cowan's Disqualification by Wyllys Terry--The
Umpire--Walter Camp was Referee--Holden Carried Off the
Field--Bob Church's Valor.
XVI.--THE FAMILY IN FOOTBALL 296-305
Football Men in Two Distinct Classes--Those who are Made
into Players by the Coaches and Those who are Born with
the Football Instinct--The Poes, Camps, Winters, Ames,
Drapers, Riggs, Youngs, Withingtons, etc.
XVII.--OUR GOOD OLD TRAINERS 306-336
Our Good Old Trainers--Jack McMasters--"Dear Old Jim
Robinson"--Mike Murphy the Dean of Trainers--"The Old
Mike"--A Chat with Pooch Donovan--Keene Fitzpatrick and his
Experiences--Mike Sweeney--Jack Moakley--There is much
Humor in Johnny Mack--Huggins of Brown--Harry Tuthill--Doctor
W. M. Conant, Harvard '79, First Doctor in Charge of any team.
XVIII.--NIGHTMARES 337-348
Frank Morse, of Princeton on the Spirit in Defeat--Tom
Shevlin's Story--Nightmares of W. C. Rhodes--A Yale
Nightmare--Sam Morse--Jim Hogan--The Cornell Game of
1915 is Eddie Mahan's Nightmare--Jack De Saulles' Nightmare.
XIX.--MEN WHO COACHED 349-382
No coaches in the Old Days--Personality Counts in
Coaching--Football is Fickle--Haughton at Harvard at the
Psychological Moment--Old Harvard Coaches--Al Sharpe--Glenn
Warner--The Indians--Billy Bull in the Game--Sanford, the
Unique--Making of Chadwick--W. R. Tichenor, Emergency Coach
of the South--Auburn Recollections--Listening to Yost--Reggie
Brown--Jimmy Knox--Harvard Scouts--Dartmouth Holds a Unique
Position in College Football--Ed Hall, the father of Dartmouth
Football--Myron E. Witham, Captain of the Dartmouth Team--Walter
McCornack--Eddie Holt's Coaching--Harry Kersburg's Harvard
Coaching Recollections--Making Two Star Players from the
Football Discards--Vic Kennard and Rex Ver Wiebe--John H.
Rush--Tad Jones--T. N. Metcalf--Tom Thorp--Bob Folwell--At
Pennsylvania.
XX.--UMPIRE AND REFEREE 383-406
"Why Did He Give That Penalty?"--Emotions of an
Official--John Bell's Recollections as an Official--In
the Old Days One Official Handled the Entire Game--Dashiell's
Reminiscences--Matthew McClung--Conversation with John L.
Sullivan--My Own Personal Experiences--Evarts Wrenn at
Work--Dan Hurley--Bill Crowell--Phil Draper's Ideas--Wyllys
Terry's Official Recollections--Explanation of the Cowan
Disqualification--Pa Corbin--Joe Pendleton--Refereeing
with Nate Tufts--Okeson.
XXI.--CRASH OF CONFLICT 407-433
The First Five Minutes of Play--A Good Start usually
means a Good Ending--Bracelet in the Game--Lueder and
Blondy Wallace--"I've Got You Buffaloed"--Tom Shevlin
remarked: "Mike, This Isn't Football--It's War"--Bemus
Pierce: "Now Keep your Eyes Open and Find out who it
Was"--"If You Won't be Beat, You Can't be Beat," said
Johnny Poe--Rinehart Tells how he Tried to Get even with
Sam Boyle--Barkie Donald and Bemus Pierce--The Yale-Harvard
Game at Springfield '94--Result; No Game for Nine Years--Frank
Hinkey and Wrightington's Broken Collar-bone--Joe Beacham's
Paragon--Sandy Hunt--Bill Hollenback.
XXII.--LEST WE FORGET 434-460
Marshall Newell--Gordon Brown--James J. Hogan--Thomas
J. Shevlin--Francis H. Burr--Neil Snow--Billy
Bannard--Harry Hooper--Richard Harding Davis--McClung.
XXIII.--ALOHA 461-464
Hail and Farewell--The Old Game and the New
Compared--Exclusively Collegiate Sport--Isaac H. Bromley,
Yale '53, Sums up the Spirit of College Life and Sport!
[Illustration: THE OLD FIFTH AVENUE SEND-OFF]
FOOTBALL DAYS
CHAPTER I
PREP. SCHOOL DAYS
To every man there comes a moment that marks the turning point of his
career. For me it was a certain Saturday morning in the autumn of 1891.
As I look back upon it, across the years, I feel something of the same
thrill that stirred my boyish blood that day and opened a door through
which I looked into a new world.
I had just come to the city, a country boy, from my home in Lisle,
N. Y., to attend the Horace Mann School. As I walked across Madison Square,
I glanced toward the old Fifth Avenue Hotel, where my eyes fell upon the
scene depicted in the accompanying picture. Almost before I was aware of
it my curiosity led me to mingle with the crowd surging in and out of
the hotel, and I learned by questioning the bystanders that it was the
headquarters of the Yale team, which that afternoon was to play
Princeton at the Polo Grounds. The players were about to leave the hotel
for the field, and I hurried inside to catch a glimpse of them.
The air was charged with enthusiasm, and I soon caught the
infection--although it was all new to me then--of the vital power of
college spirit which later so completely dominated my life. I recall
with vividness how I lingered and waited for something to happen. Men
were standing in groups, and all eyes were centered upon the heroes of
the team. Every one was talking football. Some of the names heard then
have never been forgotten by me. There was the giant Heffelfinger whom
every one seemed anxious to meet. I was told that he was the crack Yale
guard. I looked at him, and, then and there, I joined the hero
worshippers.
I also remember Lee McClung, the Yale captain, who seemed to realize the
responsibilities that rested upon his shoulders. There was an air of
restraint upon him. In later years he became Treasurer of the United
States and his signature was upon the country's currency. My most vivid
recollection of him will be, however, as he stood there that day in the
corridor of the famous old hotel, on the day of a great football
conflict with Princeton. Then Sanford was pointed out to me, the Yale
center-rush. I recall his eagerness to get out to the "bus" and to be on
his way to the field. When the starting signal was given by the captain,
Sanford's huge form was in the front rank of the crowd that poured out
upon the sidewalk.
The whole scene was intensely thrilling to me, and I did not leave
until the last player had entered the "bus" and it drove off. Crowds of
Yale men and spectators gave the players cheer after cheer as they
rolled away. The flags with which the "bus" was decorated waved in the
breeze, and I watched them with indescribable fascination until they
were out of sight. The noise made by the Yale students I learned
afterwards was college cheering, and college cheers once heard by a boy
are never forgotten.
Many in that throng were going to the game. I could not go, but the
scene that I had just witnessed gave me an inspiration. It stirred
something within me, and down deep in my soul there was born a desire to
go to college.
I made my way directly to the Y. M. C. A. gymnasium, then at the corner
of Fourth Avenue and Twenty-third Street. Athletics had for me a greater
attraction than ever before, and from that day I applied myself with
increased enthusiasm to the work of the gymnasium.
The following autumn I entered St. John's Military Academy at Manlius,
N. Y., a short distance from my old home. I was only seventeen years of
age and weighed 217 pounds.
Former Adjutant General William Verbeck--then Colonel Verbeck--was Head
Master. Before I was fairly settled in my room, the Colonel had drafted
me as a candidate for the football team. I wanted to try for the team,
and was as eager to make it as he evidently was to have me make it. But
I did not have any football togs, and the supply at the school did not
contain any large enough.
So I had to have some built for me. The day they arrived, much to my
disappointment, I found the trousers were made of white canvas. Their
newness was appalling and I pictured myself in them with feelings of
dismay. I robbed them of their whiteness that night by mopping up a lot
of mud with them behind the gymnasium. When they had dried--by
morning--they looked like a pair of real football trousers.
George Redington of Yale was our football coach. He was full of
contagious fire. Redington seemed interested in me and gave me much
individual coaching. Colonel Verbeck matched him in love of the game. He
not only believed in athletics, but he played at end on the second team,
and it was pretty difficult for the boys to get the best of him. They
made an unusual effort to put the Colonel out of the plays, but, try as
hard as they might, he generally came out on top. The result was a
decided increase in the spirit of the game.
We had one of the best preparatory school teams in that locality, but
owing to our distance from the larger preparatory schools, we were
forced to play Syracuse, Hobart, Hamilton, Rochester, Colgate, and
Cazenovia Seminary--all of whom we defeated. We also played against the
Syracuse Athletic Association, whose team was composed of
professional athletes as well as former college players. Bert Hanson,
who had been a great center at Yale, was one of this team.
[Illustration:
H. Wallis Coxe Cochran Nessler Heffelfinger W. Winter Mills
Sanford Hartwell Morrison Graves Stillman
McCormick McClung L. T. Bliss
C. Bliss Hinkey Barbour T. Dyer
OLD YALE HEROES--LEE McCLUNG'S TEAM]
Recalling the men who played on our St. John's team, I am confident that
if all of them had gone to college, most of them would have made the
Varsity. In fact, some did.
It was decided that I should go to Lawrenceville School, en route to
Princeton. It was on the trip from Trenton to Lawrenceville, in the big
stage coach loaded with boys, I got my first dose of homesickness. The
prospect of new surroundings made me yearn for St. John's.
The "blue hour" of boyhood, however, is a brief one. I was soon engaged
in conversation with a little fellow who was sitting beside me and who
began discussing the ever-popular subject of football. He was very
inquisitive and wanted to know if I had ever played the game, and if I
was going to try for the team.
He told me about the great game Lawrenceville played with the Princeton
Varsity the year before, when Lawrenceville scored six points before
Princeton realized what they were really up against. He fascinated me by
his graphic description. There was a glowing account of the playing of
Garry Cochran, the great captain of the Lawrenceville team, who had just
graduated and gone to Princeton, together with Sport Armstrong, the
giant tackle.
These men were sure to live in Lawrenceville's history if for nothing
else than the part they had played in that notable game, although
Princeton rallied and won 8 to 6. It was not long before I learned that
my newly-made friend was Billy McGibbon, a member of the Lawrenceville
baseball team.
"Just wait until you see Charlie de Saulles and Billy Dibble play behind
the line," he went on; and from that moment I began to be a part of the
new life, the threshold of which I was crossing. Strangely enough the
memory of getting settled in my new quarters faded with the eventful
moment when the call for candidates came, and I went out with the rest
of the boys to try for the team.
Competition was keen and many candidates offered themselves. I was
placed on the scrub team. One of my first attempts for supremacy was in
the early part of the season when I was placed as right guard of the
scrub against Perry Wentz, an old star player of the school and
absolutely sure of his position. I recall how on several occasions the
first team could not gain as much distance through the second as the men
desired, and Wentz, who later on distinguished himself on the Varsity at
Princeton and still later as a crack player on Pennsylvania, seemed to
have trouble in opening up my position.
Max Rutter, the Lawrenceville captain, with the directness that usually
characterizes such officers, called this fact to Wentz's attention.
Wentz, who probably felt naturally his pride of football fame, became
quite angry at Rutter's remark that he was being outplayed. He took off
his nose-guard, threw it on the ground and left the field.
Rutter moved me over to the first team in Wentz's place. That night
there was a general upset on the team which was settled amicably,
however, and the next day Wentz continued playing in his old place. The
position of guard was given to me on the other side of the line, George
Cadwalader being moved out to the position of tackle. This was the same
Cadwalader who subsequently went to Yale and made a great name for
himself on the gridiron, in spite of the fact that he remained at New
Haven but one year.
It was here at Lawrenceville that this great player made his reputation
as a goal kicker, a fame that was enhanced during his football days at
Yale. Max Rutter, the captain of the Lawrenceville team, went to
Williams and played on the Varsity, eventually becoming captain there
also. Ned Moffat, nephew of Princeton's great Alex Moffat, played end
rush.
About this time I began to realize that Billy McGibbon had given me a
correct line on Charlie de Saulles and Billy Dibble. These two players
worked wonderfully well together, and were an effective scoring machine
with the assistance of Doc MacNider and Dave Davis.
During these days at Lawrenceville Owen Johnson gathered the material
for those interesting stories in which he used his old schoolmates for
the characters. The thin disguise of Doc Macnooder does not, however,
conceal Doc MacNider from his old schoolboy friends. The same is true of
the slightly changed names of Garry Cochran, Turk Righter, Charlie de
Saulles and Billy Dibble.
Charlie de Saulles, after graduation, went to Yale and continued his
wonderful, spectacular career on the gridiron. We will spend an
afternoon with him on the Yale field later.
Billy Dibble went to Williams and played a marvelous game until he was
injured, early in his freshman year. It was during those days that I met
Garry Cochran, Sport Armstrong and other Princeton coaches for the first
time. They used to come over to assist in coaching our team. Our regular
coaches at Lawrenceville were Walter B. Street, who had been a famous
football star years before at Williams, and William J. George, renowned
in Princeton's football history as a center-rush. I cannot praise the
work of these men too highly. They were thoroughbreds in every sense of
the word.
It was one of the old traditions of Lawrenceville football to have a
game every year with Pennington Seminary. What man is there who
attended either school who does not recall the spirit of those old-time
contests?
The Hill School was another of our football rivals. The trip to
Pottstown, Pa., was an event eagerly looked forward to--so also was the
Hill School's return game at Lawrenceville. The rivalry between the two
schools was keen.
Everything possible was done at the Hill School to make our visit a
pleasant one. The score of 28 to 0, by which Lawrenceville won the game
that year, made it especially pleasant.
As I recall that trip, two men stand out in my memory. One was John
Meigs, the Head Master. The other was Mike Sweeney, the Trainer and
Athletic Director. They were the two central figures of Hill School
traditions.
Interest in football was emphasized at that time by the approaching game
with Andover at Lawrenceville. This was the first time that these two
teams had ever played. Andover was probably more renowned in football
annals than any school Lawrenceville had played up to this time. The
Lawrenceville coaches realized that the game would be a strenuous one.
After a conference, the two coaches decided that it would be wise to see
Andover play at Andover the week before we were to play them.
Accordingly, Mr. George went to Andover, and when he returned, he
gathered the team around him in one of the recitation halls and
described carefully the offense and defense of our coming opponents. He
also demonstrated with checkers what each man did in every play and
placed emphasis on the work of Eddie Holt, who was acting captain of the
Andover team. To represent Holt's giant build he placed one checker on
top of another, saying, as I remember, with great seriousness:
"This topped checker represents Holt. He must be taken care of, and it
will require two Lawrenceville men to stop him on every play. I am
certain of this for Holt was a marvel last Saturday."
During the week we drilled secretly and most earnestly in anticipation
of defeating Andover. The game attracted an unusually large number of
spectators. Lawrenceville made it a gala day for its alumni, and all the
old Andover and Lawrenceville boys who could get there witnessed the
game.
When the Andover team ran out upon the field we were all anxious to see
how big Holt loomed up. He certainly was a giant and towered high above
the other members of his team. Soon the whistle blew, and the trouble
was on. In memory now I can see Billy Dibble circling Andover's end for
twenty-five yards, scoring a touchdown amid tremendous excitement.
This all transpired during the first minute and a half of play. Emerson
once said, "We live by moments," and the first minute and a half of that
game must stand out as one of the eventful periods in the life of
every man who recalls that day of play. No grown-up schoolboy can fail
to appreciate the scene or miss the wave of boyish enthusiasm that
rolled over the field at this unlooked for beginning of a memorable game
between schoolboys.
[Illustration:
Davis MacNider Dibble
de Saulles
Moffat Cadwalader Edwards Walton Wentz Geer Rotter
WE BEAT ANDOVER]
This wonderful start of the Lawrenceville team was a goading spur to its
opponents. Johnnie Barnes, an ex-Lawrenceville boy, now quarterback on
the Andover team, seemed fairly inspired as he urged his team on. Eddie
Holt was called upon time and again. He was making strong advances,
aided by French, Hine and Porter. Together they worked out a touchdown.
But Lawrenceville rallied and for the rest of the game their teamwork
was masterly. Bat Geer, who was later a Princeton Varsity player,
Charlie de Saulles and Billy Dibble, each scored touchdowns, making
three altogether for their school.
Thus Lawrenceville, with the score 20 to 6, stepped forth into a new era
and entered the larger football world where she was to remain and
increase her heroic accomplishments in after years.
It is needless to say that the night following this victory was a
crowning one in our preparatory football experiences. Bonfires were
lighted, speeches were the order of the hour, and members of the team
were the guests of honor at a banquet in the Upper House. There was no
rowdy "revelry by night" to spoil the memory of the occasion. It was
just one simple, fine and fitting celebration of a wholesome school
victory on the field of football.
LAST YEAR AT LAWRENCEVILLE
It was up to Billy Dibble, the new captain, to bring about another
championship. We were to play Andover a return game there. Captain
Dibble was left with but three of last year's team as a foundation to
build on. Dibble's team made a wonderful record. He was a splendid
example for the team to follow, and his playing, his enthusiasm, and
earnest efforts contributed much toward the winning of the Andover,
Princeton freshmen and Hill School games. There appeared at
Lawrenceville a new coach who assisted Street and George. He was none
other than the famous Princeton halfback, Douglas Ward, whose record as
an honored man in the classroom as well as on the football field was
well known to all of us, and had stood out among college athletes as a
wonderful example. He was very modest. I recall that some one once asked
him how he made the only touchdown against Yale in the '93 game. His
reply was: "Oh, somebody just pushed me over."
Fresh in my memory is the wonderful trip that we boys made to Andover.
We were proud of the fact that the Colonial Express was especially
ordered to stop at Trenton for us, and as we took our seats in the
Pullman car, we realized that our long looked for expedition had really
begun.
We had a great deal of fun on the trip to Boston. Good old George
Cadwalader was the center of most of the jokes. His 215 pounds added to
the discomfort of a pair of pointed patent leather shoes, which were far
too small for him. As soon as he was settled in the train he removed
them and dozed off to sleep. Turk Righter and some of the other fun
makers tied the shoe strings together, and hung them out of the window
where they blew noisily against the window pane.
When we arrived in Jersey City it was a treat for us to see our train
put aboard the ferry boat of the N. Y., N. H. & H. R. R., and, as we
sailed down the bay, up the East River and under the Brooklyn Bridge to
the New Haven docks, it all seemed very big and wonderful.
When the train stopped at New Haven, we were met by the
Yale-Lawrenceville men, who wished us the best of luck; some of them
making the trip with us to Boston. When we arrived in Andover the next
day I had the satisfaction of seeing my brother and cousin, who were at
that time attending Andover Academy.
The hospitality that was accorded the Andover team, while at
Lawrenceville the year before, was repaid in royal fashion. We had ample
time to view the grounds and buildings and grow keen in anticipation
and interest in the afternoon's contest.
When the whistle blew, we were there for business. My personal opponent
was a fellow named Hillebrand, who besides being a football player was
Andover's star pitcher. Later on we became the best of friends and side
partners on the Princeton team, and often spoke of our first meeting
when we played against each other. Hillebrand was one of the greatest
athletes Andover ever turned out. Lawrenceville defeated Andover in one
of the hardest and most exciting of all Prep. School contests, one that
was uncertain from beginning to end.
Billy Dibble played the star game of the day and after eight minutes he
scored a touchdown. Cadwalader booted the ball over the goal and the
score was 6 to 0. The Lawrenceville backfield, made up of Powell, Dave
Davis, Cap Kafer and Dibble, worked wonderfully well. Kafer did some
excellent punting against his remarkable opponent Barker, who seemed to
be as expert as he.
The efficient work of Hillebrand and of Chadwell, the colored end-rush,
stands out pre-eminently. The latter player developed into one of the
best end-rushes that ever played at Williams. Goodwin, Barker and
Greenway contributed much to Andover's good play. Jim Greenway is one of
the famous Greenway boys whose athletic history at Yale is a matter of
record. A few minutes later the Andover crowd were aroused by Goodwin
making the longest run of the game--fifty-five yards, scoring Andover's
first touchdown, and making the score 6 to 6.
There was great speculation as to which team would win the game, but
Billy Dibble, aided by the wonderful interference on the part of Babe
Eddie, who afterward played end on the Yale team, and Emerson, who, had
he gone to college, would have been a wonder, made a touchdown. George
Cadwalader with his sure right foot made the score 12 to 6. Enthusiasm
was at its height. Andover rooters were calling upon their team to tie
the score. A touchdown and goal would mean a tie. The Andover team
seemed to answer their call, for soon Goodwin scored a touchdown, making
the score 12 to 10, and Butterfield, Andover's right halfback, was put
to the test amidst great excitement. The ball went just to the side of
the goal post, and Lawrenceville had won 12 to 10. Great is the thrill
of a victory won on an opponent's field!
That night after dinner, as I was sitting in my brother's room, with
some of his Andover friends, there was a yell from outside, and a loud
knock on the door. In walked a big fellow wearing a blue sweater.
Through his open coat one could observe the big white letter "A." It
proved to be none other than Doc Hillebrand. Without one word of comment
he walked over to where I was sitting and said: "Edwards, what was the
score of the game to-day?" I could not get the idea at all. I said:
"Why, you ought to know." He replied: "12 to 10," and turning on his
heel, left the room. This caused a good deal of amusement, but it was
soon explained that Hillebrand was being initiated into a secret society
and that this was one of the initiation stunts.
It was a wonderfully happy trip back to Lawrenceville. The spirit ran
high. It was then that Turk Righter wrote the well known Lawrenceville
verse which we sang again and again:
Cap kicked, Barker kicked
Cap he got the best of it
They both kicked together
But Cap kicked very hard
Bill ran, Dave ran
Then Andover lost her grip
She also lost her championship
Sis, boom ah!
As we were about two miles outside of Lawrenceville, we saw a mass of
light in the roadway, and when we heard the boys yelling at the top of
their voices, we realized that the school was having a torch-light
procession and coming to welcome us. Great is that recollection! They
took the horses off and dragged the stage back to Lawrenceville and in
and about the campus. It was not long before the whole school was
singing the song of success that Turk Righter had written.
A big celebration followed. We did not break training because we had
still another game to play. When Lawrenceville had beaten the Hill
School 20 to 0, many of us realized that we had played our last game for
Lawrenceville. George Cadwalader was shortly afterward elected Captain
for the coming year. It was at this time that Lawrenceville was
overjoyed to learn that Garry Cochran, a sophomore at Princeton, had
been elected captain of the Princeton varsity. This recalled former
Lawrenceville boys, Pop Warren and Doggie Trenchard, who had played at
Lawrenceville, gone to Princeton and had become varsity captains there.
Snake Ames also prepared at Lawrenceville.
I might incidentally state that we stayed at Lawrenceville until June to
get our diplomas, realizing that there were many able fellows to
continue the successful traditions of Lawrenceville football, George
Mattis, Howard Richards, Jack de Saulles, Cliff Bucknam, John De Witt,
Bummie Ritter, Dana Kafer, John Dana, Charlie Dudley, Heff Herring,
Charlie Raymond, Biglow, the Waller brothers and others.
CHAPTER II
FRESHMAN YEAR
I believe that every man who has had the privilege of going to college
will agree with me that as a freshman lands in a college town, he is a
very happy and interested individual. The newness of things and his
freedom are very attractive. He comes to college fresh from his school
day experiences ready to conform himself to the traditions and customs
of the new school, his college choice.
The world will never again look quite so big to a boy as it did then.
Entering as boys do, in the fall of the year, the uppermost thing in
mind, outside of the classroom, is football. Sometimes it is the
uppermost thought in the classroom. What kind of a Varsity football team
are we going to have? This is the question heard on all sides.
Every bit of available football material is eagerly sought by the
coaches. I recall so well my freshman year at Princeton, how Garry
Cochran, captain of the football team, went about the college with
Johnny Poe, looking over the undergraduates and watching the incoming
trains for football possibilities. If a fellow looked as though he
might have good material to work upon, he was asked to report at the
Varsity field the next day.
All athletic interests are focused on the gridiron. The young
undergraduate who has no likelihood of making the team, fills himself
with facts about the individuals who are trying to win a place. He
starts out to be a loyal rooter, realizing that next to being a player,
the natural thing is to attend practice and cheer the team in their
work; he becomes interested in the individual progress each candidate is
making. In this way, the members of the team know that they have the
support of the college, and this makes them play harder. This builds up
college spirit.
Every college has its own freshman and sophomore traditions; one at
Princeton is, that shortly after college opens there must be a rush
about the cannon, between the freshman and sophomore classes. All those
who have witnessed this sight, know that it is a vital part of Princeton
undergraduate life. On that night in my freshman year, great care was
taken by Cochran that none of the incoming football material engaged in
the rush. No chances were taken of injuring a good football prospect
among either freshmen or sophomores. Eddie Holt, Bert Wheeler, Arthur
Poe, Doc Hillebrand, Bummie Booth and I were in the front ranks of the
class of 1900, stationed back of Witherspoon Hall ready to make the
rush upon the sophomores, who were huddled together guarding the cannon.
Cochran and his coterie of coachers ran out as we were approaching the
cannon and forced us out of the contest. He ordered us to stand on the
outside of the surging crowd. There we were allowed to do a little
"close work," but we were not permitted to get into the heat of the
fray. Cochran knew all of us because we were among those who had been
called to college before the opening to enter preliminary training.
Every football player who has had the experience of being summoned ahead
of time will understand my feeling. I was very happy when I received
from Cochran, during the summer before I entered Princeton, a letter
inviting me to report for football practice two weeks before college
opened. When I arrived at Princeton on the appointed day, I found the
candidates for the team at the training quarters.
At that time freshmen were not barred from varsity teams.
There was a reunion of friends from Lawrenceville and other schools.
There was Doc Hillebrand, against whom I had played in the Andover game
the year before. Eddie Holt loomed up and I recalled him as the big
fellow who played on the Andover team against Lawrenceville two years
before. He had gone from Andover to Harvard and had played on the
Harvard team the year before, and had decided to leave Harvard and
enter Princeton.
There were Lew Palmer, Bummie Booth, Arthur Poe, Bert Wheeler, Eddie
Burke and many others whom I grew to know well later on.
Trainer Jack McMasters was on the job and put us through some very
severe preliminary training. It was warm in New Jersey early in
September, and often in the middle of practice Jack would occasionally
play the hose on us. It did not take us long to learn that varsity
football training was much more strenuous than that of the preparatory
school. The vigorous programme, prepared, especially for me, convinced
me that McMasters and the coaches had decided that my 224 pounds were
too much weight. Jack and I used to meet at the field house four
mornings each week. He would array me in thick woolen things, and top
them off with a couple of sweaters, so that I felt as big as a house. He
would then take me out for an excursion of eight miles across country,
running and walking. Sometimes other candidates kept us company, but
only Jack and I survived.
On these trips, I would lose anywhere from five to six pounds. I got
accustomed to this jaunt and its discomforts after a while, but there
was one thing that always aggravated me. While Jack made me suffer, he
indulged himself. He would stop at a favorite spring of his, kneel down
and take a refreshing drink, right before my very eyes, and then,
although my throat was parched, he would bar me even from wetting my
tongue. He was decidedly unsociable, but from a training standpoint, he
was entirely "on to his job."
As both captain and trainer soon found that I was being overworked, I
had some "let up" of this strenuous system. The extra work in addition
to the regular afternoon practice, made my days pretty severe going and
when night came I was not troubled with insomnia.
It was during this time that Biffy Lea, one of Princeton's greatest
tackles, was slowly but surely making a wonderful tackle out of Doc
Hillebrand. Bert Wheeler was making rapid strides to attain the position
of halfback. They were the only two freshmen who made the team that
year. I was one of those that failed.
We were soon in shape for the first try-out of the season; preliminary
training was over, and the team was ready for its first game. We won the
Rutgers game 44 to 0 and after we defeated the Navy, we went to play
Lafayette at Easton. I had as my opponent in the Lafayette game,
Rinehart. I shall never forget this game. I was playing left guard
alongside of Jarvie Geer, who was a substitute for Bill Church, who had
been injured in practice the week before and could not play. Just before
the first half was over, Lafayette feinted on a kick, and instead of
Bray, that star Lafayette fullback, boosting the ball, Barclay shot
through the line between Geer and myself for thirty yards. There was my
down-fall. Rinehart had taken care of me beautifully, and finally, Net
Poe saved the day by making a beautiful tackle of Barclay, who was fast
approaching the Princeton goal line. There was no score made, but the
fact that Barclay had made the distance through me, made me feel mighty
mean. I recall Cochran during the intermission, when he said: "Holt; you
take Edwards' place at left-guard."
The battle between those giants during the second half was a sight worth
seeing and an incident recalled by all those who witnessed the game.
Neither side scored and it was a hard-fought struggle.
One day, one play, often ruins a man's chances. I had played as a
regular in the first three games of the season. I was being tried out
and had been found wanting. I had proved a disappointment, and I knew
Cochran knew it and I knew the whole college would know it, but I made
up my mind to give the very best I had in me, and hoped to square myself
later and make the team. I knew what it was to be humiliated, taken out
of a game, and to realize that I had not stood the test. I began to
reason it out--maybe I was carried away with the fact of having played
on the varsity team--maybe I did not give my best. Anyway I learned
much that day. It was my first big lesson of failure in football. That
failure and its meaning lived with me.
I have always had great respect for Rinehart, and his great team mates.
Walbridge and Barclay were a great team in themselves, backed up by Bray
at fullback. It was this same team that, later in the fall, beat
Pennsylvania, without the services of Captain Walbridge, who had been
injured.
It was not long after this that Princeton played Cornell at Princeton. I
recall the day I first saw Joe Beacham, that popular son of Cornell, who
afterwards coached West Point. He is now in the regular army, stationed
at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. He was captain of the Cornell team in '96.
He had on his team the famous players, Dan Reed, on whom Cornell counts
much in these years to assist Al Sharpe in the coaching; Tom Fennel,
Taussig and Freeborn. With these stars assisting, Cornell could do
nothing with Princeton's great team and the score 37 to 0 tells the
tale.
I was not playing in this game, but recall the following incident. Joe
Beacham was making a flying run through the Princeton team. A very
pretty girl covered with furs, wearing the red and white of Cornell, was
enthusiastically yelling at the top of her voice "Go it, Joe! go it,
Joe!" much to the delight and admiration of the Princeton
undergraduates near her. Since then Joe has told me that it was his
sister. Maybe it was, but as Joe was rushing onward, with Dan Reed and
Tom Fennel interfering wonderfully for him, and urged on by his fond
admirer in the grandstand, his progress was rudely halted by the huge
form of Edwin Crowdis which appeared like a cloud on the horizon and
projected itself before the oncoming scoring machine of Cornell. When
they met, great was the crash, for Crowdis spilled the player, ball and
all. This was the time, the place, and the girl; and it meant that Edwin
Crowdis had made the Princeton Varsity team.
[Illustration:
Brink Thorne Hubby Bray Bishop Park Davis
Rowland Jones Walbridge Barclay Ziser Rinehart Herr Gates
Spear Best Weidenmeyer Hill Trexler
LAFAYETTE'S GREAT TEAM]
I realized it at the moment, and although I knew that it would probably
put me in the substitute ranks for the rest of the season, I was wild
with joy to see Edwin develop at this particular moment, and perform his
great play. His day had come, his was the reward, and Joe Beacham had
been laid low. As for the girl, she subsided abruptly, and is said to
have remarked, as Crowdis smashed the Cornell machine: "Well, I never
did like a fat man anyway!"
One day in a practice game, against the scrub, this year, Garry Cochran,
who was standing on the side lines resting from the result of an injury,
became so frantic over the poor showing of the varsity, pulled off his
sweater and jumped into the game in spite of the trainers' earnest
entreaty not to. He tried to instill a new spirit into the game. It was
one of those terrible Monday practice games, of which every football
player knows. The varsity could not make any substantial gains against
the second team, which was unusually strong that year, as most of the
varsity substitutes were playing. How frantic Bill Church was! He was
playing tackle alongside of Edwin Crowdis, against whom I was playing.
My chances of making the Varsity were getting slimmer. Very few practice
days were left before the men would be selected for the final game. I
was making the last earnest stand. The varsity line men were not opening
up the scrub line as easily as they desired, and we were all stopping up
the offensive play of the Varsity. I was going through very low and
tackling Crowdis around the legs, trying to carry him back into the
play. Church was very angry at my doing this, and told Crowdis to hit
me, if I did it again, but Edwin was a good-natured, clean player; in
fact, I doubt if he ever rough played any man. Finally, after several
plays, Church said, "If you don't hit him, I will," and he sure made
good his threat, for on the next play, when I was at the bottom of the
heap in the scrimmage, Church handed me one of those stiff "Bill Church
blows," emphasizing the tribute with his leather thumb protector. There
was a lively mixup and the scrub and Varsity had an open fight. All was
soon forgotten, but I still "wear an ear," the lobe of which is a
constant reminder of Bill Church's spirited play. Nothing ever stood in
Church's way; he was a hard player, and a powerful tackle.
Slowly but surely, Cochran's great team was perfecting itself into a
machine. The victory against Harvard at Cambridge was the team's worthy
reward for faithful service and attention given to the details of the
game.
As a reward for service rendered, the second team with the Varsity
substitutes were taken on the trip, and as we saw the great Princeton
team winning, every man was happy and proud of the joy and knowledge of
giving something material towards their winning. Sore legs, injuries and
mistakes were at such a time forgotten. All that was felt was the keen
sense of satisfaction that comes to men who have helped in the
construction.
Billie Bannard, aided by superb interference of Fred Smith, was able to
make himself the hero of that game by a forty-five yard run. Bill Church
the great tackle broke through the Harvard line and blocked Brown's
kick, and the ever-watchful end-rush, Howard Brokaw, fell on the ball
for a touchdown. Cochran had been injured and removed from the game, but
he was frantic with joy as he walked up and down the Princeton side
lines, urging further touchdowns.
A happy crowd of Princetonians wended their way back to Princeton to put
the finishing touches on the team before the Yale game. Those of you
who recall that '96 game in New York will remember that 6 to 0 in favor
of Yale was the score, at the end of the first five minutes. Jim Rodgers
had blocked Johnnie Baird's punt and Bass, the alert end-rush, had
pounced on the ball and was over for a touchdown in a moment. Great
groans went up from the Princeton grandstand. Could it be that this
great acknowledged champion team of Princeton was conceited,
over-trained and about to be defeated? Certainly not, for there arose
such a demonstration of team spirit and play as one seldom sees. On the
next kick-off Johnnie Baird caught the ball, and when he was about to be
tackled--in fact, was lying on the ground--he passed the ball to Fred
Smith, that great all-round Princeton athlete, who made the most
spectacular run of the day. Who will ever forget the wonderful line
plunging of Ad Kelly, the brilliant end running of Bill Bannard and the
great part all the other men of the team contributed towards Princeton's
success, and the score grew and grew by touchdown after touchdown, until
some one recalled that in this game, the team would say, "Well, we won't
give any signals; we'll just try a play through Captain Murphy." Maybe
this was the play that put Murphy out of the game. He played against
Bill Church, and that was enough exercise for any one man to encounter
in one afternoon. As Fred Murphy left the field everyone realized that
it was only his poor physical condition that caused him to give up the
game. Yale men recall, with great pride, how the year before Murphy had
put it all over Bill Church. During that game, however, Church's
physical condition was not what it should have been, and these two giant
tackles never had a chance to play against each other when they were
both in prime condition. Both these men were All American calibre.
Johnny Baird, Ad Kelly, Bannard, all made touchdowns and the two
successful freshmen who had made the team, Hillebrand and Wheeler, both
registered touchdowns against Yale. As the Yale team left the field,
they felt the sting of defeat, but there were men who were to have
revenge at New Haven the next year against Princeton, among whom were
Chadwick, Rodgers and Chamberlain. They were eager enough to get back at
us and the next year they surely did. But this was our year for victory
and celebration, and laurels were bestowed upon the victors. Garry
Cochran and his loyal team-mates were the lions of the day and hour.
CHAPTER III
ELBOW TO ELBOW
"I wonder where my shoes are?" "Who's got my trousers on?" "I wonder if
the tailor mended my jersey?" "What has become of my head-gear?" "I
wonder if the cobbler has put new cleats on my shoes?" "Somebody must
have my stockings on--these are too small." "What has become of my ankle
brace--can't seem to find it anywhere? I just laid it down here a minute
ago. I think that freshman pinched my sweater."
All of which is directed to no one in particular, and the Trainer, who
sits far off in a corner, blowing up a football for the afternoon
practice, smiles as the players are fishing for their clothes. Just then
the Captain, who has dressed earlier than the rest, and has had two or
three of the players out on the field for kicking practice, breaks in
upon the scene with the remark:
"Don't you fellows all know you're late? You ought to be dressed long
before this." Then follows the big scramble and soon everybody is out on
the field.
The Trainer is busy keeping his eye open for any man who is being
handled too strenuously in the practice. Quick starts are practiced,
individual training is indulged in. Kicking and receiving punts play
an important part in the preliminary work.
[Illustration: HOUSE IN DISORDER]
At Williams one afternoon, Fred Daly, former Yale Captain and coach at
Williams, in trying forward passes instructed his ends to catch them at
every angle and height. One man continually fumbled his attempt, just as
he thought he had it sure. He was a new man to Daly, and the latter
called out to him:
"What is your name?" Back came the reply, which almost broke up the
football practice for the day: "_Ketchum_ is my name."
Falling on the ball is one of the fundamentals in football. It is the
ground work that every player must learn. Frank Hinkey, that great Yale
Captain and player, was an artist in performing this fundamental.
Playing so wonderfully well the end-rush position, his alertness in
falling on the ball often meant much distance for Yale. He had wonderful
judgment in deciding whether to fall on the ball or pick it up.
One of the most important things in football is knowing how to tackle
properly. Some men take to it naturally and others only learn after
hard, strenuous practice.
In the old days men were taught to tackle by what is known as "live
tackling." I recall especially that earnest coach, Johnny Poe, whose
main object in football coaching was to see that the men tackled hard
and sure.
Poe, without any padding on at all, would let the men dive into him
running at full speed, and the men would throw him in a way that seemed
as though it would maim him for life. Some of the men weighed a hundred
pounds more than he did, but he would get up and, with a smile, say:
"Come on men, hit me harder; knock me out next time."
After the first two weeks of the season, Johnny Poe was a complete mass
of black and blue marks; and yet how wonderful and how self sacrificing
he was in his eagerness to make the Princeton players good tacklers.
But there are few men like Johnny Poe, who are willing to sacrifice
their own bodies for the instruction of others; and the next best
method, and one which does not injure the players so much, is tackling
the "dummy."
As we look at this picture of Howard Henry of Princeton tackling the
"dummy," we all remember when we were back in the game trying our very
best to put our shoulder into our opponent's knees and "hit him hard,
throw him, and hold him." Henry always got his man.
But the thrill of the game is not in tackling the dummy. The joy comes
in a game, when a man is coming through the line, or making a long run,
and you throw yourself at his knees, and get your tackle; then up and
ready for another.
I recall an experience I had at Princeton one year. When I went to
the Club House to get my uniform, which I wanted to wear in coaching, I
asked Keene Fitzpatrick, the Trainer, where my suit was. He said:
[Illustration: HIT YOUR MAN LOW]
"It's hanging outside."
I went outside of the dressing room but could see no suit anywhere. He
came out wearing a broad smile.
"No," he said, "it isn't out here, it's out there hanging in the air. We
made a dummy out of it."
And there before me I saw my old uniform stuffed with sawdust. I looked
at myself--in suspense.
After the men have been given the other preliminary work they are taken
to the charging board. The one shown here is used at Yale. It teaches
the men quick starting and the use of their hands. It trains them to
keep their eyes on the ball and impresses them with the fact that if
they start before the ball is put in play, a penalty will follow. A fast
charging line has its great value, and every coach is keen to have the
forwards move fast to clear the way.
Then after the individual coaching is over, the team runs through
signals, and the practice is on. Before very long the head coach
announces that practice is over, and the trainer yells:
"Everybody in on the jump," and you soon find yourself back in the
dressing room.
It does not take you long to get your clothes off and ready for the
bath. How well some of you will recall that after a hard practice you
were content to sit and rest awhile on the bench in the dressing-room.
It may be that, in removing your clothes, you favored an injured knee,
looked at a sprained ankle, or helped some fellow off with his jersey.
What is finer, after a hard day's practice, than to stand beneath a warm
shower and gradually let the water grow cold? Everything is lovely until
some rascal in the bunch throws a cold sponge on you and slaps you
across the back, or turns the cold water on, when you only want hot.
Then comes the dry-off and the rub-down, which seems to soothe all your
bruises. This picture of Pete Balliet standing on the end of a bench,
while Jack McMasters massages an injured knee may recall to many a
football player the day when the trainer was his best friend. From his
wonderful physique it is easy to believe that Balliet must have been the
great center-rush whom the heroes of years ago tell about.
Harry Brown, that great Princeton end-rush, is on the other end of the
bench, being taken care of by Bill Buss, a jovial old colored attendant,
who was for so many years a rubber at Princeton.
I know men who never enthuse over football, but just play from a sense
of college loyalty, and a fear of censure should they not play; who are
sorry that they were ever big or showed any football ability. College
sentiment will not allow a football man to remain idle.
[Illustration: REPAIRS]
I knew a man in college, who, on his way to the football field, said:
"Oh, how I hate to drag my body down to the Varsity field to-day to have
it battered and bruised!"
One does not always enthuse over the hard drudgery of practice. Those
that witness only the final games of the year, little realize the
gruesome task of preparedness. Every football player will acknowledge
that some day he has had these thoughts himself.
But suddenly the day comes when this discouraged player sees a light.
Perhaps he has developed a hidden power, or it may be that he has broken
through and made a clean tackle behind the line; perhaps he has made a
good run and received a compliment from the coach. It may be that his
side partner has given him a word of encouragement, which may have
instilled into him a new spirit, and, as a result, he has turned out to
be a real football player. He then forgets all the bruises and all the
hard knocks.
How true it is that in one play, or in a practice game, or in a contest
against an opposing college, a player has found himself. Do you players
of football remember the day you made the team, the day your chance came
and you took advantage of it? At such a time a player shows great
possibilities. He is told by the captain to report at the training house
for the Varsity signals. Who that has experienced the thrill of that
moment can ever forget it?
He earns his seat at the Varsity table. He is now on the Varsity squad.
He goes on, determined to play a better game, and realizes he must hold
his place at the training table by hard, conscientious work.
One is not unmindful of the traditions that are centered about the board
where so many heroes of the past have sat. You have a keen realization
of the fact that you are filling the seat of men who have gone before
you, and that you must make good, as they made good. Their spirit lives.
The training table is a great school for team spirit. To have a
successful team, any coach will tell you, there must be a brotherly
feeling among the members of the team. The men must chum together on and
off the field. Team work on the field is made much easier if there is
team work off the field.
I never hear the expression "team mates" used but I recall a certain
Princeton team, the captain of which was endowed with a wonderful power
of leadership. There was nothing the men would not do for him. Every man
on the team regarded him as a big brother. Yet there was one man on the
squad who seemed inclined to be alone. He had little to say, and when
his work was over on the field he always went silently away to his room.
He did not mingle with the other players in the club house after dinner,
and there did not seem to be much warmth in him.
Garry Cochran, the captain, took some of us into his confidence, and we
made it our business to draw this fellow out of his shell. It was not
long before we found that he was an entirely different sort of a person
from what he had seemed to be.
In a short time, the fellow who was unconsciously retarding good
fellowship among the members of the team was no longer a silent negative
individual, but was soon urging us on in a get-together spirit.
It will be impossible to relate all the good times had at a college
training table. I think that every football man will agree with me that
we now have a great deal of sympathy for the trainer, whereas in the old
days we roasted him when it seemed that dinner would never be ready.
How the hungry mob awaited the signal!
"The flag is down," as old Jim Robinson would say, and Arthur Poe would
yell:
"Fellows, the hash is ready."
Then the hungry crowd would scramble in for the big event of the day.
There awaited them all the delicacies of a trainer's menu; the food that
made touchdowns. If the service was slow, the good-natured trainer was
all at fault, and he too joined in the spirit of their criticism. If
the steak was especially tender, they would say it was tough. There was
much juggling of the portions distributed. Fred Daly recalls the first
week that he and Johnnie Kilpatrick were at the Yale training table. Kil
called for some chocolate, and Johnnie Mack, the trainer, yelled back:
"What do you think this is, anyway, a hospital?"
That started something for awhile in the way of jollying. Daly recalls
another incident, that happened often at Yale one year. It is about Bill
Goebel, who certainly could put the food away. After disposing of about
twelve plates of ice cream, which he had begged, borrowed or stolen, he
called one of the innocent waiters over to him and asked in a gentle
voice: "Say, George, what is the dessert for to-night?"
Then there comes the good-natured "joshing" of the fellow who has made a
fine play during the practice, or in the game of the day. One or two of
the fun makers rush around, put their hands on him and hold him tight
for fear he will not be able to contain himself on account of his
success of the day. This sort of jollification makes the fellow who has
made a bad play forget what he might have done, and he too becomes
buoyant amidst the good fellowship about him.
We all realize what a modest individual the trainer is. If in a
reminiscent mood to change the subject from football to himself, he
tells his "ever-on-to-him" admirers some of his achievements in the old
days there is immediately evidence of preparedness among the players, as
the following salute is given--with fists beating on the table in
unison--
[Illustration: THE OLD FAITHFULS]
"One, two, three! _Oh, what a gosh darn lie!_"
But deep in every man's heart, is the keen realization of the trainer's
value, and his eager effort for their success. His athletic achievements
and his record are well known, and appreciated by all. He is the pulse
of the team.
The scrub team at Princeton during my last year was captained by Pop
Jones, who was a martyr to the game. He was thoroughly reliable, and the
spirit he instilled into his team mates helped to make our year a
successful one. This picture will recall the long roll of silent heroes
in the game, whose joy seemed to be in giving; men who worked their
hearts out to see the Varsity improve; men who never got the great
rewards that come to the Varsity players, but received only the thrill
of doing something constructive. Their reward is in the victories of
others, for every man knows that it is a great scrub that makes a great
varsity. If, as you gaze at this picture of the scrub team, it stirs
your memory of the fellows who used to play against you, and, if, in
your heart you pay them a silent tribute, you will be giving them only
their just due. To the uncrowned heroes, who found no fame, the men
whose hearts were strong, but whose ambitions for a place on the Varsity
were never realized, we take off our hats.
The fiercest knocks that John DeWitt's team ever had at Princeton were
in practice against the scrub. It was in this year, on the last day of
practice, that the undergraduates marched in a body down the field,
singing and cheering, led by a band of music. Preliminary practice being
over, the scrub team retired to the Varsity field house, to await the
signal for the exhibition practice to be given on the Varsity field
before the undergraduates. A surprise had been promised.
While the Varsity team was awaiting the arrival of the scrub team, it
was officially announced that the Yale team would soon arrive upon the
field, and shortly after this, the scrub team appeared with white "Y's"
sewed on the front of their jerseys. The scrub players took the Yale
players' names, just as they were to play against Princeton on the
coming Saturday. There was much fun and enthusiasm, when the assumed
Hogan would be asked to gain through Cooney, or Bloomer would make a
run, and the make-believe Foster Rockwell would urge the pseudo Yale
team on to victory.
John DeWitt had more than one encounter that afternoon with Captain
Rafferty of Yale. After the practice ended all the players gathered
around the dummy, which had been very helpful in tackling practice.
This had been saturated with kerosene awaiting the final event of the
day. John DeWitt touched it off with a match, and the white "Y" which
illuminated the chest of the dummy was soon enveloped in flames. A
college tradition had been lived up to again, and when the team returned
victorious from New Haven that year, John DeWitt and his loyal team
mates never forgot those men and the events that helped to make victory
possible.
CHAPTER IV
MISTAKES IN THE GAME
Many a football player who reads this book will admit that there arises
in all of us a keen desire to go back into the game. It is not so much a
desire just to play in the game for the mere sake of playing as to
remedy the mistakes we all know we made in the past.
In our football recollections, the defeats we have experienced stand out
the most vividly. Sometimes they live on as nightmares through the
years. As we review the old days we realize that we did not always give
our best. If we could but go back and correct our faults many a defeat
might be turned into a victory.
We reflect that if we had trained a little harder, if we had been more
sincere in our work, paid better attention to the advice given us by the
men who knew, if we had mastered our positions better, it would have
been a different story on many occasions when defeat was our portion.
But that is now all behind us. The games are over. The scores will
always stand. Others have taken our places. We have had our day and
opportunity. In the words of Longfellow,
"The world belongs to those who come the last."
Our records will remain as we left them on the gridiron. Many a man is
recalled in football circles as the one who lost his temper in the big
games and caused his team to suffer by his being ruled out of the game.
Men say, "Why, that is the fellow who muffed a punt at a critical
moment," or recall him as the one who "fumbled the ball," when, if he
had held it, the team would have been saved from defeat.
You recall the man who gave the signals with poor judgment. Maybe you
are thinking of the man who missed a great tackle or allowed a man to
get through the line and block a kick. Perhaps a mistaken signal in the
game caused the loss of a first down, maybe defeat--who knows?
Through our recollection of the things we should have done but failed to
do for one reason or another, our defeats rise before us more vividly
now than our victories.
There is only one day to make good and that is the day of the game. The
next day is too late.
Then there is the ever-present recollection of the fellow who let
athletics be the big thing in his college life. He did not make good in
the classroom. He was unfair to himself. He failed to realize that
athletics was only a part of his college life, that it should have been
an aid to better endeavor in his studies.
He may have earned his college letter or received a championship gold
football. And now that he is out in the world he longs for the college
degree that he has forfeited.
His regrets are the deeper when he realizes that if he had given his
best and been square with his college and himself, his presence might
have meant further victories for his team. This is not confined to any
one college. It is true of all of them and probably always will be true,
although it is encouraging to note that there is a higher standard of
scholarship attained on the average by college athletes to-day than a
decade or so ago.
I wish I could impress this lesson indelibly upon the mind of every
young football enthusiast--that athletics should go hand in hand with
college duties. After all it is the same spirit of team work instilled
into him on the football field that should inspire him in the classroom,
where his teacher becomes virtually his coach.
When I was at Princeton, we beat Yale three years out of the four, but
the defeat of 1897 at New Haven stands out most vividly of all in my
memory. And it is not so much what Yale did as what Princeton did not do
that haunts me.
One day in practice in 1897, Sport Armstrong, conceded to be one of the
greatest guards playing, was severely injured in a scrimmage. It was
found that his neck and head had become twisted and for days he lay at
death's door on his bed in the Varsity Club House. After a long
serious illness he got well, but never strong enough to play again. I
took his place.
[Illustration:
Benjamin Brown McBride Cadwalader Corwin
Hazen Hall Rodgers Chamberlin Chadwick Dudley
De Saulles
JIM RODGERS' TEAM]
Nearly all of the star players of the '96 Princeton championship team
were in the lineup. It was Cochran's last year and my first year on the
Varsity. Our team was heralded as a three-to-one winner. We had beaten
Dartmouth 30 to 0 and won a great 57 to 0 victory over Lafayette. Yale
had a good, strong team that had not yet found itself. But there were
several of us Princeton players who knew from old association in prep.
school the calibre of some of the men we were facing.
Cochran and I have often recalled together that silent reunion with our
old team-mates of Lawrenceville. There in front of us on the Yale team
were Charlie de Saulles, George Cadwalader and Charlie Dudley. We had
not seen them since we all left prep. school, they to go to New Haven
and we to Princeton.
When the teams lined up for combat there were no greetings of one old
schoolmate to another. It was not the time nor place for exchange of
amenities. As some one has since remarked, "The town was full of
strangers."
The fact that Dudley was wearing one Lawrenceville stocking only urged
us on to play harder.
My opponent on the Yale team was Charlie Chadwick, Yale's strong man.
Foster Sanford tells elsewhere in this book how he prepared him for the
Harvard game the week before and for this game with Princeton. Our
coaches had made, as they thought, a study of Chadwick's temperament and
had instructed me accordingly. I delivered their message in the form of
a straight arm blow. The compliment was returned immediately by
Chadwick, and the scrap was on. Dashiell, the umpire, was upon us in a
moment. I had visions of being ruled out of the game and disgraced.
"You men are playing like schoolboys and ought to be ruled out of the
game," Dashiell exclaimed, but he decided to give us another chance.
Chadwick played like a demon and I realized before the game had
progressed very far that I had been coached wrong, for instead of
weakening his courage my attack seemed to nerve him. He played a very
wide, defensive guard and it was almost impossible to gain through him.
The play of the Princeton team at the outset was disappointing. Jim
Rodgers, the Yale captain, was driving his men hard and they responded
heartily. Some of them stood out conspicuously by their playing. De
Saulles' open field work was remarkable. I remember well the great run
of fifty-five yards which he made. He was a wonderfully clever dodger
and used the stiff arm well. He evaded the Princeton tacklers
successfully, until Billy Bannard made a tackle on Princeton's 25-yard
line.
Garry Cochran was one of the Princeton players who failed in his effort
to tackle de Saulles, although it was a remarkable attempt with a low,
diving tackle. De Saulles hurdled over him and Cochran struck the
ground, breaking his right shoulder.
That Cochran was so seriously injured did not become known until after
de Saulles had finished his long run. Then it was seen that Cochran was
badly hurt. The trainer ran out and took him to the side lines to fix up
his injury.
Time was being taken out and as we waited for Cochran to return to the
game we discussed the situation and hoped that his injury would not
prove serious. Every one of us realized the tremendous handicap we would
be under without him.
The tension showed in the faces of Alex Moffat and Johnny Poe as they
sat there on the side line, trying to reach a solution of the problem
that confronted them as coaches. They realized better than the players
that the tide was against them.
To conceal the true location of his injury from the Yale players,
Cochran had his left shoulder bandaged and entered the scrimmage again,
game though handicapped, remaining on the field until the trainer
finally dragged him to the side line.
This was the last football contest in which Garry Cochran took part. He
was game to the end.
At New Haven that fall Frank Butterworth and some of the other coaches
had heard a rumor that when Cochran and de Saulles parted at
Lawrenceville they had a strange understanding. Both had agreed, so the
rumor went, that should they ever meet in a Yale-Princeton game, one
would have to leave the game.
Butterworth told de Saulles what he had heard and cautioned him,
reminding him that he wanted him to play a game that would escape
criticism. De Saulles put every ounce of himself into his game, Cochran
did the same. To this day Frank Butterworth and the coaches believe that
when de Saulles was making his great run up the field he kept his pledge
to Cochran.
De Saulles and Cochran laugh at the suggestion that it was other than an
accident, but they have never been able to convince their friends. The
dramatic element in it was too strong for a mere chance affair.
Princeton's handicap when Cochran had to go out was increased by the
withdrawal because of injuries of Johnny Baird, the quarterback, that
wonderful drop-kicker of previous games. He was out of condition and had
to be carried from the field with a serious injury.
Dudley, the ex-Lawrencevillian, here began to get in his telling
work. The Yale stands were wild with enthusiasm as they saw their team
about to score against the much-heralded Princeton team. We were a three
to one bet. On the next play Dudley went through the Princeton line. At
the bottom of the heap, hugging the ball and happy in his success, was
Charlie Dudley, Yale hero, Lawrenceville stocking and all.
[Illustration: COCHRAN WAS GAME TO THE END]
After George Cadwalader had kicked the goal, the score stood 6 to 0.
One of the greatest problems that confronts a coach is to select the
proper men to start in a game. Injuries often handicap a team. Ad Kelly,
king of all line-plunging halfbacks, had been injured the week before at
Princeton and for that reason was not in the original lineup that day at
New Haven. He was on the side lines waiting for a chance to go in. His
chance came.
Kelly was Princeton's only hope. Herbert Reed, known among writers on
football as "Right Wing," thus describes this stage of the game:
"With almost certain defeat staring them in the face, the Tigers made
one last desperate rally and in doing so called repeatedly on Kelly,
with the result that with this star carrying the ball in nearly every
rush the Princeton eleven carried the ball fifty-five yards up the field
only to lose it at last on a fumble to Jim Rodgers.
"Time and again in the course of this heroic advance, Kelly went into
or slid outside of tackle practically unaided, bowling along more like a
huge ball than a human being. It was one of the greatest exhibitions of
a born runner, of a football genius and much more to be lauded than his
work the previous year, when he was aided by one of the greatest
football machines ever sent into a big game."
But Kelly's brilliant work was unavailing and when the game ended the
score was still 6 to 0. Yale had won an unexpected victory.
The Yale supporters descended like an avalanche upon the field and
carried off their team. Groups of men paraded about carrying aloft the
victors. There were Captain Jim Rodgers, Charlie Chadwick, George
Cadwalader, Gordon Brown, Burr Chamberlain, John Hall, Charlie de
Saulles, Dudley, Benjamin, McBride, and Hazen.
Many were the injuries in this game. It was a hard fought contest. There
were interesting encounters which were known only to the players
themselves. As for myself, it may best be said that I spent three weeks
in the University of Pennsylvania Hospital with water on the knee. I
certainly had plenty of time to think about the sadness of defeat--the
ever present thought--"Wait until next year"--was in my mind. Garry
Cochran used to say in his talks to the team: "We must win this
year--make it two years straight against Yale. If you lose, Princeton
will be a dreary old place for you. It will be a long, hard winter. The
frost on the window pane will be an inch thick." And, in the sadness of
our recollections, his words came back to us and to him.
These words came back to me again in 1899.
I had looked forward all the year to our playing Cornell at Ithaca. It
was just the game we wanted on our schedule to give us the test before
we met Yale. We surely got a test, and Cornell men to this day will tell
you of their great victory in 1899 over Princeton, 5 to 0.
There were many friends of mine in Ithaca, which was only thirty miles
from my old home, and I was naturally happy over the fact that Princeton
was going to play there. But the loyal supporters who had expected a
Princeton victory were as disappointed as I was. Bill Robinson, manager
of the Princeton team, reserved seats for about thirty of my closest
boyhood friends who came over from Lisle to see the game. The Princeton
cheering section was rivalled in enthusiasm by the "Lisle section." And
the disappointment of each one of my friends at the outcome of that
memorable game was as keen as that of any man from Princeton.
Our team was clearly outplayed. Unfortunately we had changed our signals
that week and we did not play together. But all the honors were
Cornell's, her sure footed George Young in the second half made a goal
from the field, fixing the score at 5 to 0.
I remember the wonderful spirit of victory that came over the Cornell
team, the brilliant playing of Starbuck, the Cornell captain, and of
Bill Warner, Walbridge, Young and the other men who contributed to the
Cornell victory. Percy Field swarmed with Cornell students when the game
ended, each one of them crazy to reach the members of their team and
help to carry them victoriously off the field.
Never will I forget the humiliation of the Princeton team. Trolley cars
never seemed to move as slowly as those cars that carried us that day
through the streets of Ithaca. Enthusiastic, yelling undergraduates
grinned at us from the sidewalks as we crawled along to the hotel.
Sadness reigned supreme in our company. We were glad to get to our
rooms.
Instead of leaving Ithaca at 9:30 as we had planned, we hired a special
engine to take our private cars to Owego there to await the express for
New York on the main line.
My only pleasant recollection of that trip was a brief call I made at
the home of a girl friend of mine, who had attended the game. My arm was
in a sling and sympathy was welcome.
As our train rolled over the zig-zag road out of Ithaca, we had a source
of consolation in the fact that we had evaded the send-off which the
Cornell men had planned in the expectation that we were to leave on the
later train.
There were no outstretched hands at Princeton for our homecoming. But
every man on that Princeton team was grimly determined to learn the
lesson of the Cornell defeat, to correct faults and leave nothing undone
that would insure victory for Princeton in the coming game with Yale.
CHAPTER V
MY LAST GAME
Every player knows the anxious anticipation and the nerve strain
connected with the last game of the football season. In my last year
there were many men on the team who were to say good-bye to their
playing days. Every player who reads these lines will agree with me that
it was his keenest ambition to make his last game his best game.
It was in the fall of 1899. There were many of us who had played on a
victorious team the year before. Princeton had never beaten Yale two
years in succession. This was our opportunity. Our slogan during the
entire season had been, "On to New Haven." The dominating idea in the
mind of everyone was to add another victory over Yale to the one of the
year before.
The Cornell game with its defeat was forgotten. We had learned our
lesson. We had made a tremendous advance in two weeks. I recall so well
the days before the Yale game, when we were leaving for New York en
route to New Haven. We met at the Varsity field house. I will never
forget how strange the boys looked in their derby hats and overcoats. It
was a striking contrast to the regular everyday football costumes and
campus clothes.
[Illustration: ON TO NEW HAVEN
All Dressed Up and Ready to Go.]
There were hundreds of undergraduates at the station to cheer us off. As
the train pulled out the familiar strains of "Old Nassau" floated after
us and we realized that the next time we would see that loyal crowd
would be in the cheering section on the Princeton side at New Haven.
We went directly to the Murray Hill Hotel, where Princeton had held its
headquarters for years. After luncheon Walter Christie, the trainer,
took us up to Central Park. We walked about for a time and finally
reached the Obelisk.
Biffy Lee, the head coach, suggested that we run through our signals.
All of us doffed our overcoats and hats and, there on the expansive
lawn, flanked by Cleopatra's Needle and the Metropolitan Art Museum, we
ran through our signals.
We then resumed our walk and returned to the hotel for dinner. The
evening was spent in the hotel parlors, where the team was entertained
and had opportunity for relaxation from the mental strain that was
necessarily a part of the situation. A general reception took place in
the corridors, players of old days came around to see the team, to
revive old memories, and cheer the men of the team on to victory.
Football writers from the daily papers mingled with the throng, and
their accounts the following day reflected the optimistic spirit they
encountered. The betting odds were quoted at three to one on Princeton.
"Betting odds" is the way some people gauge the outcome of a football
contest, but I have learned from experience, that big odds are not
justified on either side in a championship game.
We were up bright and early in the morning and out for a walk before
breakfast. Our team then took the ten o'clock train for New Haven. Only
those who have been through the experience can appreciate the difficulty
encountered in getting on board a train for New Haven on the day of a
football game.
We were ushered through a side entrance, however, and were finally
landed in the special cars provided for us.
On the journey there was a jolly good time. Good fellowship reigned
supreme. That relieved the nervous tension. Arthur Poe and Bosey Reiter
were the leading spirits in the jollification. A happier crowd never
entered New Haven than the Princeton team that day. The cars pulled in
on a siding near the station and everybody realized that we were at last
in the town where the coveted prize was. We were after the Yale ball.
"On to New Haven" had been our watchword. We were there.
Following a light lunch in our dining car we soon got our football
clothes, and, in a short time, the palatial Pullman car was transformed.
It assumed the appearance of the dressing room at Princeton. Football
togs hung everywhere. Nose-guards, head-gears, stockings, shin-guards,
jerseys, and other gridiron equipment were everywhere. Here and there
the trainer or his assistants were limbering up joints that needed
attention.
Two big buses waited at the car platform. The team piled into them. We
were off to the field. The trip was made through a welcome of friendly
salutes from Princeton men encountered on the way. Personal friends of
individual players called to them from the sidewalks. Others shouted
words of confidence. Old Nassau was out in overwhelming force.
No team ever received more loyal support. It keyed the players up to the
highest pitch of determination. Their spirits, naturally at a high mark,
rose still higher under the warmth of the welcome. Repression was a
thing of the past. Every player was jubilant and did not attempt to
conceal the fact.
The enthusiasm mounted as we neared the scene of the coming battle. As
we entered the field the air was rent by a mighty shout of welcome from
the Princeton hosts. Our hearts palpitated in response to it. There was
not a man of the team that did not feel himself repaid a thousand-fold
for the season's hard knocks.
But this soon gave way to sober thought of the work ahead of us. We were
there for business. Falling on the ball, sprinting and limbering up,
and running through a few signals, we spent the few minutes before the
Yale team came through the corner of the field. The scenes of enthusiasm
that had marked our arrival were repeated, the Yale stand being the
center this time of the maelstrom of cheers. I shall not attempt to
describe our own feelings as we got the first glimpse of our opponents
in the coming fray. Who can describe the sensations of the contestants
in the first moment of a championship game?
But it was not long before the coin had been tossed, and the game was
on. Not a man who has played in the line will ever forget how he tried
to block his man or get down the field and tackle the man with the ball.
I recall most vividly those three strapping Yale center men, Brown, Hale
and Olcott, flanked by Stillman and Francis. There was Al Sharpe and
McBride. Fincke was at quarter.
If there had been any one play during the season that we had had drilled
into us, a play which we had hoped might win the game, it was the long
end run. It was Lea's pet play.
I can recall the herculean work we had performed to perfect this play.
It was time well spent. The reward came within seven minutes after the
game began. The end running ability of that great player, Bosey Reiter
showed. Every man was doing his part, and the play was made possible.
Reiter scored a touchdown along the side of the field. I never saw a
happier man than Bosey. But he was no happier than his ten team-mates.
They were leaping in the air with joy. The Princeton stand arose in a
solid body and sent an avalanche of cheers across the field.
What proved to be one of the most important features of the game was the
well-delivered punt by Bert Wheeler, who kicked the ball out to
Hutchinson. Hutch heeled it in front of the goal and Bert Wheeler
boosted the ball straight over the cross bar and Princeton scored an
additional point. At that moment we did not realize that this would be
the decisive factor in the Princeton victory.
As the Princeton team went back to the middle of the field to take their
places for the next kick-off, the Princeton side of the field was a
perfect bedlam of enthusiasm. Old grads were hugging each other on the
side lines, and every eye was strained for the next move in the game.
At the same time the Yale stand was cheering its side and urging the
Blue players to rally. McBride, the Yale captain, was rousing his men
with the Yale spirit, and they realized what was demanded of them. The
effect became evident. It showed how Yale could rise to an occasion. We
felt that the old bull-dog spirit of Yale was after us--as strong as
ever.
How wonderfully well McBride, the Yale captain, kicked that day! What a
power he was on defence! I saw him do some wonderful work. It was after
one of his long punts, which, with the wind in his favor, went about
seventy yards, that Princeton caught the ball on the ten-yard line.
Wheeler dropped back to kick. The Yale line men were on their toes ready
to break through and block the kick. The Yale stand was cheering them
on. Stillman was the first man through. It seemed as if he were
off-side. Wheeler delayed his kick, expecting that an off-side penalty
would be given. When he did kick, it was too late, the ball was blocked
and McBride fell on it behind the goal line, scoring a touchdown for
Yale, and making the score 6 to 5 in favor of Princeton.
Believe me, the Yale spirit was running high. The men were playing like
demons. Here was a team that was considered a defeated team before the
game. Here were eleven men who had risen to the occasion and who were
slowly, but surely, getting the best of the argument.
Gloom hung heavy over the Princeton stand. Defeat seemed inevitable. Of
eleven players who started in the game on the Princeton side, eight had
been incapacitated by injuries of one kind or another. Doc Hillebrand,
the ever-reliable, All-American tackle, had been compelled to leave the
game with a broken collar-bone just before McBride made his touchdown.
I remember well the play in which he was injured and I have
resurrected a photograph that was snapped of the game at the moment that
he was lying on the ground, knocked out.
[Illustration: HILLEBRAND'S LAST CHARGE]
Bummie Booth, who had stood the strain of the contest wonderfully well,
and had played a grand game against Hale, gave way to Horace Bannard,
brother of Bill Bannard, the famous Princeton halfback of '98.
It was no wonder that Princeton was downcast when McBride scored the
touchdown and the goal was about to be kicked.
Just then I saw a man in football togs come out from the side lines
wearing a blue visor cap. He was to kick for the goal. It was an unusual
spectacle on a football field. I rushed up to the referee, Ed
Wrightington of Harvard, and called his attention to the man with the
cap. I asked if that man was in the game.
"Why," he replied with a broad smile, "you ought to know him. He is the
man you have been playing against all along, Gordon Brown. He only ran
into the side lines to get a cap to shade his eyes."
I am frank to say that it was one on me, but the chagrin wore off when
Brown missed the goal, which would have tied the final score, and robbed
Princeton of the ultimate victory.
The tide of battle turned toward Yale. Al Sharpe kicked a goal from the
field, from the forty-five yard line. It was a wonderful achievement.
It is true that circumstances later substituted Arthur Poe for him as
the hero of the game, but those who witnessed Sharpe's performance will
never forget it. The laurels that he won by it were snatched from him by
Poe only in the last half-minute of play. The score was changed by
Sharpe's goal from 6 to 5 in our favor to 10 to 6. Yale leading.
The half was over. The score was 10 to 6 against Princeton. Every
Princeton player felt that there was still a real opportunity to win
out. We were all optimistic. This optimism was increased by the appeals
made to the men in the dressing room by the coaches. It was not long
before the team was back on the field more determined than ever to carry
the Yale ball back to Princeton.
The last half of this game is everlastingly impressed upon my memory.
Every man that played for Princeton, although eight of them were
substitutes, played like a veteran. I shall ever treasure the memory of
the loyal support that those men gave me as captain, and their response
to my appeal to stand together and play not only for Princeton but for
the injured men on the side-lines whose places they had taken.
The Yale team had also heard some words of football wisdom in their
dressing room. Previous encounters with Princeton had taught them that
the Tiger could also rally. They came on the field prepared to fight
harder than ever. McBride and Brown were exhorting their men to do
their utmost.
Princeton was out-rushing Yale but not out-kicking them. Yale knew that
as well as we did.
It was a Yale fumble that gave us the chance we were waiting for. Bill
Roper, who had taken Lew Palmer's place at left end, had his eyes open.
He fell on the ball. Through his vigilance, Princeton got the chance to
score. Now was our chance.
Time was passing quickly. We all knew that something extraordinary would
have to be done to win the day. It remained for Arthur Poe to
crystallize this idea into action. It seemed an inspiration.
"We've got to kick," he said to me, "and I would like to try a goal from
the field. We haven't got much time."
Nobody appreciated the situation more than I did. I knew we would have
to take a chance and there was no one I would have selected for the job
quicker than Arthur Poe. How we needed a touchdown or a goal from the
field!
Poe, Pell and myself were the three members of the original team left.
How the substitutes rallied with us and gave the perfect defence that
made Poe's feat possible is a matter of history. As I looked around from
my position to see that the defensive formation was right, I recall how
small Arthur Poe looked there in the fullback position. Here was a man
doing something we had never rehearsed as a team. But safe and sure the
pass went from Horace Bannard and as Biffy Lea remarked after the game,
"when Arthur kicked the ball, it seemed to stay up in the air about
twenty minutes."
Some people have said that I turned a somersault and landed on my ear,
and collapsed. Anyhow, it all came our way at the end, the ball sailed
over the cross bar. The score then was 11 to 10, and the Princeton stand
let out a roar of triumph that could be heard way down in New Jersey.
There were but thirty-six seconds left for play. Yale made a splendid
supreme effort to score further. But it was futile.
Crowds had left the field before Poe made his great goal kick. They had
accepted a Yale victory as inevitable. Some say that bets were paid on
the strength of this conviction. The Yale _News_, which went to press
five minutes before the game ended, got out an edition stating that Yale
had won. They had to change that story.
During the seconds preceding Poe's kick for a goal I had a queer
obsession. It was a serious matter to me then. I can recall it now with
amusement. "Big" was a prefix not of my own selection. I had never
appreciated its justification, however, until that moment.
Horace Bannard was playing center. I had my left hand clasped under the
elastic in his trouser leg, ready to form a barrier against the Yale
forwards. Brown, Hale and McBride tried to break through to block the
kick. I thought of a million things but most of all I was afraid of a
blocked kick. To be frank, I was afraid I would block it--that Poe
couldn't clear me, that he would kick the ball into me.
[Illustration: AL SHARPE'S GOAL]
I crouched as low as I could, and the more I worried the larger I seemed
to be and I feared greatly for what might occur behind me. It seemed as
if I were swelling up. But finally, as I realized that the ball had gone
over me and was on its way to the goal, I breathed a sigh of relief and
said,
"Thank God, it cleared!"
How eager we were to get that ball, the hard-earned prize, which now
rests in the Princeton gymnasium, a companion ball to the one of the
1898 victory. Yes, it had all been accomplished, and we were happy. New
Haven looked different to us. It was many years since Princeton had sent
Yale down to defeat on Yale Field.
Victory made us forget the sadness of former defeats. It was a joyous
crowd that rode back to the private cars. Varsity players and
substitutes shared alike in the joy, which was unrestrained. We soon had
our clothes changed, and were on our way to New York for the banquet and
celebration of our victory.
Arthur Poe was the lion of the hour. No finer fellow ever received more
just tribute.
It would take a separate volume to describe the incidents of that trip
from New Haven to New York. Before it had ended we realized if we never
had realized it before how sweet was victory, and how worth while the
striving that brought it to us.
Suffice it to say that that Yale football was the most popular
"passenger" on the train. Over and over we played the game and a million
caresses were lavished upon the trophy.
This may seem an excess of sentiment to some, but those who have played
football understand me. Looking back through the retrospect of seventeen
years, I realize that I did not fully understand then the meaning of
those happy moments. I now appreciate that it was simply the deep
satisfaction that comes from having made good--the sense of real
accomplishment.
Enthusiastic Princeton men were waiting for us at the Grand Central
Station. They escorted us to the Murray Hill Hotel, and the wonderful
banquet that awaited us. The spirit of the occasion will be understood
by football players and enthusiasts who have enjoyed similar
experiences.
The members of the team just sat and listened to speeches by the alumni
and coaches. It all seemed too good to be true. When the gathering broke
up, the players became members of different groups, who continued their
celebration in the various ways provided by the hospitality of the great
city.
[Illustration: TOUCHING THE MATCH TO VICTORY]
Hillebrand and I ended the night together. When we awoke in the
morning, the Yale football was there between our pillows, the bandaged
shoulder and collar-bone of Hillebrand nestling close to it.
Then came the home-going of the team to Princeton, and the huge bonfire
that the whole university turned out to build. Some nearby wood yard was
looking the next day for thirty-six cords of wood that had served as the
foundation for the victorious blaze. It was learned afterward that the
owner of the cord-wood had backed the team--so he had no regrets.
The team was driven up in buses from the station. It was a proud
privilege to light the bonfire. Every man on the team had to make a
speech and then we had a banquet at the Princeton Inn. Later in the year
the team was banqueted by the alumni organizations around the country.
Every man had a peck of souvenirs--gold matchsafes, footballs, and other
things. Nothing was too good for the victors. Well, well, "To the
victors belong the spoils." That is the verdict of history.
CHAPTER VI
HEROES OF THE PAST
THE EARLY DAYS
We treasure the memory of the good men who have gone before. This is
true of the world's history, a nation's history, that of a state, and of
a great university. Most true is it of the memory of men of heroic mold.
As schoolboys, our imaginations were fired by the records of the
brilliant achievements of a Perry, a Decatur or a Paul Jones; and, as we
grow older, we look back to those heroes of our boyhood days, and our
hearts beat fast again as we recall their daring deeds and pay them
tribute anew for the stout hearts, the splendid fighting stamina, and
the unswerving integrity that made them great men in history.
In every college and university there is a hall of fame, where the
heroes of the past are idolized by the younger generations. Trophies,
portraits, old flags and banners hang there. Threadbare though they may
be, they are rich in memories. These are, however, only the material
things--"the trappings and the suits" of fame--but in the hearts of
university men the memory of the heroes of the past is firmly and
reverently enshrined. Their achievements are a distinguished part of
the university's history--a part of our lives as university men--and we
are ever ready now to burn incense in their honor, as we were in the old
days to burn bonfires, in celebration of their deeds.
It is well now that we recall some of the men who have stood in the
front line of football; in the making and preservation of the great
game. Many of them have not lived to see the results of their service to
the sport which they deemed to be manly and worth while. It is, however,
because they stood there during days, often full of stress and severe
criticism of the game, staunch and resistless, that football occupies
its present high plane in the athletic world.
It may be that some of their names are not now associated with football.
Some of them are captains of industry. They are in the forefront of
public affairs. Some of them are engaged in the world's work in far-away
lands. But the spirit that these men apply to their life work is the
same spirit that stirred them on the gridiron. Their football training
has made them better able to fight the battle of life.
Men who gave signals, are now directing large industries. Players who
carried the ball, are now carrying trade to the ends of the world. Men
who bucked the line, are forging their way sturdily to the front. Men
who were tackles, are still meeting their opponents with the same
intrepid zeal. The men who played at end in those days, are to-day
seeing that nothing gets around them in the business world. The public
is the referee and umpire. It knows their achievements in the greater
game of life.
It is not my purpose to select an all-star football team from the long
list of heroes past and present. It is not possible to select any one
man whom we can all crown as king. We all have our football idols, our
own heroes, men after whom we have patterned, who were our inspiration.
We can never line up in actual scrimmage the heroes of the past with
those of more recent years. What a treat if this could be arranged!
There are many men I have idolized in football, not only for their
record as players, but for the loyalty and spirit for the game which
they have inspired.
Walter Camp
When I asked Walter Camp to write the introduction to this book, I told
him that as he had written about football players for twenty years it
was up to some one to relate some of _his_ achievements as a football
player. We all know Walter Camp as a successful business man and as a
football genius whose strategy has meant much to Yale. His untiring
efforts, his contributions to the promotion of the best interests of the
game, stand as a brilliant record in the history of football. To give
him his just due would require a special volume. The football world
knows Walter Camp as a thoroughbred, a man who has played the game
fairly, and sees to it that the game is being played fairly to-day.
We have read his books, enjoyed his football stories, and kept in touch
with the game through his newspaper articles. He is the loyal,
ever-present critic on the side lines and the helpful adviser in every
emergency. He has helped to safeguard the good name of football and kept
pace with the game until to-day he is known as the "Father of football."
Let us go back into football history where, in the recollections of
others, we shall see Freshman Camp make the team, score touchdowns, kick
goals and captain Yale teams to victory.
F. R. Vernon, who was a freshman at Yale when Camp was a sophomore,
draws a vivid word picture of Camp in his active football days. Vernon
played on the Yale team with Camp.
"Walter Camp in his football playing days," says Vernon, "was built
physically on field running lines; quick on his legs and with his arms.
His action was easy all over and seemed to be in thorough control from a
well-balanced head, from which looked a pair of exceptionally keen,
piercing, expressive brown eyes.
"Camp was always alert, and seemed to sense developments before they
occurred. One of my chief recollections of Camp's play was his great
confidence with the ball. In his room, on the campus, in the gym',
wherever he was, if possible, he would have a football with him. He
seemed to know every inch of its surface, and it seemed almost as if the
ball knew him. It would stick to his palm, like iron to a magnet.
"In one of his plays, Camp would run down the side of the field, the
ball held far out with one arm, while the other arm was performing
yeoman service in warding off the oncoming tacklers. Frequently he would
pass the ball from one hand to the other, while still running, depending
upon which arm he saw he would need for defense. Smilingly and
confidently, Camp would run the gauntlet of opposing players for many
consecutive gains. I do not recall one instance in which he lost the
ball through these tactics.
"It was a pretty game to play and a pretty game to look at. Would that
the rules could be so worded as to make the football of Camp's time the
football of to-day!
"Walter Camp's natural ability as a football player was recognized as
soon as he entered Yale in 1876. He made the 'varsity at once and played
halfback. It was in the first Harvard football game at Hamilton Park
that the Harvard captain, who was a huge man with a full, bushy beard,
saw Walter Camp, then a stripling freshman in uniform, and remarked to
the Yale Captain:
"'You don't mean to let that child play; he is too light; he will get
hurt.'
"Walter made a mental note of that remark, and during the game the
Harvard captain had occasion to remember it also, when in one of the
plays Camp tackled him, and the two went to the ground with a heavy
thud. As the Harvard captain gradually came to, he remarked to one of
his team mates:
"'Well, that little fellow nearly put me out!'
"Camp's brilliant playing earned him the captaincy of the team in 1878
and 1879. He had full command of his men and was extremely popular with
them, but this did not prevent his being a stickler for discipline.
"In my day on the Yale team with Camp," Vernon states, "Princeton was
our dire opponent. For a week or so before a Princeton game, we all
agreed to stay on the campus and to be in bed every night by eleven
o'clock. Johnny Moorhead, who was one of our best runners, decided one
night to go to the theatre, however, and was caught by Captain Camp,
whereupon we were all summoned out of bed to Camp's room, shortly before
midnight. After the roundup we learned the reason for our unexpected
meeting. There was some discussion in which Camp took very little part.
No one expected that Johnny would receive more than a severe reprimand
and this feeling was due largely to the fact that we needed him in the
game. Imagine our surprise, therefore, when Camp, who had left us for a
moment, returned to the room and handed in his resignation as captain of
the team. We revolted at this. Johnny, who sized up the situation,
rather than have the team lose Camp, decided to quit the team himself.
What occurred the next day between Camp and Johnny Moorhead we never
knew, but Johnny played in the game and squared himself."
Walter Camp's name is coupled with that of Chummy Eaton in football
history. "Eaton was on the left end rush line," says Vernon, "and played
a great game with Camp down the side line. When one was nearly caught
for a down, the other would receive the ball from him on an over-head
throw and proceed with the run. Camp and Eaton would repeat this play,
sending the ball back and forth down the side of the field for great
gains.
"In one of the big games in the fall of 1879, Eaton had a large muscle
in one of his legs torn and had to quit playing for that season." Vernon
was put in Chummy's place. "But I couldn't fill Chummy's shoes," Vernon
acknowledges, "for he and Camp had practiced their beautiful side line
play all the fall.
"The next year Chummy's parents wouldn't let him play, but Chummy was
game--he simply couldn't resist--it was a case of Love Before Duty with
him. He played on the Yale team the next fall, however, but not as
Eaton, and every one who followed football was wondering who that star
player 'Adams' was and where he came from. But those on the inside knew
it was Chummy.
"Frederic Remington," says Vernon, "was a member of our team. We were
close friends and spent many Sunday afternoons on long walks. I can see
him now with his India ink pencil sketching as we went along, and I must
laugh now at the nerve I had to joke him about his efforts.
"Remy was a good football player and one of the best boxers in college.
Dear Old Remy is gone, but he left his mark."
Other men, equally prominent old Yale men tell me, who were on the team
that year were Hull, Jack Harding, Ben Lamb, Bob Watson, Pete Peters and
many others.
Walter Camp, as Yale gridiron stories go, was not only captain of his
team, but in reality also its coach. Perhaps he can be called the
pioneer coach of Yale football. It is most interesting to listen to old
time Yale players relate incidents of the days when they played under
Walter Camp as their captain: how they came to his room by invitation at
night, sat on the floor with their backs to the wall, with nothing in
the center of the room but a regulation football. There they got
together, talked things over, made suggestions and comparisons. And it
is said of Camp that he would do more listening by far than talking.
This was characteristic, for although he knew so much of the game he was
willing to get every point of view and profit by every suggestion.
In 1880 Camp relinquished the captaincy to R. W. Watson. Yale again
defeated Harvard, Camp kicking a goal from placement. Following this
R. W. Watson ran through the entire Harvard team for a touchdown.
Harvard men were greatly pained when Walter Camp played again in 1881.
He should have graduated in 1880. This game was also won by Yale, thus
making the fourth victorious Yale team that Camp played on. This record
has never been equalled. Camp played six years at Yale.
John Harding was another of the famous old Yale stars who played on
Walter Camp's team.
"It is now more than thirty-five years since my days on the football
gridiron," writes Harding. "What little elementary training I got in
football, I attribute to the old game of 'theory,' which for two years
on spring and summer evenings, after supper, we used to play at St.
Paul's School in Concord, N. H., on the athletic grounds near the Middle
School. One fellow would be 'it' as we dashed from one side of the
grounds to the other and when one was trapped he joined the 'its,' until
everybody was caught. I learned there how to dodge, as well as the
rudiments of the necessary football accomplishment of how to fall down
without getting hurt. As a result of this experience, with my chum,
W. A. Peters, when we got down to Yale in the fall of '76, we offered
ourselves as willing victims for the University football team, and with
the result that we both 'made' the freshman team, and had our first
experience in a match game of football against the Harvard freshman at
Boston. I don't remember who won that contest, but I do remember the
University eleven, under Eugene Baker's careful training, beating
Harvard that fall at New Haven and my football enthusiasm being fired up
to a desire to make the team, if it were possible.
"Of course, Walter Camp has for many years, and deservedly so, been
regarded as the father of football at Yale, but in my day, and at least
until Baker left college, he was only an ordinary mortal and a good
halfback. Baker was the unquestioned star and I cannot disabuse my mind
that he was the original football man of Yale, and at least entitled to
the title of 'grandfather' of the game there and it was from him that my
tuition mainly came.
"My impression is that Baker was always for the open running and passing
game and that mass playing and flying wedges and the various refinements
of the game that depended largely on 'beef' were of a later day.
"For four years I played in the rush line with Walter Camp as a
halfback, and for two years, at least, with Hull and Ben Lamb on either
side of me, all of us somehow understanding each other's game and all
being ready and willing to help each other out. Whatever ability and
dexterity I may have developed seemed to show itself at its best when
playing with them and to prove that good team work and 'knowing your
man' wins.
"I got to know Walter Camp's methods and ways of playing, so that,
somehow or other, I could judge pretty well where the ball was going to
drop when he kicked and could navigate myself about so that I was, more
often than any one else on our side, near the ball when it dropped to
the ground, and, if perchance, it happened to be muffed by an opposing
player, which put me 'on side,' the chances of a touchdown, if I got the
ball, were excellent, and Hull and Lamb were somehow on hand to back me
up and were ready to follow me in any direction.
"During my last two years of football the 'rushers' were unanimously of
the opinion that the kicking, dodging and passing open game was the game
we should strive for and that it was the duty of the halfback and backs
to end their runs with a good long punt, wherever possible, and give us
a chance to get under the ball when it came down, while the rest of the
team behind the line were in favor of a running mass play game,
particularly in wet and slippery weather.
"I remember once in my senior year our divergence of views on this
question, about three weeks before the final game, nearly split our
team, and that as a result I nearly received the doubtful honor of
becoming the captain of a defeated Yale team. Camp, fearful of wet
weather and possible snow at the Thanksgiving game, and with Channing,
Eaton and Fred Remington as the heavy Yale ends and everybody 'big' in
the rush line excepting myself, was trying to develop us with as little
kicking as possible, and was sensitive because of the protests from the
rush line that there was no kicking. We were all summoned one evening to
his room in Durfee; the situation explained, together with his
unwillingness to assume the responsibility of captain unless his ideas
were followed; his fear of defeat, if they were not followed, his
willingness to continue on the team as a halfback and to do his best and
his resignation as captain with the suggestion of my taking the
responsibility of the position. Things looked blue for Yale when Walter
walked out of the door, but after some ten minutes' discussion we
decided that the open game was the better, despite Camp's opinion to the
contrary, but that we could not play the open game without Camp as
captain. Some one was sent out to bring Walter back; matters were
smoothed out; we played the open game and never lost a touchdown during
the season. But during the four years I was on the Yale varsity we
never lost but one touchdown, from which a goal was kicked and there
were no goals kicked from the field. This goal was lost to Princeton,
and I think was in the fall of '78, the year that Princeton won the
championship. The two men that were more than anybody else responsible
for the record were Eugene Baker and Walter Camp, but behind it all was
the old Yale spirit, which seems to show itself better on the football
field than in any other branch of athletics."
Theodore M. McNair
On December 19th, 1915, there appeared in the newspapers a notice of the
death of an old Princeton athlete, in Japan--Theodore M. McNair--who,
while unknown to the younger football enthusiasts, was considered a
famous player in his day. To those who saw him play the news brought
back many thrills of his adventures upon the football field. The
following is what an old fellow player has to say about his team mate:
"Princeton has lost one of her most remarkable old time athletes in the
death of Theodore M. McNair of the class of 1879.
"McNair was a classmate of Woodrow Wilson. After his graduation he
became a Presbyterian missionary, a professor in a Tokio college and the
head of the Committee that introduced the Christian hymnal into Japan.
"To old Princeton graduates, however, McNair is known best as a great
football player who was halfback on the varsity three years and was
regarded as a phenomenal dodger, runner and kicker. In the three years
of his varsity experience McNair went down to defeat only once, the
first game in which he appeared as a regular player. The contest was
with Harvard and was played between seasons--April 28th, 1877--at
Cambridge. Harvard won the game by 2 touchdowns to 1 for the Tigers.
McNair made the touchdown for his team. This match is interesting in
that it marked the first appearance of the canvas jacket on the football
field. Smock, one of the Princeton halfbacks, designed such a jacket for
himself and thereafter for many seasons football players of the leading
Eastern colleges adopted the garment because it made tackling more
difficult under the conditions of those days. McNair was of large frame
and fleet of foot. He was especially clever in handling and passing the
ball, which in those days was more of an art than at present. It was not
unusual for the ball to be passed from player to player after a
scrimmage until a touchdown or a field goal was made.
"Walter Camp was one of McNair's Yale adversaries. They had many punting
duels in the big games at St. George's Cricket Grounds, Hoboken, but
Camp never had the satisfaction of sending McNair off the field with a
beaten team."
Alexander Moffat
Every football enthusiast who saw Alex Moffat play had the highest
respect for his ability in the game. Alex Moffat was typically
Princetonian. His interest in the game was great, and he was always
ready to give as much time as was needed to the coaching of the
Princeton teams. His hard, efficient work developed remarkable kickers.
He loved the game and was a cheerful, encouraging and sympathetic coach.
From a man of his day I have learned something about his playing, and
together we can read of this great all-round athlete.
Alex Moffat was so small when he was a boy that he was called
"Teeny-bits." He was still small in bone and bulk when he entered
Princeton. Alex had always been active in sport as a boy. Small as he
was, he played a good game of baseball and tennis and he distinguished
himself by his kicking in football before he was twelve years of age.
The game was then called Association Football, and kicking formed a
large part of it. At an early age, he became proficient in kicking with
right or left foot. When he was fifteen he created a sensation over at
the Old Seminary by kicking the black rubber Association football clear
over Brown Hall. That was kick enough for a boy of fifteen with an old
black, rubber football. If anybody doubts it, let him try to do the
trick.
[Illustration:
Wanamaker Belknap Finney Travers Harlan
Kennedy Lamar Bird Kimball De Camp
Baker Alex Moffat Harris
ALEX MOFFAT AND HIS TEAM]
The Varsity team of Princeton in the fall of '79 was captained by Bland
Ballard of the class of '80. He had a bunch of giants back of him. There
were fifteen on the team in those days, and among them were such men as
Devereaux, Brotherlin, Bryan, Irv. Withington, and the mighty McNair.
The scrub team player at that time was pretty nearly any chap that was
willing to take his life in his hands by going down to the field and
letting those ruthless giants step on his face and generally muss up his
physical architecture.
When Alex announced one day that he was going to take a chance on the
scrub team, his friends were inclined to say tenderly and regretfully,
"Good night, sweet prince." But Alex knew he was there with the kick,
whether it came on the left or right, and he made up his mind to have a
go with the canvas-backed Titans of the Varsity team. One fond friend
watching Alex go out on the field drew a sort of consolation from the
observation that "perhaps Alex was so small the Varsity men wouldn't
notice him." But Alex soon showed them that he was there. He got in a
punt that made Bland Ballard gasp. The big captain looked first at the
ball, way up in the air, then looked at Alex and he seemed to say as the
Scotsman said when he compared the small hen and the huge egg, "I hae me
doots. It canna be."
After that the Varsity men took notice of Alex. When the ball was
passed back to him next the regulars got through the scrub line so fast
that Alex had to try for a run. Bland Ballard caught him up in his arms,
and finding him so light and small, spared himself the trouble of
throwing him down. Ballard simply sank down on the ground with Alex in
his arms and began rolling over and over with him towards the scrub
goal. Alex cried "Down! Down!" in a shrill, treble voice that brought an
exclamation from the side line. "It's a shame to do it. Bland Ballard is
robbing the cradle."
Such was Alex Moffat in the fall of '79, still something of the
"Teeny-bits" that he was in early boyhood. In two years Alex's name was
on the lips of every gridiron man in the country, and in his senior
year, as captain, he performed an exploit in goal kicking that has never
been equalled.
In the game with Harvard in the fall of '83, he kicked five goals, four
being drop kicks and one from a touchdown. His drop kicks were all of
them long and two of them were made with the left foot. Alex grew in
stature and in stamina and when he was captain he was regarded as one of
the most brilliant fullbacks that the game had ever known. He never was
a heavy man, but he was swift and slippery in running, a deadly tackler,
and a kicker that had not his equal in his time.
Alex remained prominent in football activity until his death in 1914.
He served in many capacities, as member of committees, as coach, as
referee and as umpire. He was a man of happy and sunny nature who made
many friends. He loved life and made life joyous for those who were with
him. He was idolized at Princeton and his memory is treasured there now.
Wyllys Terry
One of the greatest halfbacks that ever played for Yale is Wyllys Terry,
and it is most interesting to hear this player of many years ago tell of
some of his experiences. Terry says:
"It has been asked of me who were the great players of my time. I can
only say, judging from their work, that they were all great, but if I
were compelled to particularize, I should mention the names of Tompkins,
Peters, Hull, Beck, Twombly, Richards; in fact, I would have to mention
each team year by year. To them I attribute the success of Yale's
football in my time, and for many years after that to the unfailing zeal
and devotion of Walter Camp.
"There were no trainers, coaches, or rubbers at that time. The period of
practice was almost continuous for forty-five minutes. It was the idea
in those days that by practice of this kind, staying power and ability
would be brought out. The principal points that were impressed upon the
players were for the rushers to tackle low and follow their man.
"This was to them practically a golden text. The fact that a man was
injured, unless it was a broken bone, or the customary badly sprained
ankle, did not relieve a man from playing every day.
"It was the spirit, though possibly a crude one, that only those men
were wanted on the team who could go through the battering of the game
from start to finish.
"The discipline of the team was rigorous; men were forced to do as they
were told. If a man did not think he was in any condition to play he
reported to the captain. These reports were very infrequent though, for
I know in my own case, the first time I reported, I was so lame I could
hardly put one foot before the other, but was told to take a football
and run around the track, which was a half mile long and encircled the
football field. On my return I was told to get back in my position and
play. As a result, there were very few players who reported injuries to
the captain.
"This, when you figure the manner in which teams are coached to-day, may
appear brutal and a waste of good material, but as a matter of fact, it
was not. It made the teams what they were in those days--strong, hard
and fast.
"As to actual results under this policy, I can only say that, during my
period in college, we never lost a game.
"Training to-day is quite different. I think more men are injured
nowadays than in my time under our severe training. I think further that
this softer training is carried to an extreme, and that the football
player of to-day has too much attention paid to his injury, and what he
has to say, and the trainer, doctors and attendants are mostly
responsible for having the players incapacitated by their attention.
"The spirit of Yale in my day, a spirit which was inculcated in our
minds in playing games, was never to let a member of the opposing team
think he could beat you. If you experienced a shock or were injured and
it was still possible to get back to your position either in the line or
backfield--get there at once. If you felt that your injury was so severe
that you could not get back, report to your captain immediately and
abide by his decision, which was either to leave the field or go to your
position.
"It may be said by some of the players to-day that the punts in those
days were more easily caught than those of to-day. There is nothing to a
remark like that. The spiral kick was developed in the fall of '82, and
I know that both Richards and myself knew the fellow who developed it.
From my experience in the Princeton game I can testify that Alex Moffat
was a past master at it.
"One rather amusing thing I remember hearing years ago while standing
with an old football player watching a Princeton game. The ball was
thrown forward by the quarterback, which was a foul. The halfback, who
was playing well out, dashed in and caught the ball on the run, evaded
the opposing end, pushed the half back aside and ran half the length of
the field, scoring a touchdown. The applause was tremendous. But the
Umpire, who had seen the foul, called the ball back. A fair spectator
who was standing in front of me, asked my friend why the ball was called
back. My friend remarked: 'The Princeton player has just received an
encore, that's all.'
"While the game was hard and rough in the early days, yet I consider
that the discipline and the training which the men went through were of
great assistance to them, physically, morally and intellectually, in
after years. Some of the pleasantest friendships that I hold to-day were
made in connection with my football days, among the graduates of my own
and other colleges.
"When fond parents ask the advisability of letting their sons play
football, I always tell them of an incident at the Penn-Harvard game at
Philadelphia, one year, which I witnessed from the top of a coach. A
young girl was asked the question:
"'If you were a mother and had a son, would you allow him to play
football?'
"The young lady thought for a moment and then answered in this spirited,
if somewhat devious, fashion:
"'If I were a son and had a mother, _you bet I'd play!_'"
Memories of John C. Bell
In my association with football, among the many friendships I formed, I
prize none more highly than that of John C. Bell, whose activity in
Pennsylvania football has been kept alive long since his playing day.
Let us go back and talk the game over with him.
"I played football in my prep. school days," he says, "and on the
'Varsity teams of the University of Pennsylvania in the years
'82-'83-'84. After graduation, following a sort of nominating mass
meeting of the students, I was elected to the football committee of the
University, about 1886, and served as chairman of that committee until
1901; retiring that season when George Woodruff, after a term of ten
years, terminated his relationship as coach of our team.
"I also served, as you know, as a representative of the University on
the Football Rules Committee from about 1886 until the time I was
appointed Attorney General in 1911.
"More pleasant associations and relationships I have never had than
those with my fellow-members of that Committee in the late '80's and the
'90's, including Camp of Yale; Billy Brooks, Bert Waters, Bob Wrenn and
Percy Haughton of Harvard; Paul Dashiell of Annapolis; Tracy Harris,
Alex Moffat and John Fine of Princeton; and Professor Dennis of
Cornell. Later the Committee, as you know, was enlarged by the admission
of representatives from the West; and among them were Alonzo Stagg, of
Chicago University, and Harry Williams of Minnesota. Finer fellows I
have never known; they were one and all Nature's noblemen.
"Some of them, alas! like Alex Moffat, have gone to the Great Beyond.
Representing rival universities, between whose student bodies and some
of whose alumni, partisan feeling ran high in the '90's, nothing,
however, save good fellowship and good cheer ever existed between Alex
and me.
"I am genuinely glad that I played the game with my team-mates;
witnessed for many years nearly all the big games of the eastern
colleges; mingled season after season with the players and the
enthusiastic alumni of the competing universities in attendance at the
annual matches; sat and deliberated each recurring year, as I have said,
with those fine fellows who made and amended the rules, and in this way
helped to develop the game, the manliest of all our sports; and that I
have thus breathed, recreated and been invigorated in a football
atmosphere every autumn for more than a third of a century. Growing
older every year, one still remains young--as young in heart and spirit
as when he donned the moleskins, and caught and kicked and carried the
ball himself. And all these football experiences make one a happier,
stronger and more loyal man.
"I remember in my prep. school days playing upon a team made up largely
of high school boys. One game stands out in my recollection. It was
against the Freshmen team of the University of Pennsylvania, captained
by Johnny Thayer who went down with the _Titanic_.
"Arriving after the game had started, I came out to the side-lines and
called to the captain asking whether I was to play. He glowered at me
and made no answer. A few minutes later our 'second captain' called to
me to come into the game, saying that Smith was only to play until I
arrived. Quick as a flash I stepped into the field of play, and almost
instantly Thayer kicked the ball over the rush line and it came bounding
down right into my arm. Off I went like a flash through the line, past
the backs and fullbacks, only to be over-taken within a few yards of the
goal. The teams lined up, and thereupon Thayer, with his eagle eye
looking us over, called out to our captain 'how many fellows are you
playing anyway?' Instantly our captain ordered Smith off the field
saying 'you were only to play until Bell came,' and poor Smith left
without any audible murmur. This is what might be called one of the
accidents of the game.
"Perhaps the most memorable game in which I played was against Harvard
in 1884 when Pennsylvania won upon Forbes Field by the score of 4 to 0.
It was our first victory over the Crimson, not to be repeated again
until the memorable game of 1894, which triumph was again repeated,
after still another decade, in our great victory of 1904. This last
victory came after five years of continuing defeats, and I remember that
we were all jubilant when we heard the news from Cambridge. I recall
that Dr. J. William White, C. S. Packard and I were playing golf at the
Country Club and when some one brought out the score to us we dropped
our clubs, clasped hands and executed an Indian dance, shouting "Rah!
rah! rah! Pennsylvania!" Why, old staid philosopher, should the leading
surgeon of the city, the president of its oldest and largest trust
company, and the district attorney of Philadelphia, thus jump for joy
and become boys once more?
"Recurring to the game of 1884 I can hear the cheers of the University
still ringing in my ears when we returned from Harvard. A few weeks
later our team went up to Princeton to see the Harvard-Princeton match
and I recall, as though it were yesterday, Alex Moffat kicking five
goals against Appleton's team, three of them with the right and two with
the left foot. No other player I ever knew or heard of was so
ambipedextrous (if I may use the word) as Alex Moffat. I remember
walking in from the field with Harvard's captain, and he said to me
'Moffat is a phenomenon.' Truly he was."
CHAPTER VII
HEROES OF THE PAST--GEORGE WOODRUFF'S STORY
Enthusiastic George Woodruff tells of his football experiences in the
following words:
"I went to Yale a green farmer boy who had never heard of the college
game of football until I arrived at New Haven to take my examinations in
the fall of '85. Incidentally I made the team permanently the second day
I was on the field, having scored against the varsity from the middle of
the field in three successive runs; whereas the varsity was not able to
score against the scrub. I was used perhaps more times than any other
man in running with the ball up to a very severe injury to my knee in
the fall of '87, just a week and a day before the Princeton game, from
which time, until I left college (although I played in all of the
championship games) I was not able to run with the ball, actually being
on the field only two days after my injury in '87 until the end of the
'88 season, outside of the days on which I played the games. I tried not
to play in the fall of '88 because of the condition of my knee and
because I was Captain of the Crew, but Pa Corbin insisted that I must
play in the championship games or he would not row: and of course I
acceded to his wishes thereby secretly gratifying my own.
"And now about the men with whom I played: Kid Wallace played end the
entire four years. Wallace was a great amusement and comfort to his
fellow-players on account of his general desire to put on the appearance
of a 'tough' of the worst description; whereas he was at heart a very
fine and gallant gentleman.
"Pudge Heffelfinger played the other guard from me in my last year and
when he first appeared on the Yale field he was a ridiculous example of
a raw-boned Westerner, being 6 feet 4 inches tall and weighing only
about 178 pounds. During the season, however, the exercise and good food
at the training table caused Heffelfinger to gain 25 pounds of solid
bone, sinew and muscle. The green days of his first year in 1888 were
remembered against him in an affectionate way by the use of Yale for
several years of 'Pa' Corbin's oft reiterated expression brought forth
by Pudge's greenness, which would cause 'Pa' to exclaim: 'Darn you,
Heffelfinger!' with great emphasis on the 'Darn.'
"Billy Graves played on the team during most of these years, he being
the most graceful football runner I have ever seen, unless it were
Stevenson of Pennsylvania.
"Lee McClung was a harder worker in his running than most of the men
named above, but tremendously effective. He is accredited with being the
first man who intentionally started as though to make an end run and
then turned diagonally back through the line, in order to open up the
field through which he then ran with incredible speed and determination.
This was one of the first premeditated plays of a trick nature which
ultimately led to my invention of the delayed pass which works upon the
same principle only with incalculably greater ease and effect.
"The game with Princeton in the Fall of 1885 clings to my memory beyond
any other game I ever played in, because it was the first real
championship game of my career, and I had not as yet fully developed
into an actual player. The loss of this game to Princeton in the last
six minutes of playing because of the Lamar run--Yale had Princeton 5 to
0--has been a nightmare to most of the Yale players ever since. I
attribute the fact that Yale only had five points to two hard-luck
facts.
"Through my own intensity at the beginning of the game I over-ran Harry
Beecher on my first signal, causing the signal giver to think that I was
rattled so that, although I afterward ran with the ball some 25 or 30
times with consistent gains of from 2 to 5 yards under the almost
impossible conditions known as the 'punt rush,' the signal for my
regular play was not given again in spite of the fact that my ground
gaining had been one of the steadiest features of the Yale play
throughout the year, and because Watkinson was allowed to try five times
in succession for goals from the field, close up, only one of which he
made; whereas Billy Bull could probably have made at least three out of
the five; but of course Bull's ability was not so well-known then. The
direct cause of the Lamar run was due to the fact that all the fast
runners and good tacklers of the Yale line were down the field under a
kick, so close to Toler, the other halfback from Lamar, that when Toler
muffed the ball so egregiously that it bounded over our heads some 15
yards, Lamar who had not come across the field to back Toler up, had
been able to get the ball on the bound and on the dead run, thus having
in front of him all the Princeton team except Toler; whereas the Yale
team was depleted by the fact that Wallace, Corwin, Gill (who had come
on as a substitute) myself and even Harry Beecher from quarterback, had
run down the field to within a few yards of Toler before he muffed the
ball. We all turned and watched Lamar run, being so petrified that not
one of us took a step, and, although the scene is photographed on my
memory, I cannot see one of all the Yale players making a tackle at
Lamar. Hodge, the Princeton quarterback, kicked the goal, thus making
the score 6 to 5 and winning the game. The outburst from the Princeton
contingent at the end of the game was one of the most heartfelt and
spontaneous I have ever heard or seen. I understand that practically all
of Lamar's uniform was torn into pieces and handed out to the various
Princeton girls and their escorts who had come to New Haven to see the
game.
"The Yale-Princeton game in the fall of 1886 was a remarkable as well as
a disagreeable one. We played at Princeton when the field at that time
combined the elements of stickiness and slipperiness to an unbelievable
extent. It rained heavily throughout the game and the proverbial 'hog on
ice' could not have slipped and slathered around worse than all the
players on both sides. There was a long controversy about who should act
as referee (in those days we had only one official) and after a delay of
about an hour from the time the game should have begun, Harris, a
Princeton man, was allowed to do the officiating. Bob Corwin, who was
end-rush, only second to Wallace in his ability, was captain of the
team.
"Yale made one touchdown which seemed to be perfectly fair but which was
disallowed; and later, in the second half, Watkinson for Yale kicked the
ball so that it rolled across the goal line, whereupon a crowd, which
was standing around the ropes (in those days there was practically no
grandstand) crowded onto the field where Savage, the Princeton fullback
had fallen on the ball. The general report is that Kid Wallace held
Savage while Corwin pulled the slippery ball away from him, and that
when Harris, the referee, was able to dig his way through the crowd he
found Corwin on the ball, and in view of the great fuss that had been
made about his previous decision, was not able to credit Savage's
statement that he (Savage) had said 'down' long before the Yale ends had
been able to pull the ball away from him. The result was that the
touchdown was allowed. Thereupon the crowd all came onto the field and
we were not able to clear it for some 10 or 15 minutes, so that there
was not time enough to finish the full 45 minutes of the second-half of
the game before dark. This led to some bitter discussion between Yale
and Princeton as to whether the game had been played. This discussion
was settled by the intercollegiate committee in declaring that Yale had
won the game, 4 to 0, but that no championship should be awarded. It is
interesting to note, however, that all the gold footballs worn by the
Yale players of this game are marked 'Champions, 1886.'
"A word about the Princeton men who were playing during my four years at
college.
"Irvine was a fine steady player and his success at Mercersburg is in
keeping with the promise shown in his football days.
"Hector Cowan played against me three years at guard and he fully
deserved the great reputation he had at that time in every particular
of the game, including running with the ball.
"George was one of the very best center rushes I have ever seen and
probably would have made a great player elsewhere along the line if he
had been relieved from the obscuring effect of playing center at the
time a center had no particular opportunity to show his ability.
"Snake Ames for some reason was never able to do anything against the
Yale team during the time I was playing, but his work in some later
games that I saw and in which I officiated, convinced me that he was
worthy of his nickname, because there are only a few men who are able to
wind their way through an entire field of opponents with as much
celerity and effect as Ames would display time after time.
"In the fall of '86 Yale beat Harvard 29 to 4, with great ease, and if
it had not been for injuries to Yale players, could probably have made
it 50 or 60 to 0. Most of the Yale players came out of the game with
very disgraceful marks of the roughness of the Harvard men. I had a
badly broken nose from an intentional blow. George Carter had a cut
requiring eight stitches above his eye. The tackle next to me had a face
which was pounded black and blue all over. To the credit of the Harvard
men I will say that they came to the box at the theater that night
occupied by the Yale team and apologized for what they had done, stating
that they had been coached to play in that way and that they would
never again allow anybody to coach who would try to have the Harvard
players use intentionally unfair roughness.
"When I entered Pennsylvania I found a more or less happy-go-lucky
brilliant man, Arthur Knipe, who was not considered fully worthy of
being on even the Pennsylvania teams of those days, namely: teams that
were being beaten 60 or 70 to 0 by Yale, Harvard and Princeton. I
succeeded in arousing the interest of Knipe, and although in my mind he
never, during his active membership of the Pennsylvania team, came up to
75 per cent. of his true playing value, he was, even so, undoubtedly the
peer of any man that ever played football. Knipe was brilliant but
careless, and was at once the joy and despair of any coach who took an
interest in his men. He captained the 1894 Pennsylvania team with which
I sprung the 'guards back' and 'short end defense.'
"Jack Minds I remember seeing, in 1893, standing around on the field as
a member of the second or third scrub teams. I suppose he would not have
been invited to preliminary training except for his own courage and
pertinacity which caused him to demand to be taken. With no thought that
he could possibly make the team I gradually found myself using him in
1894, until he was a fixture at tackle, although he dodged the scales
throughout the entire fall in order that I might not know that he
only weighed 162 pounds.
[Illustration:
Wharton Bull Woodruff
Rosengarten Osgood Brooke Knipe Gelbert
Minds Williams Wagonhurst
OLD PENN HEROES]
"I will not enlarge upon the ability of men like George Brooke, Wylie
Woodruff, Buck Wharton, Joe McCracken, John Outland and others, but
anybody speaking of Pennsylvania players during the late '90's cannot
pass by Truxton Hare, who stands forth as a Chevalier Bayard among the
ranks of college football players. Hare entered Pennsylvania in '97 from
St. Paul without any thought that he was likely to be even a mediocre
player. He weighed only about 178 pounds at the time and was immature.
Although his wonderfully symmetrical build, in which he looked like a
magnified Billy Graves, kept him from looking as large as Heffelfinger
at his greatest development at Yale, Hare was certainly ten pounds
heavier in fine condition than Heffelfinger was before the latter left
Yale."
CHAPTER VIII
ANECDOTES AND RECOLLECTIONS
In the latter eighties the signal from the quarterback to the center for
putting the ball in play was a pressure of the fingers and thumb on the
hips of the center. In the '89 championship game between Yale and
Princeton, Yale had been steadily advancing the ball and it looked as if
they had started out for a march up the field for a touchdown. In those
days signals were not rattled off with the speed that they are given
now, and the quarterback often took some time to consider his next play,
during which time he might stand in any position back of the line.
Playing right guard on the Princeton team was J. R. Thomas, more
familiarly known as Long Tommy. He was six feet six or seven inches tall
and built more longitudinally than otherwise. It occurred to Janeway,
who was playing left guard, that Long Tommy's great length and reach
might be used to great advantage when occasion offered.
He, therefore, took occasion to say to Thomas during a lull in the game,
"If you get a chance, reach over when Wurtenburg--the Yale
quarter--isn't looking, and pinch the Yale center so that he will put
the ball in play when the backs are not expecting it." The Yale center,
by the way, was Bert Hanson. Yale continued to advance the ball on two
or three successive plays and finally had a third down with two yards to
gain. At this critical moment the looked-for opportunity arrived.
Wurtenburg called a consultation of the other backs to decide on the
next play. While the consultation was going on Long Tommy reached over
and gently nipped Hanson where he was expecting the signal. Hanson
immediately put the ball in play and as a result Janeway broke through
and fell on the ball for a ten yards gain and first down for Princeton.
To say that the Yale team were frantic with surprise and rage would be
putting it mildly. Poor Hanson came in for some pretty rough flagging.
He swore by all that was good and holy that he had received the signal
to put the ball in play, which was true. But Wurtenburg insisted that he
had not given the signal. There was no time for wrangling at that moment
as the referee ordered the game to proceed.
Yale did not learn how that ball came to be put in play until some time
after the game, which was the last of the season, when Long Tommy
happening to meet up with Hanson and several other Yale players in a New
York restaurant, told with great glee how he gave the signal that
stopped Yale's triumphant advance.
* * * * *
Numerals and combinations of numbers were not used as signals until
1889. Prior to that, phrases, catch-words and gestures were the only
modes of indicating the plays to be used. For instance, the signal for
Hector Cowan of Princeton to run with the ball was an entreaty by the
captain, who in those days usually gave the signals, addressed to the
team, to gain an uneven number of yards. Therefore the expression,
"Let's gain three, five or seven yards," would indicate to the team that
Cowan was to take the ball, and an effort was made to open up the line
for him at the point at which he usually bucked it.
Irvine, the other tackle, ran with the ball when an even number of yards
was called for.
For a kick the signal was any phrase which asked a question, as for
instance, "How many yards to gain?"
One of the signals used by Corbin, captain of Yale, to indicate a
certain play, was the removal of his cap. They wore caps in those days.
A variation of this play was indicated if in addition to removing his
cap he expectorated emphatically.
Hodge, the Princeton quarterback, noticing the cap signals, determined
that he would handicap the captain's strategy by stealing his cap. He
called the team back and very earnestly impressed upon them the
advantage that would accrue if any of them could surreptitiously get
possession of Captain Corbin's head-covering. Corbin, however, kept such
good watch on his property that no one was able to purloin it.
Sport Donnelly, who played left end on Princeton's '89 team, was perhaps
one of the roughest players that ever went into a game, and at the same
time one of the best ends that ever went down the field under a kick.
Donnelly was one of the few men that could play his game up to the top
notch and at the same time keep his opponent harassed to the point of
frenzy by a continual line of conversation in a sarcastic vein which
invariably got the opposing player rattled.
He would say or do something to the man opposite him which would goad
that individual to fury and then when retaliation was about to come in
the shape of a blow, he would yell "Mr. Umpire," and in many instances
the player would be ruled off the field.
Donnelly's line of conversation in a Yale game, addressed to Billy
Rhodes who played opposite him, would be somewhat as follows:
"Ah, Mr. Rhodes, I see Mr. Gill is about to run with the ball."
Just then Gill would come tearing around from his position at tackle and
Donnelly would remark:
"Well, excuse me, Mr. Rhodes, for a moment, I've got to tackle Mr.
Gill."
He would then sidestep in such a manner as to elude Rhodes's
manoeuvres to prevent him breaking through, and stop Gill for a loss.
Hector Cowan, who was captain of the Princeton '88 team was another
rough player. In those days the men in the heat of playing would indulge
in exclamations hardly fit for a drawing room. In fact most of the time
the words used would have been more in place among a lot of pirates.
Cowan was no exception to the rule so far as giving vent to his feelings
was concerned, but he invariably used one phrase to do so. He was a
fellow of sterling character and was studying for the ministry. Not even
the excitement of the moment could make him forget himself to the extent
of the other players, and where their language would have to be
represented in print by a lot of dashes, Cowan's could be printed in the
blackest face type without offending anyone.
It was amusing to see this big fellow, worked up to the point of
explosion, wave his arms and exclaim:
"Oh, sugar!"
It would bring a roar of mock protest from the other players, and
threats to report him for his rough talk. While the men made joke of
Hector's talk they had a thorough respect for his sterling principles.
VICTORIOUS DAYS AT YALE
During the early days of football Yale's record was an enviable one. The
schedules included, Yale, Harvard, Princeton, University of
Pennsylvania, Rutgers, Columbia, Stevens Institute of Technology,
Dartmouth, Amherst, and University of Michigan.
It is interesting to note that since the formation of the Football
Association, in 1879 to 1889, Yale had been awarded the championship
flag five times, Princeton one, Harvard none. Yale had won 95 out of 98
games, having lost three to Princeton, one to Harvard and one to
Columbia. Since 1878 Yale had lost but one game and that by one point.
This was the Tilly Lamar game, which Princeton won. In points Yale had
scored, since points began to be counted, 3001 to her opponents' 56; in
goals 530 to 19 and in touchdowns 219 to 9, which is truly a unique
record.
It was during this period that Pa Corbin, a country boy, entered Yale
and in his senior year became captain of the famous '88 team. This
brilliant eleven had a wonderfully successful season and Yale men now
began to take stock and really appreciate the remarkable record that was
hers upon the field of football.
In commemoration of these victories, Yale men gathered from far and
near, crowding Delmonico's banquet hall to the limit to pay tribute to
Yale athletic successes.
"And it came to pass, when the people heard the sound of the trumpet,
and the people shouted with a great shout ... they took the city."
In a room beautifully decorated with Yale banners and trophies four
hundred Elis sat down to enjoy the Bulldog Feast, and there honored and
cheered to the echo the great football traditions of Yale and the men
who made her famous by so vast a margin.
Chauncey M. Depew in his address that evening stated that for the only
time in one hundred and eighty-eight years the alumni of Yale met solely
to celebrate her athletic triumphs.
Pa Corbin, captain of the victorious '88 football team, responded, as
follows:
"Again we have met the enemy and he is ours. In fact we have been
successful so many times there is something of a sameness about it. It
is a good deal like what the old man said about leading a good life. It
is monotonous, but satisfactory. There are perhaps a few special reasons
why we won the championship this year, but the general principles are
the same, which have always made us win. First, by following out certain
traditions, which are handed down to us year by year from former team
captains and coaches; the necessity of advancing each year beyond the
point attained the year before; the mastering of the play of our
opponents and planning our game to meet it. Second, by the hard,
conscientious work, such as only a Yale team knows how to do. Third,
by going on to the field with that high courage and determination which
has always been characteristic of the Yale eleven, something like the
spirit of the ancient Greeks who went into battle with the decision to
return with their shields or on them. Sometimes they have been animated
with the spirit which knows no defeat, like the little drummer boy, who
was ordered by Napoleon in a crisis in the battle to beat a retreat. The
boy did not move. 'Boy, beat a retreat.' He did not stir, but at a third
command, he straightened up and said: 'Sire, I know not how, but I can
beat a charge that will wake the dead.' He did so and the troops moved
forward and were victorious. It is this same spirit which in many cases
has seemed to animate our men.
[Illustration:
Rhodes Woodruff Heffelfinger Gill Wallace
Stagg McClung Captain Corbin Bull
Wurtenberg Graves
PA CORBIN'S TEAM]
"But our victory is due in a great measure this year to a man who knows
more about football than any man in this country, who gave much of his
valuable time in continually advising and in actual coaching on the
field. I refer to Walter Camp, and as long as his spirit hovers over the
Yale campus and our traditions for football playing are religiously
followed out there is no reason why Yale should not remain, as she
always has been, at the head of American football."
Those were Corbin's recollections the year of that great victory. Time
has not dimmed them, nor has his memory faded. Rather the opposite.
From what follows you will note that a woman now enters the camp of the
Eli coaching staff, mention of whom was not made in Corbin's speech of
'88.
Pa Corbin prides himself in the fact that twenty-five years afterward he
brought his old team mates together and gave them a dinner. The menu
card tells of the traditional coaching system of Corbin's great team of
'88 and beneath the picture of Mr. and Mrs. Walter Camp appears in
headlines:
"HEAD COACHES OF THE YALE FOOTBALL TEAM OF 1888"
"The head-coaches of the Yale team," says Corbin, "were really Mr. and
Mrs. Walter Camp. They had been married in the summer of 1888 and were
staying with relatives in New Haven. Mr. Camp had just begun his
connection with a New Haven concern which occupied most of his time.
Mrs. Camp was present at Yale Field every day at the football practice
and made careful note of the plays, the players and anything that should
be observed in connection with the style of play and the individual
weakness or strength. She gave her observations in detail to her husband
at supper every night and when I arrived Mr. Camp would be thoroughly
familiar with that day's practice and would be ready for suggestions as
to plays and players to be put in operation the next day.
"This method was pursued during the entire season and was practically
the only systematic coaching that the team received. Of course there
were several old players like Tompkins '84, Terry '85 and Knapp '82, who
came to the field frequently.
"At that time it was customary for me to snap the ball back to the
quarter with my foot. By standing the ball on end and exercising a
certain pressure on the same it was possible to have it bound into the
quarterback's hands. It was necessary, therefore, for me to attend to
this detail as well as to block my opponent and make holes through the
line for the backs.
"While the rules of the game at that time provided for an Umpire as well
as a Referee, the fact that there was no neutral zone and players were
in close contact with each other on the line of scrimmage gave
opportunity for more roughness than is customary at the present time.
Neither were the officials so strict about their rulings.
"Prior to this time it had been customary to give word signals for the
different plays, these being certain words which were used in various
sentences relating to football and the progress of the game. As center,
I was so tall that a system of sign signals was devised which I used
entirely in the Princeton game, and the opponents, from the talk, which
continued as usual, supposed that word signals were being used and were
entirely ignorant of the sign signals during the progress of the game.
The pulling of the visor of my cap was a kick signal. Everything that I
did with my left hand in touching different parts of my uniform on the
left side from collar to shoe lace meant a signal for a play at
different points on the left side of the line. Similar signals with my
right hand meant similar plays on the right side of the line. The system
worked perfectly and there was no case of missed signal. The next year
the use of numbers for signals began, and has continued until the
present date.
"The work of the Yale team during the season was very much retarded by
injuries to their best players. The papers were so filled with these
accounts that the general opinion of the public was that the team would
be in poor physical condition to meet Princeton. As luck would have it,
however, the invalids reached a convalescing stage in time to enter the
Wesleyan game on the Saturday before the one to be played with Princeton
in fairly good condition.
"Head Coach Camp and I attended the Princeton-Harvard game at Princeton
on that day. Upon our return to New York we received a telegram from
Mrs. Camp to the effect that the score made by Yale against Wesleyan was
105 to nothing. One of the graduate coaches was much impressed with the
opportunity to turn a few pennies and he requested that the information
be kept quiet until he could see a few Princeton men. The result was
that he negotiated the small end of several stakes at long odds against
Yale. When the news of the Wesleyan score was made public the next
morning, the opinion of the public changed somewhat as to the merit of
the team. It nevertheless went into the Princeton game as not being the
favorite and in the opinion of disinterested persons it was expected
that Princeton would win handsomely."
Cowan the great has this to say:
"I happened to be down on the grounds to watch the practice just a few
days before the Yale game. They did not have enough scrub to make a good
defense. Jim Robinson happened to see me there and asked me to play. He
had asked me before, and I had always refused, but this time for some
reason I accepted and he took me to the Club house.
"I got into my clothes. The shoes were about three sizes too small. That
day I played guard opposite Tracy Harris. I played well enough so that
they wanted me to come down the next day, as they said they wanted good
practice. The next day I was put against Captain Bird, who had been out
of town the first day I played. He had the reputation of being not at
all delicate in the way he handled the scrub men who played against him,
so that they had learned to keep away from him.
"As I had not played before, I did not know enough to be afraid of him,
so when the ball was put in play I simply charged forward at the
quarterback and was able to spoil a good many of his plays. I heard
afterward that Bird asked Jim Robinson who that damn freshman was that
played against him. The next year I was put in Bird's place at left
guard, as he had graduated and fought all comers for the place. I was
never put on the scrub again.
"My condition when in Princeton was the best. Having been raised in the
country, I knew what hard work was and in the five years that I played
football I never left the field on account of injury either in practice
or in games with other teams.
"It is a great thing to play the game of football as hard as you can. I
never deliberately went to do a man up. If he played a rough game, I
simply played him the harder. I never struck a man with my fist in the
game. I do not remember ever losing my temper. Perhaps I did not have
temper enough.
"When we speak of a football man's nerve I would say that any man who
stopped to think of himself is not worthy of the game, but there is one
man who seemed to me had a little more nerve than the average. I think
that he played for two years on our scrub, and the reason that he was
kept there so long was on account of his size. He only weighed about 138
pounds, but for all the time he played on the scrub he played halfback
and no one ever saw him hesitate to make every inch that he could, even
though he knew he had to suffer for it.
"In the fall of '88, I think, Yup Cook played right tackle on the
Varsity. He was very strong in his shoulders and arms and had the grip
of a blacksmith. Channing, this nervy little 138-pounder, played left
halfback on the scrub. When he went into the line, Cook would take him
by the shoulders and slam him into the ground. Our playing field at the
time was very dry and the ground was like a rock. I used to feel very
sorry for the little fellow. On his elbows and hips and knees he had raw
sores as big as silver dollars; yet he never hesitated to make the
attempt, and he never called 'down' to save himself from punishment. The
next year he made the team. Everybody admired him.
"Football men must never forget Tilly Lamar, who played halfback. I
think he was one of the greatest halfbacks and one who would have made a
record in any age of football. I have seen him go through a line with
nearly every man on the opposing team holding him. He would break loose
from one after the other.
"Lamar was a short, chunky fellow and ran close to the ground with his
back level, and about the only place one could get hold of him was his
shoulders. He would always turn toward the tackler instead of away, and
it had the effect of throwing him over his head. The only way that the
Yale men could stop him at all was to dive clear under and get him by
the legs.
"You have always heard a lot about Snake Ames. Snake was a very
spectacular player, but one very hard to stop, especially in an open
field. He was very fast and during the last year of his playing he
developed a duck and would go clear under the man trying to tackle him.
This he did by putting one hand flat on the ground, so that his body
would just miss the ground; even the good tacklers that Yale always had
were not able to stop him.
"One of Princeton's old reliables was our center, George, '89. He may
not have got much out of the plaudits from the grandstand, but those of
us who knew what he was doing appreciated his work. We always felt safe
as to our center. He was steady and brilliant.
"It was during this time that Yale developed a wedge play on center.
There were no restrictions as to how the line would be formed, and Yale
would put all their guards and tackles and ends back, forming a big V
with the man with the ball in the center.
"Yale had been able to knock the opposing center out of the way till
they struck George. How well I remember this giant, who was able to hold
the whole wedge until he could knock the sides in and pile them up in a
bunch. Yale soon gave him up and tried to gain elsewhere.
"I must tell you about one more of Princeton's football players. Not so
much for his playing, but for his head work. During the years that I was
captain, in the fall of '88 the rules were changed so that one was
allowed to block an opponent only by the body. In other words, not
allowed to use hands or arms in blocking. It was Sam Hodge, who played
end and worked out what is known to-day as boxing the tackle. You can
understand what effect it would have on a man who was not used to it.
The end would knock the opposing tackle and send him clear out of the
play and the half would keep the end out."
I once asked Cowan to tell something about his experiences and men he
played against.
"The Yale game was the great game in my days," he said. "Harvard did not
have the football instinct as well developed as Yale, and it is of the
Yale players that I have more in mind. One man I will always remember is
Gill, who played left tackle for Yale and was captain during his senior
year. I remember him because we had a good deal to do with each other.
When I ran with the ball I had to get around him if I made any advance,
and I must say that I found it no easy thing to do, as he was a sure
tackler. And when he ran with the ball I had the good pleasure of
cutting his runs short.
"Another man whom I consider one of the greatest punters of the past is
Bull of Yale. I have stopped a good many punts and drop kicks in my
play, but I do not remember stopping a single kick of his, and it was
not because I did not try. He kicked with his left foot, and with his
back partially towards the line would kick a very high ball, and when
you jumped into him--on the principle, that if you cannot get the ball,
get the man--you had the sensation of striking something hard."
After Cowan had stopped playing and graduated he acted as an official in
a good many of the big games. He states as follows:
"You ask about my own experiences as an official, and for experience
with other officials. I always got along pretty well as a referee. There
was very little kicking on my decisions. But I was good for nothing as
an umpire. I could not keep my eyes off the ball, so did not see the
fouls as much as I should. You boys have probably heard how I was ruled
off the field in a Harvard-Princeton game in '88. I remember Terry of
Yale who refereed that game, above all others. There was a rule at that
time that intentional tackling below the knees was a foul and the
penalty was disqualification. Our game had just started. We had only two
or three plays, Harvard having the ball. I broke through the line and
tackled the man as soon as he had the ball. I had him around the legs
about the knees, but in his efforts to get away, my hands slipped down.
But at the moment remembering the rule I let him go, and for this I was
disqualified. I might say that we lost the game, for we did not have any
one to take my place. I had always been in my place and no one ever
thought that I would not be there. My being disqualified was probably
the reason for the Princeton defeat.
"I do not think that Terry intended to be unfair. The game had just
started, and he was trying to be strict, and without stopping to think
whether it was intentional or not. He saw the rule being broken and
acted on the impulse of the moment. I have since heard that Terry felt
very bad about it afterwards. I never felt right towards him until I had
a chance to get even with him, and it came in this way. The Crescent
Club of Brooklyn played the Cleveland Athletic Club at Cleveland. George
and myself were invited to play with the Cleveland club, and on the
Crescent team were Alex Moffat and Terry. Terry played left halfback,
and right here was where I got in my work. When Terry ran with the ball
I generally had a chance to help him meet the earth. I had one chance in
particular. Terry got the ball and got around our end, and on a long end
run I took after him, caught him from the side, threw him over my head
out of bounds. As we were both running at the top of our speed he hit
the ground with considerable force. I felt better towards him after this
game."
In such vivid phrases as these a great hero of the past tells of things
well worth recording.
* * * * *
Football competition is very strong. There is the keenest sort of
rivalry among college teams. There is very little love on the part of
the men who play against each other on the day of the contest, but after
the game is all over, and these men meet in after years, very strong
friendships are often formed. Sometimes these opponents never meet
again, but down deep in their hearts they have a most wholesome regard
for each other, and so in my recollections of the old heroes, it will be
most interesting to hear in their own words, something about their own
achievements and experiences in the games they played thirty years ago.
Hector Cowan, who captained the '88 team at Princeton, played three
years against George Woodruff of Yale. It has been twenty-eight years
since that wonderful battle took place between these two men. It is
still talked about by people who saw the game, and now let us read what
these two contestants say about each other.
"Of the three years that I played guard I met George Woodruff as my
opponent," says Cowan, "and I always felt that he was the strongest man
I had to meet and one who was always on the square. He played the game
for what it was worth, and he showed later that he could teach it to
others by the way he taught the Penn' team."
Says George Woodruff, delving into the old days: "Hector Cowan played
against me three years at guard, and he fully deserves the reputation he
had at that time in every particular of the game, including running with
the ball. I doubt whether any other Princeton man was ever more able to
make ground whenever he tried, although Cowan was not in any particular
a showy player. For some reason or other, Cowan seems to have had a
reputation for rough play, which shows how untrue traditions can be
handed down. I never played against or with a finer and steadier player,
or one more free from the remotest desire to play roughly for the sake
of roughness itself."
When Heffelfinger's last game had been played there appeared in a
newspaper of November 26th, 1888, a farewell to Heffelfinger.
Good-by Heff! the boys will miss you,
And the old men, too, and the girls;
You tossed the other side about as if they were ten-pins;
You took Little Bliss under your wing and he ran with
the ball like a pilot boat by the _Teutonic_.
You used eyes, ears, shoulders, legs, arms and head
and took it all in.
You're the best football rusher America, or the world,
has shown;
And best of all you never slugged, lost your temper or
did anything mean;
Oh come thou mighty one, go not away,
The team thou must not fail:
Stay where thou art, please, Heffelfinger, stay,
And still be true to Yale--
Linger, yet linger, Heffelfinger, a truly civil engineer.
His trust would ne'er surrender; unstrap thy trunks,
Excuse this scalding tear.
Still be Yale's best defender! Linger, oh, linger,
Heffelfinger.
Princeton and Harvard, there is cause to fear
Will dance joy's double shuffle when of thy Western
flight they come to hear. Stay and their tempers
ruffle. Linger, oh, linger, Heffelfinger.
John Cranston
"My inspiration for the game came when my country cousin returned from
Exeter and told me he believed I had the making of a football player,"
says John Cranston, who was Harvard's famous old center and former
coach. "At once I pestered him with all kinds of questions about the
requirements, and believed that some day I would do something. I shall
always remember my first day on the field at Exeter. Lacking the
wherewithal to buy the regulation suit, I appeared in the none too
strong blue shirt and overalls used on the farm. I remember too that it
was not long before Harding said: 'Take that young countryman to the
gymnasium before he is injured for life; he doesn't know which way to
run when he gets the ball; he doesn't know the game; and he looks too
thick headed to play the game anyway.'
"As boys on neighboring farms of Western New York, three of us, who
were later to play on different college teams, hunted skunks and rabbits
together. Had we been on the same team we would have been side by side.
Cook was a great tackle at Princeton; Reed one of the best guards
Cornell ever had; and I, owing to some good team mates, played as center
on the first Harvard eleven to defeat Yale. It is said that Cook in his
first game at Exeter grabbed the ball and started for his own goal for a
touchdown, and that Reed after playing the long afternoon in the game
which Cornell won, asked the Referee which side was victorious.
"I well remember that at Exeter we were planning how to celebrate our
victory over Andover, even to the most minute detail. We knew who was to
ring the academy and church bells of the town, and where we were to have
the bonfire at night. We were deprived of that pleasure on account of
the great playing and better spirit of the Andover team. A few of our
Exeter men then and there made a silent compact that Exeter would feel a
little better after another contest with Andover. The following three
years we defeated Andover by large scores.
"Any one who has played the game can recall some amusing situations. I
recall the first year at Harvard when we were playing against the
Andover team that suddenly the whole Andover School gave the Yale cheer.
Dud Dean, who was behind me, fired up and said it was the freshest
thing he had ever heard. At Springfield I remember one Yale-Harvard game
started with ten men of my own school, Exeter, in the game. In another
Yale game we were told to look ugly and defiant as we lined up to face
Yale, but I was forced to laugh long and hard when I found myself facing
Frankie Barbour, the little Yale quarter, who lived with me in the same
dormitory at Exeter for three years."
[Illustration: BREAKERS AHEAD
Phil King in the Old Days.]
CHAPTER IX
THE NINETIES AND AFTER
Men of to-day who never had an opportunity of seeing Foster Sanford play
will be interested in some anecdotes of his playing days and to read in
another chapter of this book some of his coaching experiences.
"As a boy," said Sandy, "I lived in New Haven. I chalked the lines on
the football field for the game in which Tilly Lamar made his famous run
for Princeton. I played on the college team two years before I entered
Yale. I learned a lot of football playing against Billy Rhodes, that
great Yale tackle.
"I'll tell you about the day I made the Yale team in my freshman year.
Pa Corbin took me in hand. I think he wanted to see if I had lots of
nerve. He told me to report at nine o'clock for practice. He put me
through a hard, grueling work-out, showing me how to snap the ball; how
to charge and body check. All this took place in a driving rain, and he
kept me out until one o'clock, when he said:
"'You can change your jersey now; that is, put on a dry one.'
"I went over to the training table then to see if I couldn't get some
dinner. Believe me, I was hungry. But every one had finished his meal
and all I could pick up was the things that were left. Here I ran into a
fellow named Brennen, who said:
"'They're trying to do you up. This is the day they are deciding whether
you will be center rush or not.'
"I then went out to Yale Field and joined the rest of the players, and
the stunts they put me through that afternoon I will never forget. But I
remembered what Brennen had told me, and it made me play all the harder.
To tell the truth, after practice, I realized that I was so sore I could
hardly put one foot ahead of the other. To make matters worse, the
coaches told me to run in to town, a distance of two miles, while _they_
drove off in a bus. I didn't catch the bus until they were on Park
Street, but I pegged along just the same and beat them in to the gate.
Billy Rhodes and Pa Corbin took care of me and rubbed me down. It seems
as though they rubbed every bit of skin off of me. I was like fire.
"That's the day I made the Yale team.
"I was twenty years old, six feet tall, and weighed about 200 pounds."
When I asked Sandy who gave him the hardest game of his life, he replied
promptly:
"Wharton, of Pennsylvania. He got through me."
Parke Davis' enthusiasm for football is known the country over. From
his experience as a player, as a coach and writer, he has become an
authority. Let us read some of his recollections.
"Years ago there was a high spirited young player at Princeton serving
his novitiate upon the scrub. One day an emergency transferred him for
the first time in his career to the Varsity. The game was against a
small college. This sudden promotion was possible through his fortunate
knowledge of the varsity signals. Upon the first play a fumble occurred.
Our hero seized the ball. A long service upon the scrub had ingrained
him to regard the Princeton Varsity men always as opponents. In the
excitement of the play he became confused, when lo! he leaped into
flight toward the wrong goal. Dashing around Princeton's left end he
reversed his field and crossed over to the right. Phil King, Princeton's
quarterback, was so amazed at the performance that he was too spellbound
to tackle his comrade. Down the backfield the player sped towards his
own goal. Shep Homans, his fullback, took in the impending catastrophe
at a glance and dashed forward, laid the halfback low with a sharp
tackle, thereby preventing a safety. The game was unimportant, the
Princeton's score was large, so the unfortunate player, although the
butt of many a jest, soon survived all jokes and jibes and became in
time a famous player."
"The first Princeton-Yale game in 1873 being played under the old
Association rules was waged with a round ball. In the first scrimmage a
terrific report sounded across the field. When the contending players
had been separated the poor football was found upon the field a
flattened sheet of rubber. Two toes had struck it simultaneously or some
one's huge chest had crushed it and the ball had exploded.
"Whenever men are discussing the frantic enthusiasm of some fellows of
the game I always recall the following episode as a standard of
measurement. The Rules Committee met one night at the Martinique in New
York for their annual winter session. Just as the members were going
upstairs to convene, I had the pleasure of introducing George Foster
Sanford to Fielding H. Yost. The introduction was made in the middle of
the lobby directly in the way of the traffic passing in and out of the
main door. The Rules Committee had gone into its regular session; the
hour was eight o'clock in the evening. When they came down at midnight
these two great football heroes were standing in the very spot where
they were introduced four hours before and they were talking as they had
been every minute throughout the four hours about football. Members of
the Committee joked with the two enthusiasts and then retired. When they
came down stairs the next morning at eight o'clock they found the two
fanatics seated upon a bench nearby still talking football, and that
afternoon when the Committee had finished its labors and had adjourned
_sine die_ they left Sanford and Yost still in the lobby, still on the
bench, hungry and sleepy and still talking football."
This anecdote will be a good one for Parke Davis' friends to read, for
how he ever stayed out of that talk-fest is a mystery--maybe he did.
Now that Yost and Sanford have retired we will let Parke continue.
"A few years ago everybody except Dartmouth men laughed at the football
which, bounding along the ground at Princeton suddenly jumped over the
cross bar and gave to Princeton a goal from the field which carried with
it the victory. But did you ever hear that in the preceding season, in a
game between two Southern Pennsylvania colleges, a ball went awry from a
drop kick, striking in the chest a policeman who had strayed upon the
field? The ball rebounded and cleanly caromed between the goal post for
a goal from the field. Years ago Lafayette and Pennsylvania State
College were waging a close game at Easton. Suddenly, and without being
noticed, Morton F. Jones, Lafayette's famous center-rush in those days,
left the field of play to change his head gear. The ball was snapped in
play and a fleet Penn State halfback broke through Lafayette's line,
and, armed with the ball, dodged the second barriers and threatened by a
dashing sprint to score in the extreme corner of the field. As he
reached the 10-yard line, to the amazement of all, Jones dashed out of
the side line crowd upon the field between the 10-yard line and his
goal, thereby intercepting the State halfback, tackling him so sharply
that the latter dropped the ball. Jones picked it up and ran it back 40
yards. There was no rule at that time which prevented the play, and so
Penn-State ultimately was defeated. Jones not only was a hero, but his
exploit long remained a mystery to many who endeavored to figure out how
he could have been 25 yards ahead of the ball and between the runner and
his own goal line."
A story is told of the wonderful dodging ability of Phil King, Princeton
'93. He was known throughout the football world as one of the shiftiest
runners of his day. Through his efficient work, King had fairly won the
game against Yale in '93. The next year the Yale men made up their minds
that the only way to defeat Princeton was to take care of King, and they
were ever on the alert to watch him whenever he got the ball. The whole
Yale team was looking for King throughout this game.
On the kick-off Phil got the ball, and all the Yale forwards began to
shout, "Here he comes, here he comes," and then as he was cleverly
dodging and evading the Yale players, one of the backs, who was waiting
to tackle him low, was heard to say, "There he goes."
Those of the old-timers who study the picture of the flying wedge on the
opposite page will get a glimpse of Phil King about to set in motion
one of the most devilishly ingenious maneuvers in the history of the
game. With all the formidable power behind him, the old reliables of
what the modern analytical coaches are pleased to term the farce plays.
Balliet, Beef Wheeler, Biffy Lea, Gus Holly, Frank Morse, Doggy
Trenchard, Douglas Ward, Knox Taylor, Harry Brown, Jerry McCauley, and
Jim Blake; King, nevertheless, stood out in lonely eminence, ready to
touch the ball down, await the thunder of the joining lines of
interference and pick up the tremendous pace, either at the apex of the
crashing V or cunningly concealed and swept along to meet the terrific
impact with the waiting line of Blue. Great was the crash thereof, and
it was a safe wager that King with the ball would not go unscathed.
[Illustration: LOOK OUT, PRINCETON!]
This kind of football brought to light the old-time indomitable courage
of which the stalwarts of those days love to talk at every gridiron
reunion.
But for the moment let us give Yale the ball and stand the giant
Princeton team upon defense. Let us watch George Adee get the ball from
Phil Stillman and with his wonderful football genius develop a smashing
play enveloped in a locked line of blue, grim with the menace of Orville
Hickok, Jim McCrea, Anse Beard, Fred Murphy, Frank Hinkey and Jack
Greenway.
Onward these mighty Yale forwards ground their way through the
Princeton defense, making a breach through which the mighty Butterworth,
Bronc Armstrong and Brink Thorne might bring victory to Yale.
This was truly a day when giants clashed.
As you look at these pictures do the players of to-day wonder any longer
that the heroes of the olden time are still loyal to the game of their
first love?
If you ever happen to go to China, I am sure one of the first Americans
you will hear about would be Pop Gailey, once a king of football centers
and now a leader in Y. M. C. A. work in China.
Lafayette first brought Pop Gailey forth in '93 and '94, and he was the
champion All-American center of the Princeton team in '96. He had a
wonderful influence over the men on the team. He was an example well
worth following. His manly spirit was an inspiration to those about him.
After one of the games a newspaper said:
"Old Gailey stands firm as the Eternal Calvinistic Faith, which he
intends to preach when his football scrimmages are over."
To Charlie Young, the present professor of physical instruction of the
Cornell University gymnasium, I cannot pay tribute high enough for the
fine football spirit and the high regard with which we held him while he
was at the Princeton Seminary. He certainly loved to play football and
he used to come out and play on the scrub team against the Princeton
varsity. He was not eligible to play on the Princeton team, as he had
played his allotted time at Cornell.
The excellent practice he gave the Princeton team--yes, more than
practice: it was oftentimes victory for him as well as the scrub. He
made Poe and Palmer ever alert and did much to make them the stars they
were, as Charlie's long suit was running back punts. His head work was
always in evidence. He was a great field general; one of his most
excellent qualities was that of punting. His was an ideal example for
men to follow. Princeton men were the better for having played with and
against a high type man like Charlie Young.
AN EVENING WITH JIM RODGERS
Jim Rodgers gave all there was in him to Yale athletics. Not a single
year has passed since he played his last game of football but has seen
him back at the Yale field, coaching and giving the benefit of his
experience.
Jim Rodgers was captain of the '97 team at New Haven, and the traditions
that can be written about a winning captain are many. No greater
pleasure can be afforded any man who loves to hear an old football
player relate experiences than to listen, while Rodgers tells of his own
playing days, and of some of the men in his experience.
It was once my pleasure to spend an evening with Jim in his home;
really a football home. Mrs. Rodgers knows much of football and as Jim
enthusiastically and with wonderfully keen recollection tells of the old
games, a twelve-year-old boy listens, as only a boy can to his father,
his great hero, and as Jim puts his hand on the boy's shoulders he tells
him the ideal of his dreams is to have him make the Yale team some day,
and an enthusiastic daughter who sits near hopes so too. His scrap books
and athletic pictures go to make a rare collection.
Many of us would like to have seen Jim Rodgers begin his football career
at Andover when he was sixteen years old. It was there that his 180
pounds of bone and muscle stood for much. It was at Andover that Bill
Odlin, that great Dartmouth man, coached so many wonderful prep. school
stars, who later became more famous at the colleges to which they went.
Rodgers went to Yale with a big rep. He had been captain of the Andover
team. In the fall of '92 Andover beat Brown 24 to 0. Jim Rodgers was
very conspicuous on the field, not only on account of his good playing
and muscular appearance, but because his blond hair, which he wore very
long as a protection, was very noticeable.
From this Yale player, whose friends are legion, let us read some
experiences and catch his spirit:
"I was never a star player, but I was a reliable. In my freshman year I
did not make the team, owing to the fact that I had bad knees and better
candidates were available. This was the one year in Yale football,
perhaps in all football, when the team that played the year before came
back to college with not a man missing. Frank Hinkey had been captain
the year before and then came through as senior captain. There was not a
senior on Frank Hinkey's team. The first team, therefore, all came back.
"Al Jerrems and Louis Hinkey were the only additions to the old team.
"Perhaps the keenest disappointment that ever came to me in football was
the fact that I could not play in that famous Yale-Harvard game my
freshman year. However, I came so very near it that Billy Rhodes and
Heffelfinger came around to where I was sitting on the side lines, after
Fred Murphy had been taken out of the game. They started to limber me up
by running me up and down the side line, but Hinkey, the captain, came
over to the side line and yelled for Chadwick, who went into the game. I
had worked myself up into a highly nervous condition anticipating going
in, but now I realized my knees would not allow it. The disappointment
that day, though, was very severe. To show you what a hold these old
games had on me, many years after this game Hinkey and I were talking
about this particular game, when he said to me: 'You never knew how
close you came to getting into that Springfield game, Jim.' Then I told
him of my experience, but he told me he had it in his mind to put me in
at halfback, and ever since then, when I think of it, cold chills run up
and down my spine. It absolutely scared me stiff to think how I might
have lost that game, even though I never actually participated in it.
"The Yale football management, however, on account of my work during the
season decided to give me my Y, gold football and banner. The banner was
a blue flag with the names of the team and the position they played and
the score, 12 to 6. It was a case where I came so near winning it that
they gave it to me."
Jim Rodgers played three years against Garry Cochran and this great
Princeton captain stands out in his recollections of Yale-Princeton
games. He goes on to say:
"If it had not been for Garry Cochran, I might be rated as one of the
big tackles of the football world to-day. I used to dream of him three
weeks before the Princeton game; how I was going to stand him off, and
let me tell you if you got in between Doc Hillebrand and Garry Cochran
you were a sucker. Those games were a nightmare to me. Cochran used to
fall on my foot, box me in and hold me there, and keep me out of the
play."
Jim Rodgers is very modest in this statement. The very reason that he
is regarded as a truly wonderful tackle is on account of the great game
he played against Cochran. How wonderfully reliable he was football
history well records. He was always to be depended upon.
"In the fall of 1897 when I was captain of the Yale team," Rodgers
continues, "perhaps the most spectacular Yale victory was pulled off,
when Princeton, with the exception of perhaps two men, and virtually the
same team that had beaten Yale the year before, came on the field and
through overconfidence or lack of training did not show up to their best
form. We were out for blood that day. I said to Johnny Baird, Princeton
quarterback: 'Princeton is great to-day. We have played ten minutes and
you haven't scored.' Johnny, with a look of determination upon his face,
said, 'You fellows can play ten times ten minutes and you'll never
score,' but the Princeton football hangs in the Yale trophy room.
"I have always claimed that Charlie de Saulles put the Yale '97 team on
the map. Charlie de Saulles, with his three wonderful runs, which
averaged not less than 60 yards each, really brought about the victory.
"Frank Butterworth as head coach will always have my highest regard; he
did more than any one alive could have done to pull off an apparently
impossible victory."
"One great feature of this game was Ad Kelly's series of individual
gains, aided by Hillebrand and Edwards, through Rodgers and Chadwick.
Kelly took the ball for 40 consecutive yards up the field in gains of
from one to three yards each, when fortunately for Yale, a fumble gave
them the ball. When the fumble occurred, I happened at the time to break
through very fast. There lay the ball on the ground, and nobody but
myself near it. The great chance was there to pick it up and perhaps,
even with my slow speed, gain 20 to 30 yards for Yale. No such thought,
however, entered my head. I wanted that ball and curled up around it and
hugged it as a tortoise would close in its shell. My recollection is now
that I sat there for about five minutes before anybody deigned to fall
on me. At all events, I had the ball.
"Gordon Brown played as a freshman on my team. He had a football face
that I liked. He weighed 185 pounds and was 6 feet 4 inches tall. Gordon
went up against Bouve in the Harvard game, and the critics stated that
Bouve was the best guard in the country that year. I said to Gordon,
'Play this fellow the game of his life, and when you get him, let me
know and I'll send some plays through you.' After about sixty minutes of
play Gordon came to me and said, 'Jim, I've got him,' and he had him all
right, for we were then successful in gaining through that part of the
Harvard line. Gordon Brown was a very earnest player. He would allow
nothing to stop him. He got his ears pretty well bruised up and they
bothered him a great deal. In fact, he did have to lay off two or three
days. He came to me and said, 'Do you think this injury will keep me out
of the big game?' 'Well, I'll see if the trainer cannot make a head-gear
for you.' 'Well, I'll tell you this, Jim,' said Gordon, 'I'll have 'em
cut off before I'll stay out of the game.' This amused me, and I said,
'Gordon, you have nothing of beauty to lose. You will keep your ears and
you will play in the big games.'
"Gordon Brown's team, under Malcolm McBride as head coach, was a wonder.
This eleven, to our minds, was the best ever turned out by Yale
University. They defeated Princeton 29 to 5, and the powerful Harvard
team 28 to 0. Their one weakness was that they had no long punter, but,
as they expressed it to me afterward, they had no need of one. At one
time during the game with Harvard they took the ball on their own
10-yard line and, instead of kicking, marched it up the field, and in a
very few rushes scored a touchdown. Harvard men afterwards told me that
after seeing a few minutes of the game they forgot the strain of
Harvard's defeat in their admiration of Yale's playing. This team showed
the highest co-ordination between the Yale coaching staff, the college,
and the players, and they set a high-water mark for all future teams to
aim at, which was all due to Gordon Brown's genius for organization and
leadership."
It has been my experience in talking of football stars with some of the
old-timers that Frank Hinkey heads the list. I cannot let Frank Hinkey
remain silent this time. He says:
"I think it was in the Fall of '95 that Skim Brown, who played the
tackle position, was captain of the scrubs team at New Haven. Brown was
a very energetic scrub captain. He was continuously urging on his men to
better work. As you recall, the cry, 'Tackle low and run low,' was
continuously called after the teams in those days. Brown's particular
pet phrase in urging his men was, 'Run low.' So that he, whenever the
halfback received the ball, would immediately start to holler, 'Run
low,' and would keep this up until the ball was dead. He got so in the
habit of using this call when on the offense that one day when the
quarterback called upon him to run with the ball from the tackle
position even before he got the ball he started to cry, 'Run low,' while
carrying the ball himself, and continued to cry out, 'Run low,' even
after he had gained ground for about fifteen yards and until the ball
was dead.
"It was in the Fall of '92 when Vance McCormick was captain of the Yale
team, and Diney O'Neal was trying for the guard position. As you know,
the linemen are very apt to know only the signals on offense which call
for an opening at their particular position. And even then a great many
of them never know the signals. Now Diney was bright enough, but like
most linemen did not know the signals. It happened one day that
McCormick, at the quarterback position, called several plays during the
afternoon that required O'Neal to make an opening. O'Neal invariably
failed because he didn't know the signals. McCormick, suspecting this,
finally gave O'Neal a good calling down. The calling down fell flat in
its effects on O'Neal as his reply to McCormick was, 'To Hell with your
mystic signs and symbols--give me the ball!'"
"The real founder of football at Dartmouth was Bill Odlin," writes Ed
Hall. "Odlin learned his football at Andover, and came to Dartmouth with
the class of '90 and it was while he was in college that football really
started. He was practically the only coach. He was a remarkable
kicker--certainly one of the best, if not the best. In the Fall of '89
Odlin was captain of the team and playing fullback. Harvard and Yale
played at Springfield and on the morning of the Harvard-Yale game
Dartmouth and Williams played on the same field. It was in this game in
the Fall of '89 that he made his most remarkable kick in which the wind
was a very important element. In the second half Odlin was standing
practically on his own ten yard line. The ball was passed back to him to
be kicked and he punted. The kick itself was a remarkable kick and
perfect in every way, but when the wind caught it it became a wonder and
it went along like a balloon. The wind was really blowing a gale and the
ball landed away beyond the Williams' quarterback and the first bounce
carried it several yards beyond their goal line. Of course any such kick
as this would have been absolutely impossible except for the extreme
velocity and pressure of the wind, but it was easily the longest kick I
ever saw.
"Three times during Odlin's football playing he kicked goals from the 65
yard line and while at Andover he kicked a placed kick from a mark in
the exact center of the field, scoring a goal."
When Brown men discuss football their recollections go back to the days
of Hopkins and Millard, of Robinson, McCarthy, Fultz, Everett Colby and
Gammons, Fred Murphy, Frank Smith, the giant guard; that great
spectacular player, Richardson, and other men mentioned elsewhere in
this book.
In a recent talk with that sterling fellow, Dave Fultz, he told me
something about his football career. It was, in part, as follows:--
"I played at Brown in '94, '95, '96 and '97, captaining the team in my
last year. Gammons and I played in the backfield together. He was
unquestionably a great runner with the ball; one of the hardest men to
hurt, I think, I ever saw. I have often seen him get jolts, go down, and
naturally one would think go out entirely, but when I would go up to
him, he would jump up as though he had not felt it. I think Everett
Colby was as good a man interfering for the runner as I have seen. He
played quarterback and captained the Brown team in '96. I don't think
there was ever a better quarterback than Wyllys D. Richardson, Rich, as
we used to call him."
[Illustration: BARRETT ON ONE OF HIS FAMOUS DASHES]
[Illustration: EXETER-ANDOVER GAME, 1915]
Dave Fultz is very modest and when he discusses his football experiences
he sidetracks one and talks of his fellow college players. Now that I
have pinned him down, he goes on to say:
"The day before we played the Indians one year my knee hurt me so much
that I had to go to the doctor. He put some sort of ointment on it. Two
days before this game I could hardly move my leg; the doctor threatened
me with water on the knee; he told me to go to bed and stay there, but I
told him we had a game in New York and I had to go. He said, 'All right,
if you want water on the knee.' I said, 'I've got to go if I am at all
able.' Anyway, I went on down to New York with the team and played in
the game. All I needed was to get warmed up good and I went along in
great shape."
Those who remember reading the accounts of that game will recall that
Dave Fultz made some miraculous runs that day and was a team in himself.
Fred Murphy, who was captain of the '98 team at Brown and played end
rush, says:
"I think Dave Fultz played under more difficulties than any man that
ever played the game. I have seen him play with a heavy knee brace. He
had his shoulder dislocated several times and I have seen him going into
the game with his arm strapped down to his side, so he could just use
his forearm. He played a number of games that way. That happened when he
was captain. He was absolutely conscientious, fearless and a good
leader."
In 1904, Fred Murphy coached at Exeter. Fred says:
"This was probably the best team that Exeter had had up to that time.
The team was captained by Tommy Thompson, who afterwards played at
Cornell. Eddie Hart at that time stripped at about 195 pounds. This was
the famous team on which Donald MacKenzie MacFadyen played and later
made the Princeton varsity. Tad Jones was quarterback the first year he
came to school. In those days they took to football intuitively without
much coaching. You never had to tell Tad Jones a thing more than once.
He would think things out for himself. He showed great powers of
leadership and good football sense. Howard Jones and Harry Vaughn played
on this team."
"Charlie McCarthy of Brown will long be remembered for his great punting
ability," says Fred Murphy. "He had a great many pet theories. McCarthy
is one of the best football men in the Brown list." In a letter which I
have received from Charlie McCarthy, as a result of a wonderful victory
over Minnesota one year, McCarthy writes:
"The students of the University gave me a beautiful gold watch engraved
on the inside--'To our Friend Mac from the students of the University of
Wisconsin.'" This shows how highly McCarthy is held at this University.
McCarthy continues, "I go out every fall and kick around with the boys
still and I hope to do so the rest of my life if I get a chance. I think
the greatest football player I ever saw was Frank Hinkey. Speaking of my
own ability as a player, I haven't much to say. I was not much of a
football player but I got by some way. I neither had the physique, nor
the ability, but tried to do my best. I am glad to say no one ever
called me a quitter. I am proud to say that Brown University gave me a
beautiful silver cup at the end of my four years for the best work in
football, although the said cup belongs by rights to ten other men on
the team."
As one visits the dressing room of the New York Giants and sees the
attendant work upon the wonderful physique of Christy Mathewson, one
cannot help but realize what a potent factor he must have been on
Bucknell's team. When Christy played he was 6 feet tall and weighed 168
pounds stripped. He prepared at Keystone Academy, playing in the line.
In 1898, when he went to Bucknell, he was immediately put at fullback
and played there three years.
Fred Crolius says of him: "Of all the long distance punters with hard
kicks to handle, Percy Haughton and Christy Mathewson stand out in his
memory. Mathewson had the leg power to turn his spiral over. That is,
instead of dropping where ordinary spirals always drop, an additional
turn seemed to carry the ball over the head of the back who was waiting
for the ball, often carrying some fifteen or twenty yards beyond."
Football has no more ardent admirer than Christy Mathewson. It will be
interesting to hear what he has to say of his experience in the game of
football.
"I liked to play football," says Mathewson. "I was a better football
player than a baseball player in those days. I was considered a good
punter. I was not much as a line bucker. The captain of the team always
gave me a football to take with me in the summer. I occasionally had an
opportunity to practice kicking after I was through with my baseball
work.
"At Taunton, Mass., my first summer, I ran across a fellow who was
playing third base on the team for which I was pitching. MacAndrews was
his name. He was a Dartmouth man. He showed me how to kick. He showed me
how to drop a spiral. I liked to drop-kick and used to practice it
quite a little."
[Illustration:
Means Langford Hollenback Douglass Gaston Marks Allerdice
Miller Manier Schultz Draper
BILL HOLLENBACK COMING AT YOU]
"I remember how tough it was for me when Bucknell played Annapolis the
year before when the Navy team had a man who could kick such wonderful
spirals. They were terribly hard to handle, and I was determined to
profit by his example. So I just hung on for dear life, punting spirals
all summer. Later I used to watch George Brooke punt a good deal when he
was coaching."
"At that time drop kickers were not so numerous. I had some recollection
of a fellow named O'Day, who had a great reputation as a drop-kicker, as
did Hudson of Carlisle. In 1898 we were to play Pennsylvania. Our team
served as a preliminary game for Pennsylvania. They often beat us by
large scores. Since then we have had teams which made a 6 to 5 score.
But they had good teams in my time. We never scored on Penn, as I
recall.
"Our coach said one day, at the training table, 'I'll give a raincoat to
the fellow who scores on Penn to-day.' The manager walked in and
overheard his remark and added, 'Yes, and I'll give a pair of shoes to
the man who makes the second score against Penn.' That put some 'pep'
into us. Anyway, we were on Penn's 35-yard line and I kicked a field
goal. After this we rushed the ball and got up to Penn's 40-yard line,
and from there I scored again, thereby winning the shoes and the
raincoat.
"I went up to Columbia one day to see them practice. It was in the days
when Foster Sanford was their coach. He saw me standing on the side
lines; came over to where I was; looked me over once or twice and
finally said:
"'Why aren't you trying for the team? I think you'd make a football
player if you came out.'
"I said I guessed I would not be eligible.
"'Why?' asked Sandy.
"'Well," I said, 'because I'm a professional.' Then some fellows around
me grinned and told Sanford who I was.
"I love to think of the good old football days and some of the spirit
that entered collegiate contests. Once in a while, in baseball, I feel
the thrill of that spirit. It was only recently that I experienced that
get-together spirit, where a team full of life with everybody working
together wrought great results. That same old thrill came to me during
one of the Giants' trips in the West in which they won seventeen
straight victories.
"There is much good fellowship in football. I played against teams whose
cheer leaders would give you a rousing cheer as you made a good play;
then again you would meet the fellow who, when you were down in the
scrimmage, or after you had kicked the ball, would try to put you down
and out.
"One of the pleasantest recollections I have of playing was my
experience against the two great academy teams, West Point and
Annapolis.
"Never shall I forget one year when Bucknell played West Point. At an
exciting moment in the game, Bucknell players made it possible for me to
be in a position to kick the goal from the field from a difficult angle.
After the score had been made the West Point team stood there stupefied,
and when the crowd got the idea that a goal had been kicked from a
peculiar angle, they gave us a rousing cheer. Such is the proper spirit
of American football; to see some sunshine in your opponent's play.
"Cheering helps so much to build up one's enthusiasm."
Al Sharpe was one of the greatest all-around athletes that ever wore the
blue of Yale. He, too, recalls the Yale-Princeton game of 1899 at New
Haven, but the memory comes to him as a nightmare.
"When I think about the 11 to 10 game at New Haven, which Princeton
won," said Sharpe the last time I saw him, "I remember that after I had
kicked a goal from the field and the score was 10 to 6, Skim Brown
rushed up to me, and nearly took me off my feet with one of his friendly
slaps across my back. Well do I remember the joy of that great Yale
player at this stage of the game. Later, when Poe made his kick and I
saw that the ball was going over the bar, I remember that the thing I
wished most was that I could have been up in the line where I might have
had a chance to block the kick.
"My recollections of making the Yale team centered chiefly around three
facts, none of which I was allowed to forget. First, that I was not any
good, second that I couldn't tackle, and third that I ran like an
ice-wagon. Since then I have seen so many really good players upon my
different squads that I must admit the truth of the above statement,
although at the time I am frank to say I took exception to it. Such is
the optimism of youth."
Jack Munn, a former Princeton halfback, tells the following story:
"My brother, Edward Munn, was the manager of the Princeton team in 1893.
In the spring of that year there was a conference with Yale
representatives to decide where the game was to be played the following
fall. Berkeley Oval, Brooklyn, Manhattan Field, and the respective
fields of the two colleges all came under discussion, and I believe that
some of the newspapers must have taken it up. One afternoon in the
Murray Hill Hotel, when representatives of Yale and Princeton were
discussing the various possibilities, a bellboy knocked at the door and
handed my brother an elaborately engraved card on which, among various
decorations, the name of Colonel Cody was to be distinguished. Buffalo
Bill was invited to come up, and it seems that, reading or hearing of
the discussion about the field for the game, he came to make a formal
offer of the use of his tent. After setting forth the desirability of
staging the game under the auspices of his Wild West Show, he brought
his offer to a close with his trump card.
"'For, gentlemen,' said he, 'besides all the other advantages which I
have mentioned, there is this further attraction--my tent is well and
sufficiently lighted so that you can not only hold a matinee, but you
can give an evening performance as well.'
"And those were the days of the flying wedge and two forty-five minute
halves with only ten minutes intermission!"
Walter C. Booth
Walter C. Booth, a former Princeton center rush, was one of the select
coterie of Eastern football men that wended its way westward to carry
the eastern system into institutions that had had no opportunity to
build up the game, yet were hungry for real football. Booth's trip was a
successful one.
"In the autumn of 1900, after graduating from college, I arrived at
Lincoln, Nebraska, in the dual role of law student and football coach of
the State University," says Booth. "This was my first trip west of
Pittsburgh and I viewed my new duties with some apprehension. All doubts
and fears were soon put at rest by the hearty encouragement and support
that I received and retained in my Nebraska football relations.
"Most of the Faculty were behind football, and H. Benjamin Andrews, at
that time head of the University, was a staunch supporter of the game.
Doctor Roscoe Pound, later dean of Harvard Law School, was the father of
Nebraska football. He had as intimate an acquaintance with the rule book
as any official I have ever known. His advice on knotty problems was
always valuable. James I. Wyer, afterward State Librarian of New York,
was our first financial director, and it was largely by reason of his
unflagging zeal that football survived.
"Football spirit ran high in the Missouri Valley and there were many
hard fought contests among the teams of Iowa, Missouri, Kansas and
Nebraska. Those who saw these games or played in them will never forget
them.
"Many amusing things happened in that section as well as in the East.
The Haskell Indians were a picturesque team. They represented the
Government School at Lawrence, Kansas--an institution similar to that of
Carlisle. In fact, many of the same players played on both teams at
different times. We always found them a hard nut to crack, and Redwater,
Archiquette, Hauser and other Indian stars made their names well known
on our field.
"John Outland, the noted Pennsylvania player, had charge of the Indians
when I knew them. He was a great player and a fine type of man, who
succeeded in imparting some of his own personality to his pupils. He
once showed me a dark faced Indian in Lawrence who must have been at
least six feet four inches tall and of superb physique. He was a full
blooded Cheyenne and went by the name of Bob Tail Billy. Outland tried
hard to break him in at guard, but as no one understood Bob Tail's
dialect, and he understood no one else, he never learned the signals,
and proved unavailable.
"We traveled far to play in those days; west to Boulder, Colorado,
handicapped by an altitude of 5000 feet, south to Kansas City and north
as far as St. Paul and Minneapolis. We were generally about 500 miles
from our base. We were not able to take many deadheads."
Harry Kersburg is one of the most enthusiastic Harvard football players
I have ever met. He played guard on Harvard in 1904, '05 and '06 and is
often asked back to Cambridge to coach the center men. From his playing
days let us read what he prizes in his recollections:
"My college career began at Lehigh, with the idea of eventually going to
Harvard. As a football enthusiast, I came under the observation of
Doctor Newton, who was coaching Lehigh at that time. Doc taught me the
first football I ever knew. In one of the games against Union College
Doc asked me before the game whether if he put me in I would deliver the
goods. I said I would try and do my best. He said, 'That won't do. I
don't want any man on my team who says, "I'll try." A man has got to say
"I'll do it." From that time on I never said, 'I'll try,' but always
said 'I'll do it.'
"I shall never forget the day I played against John DeWitt. I did not
know much about the finer points of football then. I weighed about 165
pounds with my football clothes on, was five feet nine inches tall and
sixteen years old. I shall always remember seeing that great big hawk of
a man opposite me. I did not have cold feet. I knew I had to go in and
give the best account of myself I could. It was like going up against a
stone wall. John DeWitt certainly could use his hands, with the result
that I resembled paper pulp when I came out of that game. DeWitt did
everything to me but kill me. After I got my growth, weight and
strength, plus my experience, I always had a desire to play against
DeWitt to see if he could the same thing again.
"In a Harvard-Yale game one year I remember an incident that took place
between Carr, Shevlin and myself," says Harry.
"Tom Shevlin usually stood near the goal line when Yale received the
kick-off. As a matter of fact he caught the ball most of the time. The
night before the Yale game in 1905, Bill Carr and myself were discussing
what might come up the following day. Inasmuch as we always lined up
side by side on the kick off, we made a wager that if Harvard kicked off
we would each be the first to tackle Shevlin.
"The next day Harvard won the toss and chose to kick off, and as we had
hoped, Shevlin caught the ball. Carr and I raced down the field, each
intent on being the first to tackle him. I crashed into Shevlin and
spilled him, upsetting myself at the same time. When I picked myself up
and looked around, Carr had Shevlin pinned securely to the ground. After
the game we told Shevlin of our wager and he said that under the
circumstances all bets were off as both had won."
Former U. S. Attorney-General William H. Lewis, who is one of the
leading representatives of the colored race, needs no introduction to
the football world, says Kersburg. 'Bill,' or 'Lew,' as he is familiarly
known to all Harvard men, laid the foundation for the present system of
line play at Cambridge. He was actively engaged in coaching until 1907
when he was obliged to give it up due to pressure of business.
"In 1905 'Hooks' Burr and I played the guard positions. 'Lew' seemed to
center his attention on us as we always received more 'calls' after each
game than the other linemen for doing this, that, or the other thing
wrong. In the Brown game of this year Hooks played against a colored
man who was exceptionally good and who, Hooks admitted afterward, 'put
it all over' him. The Monday following this game we received our usual
'call.' After telling me what a rotten game I had played he turned on
Burr and remarked. 'What the devil was the matter with you on Saturday,
Hooks? That guard on the Brown team "smeared" you.' Burr replied, 'I
don't know what was the matter with me. I used my hands on that nigger's
head and body all through the game but it didn't seem to do any good.'
Several of us who were listening felt a bit embarrassed that Hooks had
unwittingly made this remark. The tension was relieved, however, when
Lew drawled out, 'Why the devil didn't you kick him in the shins?' A
burst of laughter greeted this sally."
Donald Grant Herring, better known to football men in and out of
Princeton as Heff, is one of the few American players of international
experience. After a period of splendid play for the Tigers he went to
England with a Rhodes Scholarship. At Merton College he continued his
athletic career, and it was not long before he became a member of one of
the most famous Rugby fifteens ever turned out by Oxford.
Heff has always said that he enjoyed the English game, but whether the
brand he played was American or English, his opponent usually got
little enjoyment out of a hard afternoon with this fine Princeton
athlete.
"In the late summer of 1903, I was on a train coming east from Montana,"
Heff tells me, "after a summer spent in the Rockies. A companion
recognized among the passengers Doc Hillebrand, who was coming East from
his ranch to coach the Princeton team. This companion who was still a
Lawrenceville schoolboy, had the nerve to brace Hillebrand and tell him
in my presence that I was going to enter Princeton that fall and that I
was a star football player. You can imagine what Doc thought, and how I
felt. However, Doc was kind enough to tell me to report for practice and
to recognize me when I appeared on the field several weeks later. I soon
drifted over to the freshman field and I want to admit here what caused
me to do so. It was nothing more nor less than the size of Jim Cooney's
legs. Jim was a classmate of mine whom I first saw on the football field
when he and another tackle candidate were engaged in that delicate
pastime known to linemen as breaking through. I realized at once that,
if Jim and I were ever put up against one another, I would stand about
as much chance of shoving him back as I would if I tried to push a steam
roller. So I went over to the freshman field, where Howard Henry was
coaching at the time. He was sending ends down the field and I remember
being thrilled, after beating a certain bunch of them, at hearing him
say: 'You in the brown jersey, come over here in the first squad.'
"DeWitt's team beat Cornell 44-0. For years there hung on the walls of
the Osborn Club at Princeton a splendid action picture of Dana Kafer
making one of the touchdowns in that game. It was a mass on tackle play,
and Jim Cooney was getting his Cornell opponent out of the way for Kafer
to go over the line. The picture gave Jim dead away. He had a firm grip
of the Cornell man's jersey and arm. Ten years or more afterward, a
group, including Cooney, was sitting in the Osborn Club. In a spirit of
fun one man said, 'Jim, we know now how you got your reputation as a
tackle. We can see it right up there on the wall.' The next day the
picture was gone.
"After I was graduated from Princeton in 1907 I went to Merton College,
Oxford. There are twenty-two different colleges in Oxford and eighteen
in Cambridge. Each one has its own teams and crews and plays a regular
schedule. From the best of these college teams the university teams are
drawn. Each college team has a captain and a secretary, who acts as
manager. At the beginning of the college year (early October) the
captain and secretary of each team go around among the freshmen of the
college and try to get as many of them as possible to play their
particular sport; mine Rugby football. After a few days the captain
posts on the college bulletin board, which is always placed at the
Porter's Lodge, a notice that a squash will be held on the college
field. A squash is what we would call practice.
[Illustration: "THE NEXT DAY THE PICTURE WAS GONE"
Jim Cooney Making a Hole for Dana Kafer.]
"Sometimes for a few days before the game an Old Blue may come down to
Oxford and give a little coaching to the team. Here often the captain
does all the coaching. The Cambridge match is for blood, and, while
friendly enough, is likely to be much more savage than any other. In the
match I played in, which Oxford won 35-3, the record score in the whole
series, which started in 1872, we had three men severely injured. In the
first three minutes of the game one of our star backs was carried off
the field with a broken shoulder, while our captain was kicked in the
head and did not come out of his daze until about seven o'clock that
evening. He played throughout the game, however. Our secretary was off
the field with a knee cap out of place for more than half the game. A
game of Rugby, by the way, consists of two 45-minute halves, with a
three minute intermission. There are no substitutes, and if a man is
injured, his team plays one man short. We beat Cambridge that year with
thirteen men the greater part of the game, twelve for some time against
their full team of fifteen. Their only try (touchdown in plain American)
was scored when we had twelve men on the field. We were champions of
England that year, and did not lose a match through the fall season,
though we tied one game with the great Harlequins Club of London, whom
we afterward beat in the return game. Of the fine fellows who made up
that great Oxford team, six are dead, five of them 'somewhere in
France.'"
Carl Flanders was a big factor in the Yale rush line. Foster Sanford
considers him one of the greatest offensive centers that ever played. He
was six feet three and one-fourth inches tall and weighed 202 pounds.
In 1906 Flanders coached the Indian team at Carlisle. Let us see some of
the interesting things that characterize the Indian players, through
Flanders' experience.
The nicknames with which the Indians labelled each other were mostly
those of animals or a weapon of defense. Mount Pleasant and Libby always
called each other Knife. Bill Gardner was crowned Chicken Legs, Charles,
one of the halfbacks, and a regular little tiger, was called Bird Legs.
Other names fastened to the different players were Whale Bone, Shoe
String, Tommyhawk and Wolf.
The Indians always played cleanly as long as their opponents played that
way. Dillon, an old Sioux Indian, and one of the fastest guards I ever
saw, was a good example of this. If anybody started rough play, Dillon
would say:
"Stop that, boys!" and the chap who was guilty always stopped. But if
an opponent continually played dirty football, Dillon would say grimly:
"I'll get you!" On the next play or two, you'd never know how, the rough
player would be taken out. Dillon had "got" his man.
"Wallace Denny and Bemus Pierce got up a code of signals, using an
Indian word which designated a single play. Among the Indian words which
designated these signals were Water-bucket, Watehnee, Coocoohee. I never
could find out what it all meant, and following the Indian team by this
code of signals was a task which was too much for me."
Bill Horr, renowned in Colgate and Syracuse, writes: "Colgate University
and Colgate Academy are under the same administration, and the football
teams were practicing when I entered school. I went out for the team and
after the second practice I was put into the scrimmage. I was greatly
impressed with the game and continued for the afternoon practice, and
played at tackle in the first game of the season. In four years of
winning football I became acquainted with such wonderful athletes as
Riley Castleman and Walter Runge of the Colgate Varsity team.
"In the fall of 1905 I entered Syracuse University and played right
tackle on the varsity team for four years and was captain of the
victorious 1908 team. In the four years I never missed a scrimmage or a
game.
"I think that one of the hardest games I ever played in was the game
against Princeton in 1908, when they had such stars as Siegling,
MacFadyen, Eddie Dillon and Tibbott. The game ended in a scoreless tie
with the ball see-sawing back and forth on the 40-yard line. I had been
accustomed to carry the ball, and had been successful in executing a
forward pass of fifty-five yards in the Yale game the week before,
placing the ball on the 1-yard line, only to lose it on a fumble.
"I had the reputation of being a good-natured player, and indirectly
heard it rumored many times by coaches and football players that they
would like to see me fighting mad on the football field. The few
Syracuse rooters who journeyed to Easton the day we played Lafayette had
that opportunity. Dowd was the captain of the Lafayette team. Next to me
was Barry, a first-class football player, who stripped in the
neighborhood of 200 pounds. Just before the beginning of the second half
I was in a crouching position ready to start, when some one dealt me a
stinging blow on the ear. I was dazed for the time being. I turned to
Barry and asked him who did it. He pointed to Dowd. From that instant I
was determined to seek revenge. I was ignorant of the true culprit until
about a year afterward, when Anderson, who played center, and was a good
friend of mine, told me about it. It seemed that just before we went on
the field for the second half Buck O'Neil, who was coaching the Syracuse
team, told Barry to hit me and make me mad."
CHAPTER X
COLLEGE TRADITIONS AND SPIRIT
College life in America is rich in traditions. Customs are handed down
class by class and year by year until finally they acquire the force of
law. Each college and university has a community life and a character of
its own.
The spirit of each institution abides within its walls. It cannot be
invaded by an outsider, or ever completely understood by one who has not
grown up in it. The atmosphere of a college community is conservative.
It is the outcome of generations of student custom and thought, which
have resolved themselves into distinct grooves.
It requires a thorough understanding of the customs of college men,
their antics and pranks, to appreciate the fact that the performers are
simply boys, carrying on the traditions of those gone before.
Gray-haired graduates who know by experience what is embodied in college
spirit, join feelingly in the old customs of their college days, and in
observing the new customs which have grown out of the old.
These traditional customs, some of them humorous, and others deeply
moving in their sentiment, are among the first things that impress the
freshman. He does not comprehend the meaning of them at once, nor does
he realize that they are the product of generations of students, but he
soon learns that there is something more powerful in college life than
the brick and mortar of beautiful buildings, or high passing marks in
the classroom. When he comes to know the value and the underlying spirit
of the traditions of his college, he treasures them among the enduring
memories of his life.
The business man who never enjoyed the advantage of going to college, is
puzzled as he witnesses the demonstration of undergraduate life, and he
fails to catch the meaning; he does not understand; it has played no
part in his own experience; college customs seem absurd to him, and he
fails to appreciate that in these traditions our American college spirit
finds expression.
As an outsider views the result of a football victory, he sees perhaps
only the bitter look of defeat on the losers' faces, and is at a loss to
understand the loyal spirit of thousands of graduates and undergraduates
who stand and cheer their team after defeat. Such a sight, undoubtedly,
impresses him; but he turns his attention to the triumphant march of the
victorious sympathizers around the field and watches the winners being
borne aloft by hero worshipers; while hats by the thousands are being
tossed over the cross bar of the goal post that carried the winning
play.
The snake dance of thousands of exulting students enlivens the
scene--the spirit of glorious victory breaks loose.
After the Harvard victory in 1908, in the midst of the excitement, a
Harvard graduate got up from his seat, climbed over the fence, put his
derby hat and bull-dog pipe on the grass, walked solemnly out a few
paces, turned two complete handsprings, walked back, put on his hat,
picked up his pipe, climbed solemnly over the fence again and took his
place in the crowd. He was very businesslike about it and didn't say a
word. He had to get it out of his system--that was all. Nobody laughed
at him.
One sees gray-haired men stand and cheer, sing and enthuse over their
Alma Mater's team. For the moment the rest of the world is forgotten.
Tears come with defeat to those on the grandstand, as well as to the
players, and likewise happy smiles and joyous greetings come when
victory crowns the day.
In the midst of a crisis in the game, men and women, old and young,
break over the bounds of conventionality, get acquainted with their seat
mates and share the general excitement. The thrill of victory possesses
them and the old grads embrace each other after a winning touchdown.
There may be certain streets in a college town upon which a freshman is
never seen. It may be that a freshman has to wear a certain kind of cap;
his trousers must not be rolled up at the bottom. And if you should see
a freshman standing on a balcony at night, singing some foolish song,
with a crowd of sophomores standing below, you smile as you realize that
you are witnessing the performance of some college custom.
And if you see a young man dressed in an absurd fantastic costume, going
about the streets of a city, or a quiet college town, it may mean an
initiation into a certain society or club, and you will note that he
does his part with a quiet, earnest look upon his face, realizing that
he is carrying on a tradition which has endured for years.
You hear the seniors singing on the campus, while the whole college
listens. It is their hour. At games you see the cheer leaders take their
places in front of the grandstand, and as they bend and double
themselves into all sorts of shapes, they bring out the cheers which go
to make college spirit strong.
If you were at Yale, on what is known as "Tap Day," you would view in
wonderment the solemnity and seriousness of the occasion. An election to
a senior society is Yale's highest honor. As you sit on the old Yale
fence you realize what it means to Yale men. In the secret life of the
campus men yearn most for this honor and the traditional gathering of
seniors under the oak tree for receiving elections is a college custom
that has all the binding force of a most rigid law.
ALUMNI PARADES
Then come the alumni parades at Commencement. The old timers head the
procession; those who came first, are first in line, and so on down to
the youngest and most recent graduate.
There are many interesting things in the parade, which bring out
specific class peculiarities. In one college you may see gray-haired men
walking behind an immense Sacred Bird, as it is called. This Bird--the
creation of an ingenious mind--is the size of an ostrich and has all the
semblance of life, with many lifelike tricks and habits.
Men dress in all sorts of costumes. This is a day in which each class
has some peculiar part, and all are united in the one big thought that
it is a cherished college custom.
You may see some man with the letter of his college on his sweater,
another may have his class numerals, another may wear a gold football.
These are not ordinary things to be purchased at sporting goods stores;
they are a reward of merit. The college custom has made it so, and if in
some college town the traditions of the university are such that a man,
as he passes the Ma Newell gateway at Cambridge raises his hat in honor
of this great Harvard hero, it is a tradition backed up by a wonderful
spirit of love towards one who has gone. And then on Commencement Day
when the seniors plant their class ivy--that is a token to remain behind
them and flourish long after they are out in the wide, wide world.
College tradition makes it possible for a poor boy to get an education.
The poor fellow may wait on the table, where sit many rich men's sons,
but they may be all chums with him; they are on the same footing; the
campus of one is the campus of the other, and all you can say is "It is
just the way of things--just the way it must be." More power to the man
who works his way through college.
It may be, as fellow college man, you are now recalling some custom that
is carried out on a college street, in a dormitory, in a fraternity
house, perhaps, or a club; perhaps in some boarding house, where you had
your first introduction to a college custom; maybe in the cheapest
rooming house in town you got your first impression of a bold, bad
sophomore. You probably could have given him a good trouncing had he
been alone, and yet you were prepared to take smilingly the hazing
imposed upon you.
Maybe some of you fondly recall a cannon stuck in the ground behind a
historical building where once George Washington had his headquarters.
Around about this traditional monument cluster rich memories as you
review the many college ceremonies enacted there.
Some of you, owing allegiance to a New England Alma Mater, may recall
with smiles and perhaps mischievous satisfaction, the chequered career
of the sculptured Sabrina in her various appearances and disappearances
since the day, now long gone by, when in pedestaled repose she graced
the college flower gardens. The Sabrina tradition is one of the golden
legacies of Amherst life.
In the formation of college spirit and traditions I am not unmindful of
the tremendous moulding power of the college president or the popular
college professors. This is strikingly illustrated in the expression of
an old college man, who said in this connection:
"I don't remember a thing Professor ---- said, but I remember him."
When the graduate of a college has sons of his own, he realizes more
fully than at any other time the great influence of personality upon
youth. He understands better the problems that are faced by boys, and
the great task and responsibility of the faculty.
I know that there are many football men who at different times in their
career have not always praised the work of the college professors, but
now that the games are over they probably look back affectionately to
the men who made them toe the mark, and by such earnestness helped them
through their college career.
It is undoubtedly true that the head masters and teachers in our
preparatory schools and colleges generally appreciate the importance of
developing the whole man, mental, moral and physical.
SCHOOLMASTER AND BOY
Indeed it is a wonderful privilege to work shoulder to shoulder with the
boys in our preparatory schools as well as in our colleges. At a recent
dinner I heard Doctor S. J. McPherson, of the Lawrenceville School,
place before an alumni gathering a sentiment, which I believe is the
sentiment of every worthy schoolmaster in our land.
"Schoolmasters have attractive work and they can find no end of fun in
it. I admit that in a boarding school they should be willing to spend
themselves, eight days in the week and twenty-five hours a day. But no
man goes far that keeps watching the clock. There may be good reasons
for long vacations, but I regard the summer vacation as usually a bore
for at least half the length of it.
"To be worth his salt, a schoolmaster must, of course, have
scholarship--the more the better. But that alone will never make him a
quickening teacher. He must be 'apt to teach,' and must lose himself in
his task if he is to transfuse his blood into the veins of boys. Above
all, he must be a real man and not a manikin, and he must enjoy his
boys--love them, without being quite conscious of the love, or at least
without harping on it.
"The ideal schoolmaster needs five special and spiritual senses: common
sense, the sense of justice, the sense of honor, the sense of youth and
the sense of humor. These five gifts are very useful in every worthy
occupation.
"Gentlemen, none of us schoolmasters has reached the ideal; however, we
reach after it. Nevertheless, we neither need, nor desire your pity. We
do not feel unimportant. Personally, I would not exchange jobs with the
richest or greatest among you. I like my own job. It really looks to me,
bigger and finer. I should rather have the right mold and put the right
stamp on a wholesome boy than to do any other thing. It counts more for
the world and is more nearly immortal. It is worth any man's life."
Another factor in the formation and development of college traditions
and college spirit is the influence of the men who shape the athletic
policy.
When one of the graduates returns to direct the athletic affairs of his
Alma Mater, or those of another college he naturally becomes a potent
influence in the life of the students. Great is his opportunity for
character making. The men all look up to him and the spirit of hero
worship is present everywhere. Such athletic directors are chosen
largely because of their success on the athletic field. And when one can
combine athletic directorship with scholastic knowledge, the combination
is doubly effective.
By association they know the real spirit and patriotic sentiment of the
college men. They appreciate the fact that success in athletics, like
success in life, depends not merely upon training the head, but upon
training the will. Huxley said that:
"The true object of all education, was to develop ability to do the
thing that ought to be done when it ought to be done, whether one felt
like doing it or not."
Prompt obedience to rules and regulations develop character and the
athletic director becomes, therefore, one of the most important of
college instructors. A boy may be a welcher in his classroom work, but
when he gets out on the athletic field and meets the eye of a man who is
bound to get the most out of every player for the sake of his own
reputation, as well as the reputation of the school or college, that boy
finds himself in a new school. It is the school of discipline that
resembles more nearly than anything else the competitive struggle in the
business life of the outside world that he is soon to enter.
Another exceedingly valuable trait that athletic life develops in a
student is the spirit of honorable victory. The player is taught to win,
to be sure, but he is also taught that victory must never overshadow
honor.
Who misses or who wins the prize,
Go lose, or conquer, as you can
But if you fail, or if you rise,
Be each, Pray God, a gentleman.
This tradition and atmosphere cannot be retained in institutions merely
by the efforts of the students. The co-operation of the alumni is
necessary. On this account it is unfortunate that the point of view of
too many college men regarding their Alma Mater is limited to the years
of their own school and college days.
Our universities especially are beginning to learn that this has been a
great mistake and that the continued interest and loyalty of the alumni
are absolutely essential to insure progress and maintain the high
standard of an institution. There is, in other words, a real sense in
which the college belongs to the alumni. The faculty is engaged for a
specific purpose and their great work is made much more profitable by
the hearty co-operation of the old and young graduates who keep in close
touch with the happenings and the spirit of their different alma maters.
One of the best assets in any seat of learning is the constructive
criticism of the alumni. Broad minded faculties invite intelligent
criticism from the graduate body, and they usually get it.
But after all, the real power of enthusiasm behind college traditions
abides in the student body itself. How is this college patriotism
aroused? What are its manifestations? What is it that awakens the desire
for victory with honor, which is the real background of the great
football demonstration that tens of thousands of Americans witness each
year?
As I think back in this connection upon my own college experiences, the
athletic mass meeting stands out in my memory and records the moment
when all that was best and strongest in my fighting spirit and manhood
came out to meet the demand of the athletic leaders. It was at that time
that the thrill and power of college spirit took mighty possession of
me. It might have been the inspiring words of an old college leader
addressing us, or perhaps it was the story of some incident that brought
out the deep significance of the coming game. Indeed I have often
thought that the spirit of loyalty and sacrifice aroused in the breast
of the young man in a college mass meeting springs from the same noble
source as the highest patriotism.
MASS MEETING ENTHUSIASM
How well do I recall the mass meeting held by the undergraduates in
Alexander Hall Thursday night before the Yale game in 1898! The team and
substitutes sat in the front row of seats. There was singing and
cheering that aroused every man in the room to the highest pitch of
enthusiasm. All eyes were focused on the cheer leader as he rehearsed
the cheers and songs for the game, and as the speakers entered behind
him on the platform, they received a royal welcome. There was Johnny
Poe, Alex Moffat, some of the professors, including Jack Hibben, since
president of Princeton, in addition to the coaches.
I can almost hear again their words, as they addressed the gathering.
"Fellows, we are here to-night to get ready to defeat Yale on Saturday.
You men all know how hard the coaches have worked this year to get the
team ready for the last big game. Captain Hillebrand and his men know
that the college is with the team to a man. We are not here to-night to
make college spirit, but we are here to demonstrate it.
"Those of you who saw last year's team go down to defeat at New Haven,
realize that the Princeton team this year has got to square that defeat.
Garry Cochran and the other men who graduated are not here to play. The
burden rests on the shoulders of the men in front of me, this year's
team, and we know what they're going to do.
"It is going to take the hardest kind of work to beat Yale on our own
grounds. We must play them off their feet the first five minutes. I
wonder if you men who are in Princeton to-day truly realize the great
tradition of this dear college. Thousands and thousands of young men
have walked across the same campus you travel. The Princeton of years
gone by, is your Princeton to-day, so let us ever hold a high regard for
those whose places we now occupy.
"Already from far off points, Princeton men are starting back to see the
Yale game--back to their Alma Mater. They're coming back to see the old
rooms they used to live in, and it is up to us to make their visit a
memorable one. You can do that by beating Yale."
George K. Edwards
Many of you men have perhaps heard of the great love for Princeton shown
in the story of the last days of Horse Edwards, Princeton '89. He will
never return to Princeton again. He used to live in East College, long
since torn down. Some years after he left college, he was told that he
had but a few short months to live. He decided to live them out at
Princeton.
One Friday afternoon in the summer of 1897, Horse Edwards arrived in
Princeton from Colorado. He was very weak from his illness. He could
barely raise his hand to wave to the host of old friends who greeted him
as he drove from the station to East College, where his old room had
been arranged as in his college days for his return.
There he was visited by many friends of the old days, who had come back
for Commencement. Old memories were revived. That night he attended his
club dinner, and the following day was wheeled out to the field to see
the baseball game, Princeton beat Yale 16 to 8, and his cup of happiness
was overflowing. On the following Monday Horse Edwards died. He told his
close friends that as long as he had to go, he was happy that he had
been granted his last wish--to die there at Princeton. And his memory is
a treasured college tradition.
Job E. Hedges
Among the men who are always welcome at Princeton mass meetings and
dinners, is Job E. Hedges. I remember what he said at a mass meeting at
Princeton in 1896. He was then secretary to Mayor Strong, in New York,
in which city the game with Yale took place that year.
The scene was in the old gymnasium. Every inch of space was occupied. On
the front seats sat the team and substitutes. Around them and in the
small gallery were the students in mass. Before the team were prominent
alumni, trustees and some members of the faculty. Earnest appeal had
been made by the various speakers tending to arouse the team to a high
point of enthusiasm and courage, and the interest of their alma mater
and of the alumni had been earnestly pictured. Mr. Hedges was called on
as he frequently is at Princeton gatherings and as the usual field had
been fairly covered, his opportunities were limited, without repetition
of what had been said. He addressed the team and substitutes in typical
Princeton fashion and concluded, so far as a record is made of it,
somewhat as follows:
"There is a feeling in the public mind that football games breed
dissipation and are naturally followed by unseemly conduct. We all know
that much of the excitement following football games in New York is due
largely not to college men but others, who take the game as an excuse
and the time as an opportunity to indulge in more or less boisterous
conduct, with freedom from interference usually accorded at that time. I
wish it thoroughly understood that in no way as a Princeton man do I
countenance dissipation, intemperance, boisterous or unseemly conduct.
It may be a comfort for you men to know, however, that I am personally
acquainted with every police magistrate in the City of New York. While I
do not claim to have any influence with them, nor would I try to
exercise it improperly, nevertheless if the team wins and any man should
unintentionally and weakly yield to the strain consequent upon such a
victory, I can be found that night at my residence. Any delinquent will
have my sympathetic and best efforts in his behalf. If, however, the
team loses, and any one goes over the line of propriety, he will have
from me neither sympathy nor assistance and I shall be absent from the
city."
It is related that on the night following the victory, several daring
spirits decorated themselves with cards hung from their necks bearing
this legend, "Don't arrest me, I am a friend of Job Hedges." With these
they marched up and down Broadway and, though laboring under somewhat
strange conditions, were not molested. A full account of this
expeditionary force appeared in the daily papers the next morning and it
is related that there was a brisk conversation between Mr. Hedges and
the mayor, when the former arrived at the City Hall, which took on, not
an orange and black hue, but rather a lurid flame, of which Mayor Strong
was supposed to be but was not the victim.
The net result of the scene, however, was that the team won, there was a
moderate celebration and no Princeton man was arrested.
[Illustration: JOHNNY POE, FOOTBALL PLAYER AND SOLDIER]
CHAPTER XI
JOHNNY POE'S OWN STORY
Johnny Poe was a member of the Black Watch, that famous Scotch Regiment
whose battles had followed the English flag. On the graves of the Black
Watch heroes the sun never sets. Johnny Poe's death came on September
25th, 1915, in the Battle of Loos. Nelson Poe has given me the following
information regarding Johnny's death. It comes direct from Private W.
Faulkner, a comrade who was in the charge when Johnny fell.
In the morning during the attack we went out on a party carrying bombs.
Poe and myself were in this party. We had gone about half way across an
open field when Poe was hit in the stomach. He was then five yards in
front of me and I saw him fall. As he fell he said, 'Never mind me. Go
ahead with our boxes.' On our return for more bombs we found him lying
dead. Shortly after he was buried at a place between the British and
German lines. I have seen his grave which is about a hundred yards to
the left of 'Lone Tree' on the left of Loos. 'Lone Tree' is the only
landmark near. The grave is marked with his name and regiment.
Just what Johnny Poe's heroic finish on the battle field meant to us
here at home is the common knowledge of all football men and indeed of
all sportsmen. There is ample evidence, moreover, that it attracted the
attention of the four corners of the earth. Life in London or Paris was
not all roses to the Americans compelled to remain there at the height
of the war.
Paul Mac Whelan, a Yale man and football writer, had occasion to be in
London shortly after the news of Poe's death in battle was received
there. Talking with Whelan after his return he impressed upon me the
place that Poe had made for himself in the hearts of at least one of the
fighting countries.
"You know," said he, "that at about that time Americans were not very
popular. There seemed to be a feeling everywhere that we should have
been on the firing line. This feeling developed the fashion of polite
jeering to a point that made life abroad uncomfortable until Johnny Poe
fell fighting in the ranks of the Black Watch on the plains of Flanders.
In the dull monotony of the casualty list his name at first slipped by
with scant mention. It was the publication in the United States of the
story of his fighting career which stimulated newspaper interest not
merely in England, but throughout the British Empire. To Australia,
Canada, New Zealand and South Africa--into the farthest corners of the
earth--went the tale of the death of a great American fighter.
"I met one man, a lawyer, on his way to do some peace work, and he told
me that he thought Poe had no right to be in the ranks of a foreign
army. Probably most of the pacifists would have returned the same
verdict regardless of Poe's love for the cause of the Allies. Yet among
the thousands of Americans in Europe in the month following Poe's death,
there was complete unity of opinion that the old Princeton football star
had done more for his country than all the pacifists put together.
"'A toast to the memory of Poe,' said one of the group of Americans in
the Savoy, that famous gathering place of Yankees in London. 'His death
has made living a lot easier for his countrymen who have to be in France
and England during the war.'"
"There is not an army on the continent in which Americans have not died,
but no death in action, not even that of Victor Chapman the famous
American aviator in France, gave such timely proof of American valor as
that of Poe. In London for a month after his death there was talk among
Americans and in the university clubs about raising funds for some
permanent memorial in London to Poe. There are many memorials to
Englishmen in America and it would seem that there is a place and a real
reason for erecting a memorial in London to a fighting American who gave
his life for a cause to England."
I have always treasured, in my football collection, some anecdotes
which Johnny Poe wrote several years ago while in Nevada. In fact, from
reading his stories, after his death, I got the inspiration that
prompted me to write this book.
"The following stories were picked up by me," says Johnny, "through the
course of college years, and after. Some of the incidents I have
actually witnessed, of others my brothers have told me, when we talked
over Princeton victories and defeats with the reasons for both, and
still others I have heard from the lips of Princeton men as they grew
reminiscent sitting around the cozy fireplace in the Trophy room at the
Varsity Club House, with the old footballs, the scores of many a hard
fought Princeton victory emblazoned upon them, and the banners with the
names of the members of the winning teams thereon inscribed looking down
from their places on the walls and ceilings."
How the undergraduates long to have their names enrolled on the
victorious banner, knowing that they will be looked up to by future
college generations of the sons of Old Nassau!
These old banners have much the same effect upon Princeton teams as did
the name of Horatius upon the young Romans'!
And still his name sounds strong unto the men of Rome,
As a trumpet blast which calls to them to charge the Volsian home;
And wives still pray to Juno for boys with hearts as bold
As his who kept the bridge so well
In the brave days of old.
Well do they know that Mother Princeton is not chary of her praise, when
she knows that they have planted her banner on the loftiest tower of her
enemies' stronghold.
The evenings spent in the Trophy room, the Grill Room of the Princeton
Inn and in the hallways around a cheerful fire of the numerous Princeton
clubs make me think of nights in the Mess room of crack British
regiments, so graphically described by Kipling.
The general public cannot understand the seriousness with which college
athletes take the loss of an important game. There is a Princeton
football Captain who was so broken up over a defeat by Yale that, months
after on the cattle range of New Mexico, as he lay out at night on his
cow-boy bed and thought himself unobserved, he fell to sobbing as if his
heart would break.
A football victory to many men is as dearly longed for as any goal of
ambition in life. How else would they strive so fiercely, one side to
take the ball over, the other to prevent them doing so!
Very few of the public hear the exhortation and cursing as the ball
slowly but irresistibly is rushed to the goal of the opponent.
"Billy, if you do that again I'll cut your heart out!"
"Yale, if you ever held, hold now!"
How the calls to victory come back!
As Hughes says in Tom Brown's School Days, a scrimmage in front of the
goal posts, or the Consulship of Plancus, is no child's play.
My earliest Princeton football hero was Alex Moffat '84. My brother
Johnson was in his class and played on the same team, and would often
talk of him to my brothers and to me. He used to give us a sort of
"Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, etc."
Though my brother is a small man, I thought all other Princeton players
must be 9 cubits and a half, or as a reporter once said of Symmes '92,
center rush in Princeton team of '90 and '91, "An animated whale, broad
as the moral law and heavy as the hand of fate." I consider Alex Moffat
the greatest goal kicker college football has produced. One football in
the Princeton Trophy room has on it, "Princeton 26, Harvard 7." In that
game Moffat kicked five goals from the field, three with his right and
two with his left foot, besides the goals from the touchdowns.
A Harvard guard made the remark after the third goal, "We came here to
play football, not to play against phenomenal kicking."
Princeton men cannot help feeling that Moffat should have been allowed a
goal against Yale in his Post-graduate year of '84, which was called
before the full halves had been played and decided a draw, Yale being
ahead, 6 to 4. Princeton claimed it but the Referee said he didn't see
it, which caused Moffat to exclaim--something.
An amusing story is told in connection with this decision. Quite a
number of years after Jim Robinson who was trainer of the Princeton team
in '84, went down to the dock to see his brother off for Europe. Looking
up he beheld on the deck above, the man who had refereed the '84 game,
and whom he had not seen since, "Smith," he said, "I have a brother on
this boat, but I hope she sinks."
Tilly Lamar's name is highly honored at Princeton, not only because he
won the '85 game against Yale by a run of about 90 yards, but because he
died trying to save a girl from drowning. Only a few months later, in
the summer of '91, Fred Brokaw '92, was drowned at Elberon while trying
to save two girls from the ocean. Both Lamar and Brokaw's pictures adorn
the walls of the Varsity Club House.
The first game I ever saw the Princeton Team play was with Harvard in
'88, which the former won 18 to 6. I was in my brother's ('91) room
about three hours and a half before the game, and Jere Black and
Channing, the halfbacks, were there. As Channing left he remarked,
"Something will have happened before I get back to this room again,"
referring to the game, which doubtless made him a bit nervous.
I believe he was no more nervous ten years after, when in the Rough
Riders he waited for word to advance up that bullet swept hill before
Santiago.
'81 was the year so many Divinity students played on the Varsity: Hector
Cowan the great tackle, Dick Hodge the strategist, Sam Hodge, Bob Speer,
and I think Irvine; men all, who as McCready Sykes said, "Feared God and
no one else." Hector Cowan is considered one of the best tackles that
ever wore the Orange and Black jersey. While rough, he was never a dirty
player.
In a game with Wesleyan, his opponent cried out angrily, "Keep your
hands for pounding on your Bible, don't be sticking them in my face."
One day in a game against the Scrub, Cowan had passed everyone except
the fullback and was bearing down on him like a tornado, when within a
few feet of the fullback the latter jumped aside and said politely,
"Pass on, sir, pass on." Cowan played on two winning teams, '85 and '89.
In '89 the eligibility rules at the college were not as strict as now,
so as Princeton needed a tackle, Walter Cash who had played on
Pennsylvania the year before, was sent for and came all the way from
Wyoming. He came so hurriedly that his wardrobe consisted of two
6-shooters and a monte deck of cards, on account of which he was dubbed
"Monte" Cash. Cash was not fond of attending lectures, and once the
faculty had him up before them and told him what a disgrace it would be
if he were dropped out of College. "It may be in the East, but we don't
think much of a little thing like that out West," was his reply. Cash
was in the Rough Riders and was wounded at San Juan.
Sport Donnelly was a great end that year. Heffelfinger the great Yale
guard who is probably the best that ever played, said of Donnelly, that
he was the only player he had ever seen who could slug and keep his eye
on the ball at the same time. The following story is often told of how
Donnelly got Rhodes of Yale ruled off in '89. Rhodes had hit Channing of
Princeton in the eye, so that Donnelly was laying for him, and when
Rhodes came through the line, Donnelly grabbed up two handsful of
mud--it was a very muddy field--and rubbed them in his face and
hollered, "Mr. Umpire," so that when Rhodes, in a burst of righteous
indignation, hit him, the Umpire saw it and promptly ruled Rhodes from
the field.
Snake Ames and House Janeway played that year, and as the latter was
big--210 pounds stripped--and good natured, Ames thought that if he
could only get Janeway angry he would play even better than usual, so,
with Machiavellian craft, he said to him before the Harvard game,
"House, the man you are going to play against to-morrow insulted your
girl. I heard him do it, so you want to murder him." "All right," said
House, ominously, and as Princeton won, 41 to 15, Janeway must certainly
have helped a heap.
George played center for Princeton four years, and for three years "Pa"
Corbin and George played against each other, and, as cow-boys would say,
"sure did chew each other's mane." I don't mean slugged.
My brother Edgar '91 was a great admirer of George. In '88 Edgar was
playing in the scrub, and George broke through and was about to make a
tackle when the former knocked one of his arms down as it was
outstretched to catch it. George missed the tackle but said nothing. A
second time almost identically the same thing occurred. This time he
remarked grimly, "Good trick that, Poe." But when the same thing
happened a third time on the same afternoon, he exclaimed, "Poe, if you
weren't so small, I'd hit you."
In '89 Thomas '90, substitute guard, was highly indignant at the way
some Boston newspaper described him. "The Princeton men were giants, one
in particular was picturesque in his grotesqueness. He was 6 feet 5 and,
when he ran, his arms and legs moved up and down like the piston rods of
an engine."
In '90 Buck Irvine '88 brought an unknown team to Princeton, Franklin
and Marshall, which he coached, and they scored 16 points against the
Tigers. And though the latter won, 33 to 16, still that was the largest
score ever made against Princeton up to that time. They did it, too, by
rushing, which was all the more to their credit.
Victor Harding, Harvard, and Yup Cook, Princeton '89, had played on
Andover and Exeter, respectively, and had trouble then, so four years
later when they met, one on Princeton and the other on Harvard, they had
more trouble. Both were ruled off for rough work. Cook picked Harding up
off the ground and slammed him down and then walked off the field. In a
few minutes Harding, after trying to trip Ames, also was ruled off. That
was the net result of the old Andover-Exeter feud.
In '91 Princeton was playing Rutgers. Those were the days of the old "V"
trick in starting a game. When the Orange and Black guards and centers
tore up the Rutgers' V it was found that the Captain of the latter team
had broken his leg in the crush. He showed great nerve, for while
sitting on the ground waiting for a stretcher, he remarked in a
nonchalant way, "Give me a cigarette. I could die for Old Rutgers," his
tone being "Me first and then Nathan Hale." One version quite prevalent
around Princeton has it that a Tiger player rushed up and exclaimed,
"Die then." This is not true as I played in that game and know whereof I
speak.
Fifteen years after that had happened, I met Phil Brett who had
captained the Rutgers Team that day, and he told me that his life had
been a burden to him at times, and like Job, he felt like cursing God
and dying, because often upon coming into a cafe or even a hotel
dining-room some half drunken acquaintance would yell out, "Hello, Phil,
old man, could you die for dear Old Rutgers?"
Several years ago while in the Kentucky Militia in connection with one
of those feud cases, I was asked by a private if I were related to Edgar
Allan Poe, "De mug what used to write poetry," and when I replied, "Yes,
he was my grandmother's first cousin," he, evidently thinking I was too
boastful, remarked, "Well, man, you've got a swell chance."
So, knowing that the football season is near I think I have a "swell
chance" to tell some of the old football stories handed down at
Princeton from college generation to generation. If I have hurt any old
Princeton players' feelings, I do humbly ask pardon and assure them that
it is unintentional; for as the Indians would put it, my heart is warm
toward them, and, when I die, place my hands upon my chest and put their
hands between my hands.
With apologies to Kipling in his poem when he speaks of the parting of
the Colonial troops with the Regulars:
"There isn't much we haven't shared
For to make the Elis run.
The same old hurts, the same old breaks,
The same old rain and sun.
The same old chance which knocked us out
Or winked and let us through.
The same old joy, the same old sorrow,
Good-bye, good luck to you."
CHAPTER XII
ARMY AND NAVY
When the Navy meets the Army,
When the friend becomes the foe,
When the sailor and the soldier
Seek each other to o'erthrow;
When old vet'rans, gray and grizzled,
Elbow, struggle, push, and shove,
That they may cheer on to vict'ry
Each the service of his love;
When the maiden, fair and dainty,
Lets her dignity depart,
And, all breathless, does her utmost
For the team that's next her heart;
When you see these strange things happen,
Then we pray you to recall
That the Army and Navy
Stand firm friends beneath it all.
There is a distinctive flavor about an Army-Navy football game which,
irrespective of the quality of the contending elevens and of their
relative standing among the high-class teams in any given season, rates
these contests annually as among the "big games" of the year. Tactically
and strategically football bears a close relation to war. That is a
vital reason why it should be studied and applied in our two government
schools.
On the part of the public there is general appreciation of the spirit
which these two academies have brought into the great autumn sport, a
spirit which combines with football per se the color, the martial pomp,
the _elan_ of the military. The merger is a happy one, because football
in its essence is a stern, grim game, a game that calls for
self-sacrifice, for mental alertness and for endurance; all these are
elements, among others, which we commonly associate with the soldier's
calling.
If West Point and Annapolis players are not young men, who, after
graduation, will go out into the world in various civil professions or
other pursuits relating to commerce and industry, they are men, on the
contrary, who are being trained to uphold the honor of our flag at home
or abroad, as fate may decree--fighting men whose lives are to be
devoted to the National weal. It would be strange, therefore, if games
in which those thus set apart participate, were not marked by a quality
peculiarly their own. To far-flung warships the scores are sent on the
wings of the wireless and there is elation or depression in many a
remote wardroom in accordance with the aspect of the news. In lonely
army posts wherever the flag flies word of the annual struggle is
flashed alike to colonel and the budding second lieutenant still with
down on lip, by them passed to the top sergeant and so on to the bottom
of the line.
Every football player who has had the good fortune to visit West Point
or Annapolis, there to engage in a gridiron contest, has had an
experience that he will always cherish. Every team, as a rule, looks
forward to out of town trips, but when an eleven is to play the Army or
the Navy, not a little of the pleasure lies in anticipation.
Mayhap the visitor even now is recalling the officer who met him at the
station, and his hospitable welcome; the thrill that resulted from a
tour, under such pleasant auspices, of the buildings and the natural
surroundings of the two great academies. There was the historic campus,
where so many great Army and Navy men spent their preparatory days. An
inspiration unique in the experience of the visitor was to be found in
the drill of the battalion as they marched past, led by the famous
academy bands.
There arose in the heart of the stranger perhaps, the thought that he
was not giving to his country as much as these young men. Such is the
contagion of the spirit of the two institutions. There is always the
thrill of the military whether the cadets and midshipmen pass to the
urge of martial music in their purely military duties, or in equally
perfect order to the ordinary functions of life, such as the daily
meals, which in the colleges are so informal and in the mess hall are so
precise. Joining their orderly ranks in this big dining-room one comes
upon a scene never to be forgotten.
In the process of developing college teams, an eleven gets a real test
at either of these academies; you get what you go after; they are out to
beat you; their spirit is an indomitable one; your cherished idea that
you cannot be beaten never occurs to them until the final whistle is
blown. Your men will realize after the game that a bruised leg or a lame
joint will recall hard tackling of a player like Mustin of the Navy, or
Arnold of West Point, souvenirs of the dash they put into their play.
Maybe there comes to your mind a recollection of the Navy's fast
offense; their snappy play; the military precision with which their work
is done. Possibly you dream of the wriggling open field running of Snake
Izard, or the bulwark defense of Nichols; or in your West Point
experiences you are reminded of the tussle you had in suppressing the
brilliant Kromer, that clever little quarterback and field general, or
the task of stopping the forging King, the Army's old captain and
fullback.
Not less vivid are the memories of the spontaneous if measured cheering
behind these men--a whole-hearted support that was at once the
background and the incentive to their work. The "Siren Cheer" of the
Navy and the "Long Corps Yell" of the Army still ringing in the ears of
the college invader were proof of the drive behind the team.
I have always counted it a privilege that I was invited to coach at
Annapolis through several football seasons. It was an unrivalled
opportunity to catch the spirit that permeates the atmosphere of this
great Service school and to realize how eagerly the progress of football
is watched by the heroes of the past who are serving wherever duty
calls.
It was there that I met Superintendent Wainwright. His interest in
Annapolis football was keen. Another officer whose friendship I made at
the Academy was Commander Grant, who later was Rear Admiral, Commander
of the Submarine Flotilla. His spirit was truly remarkable. The way he
could talk to a team was an inspiration.
It was during the intermission of a Navy-Carlisle game when the score
was 11 to 6 in Carlisle's favor, that this exponent of fighting spirit
came into the dressing-room and in a talk to the team spared nothing and
nobody. What he said about the White man not being able to defeat the
Indian was typical. As a result of this unique dressing-room scene when
he commanded the Navy to win out over the Indians, his charges came
through to victory by the score of 17-11.
There is no one man at Annapolis who sticks closer to the ship and
around whom more football traditions have grown than Paul Dashiell, a
professor in the Academy. He bore for many years the burden of
responsibility of Annapolis football. His earnest desire has been to
see the Navy succeed. He has worked arduously, and whenever Navy men get
together they speak enthusiastically of the devotion of this former
Lehigh hero, official and rule maker. Players have come and gone; the
call in recent years has been elsewhere, but Paul Dashiell has remained,
and his interest in the game has been manifested by self-denial and hard
work. Defeat has come to him with great sadness, and there are many
games of which he still feels the sting; these come to him as nightmares
in his recollections of Annapolis football history. Great has been his
joy in the Navy's hour of victory.
It was here at Annapolis that I learned something of the old Navy
football heroes. Most brilliant of all, perhaps, was Worth Bagley, a
marvelous punter and great fighter. He lost his life later in the war
with Spain, standing to his duty under open fire on the deck of the
_Winslow_ at Cardenas, with the utter fearlessness that was
characteristic of him.
I heard of the deeds on the football field of Mike Johnson, Trench,
Pearson, McCormack, Cavanaugh, Reeves, McCauley, Craven, Kimball and
Bookwalter. I have played against the great Navy guard Halligan. I saw
developed the Navy players, Long, Chambers, Reed, Nichols and Chip
Smith, who later was in charge of the Navy athletics. He was one of the
best quarterbacks the Navy ever had. I saw Dug Howard grow up from
boyhood in Annapolis and develop into a Navy star; saw him later coach
their teams to victory; witnessed the great playing of Dougherty,
Piersol, Grady and Bill Carpenter, who is no longer on the Navy list.
All these players, together with Norton, Northcroft, Dague, Halsey,
Ingram, Douglas, Jerry Land, Babe Brown and Dalton stand out among those
who have given their best in Army and Navy games.
Young Nichols, who was quarterback in 1912, was a most brilliant ground
gainer. He resigned from the Service early in 1913, receiving a
commission in the British Army. He was wounded, but later returned to
duty only to be killed shortly afterward. Another splendid man.
In speaking of Navy football I cannot pass over the name of W. H.
Stayton, a man whose whole soul seemed to be permeated with Navy
atmosphere, and who is always to be depended upon in Navy matters. The
association that I formed later in life with McDonough Craven and other
loyal Navy football men gave me an opportunity to learn of Annapolis
football in their day.
The list of men who have been invited to coach the Navy from year to
year is a long one. The ideal method of development of an undergraduate
team is by a system of coaching conducted by graduates of that
institution. Such alumni can best preserve the traditions, correct
blunders of other years, and carry through a continuous policy along
lines most acceptable. Graduate coaching exclusively is nearly
impossible for Navy teams, for the graduates, as officers, are stationed
at far distant points, mostly on board ship. Their duties do not permit
of interruption for two months. They cannot be spared from turret and
bridge; from the team work so highly developed at present on shipboard.
Furthermore, their absence from our country sometimes for years, keeps
them out of touch with football generally, and it is impossible for them
to keep up to date--hence the coaching from other institutions.
[Illustration: NORTHCROFT KICKING THE FIELD GOAL ANTICIPATED BY THE NAVY
AND FEARED BY THE ARMY]
Lieutenant Frank B. Berrien was one of the early coaches and an able
one. Immediately afterward Dug Howard for three years coached the team
to victory. The Navy's football future was then turned over to Jonas
Ingram, with the idea of working out a purely graduate system, in the
face of such serious obstacles as have already been pointed out.
One of the nightmares of my coaching experiences was the day that the
Army beat the Navy through the combined effort of the whole Army team
plus the individual running of Charlie Daly. This run occurred at the
very start of the second half. Doc Hillebrand and I were talking on the
side lines to Evarts Wrenn, the Umpire. None of us heard the whistle
blow for the starting of the second half. Before we knew it the Army
sympathizers were on their feet cheering and we saw Daly hitting it up
the field, weaving through the Navy defense.
Harmon Graves, who was coaching West Point that year, has since told me
that the Army coaches had drilled the team carefully in receiving the
ball on a kick-off--with Daly clear back under the goal posts. On the
kick-off, the Navy did just what West Point had been trained to expect.
Belknap kicked a long high one direct to Daly, and then and there began
the carefully prepared advance of the Army team. Mowing down the
oncoming Navy players, the West Point forwards made it possible for
clever Daly to get loose and score a touchdown after a run of nearly the
entire length of the field.
This game stands out in my recollection as one of the most sensational
on record. The Navy, like West Point, had had many victories, but the
purpose of this book is not to record year by year the achievements of
these two institutions, but rather catch their spirit, as one from
without looks in upon a small portion of the busy life that is typical
of these Service schools.
Scattered over the seven seas are those who heard the reveille of
football at Annapolis. From a few old-timers let us garner their
experiences and the effects of football in the Service.
C. L. Poor, one of the veterans of the Annapolis squad, Varsity and
Hustlers, has something to say concerning the effect of football upon
the relationship between officers and men.
"Generally speaking," he says, "it is considered that the relationship
is beneficial. The young officer assumes qualities of leadership and
shows himself in a favorable light to the men, who appreciate his
ability to show them something and do it well. The average young
American, whether himself athletic or not, is a bit of a hero worshipper
towards a prominent athlete, and so the young officer who has good
football ability gets the respect and appreciation of the crew to start
with."
J. B. Patton, who played three years at Annapolis, says of the early
days:
"I entered the Academy in 1895. In those days athletics were not
encouraged. The average number of cadets was less than 200, and the
entrance age was from 14 to 18--really a boys' school. So when an
occasional college team appeared, they looked like old men to us.
"Match games were usually on Saturday afternoon, and all the cadets
spent the forenoon at sail drill on board the _Wyoming_ in Chesapeake
Bay. I can remember spending four hours racing up and down the top
gallant yard with Stone and Hayward, loosing and furling sail, and then
returning to a roast beef dinner, followed by two 45-minute halves of
football.
"One of our best games, as a rule, was with Johns Hopkins University.
Paul Dashiell, then a Hopkins man, usually managed to smuggle one or
more Poes to Annapolis with his team. We knew it, but at that time we
did not object because we usually beat the Hopkins team.
"Another interesting match was with the Deaf Mutes from Kendall College.
It was a standing joke with us that they too frequently smuggled good
football players who were not mutes. These kept silent during the game
and talked with their hands, but frequently when I tackled one hard and
fell on him, I could hear him cuss under his breath."
M. M. Taylor brings us down to Navy football of the early nineties.
"In my day the principal quality sought was beef. Being embryo sailors
we had to have nautical terms for our signals, and they made our
opponents sit up and take notice. When I played halfback I remember my
signals were my order relating to the foremast. For instance,
'Fore-top-gallant clew lines and hands-by-the-halyards' meant that I was
the victim. On the conclusion of the order, if the captain could not
launch a play made at once, he had to lengthen his signal, and sometimes
there would be a string of jargon, intelligible only to a sailor, which
would take the light yard men aloft, furl the sail, and probably cast
reflections on the stowage of the bunt. Anything connected with the
anchor was a kick. The mainmast was consecrated to the left half, and
the mizzen to the fullback.
"In one game our lack of proper uniform worked to our advantage. I was
on the sick list and had turned my suit over to a substitute. I braved
the doctor's disapproval and went into the game in a pair of long
working trousers and a blue flannel shirt. The opposing team,
Pennsylvania, hailed me as 'Little Boy Blue,' and paid no further
attention to me, so that by good fortune I made a couple of scores. Then
they fell upon me, and at the close all I had left was the pants."
J. W. Powell, captain of the '97 team, tells of the interim between
Army-Navy games.
"Our head coach was Johnny Poe," he says, "and he and Paul Dashiell took
charge of the squad. Some of our good men were Rus White, Bill Tardy,
Halligan and Fisher, holding over from the year before. A. T. Graham and
Jerry Landis in the line. A wild Irishman in the plebe class, Paddy
Shea, earned one end position in short order, while A. H. McCarthy went
in at the other wing. Jack Asserson, Bobby Henderson, Louis Richardson
and I made up the backfield. In '95, Princeton had developed their
famous ends back system which was adopted by Johnny Poe and the game we
played that year was built around this system. Johnny was a deadly
tackler and nearly killed half the team with his system of live tackling
practice. This was one of the years in which there was no Army and Navy
game and our big game was the Thanksgiving Day contest with Lafayette.
Barclay, Bray and Rinehart made Lafayette's name a terror in the
football world. The game resulted in an 18 to 6 victory for Lafayette.
"My most vivid recollections of that game are McCarthy's plucky playing
with his hand in a plaster cast, due to a broken bone, stopping Barclay
and Bray repeatedly in spite of this handicap, and my own touchdown,
after a twelve yard run, with Rinehart's 250 pounds hanging to me most
of the way."
I recall a trip that the Princeton team of 1898 made to West Point. It
was truly an attack upon the historical old school in a fashion de luxe.
Alex Van Rensselaer, an old Princeton football captain, invited Doc
Hillebrand to have the Tiger eleven meet him that Saturday morning at
the Pennsylvania Ferry slip in Jersey City. En route to West Point that
morning this old Princeton leader met us with his steam yacht, _The
May_. Boyhood enthusiasm ran high as we jumped aboard. Good fellowship
prevailed. We lunched on board, dressed on board. Upon our arrival at
West Point we were met by the Academy representative and were driven to
the football field.
The snappy work of the Princeton team that day brought victory, and we
attributed our success to the Van Rensselaer transport. Returning that
night on the boat, Doc Hillebrand and Arthur Poe bribed the captain of
_The May_ to just miss connecting with the last train to Princeton, and
as a worried manager sat alongside of Van Rensselaer wondering whether
it were not possible to hurry the boat along a little faster, Van
Rensselaer himself knew what was in Doc's mind and so helped make it
possible for us to rest at the Murray Hill Hotel over night, and not
allow a railroad trip to Princeton mar the luxury of the day.
I have a lot of respect for the football brains of West Point. My lot
has been very happily cast with the Navy. I have generally been on the
opposite side of the field. I knew the strength of their team. I have
learned much of the spirit of the academy from their cheering at Army
and Navy games. Playing against West Point our Princeton teams have
always realized the hard, difficult task which confronted them, and
victory was not always the reward.
Football plays a valued part in the athletic life of West Point. From
the very first game between the Army and the Navy on the plains when the
Middies were victorious, West Point set out in a thoroughly businesslike
way to see that the Navy did not get the lion's share of victories.
If one studies the businesslike methods of the Army Athletic Association
and reads carefully the bulletins which are printed after each game, one
is impressed by the attention given to details.
I have always appreciated what King, '96, meant to West Point football.
Let me quote from the publication of the _Howitzer_, in 1896, the
estimated value of this player at that time:
"King, of course, stands first. Captain for two years he brought West
Point from second class directly into first. As fullback he outplayed
every fullback opposed to him and stands in the judgment of all
observers second only to Brooke of Pennsylvania. Let us read what King
has to say of a period of West Point football not widely known.
"I first played on the '92 team," he says. "We had two Navy games before
this, but they were not much as I look back upon them. At this time we
had for practice that period of Saturday afternoon after inspection.
That gave us from about 3 P. M. on. We also had about fifteen
minutes between dinner and the afternoon recitations, and such days as
were too rainy to drill, and from 5:45 A. M., to 6:05 A. M.
Later in the year when it grew too cold to drill, we had the
time after about 4:15 P. M., but it became dark so early that
we didn't get much practice. We practiced signals even by moonlight.
"Visiting teams used to watch us at inspection, two o'clock. We were in
tight full dress clothes, standing at attention for thirty to forty-five
minutes just before the game. A fine preparation for a stiff contest. We
had quite a character by the name of Stacy, a Maine boy. He was a
thickset chap, husky and fast. He never knew what it was to be stopped.
He would fight it out to the end for every inch. Early in one of the
Yale games he broke a rib and started another, but the more it hurt, the
harder he played. In a contest with an athletic club in the last
non-collegiate game we ever played, the opposing right tackle was
bothering us. In a scrimmage Stacy twisted the gentleman's nose very
severely and then backed away, as the man followed him, calling out to
the Umpire. Stacy held his face up and took two of the nicest punches in
the eyes that I ever saw. Of course, the Umpire saw it, and promptly
ruled the puncher out, just as Stacy had planned.
"Just before the Spanish War Stacy became ill. Orders were issued that
regiments should send officers to the different cities for the purpose
of recruiting. He was at this time not fit for field service, so was
assigned to this duty. He protested so strongly that in some way he was
able to join his regiment in time to go to Cuba with his men. He
participated in all the work down there; and when it was over, even he
had to give in. He was sent to Montauk Point in very bad shape. He
rallied for a time and obtained sick leave. He went to his old home in
Maine, where he died. It was his old football grit that kept him going
in Cuba until the fighting was over.
"No mention of West Point's football would be complete without the name
of Dennis Michie. He is usually referred to as the Father of Football
at the Academy. He was captain of the first two teams we ever had. He
played throughout the Navy game in '91 with ten boils on his back and
neck. He was a backfield man and one of West Point's main line backers.
He was most popular as a cadet and officer and was killed in action at
San Juan, Cuba.
"One of the longest runs when both yards and time are considered ever
pulled off on a football field, was made by Duncan, '95, in our
Princeton game of '93. Duncan got the ball on his 5-yard line on a
fumble, and was well under way before he was discovered. Lott, '96,
later a captain of Cavalry, followed Duncan to interfere from behind.
The only Princeton man who sensed trouble was Doggy Trenchard. He set
sail in pursuit. He soon caught up with Lott and would have caught
Duncan, but for the latter's interference. Duncan finally scored the
touchdown, having made the 105 yards in what would have been fast time
for a Wefers.
"We at West Point often speak of Balliet's being obliged to call on Phil
King to back him up that day, as Ames, one of our greatest centres, was
outplaying him, and of the rage of Phil King, because on every point,
Nolan, '96, tackled him at once and prevented King from making those
phenomenal runs which characterized his playing."
Harmon Graves of Yale is a coach who has contributed much to West
Point's football.
"Harmon Graves is too well known now as coach to need our praise," says
a West Pointer, "but it is not only as a successful coach, but as a
personal friend that he lives in the heart of every member of the team
and indeed the entire corps. There will always be a sunny spot at West
Point for Graves."
In a recent talk with Harmon Graves he showed me a beautifully engraved
watch presented to him by the Cadet Corps of West Point, a treasure
prized.
Of the privileged days spent at West Point Graves writes, as follows:
"Every civilian who has the privilege of working with the officers and
cadets at West Point to accomplish some worthy object comes away a far
better man than when he went there. I was fortunate enough to be asked
by them to help in the establishment of football at the Academy and for
many years I gave the best I had and still feel greatly their debtor.
"At West Point amateur sport flourishes in its perfection, and a very
high standard of accomplishment has been attained in football. There are
no cross-cuts to the kind of football success West Point has worked for:
it is all a question of merit based on competency, accuracy and fearless
execution. Those of us who have had the privilege of assisting in the
development of West Point football have learned much of real value from
the officers and cadets about the game and what really counts in the
make-up of a successful team. It is fair to say that West Point has
contributed a great deal to football generally and has, in spite of many
necessary time restrictions, turned out some of the best teams and
players in the last fifteen years.
"The greatest credit is due to the Army Officers Athletic Association,
which, through its football representatives, started right and then
pursued a sound policy which has placed football at West Point on a firm
basis, becoming the standing and dignity of the institution.
"There have been many interesting and amusing incidents in connection
with football at West Point which help to make up the tradition of the
game there and are many times repeated at any gathering of officers and
cadets. I well remember when Daly, the former Harvard Captain, modestly
took his place as a plebe candidate for the team and sat in the front
row on the floor of the gymnasium when I explained to the squad, and
illustrated by the use of a blackboard, what he and every one else there
knew was the then Yale defense. There was, perhaps, the suggestion of a
smile all around when I began by saying that from then on we were
gathered there for West Point and to make its team a success that season
and not for the benefit of Harvard or Yale. He told me afterwards that
he had never understood the defense as I had explained it. He mastered
it and believed in it, as he won and kept his place on the team and
learned some things from West Point football,--as we all did.
"The rivalry with the Navy is wholesome and intense, as it should be. My
friend, Paul Dashiell, who fully shares that feeling, has much to do
with the success of the Navy team, and the development of football at
the Naval Academy. After a West Point victory at Philadelphia, he came
to the West Point dressing room and offered his congratulations. As I
took his hand, I noted that tears were in his eyes and that his voice
shook. The next year the Navy won and I returned the call. I was feeling
rather grim, but when I found him surrounded by the happy Navy team, he
was crying again and hardly smiled when I offered my congratulation, and
told him that it really made no difference which team won for he cried
anyway.
"The sportsmanship and friendly rivalry which the Army and Navy game
brings out in both branches of the Service is admirable and unique and
reaches all officers on the day of the game wherever in the world they
are. Real preparedness is an old axiom at West Point and it has been
applied to football. There I learned to love my country and respect the
manhood and efficiency of the Army officers in a better way than I did
before. I recall the seasons I have spent there with gratitude and
affection, both for the friends I have made and for the Army spirit."
Siding with the Navy has enabled me to know West Point's strength. Any
mention of West Point's football would be incomplete without the names
of some officers who have not only safeguarded the game at West Point,
but have been the able representatives of the Army's football during
their service there. Such men are, Richmond P. Davis, Palmer E. Pierce,
and W. R. Richardson.
THE WAY THEY HAVE IN THE ARMY
If there is any one man who has permanently influenced football at West
Point that man is H. J. Koehler, for years Master of the Sword at the
Academy. Under his active coaching some of the Army's finest players
were developed. In recent years he has not been a member of the coaching
staff, but he none the less never loses touch with the team and his
advice concerning men and methods is always eagerly sought. By virtue of
long experience at the Academy and because of an aptitude for analysis
of the game itself he has been invaluable in harmonizing practice and
play with peculiar local conditions.
Any time the stranger seeks to delve either into the history or the
constructive coaching of the game at the Academy, the younger men, as
well as the older, will always answer your questions by saying "Go ask
Koehler." Always a hard worker and serious thinker, he is apt to give
an almost nightly demonstration during the season of the foundation
principles of the game.
Not only West Pointers, but also Yale and Princeton men, who had to face
the elevens under Koehler's coaching will remember Romeyn, who, had he
been kicking in the days of Felton, Mahan and the other long distance
artillerists, might well have held his own, in the opinion of Army men.
Nesbitt, Waldron and Scales were among the other really brilliant
players whom Koehler developed. He was in charge of some of the teams
that played the hardest schedules in the history of West Point football.
One year the cadets met Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Columbia, Syracuse and
Penn State. Surely this was a season's work calculated to develop
remarkable men, or break them in the making. Bettison, center, King
Boyers at guard, and Bunker at tackle and half, were among the splendid
players who survived this trial by fire. Casad, Clark and Phillips made
up a backfield that would have been a credit to any of the colleges.
Soon, however, the Army strength was greatly to be augmented by the
acquisition of Charles Dudley Daly, fresh from four years of football at
Harvard. Reputations made elsewhere do not count for much at West Point.
The coaches were glad to have Plebe Daly come out for the squad, but
they knew and he knew quite as well as they, that there are no short
cuts to the big "A." Now began a remarkable demonstration of football
genius. Not only did the former Harvard Captain make the team, but his
aid in coaching was also eagerly sought. An unusual move this, but a
tribute to the new man.
Daly was modesty itself in those days as he has been ever since, even
when equipped with the yellow jacket and peacock feather of the head
coach. As player and as coach and often as the two combined, Daly's
connection with West Point football covered eight years, in the course
of which he never played on or coached a losing team. His record against
the Navy alone is seven victories and one tie, 146 points to 33. His
final year's coaching was done in 1915. From West Point he was sent to
Hawaii, whence he writes me, as follows:
"There are certain episodes in the game that have always been of
particular interest to me, such as Ely's game playing with broken ribs
in the Harvard-Yale game of 1898; Charlie de Saulles' great playing with
a sprained ankle in the Yale-Princeton game of the same year; the
tackling of Bunker by Long of the Navy in the Army-Navy game of
1902--the hardest tackle I have ever seen; and the daring quarterback
work of Johnny Cutler in the Harvard-Dartmouth 1908 game, when he
snatched victory from defeat in the last few minutes of play."
Undoubtedly Daly's deep study of strategy and tactics as used in warfare
had a great deal to do with his continued ascendency as a coach.
Writing to Herbert Reed, one of the pencil and paper football men, with
whom he had had many a long argument over the generalship of the game,
he said in part:
"Football within the limitations of the rules and sportsmanship is a war
game. Either by force or by deception it advances through the opposition
to the goal line, which might be considered the capital of the enemy."
It was in Daly's first year that a huge Southerner, with a pleasant
drawl, turned up in the plebe class. It was a foregone conclusion almost
on sight that Ernest, better known to football men throughout the
country as Pot Graves, would make the Eleven. He not only played the
game almost flawlessly from the start, but he made so thorough a study
of line play in general that his system, even down to the most intimate
details of face to face coaching filed away for all time in that secret
library of football methods at West Point, has come to be known as
Graves' Bible.
Daly, still with that ineradicable love for his own Alma Mater, lent a
page or two from this tome to Harvard, and even the author appeared in
person on Soldiers' Field. The manner in which Graves made personal
demonstration of his teachings will not soon be forgotten by the Harvard
men who had to face Pot Graves.
Graves has always believed in the force mentioned in Daly's few lines
quoted above on the subject of military methods as applied to football.
While always declaring that the gridiron was no place for a fist fight,
he always maintained that stalwarts should be allowed to fight it out
with as little interference by rule as possible. As a matter of fact,
Graves was badly injured in a game with Yale, and for a long time
afterwards hobbled around with a troublesome knee. He knew the man who
did it, but would never tell his name, and he contents himself with
saying "I have no ill will--he got me first. If he hadn't I would have
got him."
A story is told of Graves' impatience with the members of a little
luncheon party, who in the course of an argument on the new football,
were getting away from the fundamentals. Rising and stepping over to the
window of the Officers' Club, he said, with a sleepy smile: "Come here a
minute, you fellows," and, pointing down to the roadway, added, "there's
_my_ team." Looking out of the window the other members of the party saw
a huge steam roller snorting and puffing up the hill.
Among the men who played football with Graves and were indeed of his
type, were Doe and Bunker. Like Graves, Bunker in spite of his great
weight, was fast enough to play in the backfield in those years when
Army elevens were relying so much upon terrific power. Those were the
days when substitutes had very little opportunity. In the final Navy
game of 1902 the same eleven men played for the Army from start to
finish.
In this period of Army football other first-class men were developed,
notably Torney, a remarkable back, Thompson, a guard, and Tom Hammond,
who was later to make a reputation as an end coach. Bunker was still
with this aggregation, an eleven that marched fifty yards for a
touchdown in fifteen plays against the midshipmen. The Army was among
the early Eastern teams to test Eastern football methods against those
of the West, the Cadets defeating a team from the University of Chicago
on the plains.
The West Pointers had only one criticism to make of their visitors, and
it was laconically put by one of the backs, who said:
"They're all-fired fast, but it's funny how they stop when you tackle
them."
In this lineup was A. C. Tipton, at center, to whom belongs the honor of
forcing the Rules Committee to change the code in one particular in
order to stop a maneuver which he invented while in midcareer in a big
game. No one will ever forget how, when chasing a loose ball and
realizing that he had no chance to pick it up, he kicked it again and
again until it crossed the final chalk mark where he fell on it for a
touchdown. Tipton was something of a wrestler too, as a certain
Japanese expert in the art of Jiu-jitsu can testify and indeed did
testify on the spot after the doctors had brought him too.
There was no lowering of the standards in the succeeding years, which
saw the development of players like Hackett, Prince, Farnsworth and
Davis. Those years too saw the rise of such wonderful forwards as W. W.
(Red) Erwin and that huge man from Alaska, D. D. Pullen.
Coming now to more recent times, the coaching was turned over to H. M.
Nelly, assisted by Joseph W. Beacham, fresh from chasing the little
brown brother in the Philippines. Beacham had made a great reputation at
Cornell, and there was evidence that he had kept up with the game at
least in the matter of strategic possibilities, even while in the
tangled jungle of Luzon. He brought with him even more than that--an
uncanny ability to see through the machinery of the team and pick out
its human qualities, upon which he never neglected to play. There have
been few coaches closer to his men than Joe.
Whenever I talk football with Joe Beacham he never forgets to mention
Vaughn Cooper, to whom he gives a large share of the credit for the good
work of his elevens. Cooper was of the quiet type, whose specialty was
defense. These two made a great team.
It was in this period that West Point saw the development of one of its
greatest field generals. There was nothing impressive in the physical
appearance of little H. L. Hyatt. A reasonably good man, ball in hand,
his greatest value lay in his head work. As the West Point trainer said
one day: "I've got him all bandaged up like a leg in a puttee, but from
the neck up he's a piece of ice." The charts of games in which Hyatt ran
the team are set before the squad each year as examples, not merely of
perfect generalship, but of the proper time to violate that generalship
and make it go, a distinction shared by Prichard, who followed in his
footsteps with added touches of his own.
One cannot mention Prichard's name without thinking at once of Merillat,
who, with Prichard, formed one of the finest forward passing
combinations the game has seen. Both at Franklin Field and at the Polo
Grounds this pair brought woe to the Navy.
These stars had able assistance in the persons of McEwan, one of the
greatest centers the game has seen and who was chosen to lead the team
in 1916, Weyand, Neyland and O'Hare, among the forwards, and the
brilliant and sturdy Oliphant in the backfield, the man whose slashing
play against the Navy in 1915 will never be forgotten. Oliphant was of a
most unusual type. Even when he was doing the heaviest damage to the
Navy Corps the midshipmen could not but admire his wonderful work.
What the Hustlers are to Annapolis the Cullom Hall team is to West
Point. It is made up of the leftovers from the first squad and
substitutes. One would travel far afield in search of a team with more
spirit and greater pep in action, whether playing in outside games, or
as their coach would put it, "showing up" the first Eleven. Not
infrequently a player of the highest caliber is developed in this squad
and taken to the first eleven.
The Cullom Hall squad, whose eleven generally manages to clean up some
of the strongest school teams of the Hudson Valley, draws not a little
of its spirit, I think, from the late Lieutenant E. M. Zell, better
known at the Academy as "Jobey." It was a treat to see the Cullom Hall
team marching down the field against the first Eleven with the roly-poly
figure of Jobey in the thick of every scrimmage, coaching at the top of
his lungs, even when bowled over by the interference of his own pupils.
Since his time the squad has been turned over to Lieutenants Sellack and
Crawford, who have kept alive the traditions and the playing spirit of
this unique organization.
Their reward for the bruising, hard work, with hardly a shadow of the
hope of getting their letter, comes in seeing the great game itself.
Like the college scrub teams the hardest rooters for the Varsity are to
be found in their ranks.
Now for the game itself. Always hard fought, always well fought, there
is perhaps no clash of all the year that so wakes the interest of the
general public, that vast throng which, without college affiliations,
is nevertheless hungry for the right of allegiance somewhere, somehow.
While the Service Elevens are superbly supported by the men who have
been through the exacting mill at West Point and Annapolis--their
sweethearts and wives, not to mention sisters, cousins, uncles and
aunts--they are urged on to battle by that great impartial public which
believes that in a sense these two teams belong to it. It is not
uncommon to find men who have had no connection with either academy in
hot argument as to the relative merits of the teams.
Once in the stands some apparently trifling thing begets a partisanship
that this class of spectator is wont to wonder at after it is all over.
Whether in Philadelphia in the earlier history of these contests on
neutral ground, or in New York, Army and Navy Day has become by tacit
consent the nearest thing to a real gridiron holiday. For the civilian
who has been starved for thrilling action and the chance to cheer
through the autumn days, the jam at the hotels used as headquarters by
the followers of the two elevens satisfies a yearning that he has
hitherto been unable to define. There too, is found a host of old-time
college football men and coaches who hold reunion and sometimes even
bury hatchets. Making his way through the crowds and jogging elbows with
the heroes of a sport that he understands only as organized combat he
becomes obsessed with the spirit of the two fighting institutions.
Once in possession of the coveted ticket he hies himself to the field as
early as possible, if he is wise, in order to enjoy the preliminaries
which are unlike those at any other game. Soon his heart beats faster,
attuned to the sound of tramping feet without the gates. The measured
cadence swells, draws nearer, and the thousands rise as one, when first
the long gray column and then the solid ranks of blue swing out upon the
field. The precision of the thing, the realization that order and system
can go so far as to hold in check to the last moment the enthusiasms of
these youngsters thrills him to the core. Then suddenly gray ranks and
blue alike break for the stands, there to cut loose such a volume of now
orderly, now merely frenzied noise as never before smote his ears.
It is inspiration and it is novelty. The time, the place and the men
that wake the loyalty dormant in every man which, sad to say, so seldom
has a chance of expression.
Around the field are ranged diplomat, dignitary of whatsoever rank, both
native and foreign. In common with those who came to see, as well as to
be seen--and who does not boast of having been to the Army-Navy
game--they rise uncovered as the only official non-partisan of football
history enters the gates--the President of the United States. Throughout
one half of the game he lends his support to one Academy and in the
intermission makes triumphal progress across the field, welcomed on his
arrival by a din of shouting surpassing all previous effort, there to
support their side.
[Illustration: CADETS AND MIDDIES ENTERING THE FIELD]
It is perhaps one of those blessed hours in the life of a man upon whom
the white light so pitilessly beats, when he can indulge in the popular
sport, to him so long denied, of being merely human.
Men, methods, moods pass on. The years roll by, taking toll of every one
of us from highest to lowest. Yet, whether we are absorbed in the game
of games, or whether we look upon it as so many needs must merely as a
spectacle, the Army-Navy game will remain a milestone never to be
uprooted. I have spoken elsewhere and at length of football traditions.
The Army-Navy game is not merely a football tradition but an American
institution. It is for all the people every time.
May this great game go on forever, serene in its power to bring out the
best that is in us, and when the Great Bugler sounds the silver-sweet
call of taps for all too many, there will still be those who in their
turn will answer the call of reveille to carry on the traditions of the
great day that was ours.
CHAPTER XIII
HARD LUCK IN THE GAME
It is as true in football, as it is in life, that we have no use for a
quitter. The man who shirks in time of need--indeed there is no part in
this chapter or in this book for such a man. Football was never made for
him. He is soon discovered and relegated to the side line. He is hounded
throughout his college career, and afterwards he is known as a man who
was yellow. As Garry Cochran used to say:
"If I find any man on my football squad showing a white feather, I'll
have him hounded out of college."
Football is a game for the man who has nerve, and when put to the test,
under severe handicap, proves his sterling worth.
A man has to be game in spirit. A man has to give every inch there is in
him. Optimism should surround him. There is much to be gained by hearty
co-operation of spirit. There is much in the thought that you believe
your team is going to win; that the opposing team cannot beat you; that
if your opponent wins, it is going to be over your dead body. This sort
of spirit is contagious, and generally passes from one to the other,
until you have a wonderful team spirit, and eleven men are found
fighting like demons for victory. Such a spirit generally means a
victory, and so gets its reward. There must be no dissenting spirit. If
there is such a spirit discernible, it should be weeded out immediately.
Some years ago the Princeton players were going to the field house to
dress for the Harvard game. The captain and two of the players were
walking ahead of the rest of the members of the team. The game was under
discussion, when the captain overheard one of the players behind him
remark:
"I believe Harvard will win to-day."
Shocked by this remark, the captain, who was one of those thoroughbreds
who never saw anything but victory ahead, full of hope and confidence in
his team, turned and discovered that the remark came from one of his
regular players. Addressing him, he said:
"Well! If you feel that way about it, you need not even put on your
suit. I have a substitute, who is game to the core. He will take your
place."
It is true that teams have been ruined where the men lack the great
quality of optimism in football. When a man gets in a tight place, when
the odds are all against him, there comes to him an amazing superhuman
strength, which enables him to work out wonders. At such a time men have
been known to do what seemed almost impossible.
I recall being out in the country in my younger days and seeing a man,
who had become irrational, near the roadside, where some heavy logs were
piled. This man, who ordinarily was only a man of medium strength, was
picking up one end of a log and tossing it around--a log, which,
ordinarily, would have taken three men to lift. In the bewildering and
exciting problems of football, there are instances similar to this,
where a small man on one team, lined up against a giant in the opposing
rush line, and game though handicapped in weight there comes to him at
such a time a certain added strength, by which he was able to handle
successfully the duty which presented itself to him.
I have found it to be the rule rather than the exception, that the big
man in football did not give me the most trouble; it was the man much
smaller than myself. Other big linemen have found it to be true. Many a
small man has made a big man look ridiculous.
Bill Caldwell, who used to weigh over 200 pounds when he played guard on
the Cornell team some years ago, has this to say:
"I want to pay a tribute to a young man who gave me my worst seventy
minutes on the football field. His name was Payne. He played left guard
for Lehigh. He weighed about 145 pounds; was of slight build and seemed
to have a sort of sickly pallor. I have never seen him since, but I take
this occasion to say this was the greatest little guard I ever met. At
least he was great that day. Payne had been playing back of the line
during part of the season, but was put in at guard against me. I had a
hunch that he was going to bite me in the ankle, when he lined up the
first time, for he bristled up and tore into me like a wild cat. I have
met a goodish few guards in my day, and was accustomed to almost any
form of warfare, but this Payne went around me, like a cooper around a
barrel, and broke through the line and downed the runners in their
tracks. On plunges straight at him, he went to the mat and grabbed every
leg in sight and hung on for dear life. He darted through between my
legs; would vault over me; what he did to me was a shame. He was not
rough, but was just the opposite. I never laid a hand on him all the
afternoon. He would make a world beater in the game as it is played
to-day."
Whenever Brown University men get together and speak of their wonderful
quarterbacks, the names of Sprackling and Crowther are always mentioned.
Both of these men were All-American quarterbacks. Crowther filled the
position after Sprackling graduated. He weighed only 134 pounds, but he
gave everything he had in him--game, though handicapped in weight. In
the Harvard game of that year, about the middle of the second half,
Haughton sent word over to Robinson, the Brown coach, that he ought to
take the little fellow out; that he was too small to play football, and
was in danger of being seriously injured. Crowther, however, was like an
India-rubber ball and not once during the season had he received any
sort of injury. Robby told Crowther what Haughton had suggested, and
smiling, the latter said:
"Tell him not to worry about me; better look out for himself."
On the next play Crowther took the ball and went around Harvard's end
for forty yards, scoring a touchdown. After he had kicked the goal, the
little fellow came over to the side line, and said to Robby:
"Send word over to Haughton and ask him how he likes that. Ask him if he
thinks I'm all in? Perhaps he would like to have me quit now."
In the Yale game that year Crowther was tackled by Pendleton, one of the
big Yale guards. It so happened that Pendleton was injured several times
when he tackled Crowther and time had to be taken out. Finally the big
fellow was obliged to quit, and as he was led off the field, Crowther
hurried over to him, reaching up, placed his hands on his shoulder and
said:
"Sorry, old man! I didn't mean to hurt you." Pendleton, who weighed well
over 200 pounds, looked down upon the little fellow, but said never a
word.
It is most unpleasant to play in a game where a man is injured. Yet
still more distressing when you realize that you yourself injured
another player, especially one of your own team mates.
In the Brown game of 1898, at Providence, Bosey Reiter, Princeton's star
halfback, made a flying tackle of a Brown runner. The latter was
struggling hard, trying his best to get away from Reiter. At this moment
I was coming along and threw myself upon the Brown man to prevent his
advancing further. In the mixup my weight struck Bosey and fractured his
collar-bone. It was a severe loss to the team, and only one who has had
a similar experience can appreciate my feelings, as well as the team's,
on the journey back to Princeton.
We were to play Yale the following Saturday at Princeton. I knew
Reiter's injury was so serious that he could not possibly play in that
game.
The following Saturday, as that great football warrior lay in his bed at
the infirmary, the whistle blew for the start of the Yale game. We all
realized Reiter was not there: not even on the side lines, and Arthur
Poe said, at the start of the game:
"Play for Bosey Reiter. He can't play for himself to-day."
This spurred us on to better team work and to victory. The attendants at
the hospital told us later that they never had had such a lively
patient. He kept things stirring from start to finish of the gridiron
battle. As the reports of the game were brought to him, he joined in
the thrill of the play.
"My injury proved a blessing," says Reiter, "as it gave me an extra
year, for in those days a year did not count in football, unless you
played against Yale, and when I made the touchdown against Yale the
following season, it was a happy moment for me."
All is not clear sailing in football. The breaks must come some time.
They may come singly or in a bunch, but whenever they do come, it takes
courage to buck the hard luck in the game. Just when things get nicely
under way one of the star players is injured, which means the systematic
team work is handicapped. It is not the team, as a whole that I am
thinking of, but the pangs of sorrow which go down deep into a fellow's
soul, when he finds that he is injured; that he is in the hands of the
doctor. It is then he realizes that he is only a spoke in the big wheel;
that the spirit of the game puts another man in his place. The game goes
on. Nature is left to do her best for him.
Let us for a while consider the player who does not realize, until after
the game is over, that he is hurt. It is after the contest, when the
excitement has ceased, when reaction sets in, that a doctor and trainer
can take stock of the number and extent of casualties.
When such injured men are discovered, at a time like that, we wonder how
they ever played the game out. In fact the man never knew he was
injured until the game was over. No more loyal supporter of football
follows the big games than Reggi Wentworth, Williams, '91.
He is most loyal to Bill Hotchkiss, Williams '91.
"At Williamstown, one year," Wentworth says, "Hotchkiss, who was a
wonderful all round guard, probably as great a football player as ever
lived (at least I think so) played with the Williams team on a field
covered with mud and snow three inches deep. The game was an unusually
severe one, and Hotchkiss did yeoman's work that day.
"As we ran off the field, after the game, I happened to stop, turned,
and discovered Hotchkiss standing on the side of the field, with his
feet planted well apart, like an old bull at bay. I went back where he
was and said:
"'Come on, Bill, what's the matter?'
"'I don't know,' said he. 'There's something the matter with my ankles.
I don't think I can walk.'
"He took one step and collapsed. I got a boy's sled, which was on the
field, laid Hotchkiss on it and took him to his room, only to find that
both ankles were sprained. He did not leave his room for two weeks and
walked with crutches for two weeks more. It seemed almost unbelievable
that a man handicapped as he was could play the game through. Splints
and ankle braces were unknown in those days. He went on the field with
two perfectly good ankles. How did he do it?"
Charles H. Huggins, of Brown University, better known perhaps, simply as
"Huggins of Brown," recalls a curious case in a game on Andrews Field:
"Stewart Jarvis, one of the Brown ends, made a flying tackle. As he did
so, he felt something snap in one of his legs. We carried him off to the
field house, making a hasty investigation. We found nothing more
apparent than a bruise. I bundled him off to college in a cab; gave him
a pair of crutches; told him not to go out until our doctor could
examine the injury at six o'clock that evening. When the doctor arrived
at his room, Jarvis was not there. He had gone to the training table for
dinner. The doctor hurried to the Union dining-room, only to find that
Jarvis had discarded the crutches and with some of the boys had gone out
to Rhodes, then, as now, a popular resort for the students. Later, we
learned that he danced several times. The next morning an X-ray clearly
showed a complete fracture of the tibia.
"How it was possible for a man, with a broken leg, to walk around and
dance, as he did, is more than I can fathom."
What is there in a man's make-up that leads him to conceal from the
trainer an injury that he receives in a game; that makes him stay in the
field of play? Why is it that he disregards himself, and goes on in the
game, suffering physical as well as mental tortures, plucky though
handicapped? The playing of such men is extended far beyond the point of
their usefulness. Yes, even into the danger zone. Such men give
everything they have in them while it lasts. It is not intelligent
football, however, and what might be called bravery is foolishness after
all. It is an unwritten law in football that a fresh substitute is far
superior to a crippled star. The keen desire to remain in the game is so
firmly fixed in his mind that he is willing to sacrifice himself, and at
the same time by concealing his injury from the trainer and coaches he,
unconsciously, is sacrificing his team; his power is gone.
One of the greatest exhibitions of grit ever seen in a football game was
given by Harry Watson of Williams in a game at Newton Center between
Williams and Dartmouth. He was knocked out about eight times but
absolutely refused to leave the field.
Another was furnished by W. H. Lewis, the Amherst captain and center
rush, against Williams in his last game at Amherst--the score was 0-0 on
a wet field. Williams was a big favorite but Lewis played a wonderful
game, and was all over the field on the defense. When the game was over
he was carried off, but refused to leave the field until the final
whistle.
One of the most thrilling stories of a man who was game, though
handicapped, is told by Morris Ely, quarterback for Yale, 1898.
"My most vivid recollection of the Harvard-Yale game of 1898 is that
Harvard won by the largest score Yale had ever been beaten by up to that
time, 17 to 0. Next, that the game seemed unusually long. I believe I
proved a good exponent of the theory of being in good condition. I
started the game at 135 pounds, in the best physical condition I have
ever enjoyed, and while I managed to accumulate two broken ribs, a
broken collar-bone and a sprained shoulder, I was discharged by the
doctor in less than three weeks as good as ever.
"I received the broken ribs in the first half when Percy Jaffrey fell on
me with a proper intention of having me drop a fumbled ball behind our
goal line, which would have given Harvard an additional touchdown
instead of a touchback. I did not know just what had gone wrong but
tried to help it out by putting a shin guard under my jersey over the
ribs during the intermission. No one knew I was hurt.
"In the second half I tried to stop one of Ben Dibblee's runs on a punt
and got a broken collar-bone, but not Dibblee. About the end of the game
we managed to work a successful double pass and I carried the ball to
Harvard's ten-yard line when Charlie Daly, who was playing back on
defense, stopped any chance we had of scoring by a hard tackle. There
was no getting away from him that day, and as I had to carry the ball
in the wrong arm with no free arm to use to ward him off, I presume, I
got off pretty well with only a sprained shoulder. The next play ended
the game, when Stub Chamberlin tried a quick place goal from the field
and, on a poor pass and on my poor handling of the ball, hit the goal
post and the ball bounded back. I admit that just about that time the
whistle sounded pretty good as apparently the entire Harvard team landed
on us in their attempt to block a kick."
Val Flood, once a trainer at Princeton, recalls a game at New Haven,
when Princeton was playing Yale:
"Frank Bergen was quarterback," he says. "I saw he was not going right,
and surprised the coaches by asking them to make a change. They asked me
to wait. In a few minutes I went to them again, with the same result. I
came back a third time, and insisted that he be taken out. A substitute
was put in. I will never forget Bergen's face when he burst into tears
and asked me who was responsible for his being taken out. I told him I
was. It almost broke his heart, for he had always regarded me as a
friend. I knew how much he wanted to play the game out. He lived in New
Haven. When the doctor examined him, it was found that he had three
broken ribs. There was great danger of one of them piercing his lungs
had he continued in the game. Of course, there are lots of boys that
are willing to do such things for their Alma Mater, but the gamest of
all is the man who, with a broken neck to start with, went out and put
in four years of college football. I refer to Eddie Hart, who was not
only the gamest, but one of the strongest, quickest, cleanest men that
ever played the game, and any one who knows Eddie Hart and those who
have seen him play, know that he never saved himself but played the game
for all it was worth. He was the life and spirit of every team he ever
played on at Exeter or Princeton."
Ed Wylie, an enthusiastic Hill School Alumnus, football player at Hill
and Yale, tells the following anecdote:
"The nerviest thing I ever saw in a football game was in the
Hill-Hotchkiss 0 to 0 game in 1904. At the start of the second half,
Arthur Cable, who was Hill's quarterback, broke his collar-bone. He
concealed the fact and until the end of the game, no one knew how badly
he was hurt. He was in every play, and never had time called but once.
He caught a couple of punts with his one good arm and every other punt
he attempted to catch and muffed he saved the ball from the other side
by falling on it. In the same game, a peculiar thing happened to me. I
tackled Ted Coy about fifteen minutes before the end of the game, and
until I awoke hours later, lying in a drawing-room car, pulling into
the Grand Central Station, my mind was a blank. Yet I am told the last
fifteen minutes of the game I played well, especially when our line was
going to pieces. I made several gains on the offensive, never missed a
signal and punted two or three times when close to our goal line."
No less noteworthy is the spirit of a University of Pennsylvania player,
who was handicapped during his gridiron career with Penn' by many severe
injuries. This man had worked as hard as any one possibly could to make
the varsity for three years. His last year was no different from
previous seasons; injuries always worked against him. In his final year
he had broken his leg early in the season. A short time before the
Cornell game he appeared upon the field in football togs, full of spirit
and determined to get in the game if they needed him. This was his last
chance to play on the Penn' team.
I was an official in that game. Near its close I saw him warming up on
the side line. His knee was done up in a plaster cast. He could do
nothing better than hobble along the side lines, but in the closing
moments when Penn' had the game well in hand, a mighty shout went up
from the side lines, as that gallant fellow, who had been handicapped
all during his football career, rushed out upon the field to take his
place as the defensive halfback. Cornell had the ball, and they were
making a tremendous effort to score. The Cornell captain, not knowing
of this man's physical condition, sent a play in his direction. The
interference of the big red team crashed successfully around the Penn'
end and there was left only this plucky, though handicapped player,
between the Cornell runner and a touchdown.
Putting aside all personal thought, he rushed in and made a wonderful
tackle. Then this hero was carried off the field, and with him the
tradition of one who was willing to sacrifice himself for the sport he
loved.
Andy Smith, a former University of Pennsylvania player, was a man who
was game through and through. He seemed to play better in a severe game,
when the odds were against him. Smith had formerly been at Pennsylvania
State College. In a game between Penn' State and Dartmouth, Fred
Crolius, of Dartmouth, says of Smith:
"Andy Smith was one of the gamest men I ever played against. This big,
determined, husky offensive fullback and defensive end, when he wasn't
butting his head into our impregnable line, was smashing an interference
that nearly killed him in every other play. Battered and bruised he kept
coming on, and to every one's surprise he lasted the entire game. Years
afterward he showed me the scars on his head, where the wounds had
healed, with the naive remark: 'Some team you fellows had that year,
Fred.' Some team was right. And we all remember Andy and his own
individual greatness."
There is no finer, unselfish spirit brought out in football, than that
evidenced in the following story, told by Shep Homans, an old time
Princeton fullback:
"A young fellow named Hodge, who was quarterback on the Princeton scrub,
was making a terrific effort to play the best he could on the last day
of practice before the Yale game. He had hoped even at the last hour
that the opportunity might be afforded him to be a substitute quarter in
the game. However, his leg was broken in a scrimmage. As he lay on the
ground in great pain, realizing what had happened and forgetting
himself, he looked up and said:
"'I'm mighty glad it is not one of the regulars who is hurt, so that our
chance against Yale will not be affected.'"
Crolius, one of the hardest men to stop that Dartmouth ever had, tells
of Arthur Poe's gameness, when they played together on the Homestead
Athletic Club team, after they left college. "Arthur Poe was about as
game a man as the football world ever saw. He was handicapped in his
playing by a knee which would easily slip out of place. We men who
played with him on the Homestead team were often stopped after Arthur
had made a magnificent tackle and had broken up heavy interference, with
this quiet request:
"'Pull my bum knee back into place.'
"After this was done, he would jump up and no one would ever know that
it had been out. This man, who perhaps was the smallest man playing at
that time, was absolutely unprotected. His suit consisted of a pair of
shoes, stockings, unpadded pants, jersey and one elastic knee bandage."
Mike Donohue, a Yale man who had been coach at Auburn for many years,
vouches for the following story:
When Mike went to Auburn and for several years thereafter he had no one
to assist him, except a few of the old players, who would drop in for a
day or so during the latter part of the season. One afternoon Mike
happened to glance down at the lower end of the field where a squad of
grass-cutters (the name given to the fourth and fifth teams) were
booting the ball around, when he noticed a pretty good sized boy who was
swinging his foot into the ball with a good stiff leg and was kicking
high and getting fine distance. Mike made a mental note of this fact and
decided to investigate later, as a good punter was very hard to find.
Later in the afternoon he again looked towards the lower end of the
field and saw that the grass-cutters were lining up for a scrimmage
among themselves, using that part of the field, which was behind the
goal post, so he dismissed the squad with which he had been working and
went down to see what the boy he had noticed early in the afternoon
really looked like. When he arrived he soon found the boy he was looking
for. He was playing left end and Mike immediately noticed that he had
his right leg extended perfectly straight behind him. Stopping the play,
Mike went over to the fellow and slapping him on the back said:
"Don't keep that right leg stiff behind you like that. Pull it up under
you. Bend it at the knee so you can get a good start."
With a sad expression on his face, and tears almost in his eyes, the boy
turned to Mike and said:
"Coach, that damn thing won't bend. It's wood."
Vonalbalde Gammon, one of the few players who met his death in an
intercollegiate game, lived at Rome, Georgia, and entered the University
of Georgia in 1896. He made the team his first year, playing quarterback
on the eleven which was coached by Pop Warner and which won the Southern
championship. He received the injury which caused his death in the
Georgia-Virginia game, played in Atlanta, Georgia, on October 30th,
1897. He was a fine fellow personally and one of the most popular men at
the University. As a football player, he was an excellent punter, a
good plunger, and a strong defensive man. On account of his kicking and
plunging ability he was moved to fullback in his second year.
In the Virginia game he backed up the line on the defense. All that
afternoon he worked like a Trojan to hold in check the powerful masses
Virginia had been driving at the tackles. Early in the second half Von
dove in and stopped a mass aimed at Georgia's right tackle, but when the
mass was untangled, he was unable to get up. An examination showed that
he was badly hurt. In a minute or two, however, he revived and was set
on his feet and was being taken from the field by Coach McCarthy, when
Captain Kent, thinking that he was not too badly hurt to continue in the
game, said to him:
"Von, you are not going to give up, are you?"
"No, Bill," he replied, "I've got too much Georgia grit for that."
These were his last words, for upon reaching the side lines he lapsed
into unconsciousness and died at two o'clock the next morning.
Gammon's death ended the football season that year at the University. It
also came very near ending football in the State of Georgia, as the
Legislature was in session, and immediately passed a bill prohibiting
the playing of the game in the State.
However, Mrs. Gammon--Von's mother--made a strong, earnest and personal
appeal to Governor Atkinson to veto the bill, which he did.
Had it not been for Mrs. Gammon, football would certainly have been
abolished in the State of Georgia by an act of the Legislature of 1897.
I knew a great guard whose whole heart was set on making the Princeton
team, and on playing against Yale. This man made the team. In a
Princeton-Columbia game he was trying his best to stop that wonderful
Columbia player, Harold Weekes, who with his great hurdling play was
that season's sensation. In his hurdling he seemed to take his life in
his hands, going over the line of the opposing team feet first. When the
great guard of the Princeton team to whom I refer tried to stop Weekes,
his head collided with Weekes' feet and was badly cut.
The trainer rushed upon the field, sponged and dressed the wound and the
guard continued to play. But that night it was discovered that blood
poisoning had set in. There was gloom on the team when this became
known. But John Dana, lying there injured in the hospital, and knowing
how badly his services were needed in the coming game with Yale, with
his ambition unsatisfied, used his wits to appear better than he really
was in order to get discharged from the hospital and back on the team.
The physician who attended him has told me since that Dana would keep
his mouth open slyly when the nurse was taking his temperature so that
it would not be too high and the chart would make it appear that he was
all right.
At any rate, he seemed to improve steadily, and finally reported to the
trainer, Jim Robinson, two days before the Yale game. He was full of
hope and the coaches decided to have Robinson give him a try-out, so
that they could decide whether he was as fit as he was making it appear
he was.
I shall never forget watching that heroic effort, as Robinson took him
out behind the training house, to make the final test. With a head-gear,
especially made for him, Dana settled down in his regular position,
ready for the charge, anticipating the oncoming Yale halfback and
throbbing with eagerness to tackle the man with the ball.
Then he plunged forward, both arms extended, but handicapped by his
terrible injury, he toppled over upon his face, heart-broken. The spirit
was there, but he was physically unfit for the task.
The Yale game started without Dana, and as he sat there on the side
lines and saw Princeton go down to defeat, he was overcome with the
thought of his helplessness. He was needed, but he didn't have a chance.
CHAPTER XIV
BRINGING HOME THE BACON
Happy is the thought of victory, and while we realize that there should
always be eleven men in every play, each man doing his duty, there
frequently comes a time in a game, when some one man earns the credit
for winning the game, and brings home the bacon. Maybe he has been the
captain of the team, with a wonderful power of leadership which had held
the Eleven together all season and made his team a winning one. From the
recollections of some of the victories, from the experiences of the men
who participated in them and made victory possible, let us play some of
those games over with some of the heroes of past years.
Billy Bull
One of the truly great bacon-getters of the past is Yale's Billy Bull.
Football history is full of his exploits when he played on the Yale team
in '85, '86, '87 and '88. Old-time players can sit up all night telling
stories of the games in which he scored for Yale. His kicking proved a
winning card and in happy recollection the old-timers tell of Bull, the
hero of many a game, being carried off the field on the shoulders of an
admiring crowd of Yale men after a big victory.
"In the course of my years at Yale, six big games were played," says
Bull, "four with Princeton and two with Harvard. I was fortunate in
being able to go through all of them, sustaining no injury whatsoever,
except in the last game with Princeton. In this game, Channing came
through to me in the fullback position and in tackling him I received a
scalp wound which did not, however, necessitate my removal from the
game.
"Of the six games played, only one was lost, and that was the Lamar game
in the fall of '85. In the five games won I was the regular kicker in
the last three, and, in two of these, kicking proved to be the deciding
factor. Thus in '87--Yale 17, Harvard 8--two place kicks and one drop
kick were scored in the three attempts, totaling nine points.
Considering the punting I did that day, and the fact that both
place-kicks were scored from close to the side lines, I feel that that
game represents my best work.
"The third year of my play was undoubtedly my best year; in fact the
only year in which I might lay claim to being anything of a kicker. Thus
in the Rutgers game of '87 I kicked twelve straight goals from
placement. Counting the two goals from touchdowns against Princeton I
had a batting average of 1000 in three games.
"Through the last year I was handicapped with a lame kicking leg and
was out of form, for in the final game with Princeton that year, '88, I
tried at least four times before scoring the first field goal of the
game. In the second half I had but one chance and that was successful.
This was the 10-0 game, in which all the points were scored by kicking,
although the ground was wet and slippery.
"It is of interest to note, in connection with drop-kicking in the old
days, that the proposition was not the simple matter it is to-day. Then,
the ball had to go through the quarter's hands, and the kicker in
consequence had so little time in which to get the ball away that he was
really forced to kick in his tracks and immediately on receipt of the
ball. Fortunately I was able to do both, and I never had a try for a
drop blocked, and only one punt, the latter due to the fact that the
ball was down by the side line, and I could not run to the left (which
would have taken me out of bounds) before kicking.
"Perhaps one of the greatest sources of satisfaction to me, speaking of
punting in particular, was the fact that I was never blocked by
Princeton. And yet it was extremely fortunate for me that I was a
left-footed kicker and thus could run away from Cowan, who played a left
tackle before kicking. If I had had to use my right foot I doubt if I
could have got away with anything, for Cowan was certainly a wonderful
player and could get through the Yale line as though it were paper. He
always brought me down, but always after the ball had left my foot. I
know that it has been thought at Princeton that I stood twelve yards
back from the line when kicking. This was not so. Ten yards was the
regular distance, always. But, I either kicked in my tracks or directly
after running to the left."
THE DAY COLUMBIA BEAT YALE
Columbia men enthusiastically recall the day Columbia beat Yale. A
Columbia man who is always on hand for the big games of the year is
Charles Halstead Mapes, the ever reliable, loyal rooter for the game. He
has told the tale of this victory so wonderfully well that football
enthusiasts cannot but enjoy this enthusiastic Columbia version.
"Fifteen years ago Yale was supreme in football," runs Mapes' story.
"Occasionally, but only very occasionally, one of their great rivals,
Princeton or Harvard, would win a game from them, but for any outsider,
anybody except one of the 'Eternal Triangle,' to beat Yale was out of
the question--an utter impossibility. And, by the way, that Triangle at
times got almost as much on the nerves of the outside public as the
Frenchmen's celebrated three--wife, husband, lover--the foundation of
their plays.
"The psychological effect of Yale's past prestige was all-powerful in
every game. The blue-jerseyed figures with the white Y would tumble
through the gate and spread out on the field; the stands would rise to
them with a roar of joyous welcome that would raise the very
skies--Y-a-l-e! Y-a-l-e! Y--A--L--E!
[Illustration: TWO ACES--BILL MORLEY AND HAROLD WEEKS]
"'Small wonder that each man was right on his toes, felt as though he
were made of steel springs. All other Yale teams had won, 'We will win,
of course.'
"But the poor other side--they might just as well throw their canvas
jackets and mole-skin trousers in the old suit-case at once and go home.
'Beat Yale! boys, we're crazy, but every man must try his damnedest to
keep the score low,' and so the game was won and lost before the referee
even blew his starting whistle.
"This was the general rule, but every rule needs an exception to prove
it, and on a certain November afternoon in 1899 we gave them their
belly-full of exception. We had a very strong team that year, with some
truly great players, Harold Weekes and Bill Morley (there never were two
better men behind the line), and Jack Wright, old Jack Wright, playing
equally well guard or center, as fine a linesman as I have ever seen.
Weekes, Morley, and Wright were on the All-American team of that year,
and Walter Camp in selecting his All-American team for All Time several
years ago picked Harold Weekes as his first halfback.
"I can see the game now; there was no scoring in the first half. To
the outsider the teams seemed evenly matched, but we, who knew our
men, thought we saw that the power was there; and if they could but
realize their strength and that they had it in them to lay low at
last that armor-plated old rhinoceros, the terror of the college
jungle--Yale,--with an even break of luck, the game must be ours.
"In the second half our opportunity came. By one of the shifting chances
of the game we got the ball on about their 25-yard line; one yard, three
yards, two yards, four yards, we went through them; there was no
stopping us, and at last--over, well over, for a touchdown.
"Through some technicality in the last rush the officials, instead of
allowing the touchdown, took the ball away from us and gave it to Yale.
They were right, probably quite right, but how could we think so? Yale
at once kicked the ball to the middle of the field well out of danger.
The teams lined up.
"On the very next play, with every man of that splendidly trained Eleven
doing his allotted work, Harold Weekes swept around the end, aided by
the magnificent interference of Jack Wright, which gave him his start.
He ran half the length of the field, through the entire Yale team, and
planted the ball squarely behind the goal posts for the touchdown which
won the game. If we had ever had any doubt that cruel wrong is righted,
that truth and justice must prevail, it was swept away that moment in a
great wave of thanksgiving.
"I shall never forget it--Columbia had beaten Yale! Tears running down
my cheeks, shaken by emotion, I couldn't speak, let alone cheer. My best
girl was with me. She gave one quick half-frightened glance and I
believe almost realized all I felt. She was all gold. I feel now the
timid little pressure on my arm as she tried to help me regain control
of myself. God! why has life so few such moments!"
BEHIND THE SCENES
Let us go into the dressing room of a victorious team, which defeated
Yale at Manhattan Field a good many years ago and let us read with that
great lover of football, the late Richard Harding Davis, as he describes
so wonderfully well some of the unique things that happened in the
celebration of victory.
"People who live far away from New York and who cannot understand from
the faint echoes they receive how great is the enthusiasm that this
contest arouses, may possibly get some idea of what it means to the
contestants themselves through the story of a remarkable incident, that
occurred after the game in the Princeton dressing room. The team were
being rubbed down for the last time and after their three months of
self-denial and anxiety and the hardest and roughest sort of work that
young men are called upon to do, and outside in the semi-darkness
thousands of Princeton followers were jumping up and down and hugging
each other and shrieking themselves hoarse. One of the Princeton coaches
came into the room out of this mob, and holding up his arm for silence
said,
"'Boys, I want you to sing the doxology.'"
"Standing as they were, naked and covered with mud, blood and
perspiration, the eleven men that had won the championship sang the
Doxology from the beginning to the end as solemnly and as seriously, and
I am sure, as sincerely, as they ever did in their lives, while outside
the no less thankful fellow-students yelled and cheered and beat at the
doors and windows and howled for them to come out and show themselves.
This may strike some people as a very sacrilegious performance and as a
most improper one, but the spirit in which it was done has a great deal
to do with the question, and any one who has seen a defeated team lying
on the benches of their dressing room, sobbing like hysterical school
girls, can understand how great and how serious is the joy of victory to
the men that conquer."
Introducing Vic Kennard, opportunist extraordinary. Where is the Harvard
man, Yale man, or indeed any football man who will not be stirred by the
recollection of his remarkable goal from the field at New Haven that
provided the winning points for the eleven Percy Haughton turned out in
the first year of his regime. To Kennard himself the memory is still
vivid, and there are side lights on that performance and indeed on all
his football days at Cambridge, of which he alone can tell. I'll not
make a conversation of this, but simply say as one does over the 'phone,
"Kennard talking":--
[Illustration: VIC KENNARD'S KICK]
"Many of us are under the impression that the only real football fan is
molded from the male sex and that the female of the species attends the
game for decorative purposes only. I protest. Listen. In 1908 I had the
good fortune to be selected to enter the Harvard-Yale Game at New Haven,
for the purpose of scoring on Yale in a most undignified way, through
the medium of a drop-kick, Haughton realizing that while a touchdown was
distinctly preferable, he was not afraid to fight it out in the next
best way.
"My prayers were answered, for the ball somehow or other made its way
over the crossbar and between the uprights, making the score, Harvard 4,
Yale 0. My mother, who had made her way to New Haven by a forced march,
was sitting in the middle of the stand on the Yale (no, I'm wrong, it
was, on second thought, on the Harvard side) accompanied by my two
brothers, one of whom forgot himself far enough to go to Yale, and will
not even to this day acknowledge his hideous mistake.
"Five or six minutes before the end of the game, one E. H. Coy decided
that the time was getting short and Yale needed a touchdown. So he
grabbed a Harvard punt on the run and started. Yes, he did more than
start, he got well under way, circled the Harvard end and after
galloping fifteen yards, apparently concluded that I would look well as
minced meat, and headed straight for me, stationed well back on the
secondary defense. He had received no invitation whatsoever, but owing
to the fact that I believe every Harvard man should be at least cordial
to every Yale man, I decided to go 50-50 and meet him half way.
"We met informally. That I know. I will never forget that. He weighed
only 195 pounds, but I am sure he had another couple of hundred tucked
away somewhere. When I had finished counting a great variety and number
of stars, it occurred to me that I had been in a ghastly railroad wreck,
and that the engine and cars following had picked out my right knee as a
nice soft place to pile up on. There was a feeling of great relief when
I looked around and saw that the engineer of that train, Mr. E. H. Coy,
had stopped with the train, and I held the greatest hopes that neither
the engine nor any one of the ten cars following would ever reach the
terminal.
"Mother, who had seen the whole performance, was little concerned with
other than the fact that E. H. had been delayed. His mission had been
more than delayed--as it turned out, it had been postponed. In the
meantime Dr. Nichols of the Harvard staff of first aid was working with
my knee, and from the stands it looked as though I might have broken my
leg.
"At this point some one who sat almost directly back of my mother called
out loud, 'That's young Kennard. It looks as though he'd broken his
leg.' My brother, feeling that mother had not heard the remark, and not
knowing what he might say, turned and informed him that Mrs. Kennard was
sitting almost directly in front of him, requesting that he be careful
what he said. Mother, however, heard the whole thing, and turning in her
seat said, 'That's all right, I don't care if his leg is broken, if we
only win this game.'
"My mother, who is a great football fan, after following the game for
three or four years, learned all the slang expressions typical of
football. She tried to work out new plays, criticised the generalship
occasionally, and fairly 'ate and slept' football during the months of
October and November. While the season was in progress I usually slept
at home in Boston where I could rest more comfortably. I occupied the
adjoining room to my mother's, and when I was ready for bed always
opened the door between the rooms.
"One night I woke up suddenly and heard my mother talking. Wondering
whether something was the matter, I got out of bed and went into her
room, appearing just in time to see my mothers arms outstretched. She
was calling 'Fair catch.' I spoke to her to see just what the trouble
was, and she, in a sleepy way, mumbled, 'We won.' She had been dreaming
of the Harvard-Dartmouth game.
"Early in the fall of 1908 Haughton heard rumors that the Indians were
equipping their backfield in a very peculiar fashion. Warner had had a
piece of leather the color and shape of a football sewed on the jerseys
of his backfield men, in such a position that when the arm was folded as
if carrying the ball, it would appear as if each of the backfield
players might have possession of the ball, and therefore disorganize
somewhat the defense against the man who was actually carrying the ball.
Instead of one runner each time, there appeared to be four.
"Haughton studied the rules and found nothing to prevent Warner's
scheme. He wrote a friendly letter to Warner, stating that he did not
think it for the best interest of the game to permit his players to
appear in the Stadium equipped in this way, at the same time admitting
that there was nothing in the rules against it. Taking no chances,
however, Haughton worked out a scheme of his own. He discovered that
there was no rule which prevented painting the ball red, so he had a
ball painted the same color as the crimson jerseys. Had the Indians come
on the field with the leather ruse sewed on their jerseys, Haughton
would have insisted that the game be played with the crimson ball.
"What did I learn in my football course? I learned to control my
temper, to exercise judgment, to think quickly and act decisively. I
learned the meaning of discipline, to take orders and carry them out to
the best of my ability without asking why. I had through the training
regular habits knocked into me. I learned to meet, know and size up men.
I learned to smile when I was the most discouraged fellow in this great
wide world, the importance of being on time, a better control of my
nerves, and to demand the respect of fellow players. I learned to work
out problems for myself and to apply my energy more intelligently,--to
stick by the ship. I secured a wide friendship which money can't buy."
What Eddie Mahan was to Harvard, Charlie Barrett, Captain of the
victorious 1915 Eleven, was to Cornell. The Ithaca Captain was one of
those powerful runners whose remarkable physique did not interfere with
his shiftiness. Like his Harvard contemporary, he was a fine leader, but
unlike Mahan, with whom he clashed in the game with the Crimson in his
final year, he was not able to play the play through what was to him
probably the most important gridiron battle of his career. Nevertheless,
it was his touchdown in the first quarter that sounded the knell of the
Crimson hopes that day, and Cornell men will always believe that his
presence on the side line wrapped in a blanket, after his recovery from
the shock that put him out of the game, had much to do with inspiring
his Eleven.
Barrett was one of the products of the Cleveland University School,
whence so many star players have been sent up to the leading
universities. On the occasion of his first appearance at Ithaca it
became a practical certainty that he would not only make the Varsity
Eleven, but would some day be its captain. In course of time it became a
habit for the followers of the Carnelian and White to look to Barrett
for rescue in games that seemed to be hopelessly in the fire.
In his senior year the team was noted for its ability to come from
behind, and this team spirit was generally understood as being the
reflection of that of their leader. The Cornell Captain played the
second and third periods of his final game against Pennsylvania in a
dazed condition, and it is a tribute to his mental and physical
resources that in the last period of that game he played perhaps as fine
football as he had ever shown.
It was from no weakened Pennsylvania Eleven that Barrett snatched the
victory in this his crowded moment. The Quakers had had a disastrous
season up to Thanksgiving Day, but their pluck and rallying power, which
has become a tradition on Franklin Field, was never more in evidence.
The Quakers played with fire, with power and aggressiveness that none
save those who know the Quaker spirit had been led to expect. There
were heroes on the Red and Blue team that day, and without a Barrett at
his best against them, they would have won.
[Illustration: SAM WHITE'S RUN]
It was up to Eddie Hart with his supreme personality and indomitable
spirit, which has always characterized him from the day he entered
Exeter until he forged his way to the leadership of one of Princeton's
finest elevens to bring home the long deferred championship. When the
final whistle rang down the football curtain for the season of 1911 it
found Hart in the ascendancy having fulfilled the wonderful promise of
his old Exeter days. For he had made good indeed.
Yale and Harvard had been beaten through a remarkable combination of
team and individual effort in which Sam White's alertness and DeWitt's
kicking stood out; a combination which was made possible only through
Hart's splendid leadership.
At a banquet for this championship team given by the Princeton Club of
Philadelphia, Lou Reichner, the toastmaster, in introducing Sam White,
the hero of the evening, quoted from First Samuel III, Chapter ii, 12th
and 1st verses--"And the Lord said unto Samuel, behold I will do a thing
in Israel, at which both the ears of every one that heareth it shall
tingle. In that day I will perform against Eli, all things which I have
spoken concerning his house; when I begin I will also make an end. And
The Child Samuel ministered unto the Lord Eli." Mr. Reichner then
presented to the Child Samuel the souvenir sleeve links and a silver box
containing the genuine soil from Yale Field.
After Sam had been sufficiently honored, Alfred T. Baker, Princeton '85,
a former Varsity football player, and his son Hobey Baker, who played on
Eddie Hart's team, were called before the toastmaster. There was a
triple cheer for Hobey and his father. Reichner said that he had nothing
for Papa Baker, but a souvenir for Hobey, and if the father was man
enough to take it away from him he could have it.
In speaking of the Yale-Princeton game at New Haven, some of the things
incidental to victory were told that evening by Sam White, who said:
"In the Yale game of 1911, Joe Duff, the Princeton guard, came over to
Hart, Captain of the Princeton team, and said:
"'Ed, I can't play any more. I can't stand on my left leg.'
"'That's all right,' answered Hart, 'go back and play on your right
one.'
"Joe did and that year he made the All-American guard.
"It was less than a week before the Harvard-Princeton game at Princeton,
1911, a friend of mine wrote down and asked me to get him four good
seats, and said if I'd mention my favorite cigar, he'd send me a box in
appreciation. I got the seats for him, but it was more or less of a
struggle, but in writing on did not mention cigars. He sent me a check
to cover the cost of the tickets and in the letter enclosed a small
scarf pin which he said was sure to bring me luck. He had done quite a
little running in his time and said it had never failed him and urged me
to be sure and put it in my tie the day of the Harvard-Princeton game. I
am not superstitious, but I did stick it in my tie when I dressed that
Saturday morning and it surely had a charm. It was in the first half
that I got away for my run, and as we came out of the field house at the
start of the second half, whom should I see but my friend, yelling like
a madman--
"'Did you wear it? Did you wear it?'
"I assured him I did, and it seemed to quiet and please him, for he
merely grinned and replied:
"'I told you! I told you!'
"After the game I said nothing of the episode, but did secretly decide
to keep the pin safely locked up until the day of the Yale-Princeton
game. I again stuck it in my tie that morning and the charm still held,
and I am still wondering to this day, if it doesn't pay to be a little
bit superstitious."
Every Harvard man remembers vividly the great Crimson triumph of 1915
over Yale. It will never be forgotten. During the game I sat on the
Harvard side lines with Doctor Billy Brooks, a former Harvard captain.
He was not satisfied when Harvard had Yale beaten by the score of 41 to
0, but was enthusiastically urging Harvard on to at least one or two
more touchdowns, so that the defeat which Yale meted out to Harvard in
1884, a game in which he was a player, would be avenged by a larger
score, but alas! he had to be satisfied with the tally as it stood.
A story is told of the enthusiasm of Evert Jansen Wendell, as he stood
on the side lines of this same game and saw the big Crimson roller
crushing Yale down to overwhelming defeat. This enthusiastic Harvard
graduate cried out:
"'We must score again!'
"Another Harvard sympathiser, standing nearby, said:
"'Mr. Wendell, don't you think we have beaten them badly enough? What
more do you want?'
"'Oh, I want to see them suffer,' retorted Wendell."
After this game was over and the crowd was surging out of the stadium
that afternoon I heard an energetic newsboy, who was selling the
_Harvard Lampoon_, crying out at the top of his voice:
"'_Harvard Lampoon_ for sale here. All about the New Haven wreck.'"
Eddie Mahan
There is no question that the American game of football will go on for
years to come. If the future football generals develop a better
all-around man than Eddie Mahan, captain of the great Harvard team of
1915, whose playing brought not only victory to Harvard but was
accompanied by great admiration throughout the football world, they may
well congratulate themselves. From this peerless leader, whose playing
was an inspiration to the men on his team, let us put on record, so that
future heroes may also draw like inspiration from them, some of Mahan's
own recollections of his playing days.
"I think the greatest game I ever played in was the Princeton game in
1915, because we never knew until the last minute that we had won the
game," says the Crimson star. "There was always a chance of Princeton's
beating us. The score was 10 to 6. I worked harder in that game than in
any game I ever played.
"Frank Glick's defensive work was nothing short of marvelous. He is the
football player I respect. He hit me so hard. The way I ran, it was
seldom that anybody got a crack at me. I would see a clear space and the
first thing I knew Glick would come from behind somewhere, or somebody,
and would hit me when I least expected it, and he usually hit me good
and hard. It seemed sometimes that he came right out of the ground. I
tell you after he hit me a few times he was the only man I was looking
for; I did not care much about the rest of the team.
"One of the things that helped me most in my backfield play was Pooch
Donovan's coaching. He practiced me in sprints, my whole freshman year.
He took a great interest in me. He speeded me up. I owe a great debt of
gratitude to Pooch. I could always kick before I went to Harvard, back
in the old Andover days. I learned to kick by punting the ball all the
afternoon, instead of playing football all the time. I think that is the
way men should learn to kick. The more I kicked, the better I seemed to
get."
Among the many trophies Eddie Mahan has received, he prizes as much as
any the watch presented to him by the townspeople of Natick, his home
town, his last year at Andover, after the football season closed. He was
attending a football game at Natick between Natick High and Milton High.
"It was all a surprise to me," says Eddie. "They called me out on the
field and presented me with this watch which is very handsomely
inscribed.
"Well do I recall those wonderful days at Andover and the games between
Andover and Exeter. There is intense rivalry between these two schools.
Many are the traditions at Andover, and some of the men who had preceded
me, and some with whom I played were Jack Curtis, Ralph Bloomer, Frank
Hinkey, Doc Hillebrand and Jim Rodgers. Then there was Trevor Hogg, who
was captain of the Princeton 1916 team, Shelton, Red Braun, Bob Jones.
The older crowd of football men made the game what it is at Andover.
Lately they have had a much younger crowd. When I was at Andover, Johnny
Kilpatrick, Henry Hobbs, Ham Andrews, Bob Foster and Bob McKay had
already left there and gone to college.
"It has been a great privilege for me to have played on different teams
that have had strong players. I cannot say too much about Hardwick,
Bradlee, and Trumbull. Brickley was one of the hardest men for our
opponents to bring down when he got the ball. He was a phenomenal
kicker. I had also a lot of respect for Mal Logan, who played
quarterback on my team in 1915. He weighed less than 150 pounds. He used
to get into the interference in grand shape. He counted for something.
He was a tough kid. He could stand all sorts of knocks and he used to
get them too. When I was kicking he warded off the big tackles as they
came through. He was always there and nobody could ever block a kick
from his side. The harder they hit him, the stronger he came back every
time."
When I asked Mahan about fun in football he said:
"We didn't seem to do much kidding. There was a sort of serious spirit;
Haughton had such an influence over everybody, they were afraid to laugh
before practice, while waiting for Haughton, and after practice
everybody was usually so tired there was not much fooling in the
dressing room; but we got a lot of fun out of the game."
Of Haughton's coaching methods and the Harvard system Eddie has a few
things to tell us that will be news to many football men.
"Haughton coaches a great deal by the use of photographs which are taken
of us in practice as well as regular games. He would get us all together
and coach from the pictures--point out the poor work. Seldom were the
good points shown. Nevertheless, he always gave credit to the man who
got his opponent in the interference. Haughton used to say:
"'Any one can carry a ball through a bunch of dead men.'
"Haughton is a good organizer. He has been the moving spirit at
Cambridge but by no means the whole Harvard coaching staff. The
individual coaches work with him and with each other. Each one has
control or supreme authority over his own department. The backfield
coach has the picking of men for their positions. Harvard follows
Charlie Daly's backfield play; improved upon somewhat, of course,
according to conditions. Each coach is considered an expert in his own
line. No coach is considered an expert in all fields. This is the method
at Harvard.
"Outside of Haughton, Bill Withington, Reggie Brown, and Leo Leary have
been the most recent prominent coaches. The Harvard generalship has
been the old Charlie Daly system. Reggie Brown has been a great
strategist. Harvard line play came from Pot Graves of West Point."
[Illustration: KING, OF HARVARD, MAKING A RUN; MAHAN PUTTING BLACK ON
HIS HEAD]
George Chadwick
What George Chadwick, captain of Yale's winning team of 1902, gave of
himself to Yale football has amply earned the thoroughly remarkable
tributes constantly paid to this great Yale player. He was a most
deceptive man with the ball. In the Princeton game John DeWitt was the
dangerous man on the Princeton team, feared most on account of his great
kicking ability.
DeWitt has always contended that Chadwick's team was the best Yale team
he ever saw. He says: "It was a better team than Gordon Brown's for the
reason that they had a kicker and Gordon Brown's team did not have a
kicker. But this is only my opinion."
Yale and Princeton men will not forget in a hurry the two wonderful runs
for touchdowns, one from about the center of the field, that Chadwick
made in 1902.
"I note," writes Chadwick, "that there is a general impression that the
opening in the line through which I went was large enough to accommodate
an express train. As a matter of fact, the opening was hardly large
enough for me to squeeze through. The play was not to make a large
opening, and I certainly remember the sensation of being squeezed when
going through the line.
"There were some amusing incidents in connection with that particular
game that come back to me now. I remember that when going down on the
train from New York to Princeton, I was very much amused at Mike
Murphy's efforts to get Tom Shevlin worked up so he would play an extra
good game. Mike kept telling Tom what a good man Davis was and how the
latter was going to put it all over him. Tom clenched his fists, put on
a silly grin and almost wept. It really did me a lot of good, as it
helped to keep my mind off the game. When it did come to the game, his
first big game, Shevlin certainly played wonderful football.
"I had been ill for about a week and a half before this game and really
had not played in practice for two or three weeks. Mike was rather
afraid of my condition, so he told me to be the last man always to get
up before the ball was put in play. I carefully followed his advice and
as a result a lot of my friends in the stand kept thinking that I had
been hurt.
"Toward the end of the game we were down about on Princeton's 40-yard
line. It was the third down and the probabilities were that we would not
gain the distance, so I decided to have Bowman try for a drop-kick. I
happened to glance over at the side line and there was old Mike Murphy
making strenuous motions with his foot. The umpire, Dashiell, saw him
too, and put him off the side lines for signalling. I remember being
extremely angry at the time because I was not looking at the side lines
for any signals and had decided on a drop kick anyhow.
"In my day it was still the policy to work the men to death, to drill
them to endure long hours of practice scrimmage. About two weeks before
the Princeton game in my senior year, we were in a slump. We had a long,
miserable Monday's practice. A lot of the old coaches insisted that
football must be knocked into the men by hard work, but it seemed to me
that the men knew a lot of football. They were fundamentally good and
what they really needed was condition to enable them to show their
football knowledge. It is needless to say that I was influenced greatly
in this by Mike Murphy and his knowledge of men and conditioning them.
Joe Swann, the field coach, and Walter Camp were in accord, so we turned
down the advice of a lot of the older coaches and gave the Varsity only
about five minutes' scrimmage during the week and a half preceding the
Princeton game, with the exception of the Bucknell game the Saturday
before. During the week before the Princeton and Harvard games we went
up to Ardsley and had no practice for three days. There was a
five-minutes' scrimmage on Thursday. This was an unusual proceeding, but
it was so intensely hot the day of the Princeton game, and we all lost
so much weight something unusual had to be done. The team played well in
the Princeton game, but it was simply a coming team then. In the Harvard
game, which we won 23 to 0, it seemed to me that we were at the top of
our form.
"I think the whole incident was a lesson to us at New Haven of the great
value of condition to men who know a great deal of football. I know from
my own experience during the three preceding years that it had been too
little thought of. The great cry had too often been 'We must drum
football into them, no matter what their physical condition.'
"After the terribly exhausting game at Princeton, which we won, 12 to 5,
DeWitt Cochrane invited the team to go to his place at Ardsley and
recuperate. It really was our salvation, and I have always been most
grateful to Mr. and Mrs. Cochrane for so generously giving up their
house completely to a mob of youngsters. We spent three delightful days,
almost forgot football entirely, ate ravenously and slept like tops.
"Big Eddie Glass was a wonderful help in interference. I used to play
left half and Eddie left guard. On plays where I would take the ball
around the end, or skirting tackle, Eddie would either run in the
interference or break through the line and meet me some yards beyond. We
had a great pulling and hauling team that year, and the greatest puller
and hauler was Eddie Glass. Perry Hale, who played fullback my
sophomore year, was a great interferer. He was big, and strong and fast.
On a straight buck through tackle, when he would be behind me, if there
was not a hole in the proper place, he would whirl me all the way round
and shoot me through a hole somewhere else. It would, of course, act as
an impromptu delayed play. In one game I remember making a forty yard
run to a touchdown on such a manoeuver."
[Illustration:
McCord Mills Roper Burke Pell Craig Mattis Lathrope Lloyd Bannard Booth
Wheeler Reiter
Poe Edwards Hillebrand
Hutchinson Palmer McClave
PRINCETON'S 1899 TEAM]
Arthur Poe
There never was as much real football ability concealed in a small
package as there was in that great player, Arthur Poe. He was always
using his head, following the ball, strong in emergency. He was endowed
with a wonderful personality, and a man who always got a lot of fun out
of the game and made fun for others, but yet was on the job every
minute. He always inspired his team mates to play a little harder.
Rather than write anything more about this great player, let us read
with him the part he so ably played in some of Princeton's football
games.
"The story of my run in 1898 is very simple. Yale tried a mass play on
Doc Hillebrand, which, as usual, was very unsuccessful in that quarter.
He broke through and tackled the man with the ball. While the Yale men
were trying to push him forward, I grabbed the ball from his arms and
had a clear field and about ten yards start for the goal line. I don't
believe I was ever happier in my life than on this day when I made the
Princeton team and scored this touchdown against Yale.
"In the second half McBride tried a center drive on Booth and Edwards.
The line held and I rushed in, and grabbed the ball, but before I got
very far the Referee blew his whistle, and after I had run across the
goal line I realized that the touchdown was not going to be allowed.
"Lew Palmer and I were tried at end simply to endeavor to provide a
defense against the return runs of de Saulles on punts. He, by the way,
was the greatest open field runner I have ever seen.
"My senior year started auspiciously and the prospects for a victorious
eleven appeared especially bright, as only two of the regular players of
the year before had graduated. The first hard game was against Columbia,
coached by Foster Sanford, who had a wealth of material drawn from the
four corners of the earth. In the latter part of the game my opponent by
way of showing his disapproval of my features attempted to change them,
but was immediately assisted to the ground by my running mate and was
undergoing an unpleasant few moments, when Sanford, reinforced by
several dozen substitutes, ran to his rescue and bestowed some unkind
compliments on different parts of my pal's anatomy. With the arrival of
Burr McIntosh and several old grads, however, we were released from
their clutches, and the game proceeded.
"After the Cornell game the Yale game was close at hand. We were
confident of our ability to win, though we expected a bitter hard
struggle, in which we were not disappointed. Through a well developed
interference on an end run, Reiter was sent around the end for several
long gains, resulting in a touchdown, but Yale retaliated by blocking a
kick and falling on the ball for a touchdown. Sharpe, a few minutes
later, kicked a beautiful goal, so that the score was 10 to 6 in Yale's
favor. The wind was blowing a gale all through the first half and as
Yale had the wind at their backs we were forced to play a rushing game,
but shortly after the second half began the wind died down considerably
so that McBride's long, low kicks were not effective to any great
extent.
"Yale was on the defensive and we were unable to break through for the
coveted touchdown, though we were able to gain ground consistently for
long advances. In the shadow of their goal line Yale held us mainly
through the wonderful defensive playing of McBride. I never saw a finer
display of backing up the rush line than that of McBride during the
second half. So strenuous was the play that eight substitutions had been
made on our team, but with less than five minutes to play we started a
furious drive for the goal line from the middle of the field, and with
McClave, Mattis and Lathrope carrying the ball we went to Yale's 25-yard
line in quick time.
"With only about a minute to play it was decided to try a goal from the
field. I was selected as the one to make the attempt. I was standing on
the 34-yard line, about ten yards to the left of centre when I kicked;
the ball started straight for the far goal post, but apparently was
deflected by air currents and curved in not more than a yard from the
post. I turned to the Referee, saw his arms raised and heard him say
'Goal' and then everything broke loose.
"I saw members of the team turning somersaults, and all I remember after
that was being seized by a crowd of alumni who rushed out upon the
field, and hearing my brother Ned shout, 'You damned lucky kid, you have
licked them again.' I kicked the ball with my instep, having learned
this from Charlie Young of Cornell, who was then at Princeton Seminary
and was playing on the scrub team. The reason I did this was because Lew
Palmer and myself wore light running shoes with light toes, not kicking
shoes at all.
"After the crowd had been cleared off the field there were only 29
seconds left to play, and after Yale had kicked off we held the ball
without risking a play until the whistle blew, when I started full speed
for the gate, followed by Bert Wheeler. I recall knocking down several
men as we were bursting through and making our way to the bus. It was
the first, last and only goal from the field I ever attempted, and the
most plausible explanation for its success was probably predestination."
[Illustration: "NOTHING GOT BY JOHN DeWITT"]
Arthur Poe was a big factor in football, even when he wasn't running or
kicking Yale down to defeat.
"Bill Church's roughness, in my freshman year, had the scrub bluffed,"
continues Arthur. "When Lew Palmer volunteered to play halfback and take
care of Bill on punts, Bill was surprised on the first kick he attempted
to block to feel Lew's fist on his jaw and immediately shouted:
"'I like you for that, you damn freshman.'
"That was the first accident that attracted attention to Lew. Palmer was
one of the gamest men and he won a Varsity place by the hardest kind of
work.
"Well do I recall the indignation meeting of the scrub to talk over
plans of curbing Johnny Baird and Fred Smith in their endeavor to kill
the scrub."
John DeWitt
Big John DeWitt was the man who brought home the Yale bacon for the
Tigers in 1903. To be exact he not only carried, but also kicked it
home. Two surprise parties by a single player in so hard a game are rare
indeed. Whenever I think of DeWitt I think of his great power of
leadership. He was an ideal captain. He thought things out for himself.
He was the spirit of his team.
This great Princeton captain was one of the most versatile football men
known to fame. Playing so remarkably in the guard position, he also did
the kicking for his team and was a great power in running with the ball.
DeWitt thought things out almost instantly and took advantage of every
possible point. The picture on the opposite page illustrates wonderfully
well how he exerted and extended himself. This man put his whole soul
into his work and was never found wanting. His achievements will hold a
conspicuous place in football history. Nothing got by John DeWitt.
DeWitt's team in 1903 was the first to bring victory over Yale to
Princeton since 1899. On that day John DeWitt scored a touchdown and
kicked a placement goal, which will long be remembered. Let us go back
and play a part of that game over with John himself.
"Whenever I think of football my recollections go back to the Yale game
of 1903," says DeWitt. "My most vivid recollections are of my loyal team
mates whose wonderful spirit and good fellowship meant so much to the
success of that Eleven. Without their combined effort Princeton could
not have won that day.
"We had a fine optimistic spirit before the game and the fact that Jim
Hogan scored a touchdown for Yale in the first part of the game seemed
to put us on our mettle and we came back with the spirit that I have
always been proud of. Hogan was almost irresistible. You could hardly
stop him when he had the ball. He scored between Harold Short and myself
and jammed through for about 12 yards to a touchdown. If you tackled Jim
Hogan head on he would pull you right over backwards. He was the
strongest tackle I ever saw. He seemed to have overpowering strength in
his legs. He was a regular player. He never gave up until the whistle
blew, but after the Princeton team got its scoring machine at work, the
Princeton line outplayed the Yale line.
"I think Yale had as good a team as we had, if not better, that day. The
personnel of the team was far superior to ours, but we had our spirit in
the game. We were going through Yale to beat the band the last part of
the game."
DeWitt, describing the run that made him famous, says:
"Towards the end of the first half, with the score 6 to 0 against
Princeton, Yale was rushing us down the field. Roraback, the Yale
center, was not able to pass the ball the full distance back for the
punter. Rockwell took the ball from quarterback position and passed it
to Mitchell, the fullback. On this particular play our whole line went
through on the Yale kick formation. No written account that I have ever
seen has accurately described just what happened. Ralph Davis was the
first man through, and he blocked Mitchell's kick. Ridge Hart, who was
coming along behind him, kicked the loose ball forward and the oval was
about fifteen to twenty yards from where it started. I was coming
through all the time.
"As the bouncing ball went behind Mitchell it bobbed up right in front
of me. I probably broke all rules of football by picking it up, but the
chances looked good and I took advantage of them. I really was wondering
then whether to pick it up or fall on it, but figured that it was harder
to fall on it than to pick it up, so I put on all the steam I had and
started for the goal. Howard Henry was right behind me until I got near
the goal post. After I had kicked the goal the score was 6 to 6. Never
can I forget the fierce playing on the part of both teams that now took
place.
"Shortly after this in the second half I punted down into Yale's
territory. Mitchell fumbled and Ralph Davis fell on the ball on the
30-yard line. We tried to gain, but could not. Bowman fell on the ball
after the ensuing kick, which was blocked. It had rolled to the 5-yard
line. Yale tried to gain once; then Bowman went back to kick. I can
never pay enough tribute to Vetterlein, to the rare judgment that he
displayed at this point in the game. When he caught that punt and heeled
it, he used fine judgment; but for his good head work we never would
have won that game. I kicked my goal from the field from the 43-yard
line.
[Illustration: JOHN DeWITT ABOUT TO PICK UP THE BALL]
"As Ralph Davis was holding the ball before I kicked it, the Yale
players, who were standing ten yards away were not trying to make it any
the easier for us. I remember in particular Tom Shevlin was kidding
Ralph Davis, who replied: 'Well, Tom, you might as well give it to us
now--the score is going to be 11-6,' and just then what Davis had said
came through.
"If any one thinks that my entire football experience was a bed of
roses, I want to assure him that it was not. I experienced the sadness
of injury and of not making the team. The first day I lined up I broke
three bones in one hand. Three weeks later, after they had healed I
broke the bones in my other hand and so patiently waited until the
following year to make the team.
"The next year I went through the bitter experience of defeat, and we
were beaten good and plenty by Yale. Defeat came again in 1902. It was
in that year that I met, as my opponent, the hardest man I ever played
against, Eddie Glass. The Yale team came at me pretty hard the first
fifteen minutes. Glass especially crashed into me. He was warned three
times by Dashiell in the opening part of the game for strenuous work.
Glass was a rough, hard player, but he was not an unfair player at
that. I always liked good, rough football. He played the game for all
it was worth and was a Gibraltar to the Yale team.
"Now that my playing days are over, I think there is one thing that
young fellows never realize until they are through playing; that they
might have helped more; that they might have given a few extra minutes
to perfect a play. The thing that has always appealed to me most in
football is to think of what might have been done by a little extra
effort. It is very seldom you see a man come off the field absolutely
used up. I have never seen but one or two cases where a man had to be
helped to the dressing room. I have always thought such a man did not
give as much as he should,--we're all guilty of this offense. A little
extra punch might have made a touchdown."
Tichenor, of the University of Georgia, tells the following:
"In a Tech-Georgia game a peculiar thing happened. One of the goal lines
was about seven yards from the fence which was twelve feet high and
perfectly smooth. Tech had worked the ball down to within about three
yards of Georgia's goal near the fence. Here the defense of the Red and
Black stiffened and, taking the ball on downs, Ted Sullivan immediately
dropped back for a kick. The pass was none too good and he swung his
foot into the ball, which struck the cross bar, bounded high up in the
air, over the fence, behind the goal post.
"Then began the mighty wall-scaling struggle to get over the fence and
secure the coveted ball. As fast as one team would try to boost each
other over, their opponents would pull them down. This contest continued
for fully five minutes while the crowd roared with delight. In the
meantime George Butler, the Referee, took advantage of the situation
and, with the assistance of several spectators, was boosted over the
fence where he waited for some player to come and fall on the ball,
which was fairly hidden in a ditch covered over with branches. Butler
tells to this day of the amusing sight as he beheld first one pair of
hands grasping the top of the fence; one hand would loosen, then the
other; then another set of hands would appear. Heads were bobbing up and
down and disappearing one after the other. The crowd now became
interested and showed their partiality, and with the assistance of some
of the spectators a Tech player made his way over the fence and began
his search for the ball, closely followed by a Georgia player. They
rushed around frantically looking for the ball. Then Red Wilson joined
in the search and quickly located it in the ditch; soon had it safely in
his arms and Tech scored a touchdown.
"This was probably the only touchdown play in the history of the game
which none of the spectators saw and which only the Referee and two
other players saw at the time the player touched the ball down."
That Charlie Brickley was in the way of bringing home the bacon to
Harvard is well known to all. There have been very few players who were
as reliable as this star. It was in his senior year that he was captain
of the team and when the announcement came at the start of the football
season that Brickley had been operated upon for appendicitis the
football world extended to him its deepest sympathy. During his illness
he yearned to get out in time to play against Yale. This all came true.
The applause which greeted him when Haughton sent this great player into
the game--with the Doctor's approval--must have impressed him that one
and all were glad to see him get into the game.
Let us hear what Brickley has to say about playing the game.
"I have often been asked how I felt when attempting a drop kick in a
close game before a large crowd. During my first year I was a little
nervous, but after that it didn't bother me any more than as if I were
eating lunch. Constant practice for years gave me the feeling that I
could kick the ball over every time I tried. If I was successful, those
who have seen me play are the best judges. Confidence is a necessity in
drop kicking. The three hardest games I ever played in were the
Dartmouth 3 to 0 game in 1912, and Princeton 3 to 0 in 1913, and the
Yale 15 to 5 game of the same year. The hardest field goal I ever had to
kick was against Princeton in the mud in 1913.
[Illustration: THE EVER RELIABLE BRICKLEY]
[Illustration: A FOOTBALL THOROUGHBRED--TACK HARDWICK]
"The most finished player in all around play I ever came across is Tack
Hardwick. He could go through a game, or afternoon's practice and
perform every fundamental function of the game in perfect fashion. The
most interesting and remarkable player I ever came across was Eddie
Mahan. He could do anything on the football field. He was so versatile,
that no real defense could be built against him. He had a wonderful
intuitive sense and always did just the right thing at the right time."
CHAPTER XV
"THE BLOODY ANGLE"
Football in its very nature is a rough game. It calls for the contact of
bodies under high momentum and this means strains and bruises! Thanks to
the superb physical condition of players, it usually means nothing more
serious.
The play, be it ever so hard, is not likely to be dangerous provided it
is clean, and the worst indictment that can be framed against a player
of to-day, and that by his fellows, is that he is given to dirty
tactics. This attitude has now been established by public opinion, and
is reflected in turn by the strictness of officials, the sentiment of
coaches and football authorities generally. So scientific is the game
to-day that only the player who can keep his head, and clear his mind of
angry emotions, is really a valuable man in a crisis.
Again, the keynote of success in football to-day is team work, perfect
interlocking of all parts. In the old days play was individual, man
against man, and this gave rise in many cases to personal animosity
which frequently reduced great football contests to little more than
pitched battles. Those who to-day are prone to decry football as a
rough and brutal sport--which it no longer is--might at least reverse
their opinions of the present game, could they have spent a certain
lurid afternoon in the fall of '87 at Jarvis Field where the elevens of
Harvard and Princeton fought a battle so sanguinary as to come down to
us through the years legended as a real _crimson_ affair. One of the
saddest accidents that ever occurred on a university football field
happened in this contest and suggested the caption of "the Bloody
Angle," the historic shambles of the great Gettysburg battle.
Luther Price, who played halfback on the Princeton teams of '86 and '87
and who was acting captain the larger part of the latter season, tells
the following story of the game:
"Princeton's contest with Harvard in the autumn of '87 was the bloodiest
game that I ever experienced or saw. At that period the football
relations between the two colleges were fast approaching a crisis and
the long break between the institutions followed a couple of seasons
later. It is perhaps true that the '87 game was largely responsible for
the rupture because it left secret bitterness.
"In fact, the game was pretty near butchery and the defects of the rules
contributed to this end. Both sides realized that the contest was going
to be a hummer but neither imagined the extent of the casualties. Had
the present rules applied there would have been a long string of
substitutes in the game and the caption of 'The Bloody Angle' could not
have been applied.
"In those days an injured player was not allowed to leave the field of
play without the consent of the opponents' captain. One can easily grasp
the fact that your adversaries' captain was not apt to permit a player,
battered almost to worthlessness, to go to the bench and to allow you to
substitute a strong and fresh player. Therein lies the tale of this
game.
"Princeton was confident of winning but not overconfident. We went out
to Jarvis field on a tallyho from Boston, and I recall how eagerly we
dashed upon the field, anxious for the scrap to begin. It was a clear,
cold day with a firm turf--a condition that helped us, as we were
lighter than Harvard, especially behind the line. None of our backs
weighed more than 155 pounds.
"Holden, the Crimson captain, was probably the most dangerous of our
opponents. He was a deceptive running back owing to the difficulty of
gauging his pace. He was one of the speediest sprinters in the Eastern
colleges and if he managed to circle either end it was almost good-bye
to his opponents.
"We were all lying in wait for Holden, not to cripple him or take any
unfair advantage, but to see that he did not cross our goal line. It was
not long before we had no cause to be concerned on that score. But
before Holden was disposed of we suffered a most grievous loss in the
disqualification of Hector Cowan, our left guard and our main source of
strength. Princeton worked a majority of the tricks through Cowan and
when he was gone we lost the larger part of our offensive power.
"Cowan's disqualification was unjustified by his record or by any
tendency toward unfair play, though this statement should not be
regarded as a reflection on the fairness of Wyllys Terry, the old Yale
player, who was the umpire. Walter Camp, by the way, was the referee.
"There never was a fairer player than Cowan, and such a misfortune as
losing him by disqualification for any act on the field was never dreamt
of by the Princeton men. The trouble was that Terry mistook an accident
for a deliberate act. Holden was skirting Princeton's left end when
Cowan made a lunge to reach him. Holden's deceptive pace was nearly too
much for even such a star as Cowan, whose hands slipped from the Harvard
captain's waist down to below his knees until the ankles were touched.
Cowan could have kept his hands on Holden's ankles, but as tackling
below the knees was foul, he quickly let go. But Holden tumbled and
several Princeton men were on him in a jiffy.
"Harvard immediately claimed that it was a foul tackle. It was a
desperate claim but it proved successful. To our astonishment and
chagrin, Terry ruled Cowan off the field. Cowan was thunderstruck at the
decision and protested that he never meant to tackle unfairly. We argued
with Terry but he was unrelenting. To him it seemed that Cowan meant to
make a foul tackle. The situation was disheartening but we still felt
that we had a good chance of pulling through even without Cowan.
"What was particularly galling to us was that we had allowed two
touchdowns to slip from our grasp. Twice we had carried the ball to
within a few yards of the Harvard line and had dropped the ball when
about to cross it. Both errors were hardly excusable and were traceable
to over-anxiety to score. With Cowan on the field we had found that he
could open up the Harvard line for the backs to make long runs but now
that he was gone we could be sure of nothing except grilling work.
"Soon after occurred the most dramatic and lamentable incident which put
Holden out of the game. We had been warned long before the contest that
Holden was a fierce tackler and that if we, who were back of the
Princeton line, wished to stay in the game it would be necessary to
watch out for his catapultic lunges.
"Holden made his tackles low, a kind of a running dive with his head
thrust into his quarry's stomach. The best policy seemed, in case Holden
had you cornered, to go at him with a stiff arm and a suddenly raised
knee to check his onslaught and, if possible, shake him off in the
shuffle, but that was a mighty difficult matter for light backs to do.
"First the line was opened up so that I went through. Harding, the
Harvard quarter, who was running up and down the Crimson line like a
panther, didn't get me. My hand went against his face and somehow I got
rid of him. Finally I reached Holden, who played the fullback position
while on the defensive, and had him to pass in order to get a touchdown.
There was a savage onslaught and Holden had me on the ground.
"A few moments later Ames, who played back with Channing and me, went
through the Harvard line and again Holden was the only obstacle to a
touchdown for Princeton. There was another savage impact and both
players rolled upon the ground, but this time Holden did not get up. He
got his man but he was unconscious or at least seemingly so. His chest
bone had been broken. It was a tense moment. We all felt a pang of
sympathy, for Holden was a square, if rough, player. Harvard's cheers
subsided into murmurs of sorrow and Holden was carried tenderly off the
field.
"The accident made Harvard desperate, and as we were without Cowan we
were in the same mental condition. It was hammer and tongs from that
time on. I don't know that there was any intention to put players out
of business, but there was not much mercy shown.
"It appeared to me that some doubt existed on the Harvard side as to who
caused Holden's chest bone to be broken, but that the suspicion was
mainly directed at me. Several years later an article written at Harvard
and published in the _Public Ledger_ in Philadelphia gave a long account
of how I broke Holden's chest bone. This seemed to confirm my notion
that there was a mixup of identity. However that may be, it soon became
evident in the game that I was marked for slaughter.
"Vic Harding made a profound and lasting impression on me both with his
hands and feet. In fact, Harding played in few games of importance in
which he was not disqualified. He was not a bad fellow at all in social
relations, but on a football field he was the limit of 'frightfulness.'
I don't know of any player that I took so much pleasure in punching as
Harding. Ames and Harding also took delight in trying to make each
other's faces change radically in appearance.
"I think that Harding began to paint my face from the start of the game
and that as it proceeded he warmed up to the task, seeing that he was
making a pretty good job of it. He had several mighty able assistants.
The work was done with several hundred Wellesley College girls, who were
seated on benches close to the sideline, looking on with the deepest
interest and, as it soon appeared, with much sympathy. I will not forget
how concerned they looked.
"By the middle of the second half I guess they did see a spectacle in me
for they began to call to me and hold out handkerchiefs. At first I
didn't realize what they meant for I was so much engaged with the duties
that lay in front of me that it was difficult to notice them, but their
entreaties soon enlightened me. They were asking me as a special favor
to clean my face with their handkerchiefs, but I replied--perhaps rather
abruptly--that I really didn't have time to attend to my facial toilet.
"My nose had been broken, both eyes well closed and my canvas jacket and
doeskin knickerbockers were scarlet or crimson--whichever you prefer--in
hue. Strength was quickly leaving me and the field swam. I finally
propped myself up against a goal post. The next thing I knew was that I
was being helped off the field. My brother, Billy, who was highly
indignant over the developments, took my place. This was about ten or
fifteen minutes before the end of the game, which then consisted of two
45 minute periods.
"Ames emerged from the game with nothing more than the usual number of
cuts and bruises. At that time we did not have any nose-guards,
head-guards and other paraphernalia such as are used nowadays, except
that we could get ankle braces, and Ames wore one. That ankle stood the
test during the fight.
"A majority of the other players were pretty well cut up. After Cowan
was disqualified Bob (J. Robb) Church, subsequently Major in the United
States Army Medical Corps and formerly the surgeon of Roosevelt's Rough
Riders in the Spanish War, was shifted from tackle to Cowan's position
at guard. Chapin, a brilliant student, who had changed from Amherst to
Princeton, went in at tackle. He was a rather erratic player, and
Harvard kept pounding in his direction with the result that Bob Church
had a sea of trouble and I was forced to move up close to the line for
defensive work. It was this that really put me out of business. My left
shoulder had been hurt early in the season and it was bound in rubber,
but fortunately it was not much worse off than at the beginning of the
game.
"Bob Church risked his life more than once in the Spanish War and for
his valor he received a Medal of Honor from Congress, but it is safe to
say that he never got such a gruelling as in this Harvard game. He was
battered to the extent of finding it difficult to rise after tackling
and finally he was lining up on his knees. It was a magnificent
exhibition of pluck. As I recall, Bob lasted to the end of the game.
"It was not until near the close that any scoring took place and then
Harvard made two touchdowns in quick succession. We lacked substitutes
to put in and, even if we had had them, it is doubtful whether we could
have got them in as long as a player was able to stand up. The only
satisfaction we had was that we had done the best we could to win and
our confidence that with Cowan we could have won even if Holden had not
been hurt. We had beaten Harvard the year before with essentially the
same team that we played in this game."
CHAPTER XVI
THE FAMILY IN FOOTBALL
It is almost possible, I think, to divide football men into two distinct
classes--those who are made into players (and often very good ones) by
the coaches and those who are born with the football instinct. Just how
to define football instinct is a puzzle, but it is very easy to discern
it in a candidate, even if he never saw a football till he set foot on
the campus. By and large, it will be read first in a natural aptitude
for following the ball. After that, in the general way he has of
handling himself, from falling on the ball to dodging and straight arm.
Watch the head coach grin when some green six-foot freshman dives for a
rolling ball and instinctively clutches it into the soft part of his
body as he falls on it. Nobody told him to do it just that way, or to
keep his long arms and legs under control so as to avoid accident, but
he does it nevertheless and thus shows his football instinct.
There is still another kind of football instinct, and that is the kind
that is passed down from father to son and from brother to brother. They
say that the lacemakers of Nottingham don't have to be taught how to
make lace because, as children, they somehow absorb most of the
necessary knowledge in the bosom of their family, and I think the same
thing is true of sons and brothers of football players. Generally, they
pick up the essentials of the game from "Pop" long before they get to
school or college or else are properly educated by an argus-eyed
brother.
[Illustration:
Johnson Edgar Allen
Arthur Nelson Gresham Johnny
THE POE FAMILY]
But the matter of getting football knowledge--of developing the
instinct--isn't always left to the boy. Unless I'm grievously mistaken
it's more often the fond father who takes the first step. In fact, some
fathers I've known have, with a commendable eye to future victories,
even dated the preparation of their offspring from the hour when he was
first shown them by the nurse: "Let me take a squint at the little
rascal," says the beaming father and expertly examines the young
hopeful's legs. "Ah, hah, bully! We'll make a real football player out
of _him_!"
And so, some day when Dick or Ken is six or seven, Father produces a
strange looking, leather-cased bladder out of a trunk where Mother
hasn't discovered it and blows it up out on the front porch under the
youngster's inquisitive eye and tucks in the neck and laces it up.
"What is it, Pop? What you going to do with it?"
"That's what men call a football, Son. And right now I'm going to _kick_
it." And kick it he does--all around the lot--until after a particularly
good lift he chuckles to himself, the old war horse, and with the smell
of ancient battles in his nostrils sits down to give the boy his first
lesson in the manliest and best game on earth. And this first lesson is
tackling. Perhaps the picture on the opposite page will remind you of
the time you taught _your_ boys the good old game.
This particular kind of football instinct has produced many of the
finest players the colleges have ever seen. In a real football family
there isn't much bluffing as to what you can do nor are there many
excuses for a fumble or a missed tackle. With your big brothers' ears
open and their tongues ready with a caustic remark, it doesn't need
"Pop's" keen eye to keep you within the realms of truth as to the length
of your run or why you missed that catch.
Quite often, as it happens, "Pop" is thinking of a certain big game he
once played in and remembering a play--Ah! if only he could forget that
play!--in which he fumbled and missed the chance of a life-time. Like
some inexorable motion picture film that refuses to throw anything but
one fatal scene on the screen, his recollections make the actors take
their well-remembered positions and the play begins. For the thousandth
time he gnashes his teeth as he sees the ball slip from his grasp.
"Dog-gone it," he mutters, "if my boy doesn't do better in the big game
than _I_ did, I'll whale the hide off him!"
Strangely enough not all brothers of a football family follow one
another to the same college, and there have been several cases where
brother played against brother. But for the only son of a great player
to go anywhere else than to his father's college would be rank heresy. I
daresay even the other college wouldn't like it.
[Illustration: JUST BOYS]
Of famous fathers whose football instinct descended without dilution
into their sons perhaps the easiest remembered have been Walter Camp,
who captained the Elis in '78 and '79 and whose son, Walter, Jr., played
fullback in 1911--Alfred T. Baker, one of the Princeton backs in '83,
and '84, whose son Hobey captained his team in 1914--Snake Ames, who
played in four championship games for Princeton against both Yale and
Harvard, and whose son, Knowlton Ames, Jr., played on the Princeton
teams of '12, '13 and '14--and that sterling Yale tackle of '91 and '92,
"Wallie" Winter, whose son, Wallace, Jr., played on his Freshman team in
1915.
When we come to enumerating the brothers who have played, it is the Poe
family which comes first to mind. Laying aside friendship or natural
bias, I feel that my readers will agree with me in the belief that it
would be hard to find six football players ranking higher than the six
Poe brothers. Altogether, Princeton has seen some twenty-two years of
Poes, during at least thirteen of which there was a Poe on the Varsity
team. Johnson Poe, '84, came first, to be followed by Edgar Allen, twice
captain, then by Johnny, now in his last resting place "somewhere in
France," then by Nelson, then Arthur, twice the fly in Yale's ointment,
and lastly by Gresham Poe. I haven't a doubt but that after due lapse of
time this wonderful family will produce other Poes, sons and cousins, to
carry on the precious tradition.
Next in point of numbers probably comes the Riggs family of five
brothers, of whom three, Lawrence, Jesse and Dudley, played on Princeton
teams, while Harry and Frank were substitutes. The Hodge family were
four who played at Princeton--Jack, Hugh, Dick and Sam.
After the Riggs family comes the Young family of Cornell--Ed., Charles,
George and Will--all of whom played tremendously for the Carnelian and
White in the nineties. Charles Young later studied at the Theological
Seminary at Princeton and played wonderful football on the scrub in my
time from sheer love of sport, since as he is, at this writing, physical
director at Cornell. Amherst boasts of the wonderful Pratt brothers, who
did much for Amherst football.
Of threes there are quite a number. Prominent among them have been the
Wilsons of both Yale and Princeton, Tom being a guard on the Princeton
teams of 1911 and 1912, while Alex captained Yale in 1915 and saw
another brother in orange and black waiting on the side lines across the
field. Situations like this are always productive of thrills. Let the
brother who has been waiting longingly throw off his blanket and rush
across the field into his position and instantly the news flashes
through the stands. "Brother against brother!" goes the thrilling
whisper--and every heart gives an extra throb as it hungers in an unholy
but perfectly human way for a clash between the two. There were three
Harlan brothers who played at Princeton in '81, '83, '84.
At Harvard Lothrope, Paul and Ted Withington; Percy, Jack and Sam
Wendell.
In Cornell a redoubtable trio were the Taussigs. Of these J. Hawley
Taussig played end for four years ending with the '96 team. Charles
followed in the same position in '99, '00 and '01 and Joseph K., later
Lieutenant Commander of the torpedoboat destroyer _Wadsworth_ played
quarter on the Naval Academy team in '97 and '98.
A third trio of brothers were the Greenways of Yale. Of these, John and
Gil Greenway played both football and baseball while Jim Greenway rowed
on the crew. Another Princeton family, well known, has been the Moffats.
The first of these to play football was Henry, who played on the '73
team which was the first to beat Yale. He was followed by the
redoubtable Alex, who kicked goals from all over the field in '82, '83,
and '84, by Will Moffat who was a Varsity first baseman and by Ned
Moffat who played with me at Lawrenceville. Equally well known have been
the Hallowells of Harvard--F. W. Hallowell, '93, R. H. Hallowell, '96,
and J. W. Hallowell, '01. Another Hallowell--Penrose--was on the track
team, while Colonel Hallowell, the father, was always a power in Harvard
athletics.
When we come to cite the pairs of brothers who have played, the list
seems endless. The first to come to mind are Laurie Bliss of the Yale
teams of '90, '91 and '92 and "Pop" Bliss of the '92 team, principally,
I think, because of Laurie's wonderful end running behind interference
and because "Pop" Bliss, at a crucial moment in a Harvard-Yale game
deliberately disobeyed the signal to plunge through centre on Harvard's
2-yard line and ingeniously ran around the end for a touchdown. Tommy
Baker and Alfred Baker were brothers.
Continuing the Yale list, there have been the Hinkeys, Frank and Louis,
who need no praise as wonderful players--Charlie and Johnny de
Saulles--Sherman and "Ted" Coy--W. O. Hickok, the famous guard of '92,
'93 and '94 and his brother Ross--Herbert and Malcolm McBride, both of
whom played fullback--Tad Jones and his brother Howard--the Philbins,
Steve and Holliday--Charlie Chadwick and his younger brother, George,
who captained his team in 1902. Their father before them was an athlete.
In Harvard there have been the Traffords, Perry and Bernie--Arthur
Brewer and Charley the fleet of foot, who ran ninety yards in the
Harvard-Princeton game of 1895 and caught Suter from behind--the two
Shaws,--Evarts Wrenn, '92 and his famous cousin Bob who played tennis
quite as well as he played football.
[Illustration: HOBEY BAKER WALTER CAMP, JR. SNAKE AMES, JR.]
Princeton, too, has seen many pairs of brothers--"Beef" Wheeler, the
famous guard of '92, '93 and '94 and Bert Wheeler, the splendid fullback
of '98 and '99 whose cool-headed playing helped us win from Yale both in
Princeton and at New Haven--the Rosengartens, Albert and his cousin
Fritz and Albert's brother who played for Pennsylvania--the Tibbotts,
Dave and Fred--J. R. Church, '88, and Bill Church, the roaring, stamping
tackle of '95 and '96--Ross and Steve McClave--Harry and George
Lathrope--Jarvis Geer and Marshall Geer who played with me on teams at
both school and college--Billy Bannard and Horace Bannard--Fred Kafer
and Dana Kafer, the first named being also the very best amateur catcher
I have ever seen. Fred Kafer, by the way, furnished an interesting
anachronism in that while he was one of the ablest mathematicians of his
time in college he found it wellnigh impossible to remember his football
signals! Let us not forget, too, Bal Ballin, who was a Princeton
captain, and his brother Cyril.
In other colleges, the instances of football skill developed by
brotherly emulation have been nearly as well marked. Dartmouth, for
instance, produced the Bankhart brothers--Cornell, the Starbucks--one
of them, Raymond, captaining his team--the Cools, Frank and Gib--the
latter being picked by good judges as the All-America center in
1915--and the Warners, Bill and Glenn.
The greatest three players from any one family that ever played the
backfield would probably be the three Draper brothers--Louis, Phil and
Fred. All went to Williams and all were stars; heavy, fast backs, who
were good both on defense and offense, capable of doing an immense
amount of work and never getting hurt.
At Pennsylvania, there have been the Folwells, Nate and R. C. Folwell
and the Woodruffs, George and Wiley, although George Woodruff,
originator of the celebrated "guards back," was a Yale man long before
he coached at Pennsylvania. It is impossible for any one who saw Jack
Minds play to forget this great back of '94, '95, '96 and '97, whose
brother also wore the Red and Blue a few years later.
Doubtless there have been many more fathers, brothers and sons who have
been equally famous and I ask indulgence for my sins of omission, for
the list is long. Principally, I have recalled their names for the
reason that I knew or now know many of these great players intimately
and so have learned the curious longing--perhaps "passion"--for the game
which is passed from one to the other of a football family. In a way
this might be compared with the military spirit which allows a family
to state proudly that "_we_ have always been Army (or Navy) people." And
who shall say that the clash and conflict of this game, invented and
played only by thoroughly virile men, are not productive of precisely
those qualities of which the race may, some day, well stand in need. If
by the passing down from father to son and from brother to brother of a
spirit of cheerful self-denial throughout the hard fall months--of grim
doggedness under imminent defeat and of fair play at all times, whether
victor or vanquished--a finer, truer sense of what a man may be and do
is forged out of the raw material, then football may feel that it has
served a purpose even nobler than that of being simply America's
greatest college game.
CHAPTER XVII
OUR GOOD OLD TRAINERS
There are not many football enthusiasts who analyze the factors that
bring victory. Many of us do not appreciate the importance attached to
the trainer, or realize the great part that he plays, until we are out
of college. We know that the men who bore the brunt of the battle have
received their full share of glory--the players and coaches.
But there arises in the midst of our athletic world men who trained, men
who safeguarded the players. Trainers have been associated with football
since the early eighties, and a careful trainer's eye should ever be on
the lookout wherever football is played. Players, coaches and trainers
go hand in hand in football.
Every one of these men that I have known has had a strong personality.
Each one, however, differed somewhat from the others. There is a great
affection on the part of the players for the man who cares for their
athletic welfare. These men are often more than mere trainers. Their
personalities have carried them farther than the dressing room. Their
interest in the boys has continued after they left college. Their
influence has been a lasting one, morally, as well as physically.
On account of their association, the trainers keep pace with the men
about them; not limiting their interest to athletics. They are always
found entertaining at the athletic banquets, and their personalities
count for much on the campus. They are all but boys grown up, with well
known athletic records behind them. In the hospital, or in the quietness
of a college room, or on trips, the trainer is a friend and adviser.
Go and talk to the trainer of the football team if you want to get an
unbiased opinion of the team's work or of the value of the individual
coaches. Some of our trainers know much about the game of football--the
technical side--and their advice is valuable.
Every trainer longs to handle good material, but more power to the
trainer who goes ahead with what he's got and makes the best out of it
without a murmur. In our recollections we know of teams that were
reported to be going stale--"over-trained"--"a team of cripples"--who
slumped--could not stand the test--were easily winded--could not endure.
They were nightmares to the trainer. Soon you read in the daily press
indications that a change of trainer is about to take place in such a
college.
Then we turn to another page of our recollections where we read:
"The team is fit to play the game of their lives." "Only eleven men
were used in to-day's game." "Great tribute to the trainer." "Men could
have played all day"--"no time taken out"--"not a man injured"--"pink of
condition." Usually all this spells victory.
Jack McMasters was the first trainer that I met. "Scottie," as every one
affectionately called him, never asked a man to work for him any harder
than he would work himself. In a former chapter you have read how Jack
and I put in some hard work together.
I recall a trip to Boston, where Princeton was to play Harvard. Most of
the Princeton team had retired for the night. About ten o'clock Arthur
Poe came down into the corridor of the Vendome Hotel and told "Scottie"
that Bill Church and Johnny Baird were upstairs taking a cold shower.
Jack was furious, and without stopping for the elevator hustled upstairs
two steps at a time only to find both of these players sound asleep in
bed. Needless to say that Arthur Poe kept out of sight until Jack
retired for the night. A trainer's life is not all pleasure.
Once after the train had started from Princeton this same devilish
Arthur Poe, as Jack would call him, rushed up forward to where Jack was
sitting in the train and said:
"Jack, I don't see Bummie Booth anywhere on the train. I guess he must
have been left behind."
With much haste and worry Jack made a hurried search of the entire train
to find Booth sitting in the last seat in the rear car with a broad grin
on his face.
Jack's training experience was a very broad one. He trained many
victorious teams at Harvard after he left Princeton and was finally
trainer at Annapolis. A pronounced decoration that adorns "Scottie" is a
much admired bunch of gold footballs and baseballs, which he wears
suspended from his watch chain--in fact, so many, that he has had to
have his chain reinforced. If you could but sit down with Jack and
admire this prized collection and listen to some of his prized
achievements--humorous stories of the men he has trained and some of the
victories which these trophies designate you would agree with me that no
two covers could hold them.
But we must leave Jack for the present at home with his family in Sandy
Hook Cottage, Drummore by Stranraer, Scotland, in the best of health,
happy in his recollection of a service well rendered and appreciated by
every one who knew him.
Jim Robinson
There was something about Jim Robinson that made the men who knew him in
his training days refer to him as "Dear Old Jim," and although he no
longer cries out from the side lines "trot up, men," a favorite
expression of his when he wanted to keep the men stirring about, there
still lives within all of us who knew him a keen appreciation of his
service and loyalty to the different colleges where he trained.
He began training at Princeton in 1883 and he finished his work there.
How fine was the tribute that was paid him on the day of his funeral!
Dolly Dillon, captain of the 1906 team, and his loyal team mates, all of
whom had been carefully attended by Jim Robinson on the football field
that fall, acted as pallbearers. There was also a host of old athletes
and friends from all over the country who came to pay their last tribute
to this great sportsman and trainer.
Mike Murphy and Jim Robinson were always contesting trainers. At
Princeton that day with the team gathered around, Murphy related some
interesting and touching experiences of Jim's career.
Jim's family still lives at Princeton, and on one of my recent visits
there, I called upon Mrs. Robinson. We talked of Jim, and I saw again
the loving cups and trophies that Jim had shown me years before.
Jim Robinson trained many of the heroes of the old days, Hector Cowan
being one of them. In later years he idolized the playing of that great
football hero, John DeWitt, who appreciated all that Jim did to make
his team the winner. The spirit of Jim Robinson was comforting as well
as humorous. No mention of Jim would be complete without his dialect.
[Illustration: THE ELECT]
He was an Englishman and abused his h's in a way that was a delight to
the team. Ross McClave tells of fun at the training table one day when
he asked Jim how to spell "saloon." Jim, smiling broadly and knowing he
was to amuse these fellows as he had the men in days gone by, said:
"Hess--Hay--Hell--two Hoes--and--a Hen."
Few men got more work out of a team than did Jim Robinson. There was
always a time for play and a time for work with Jim.
Mike Murphy
Mike Murphy was the dean of trainers.
Bob Torrey, one of the most remarkable center-rushes that Pennsylvania
ever had, is perhaps one of the greatest admirers of Mike Murphy during
his latter years. Torrey can tell it better than I can.
"Murphy's sense of system was wonderful; he was a keen observer and had
a remarkable memory; he seemed to do very little in the way of
bookkeeping, but his mind was carefully pigeon-holed and was a perfect
card index.
"He could have thirty men on the field at once and carry on
conversations with visitors and graduates; issue orders to workmen and
never lose sight of a single one of his men. He was popular wherever he
went. His fame was not only known here, but abroad. His charm of manner
and his cheerful courage will be remembered by all who knew him, but
only those who knew him well realize what an influence he had on the
boys with whom he worked, and how high were his ideals of manhood. The
amount of good done by Mike Murphy in steering boys into the right track
can never be estimated."
Prep' School boys athletically inclined followed Murphy. Many a man went
to college in order to get Murphy's training. He was an athletic magnet.
"The Old Mike"
The town of Natick, Mass., boasts of Mike Murphy's early days. Wonderful
athletic traditions centered there. His early days were eventful for his
athletic success, as he won all kinds of professional prizes for short
distance running. Boyhood friends of Mike Murphy tell of the comradeship
among Mike Murphy, Keene Fitzpatrick, Pooch and Piper Donovan--all
Natick boys. They give glowing accounts of the "truck team" consisting
of this clever quartet, each of whom were "ten-second" men in the
sprinting game.
If that great event which was run off at the Marlboro Fair and Cattle
Show could be witnessed to-day, thousands of admirers would love to see
in action those trainers, see them as the Natick Hose truck defeated
the Westboro team that day, and sent the Westboro contingent home with
shattered hopes and empty pocketbooks.
"In connection with Army-Navy games," writes Crolius of Dartmouth, "I'll
never forget Mike Murphy's wonderful ability to read men's condition by
their 'mental attitude.' He was nearly infallible in his diagnosis."
Once we questioned Mike. He said, "Go get last year's money back, you're
going to lick them!" And true to his uncanny understanding he was right.
Was it any wonder that men gave Murphy the credit due him?
Mike Murphy had a strong influence over the players. He was their
ever-present friend. He could talk to a man, and his personality could
reach farther than any of the coaches. The teams that Murphy talked to
between the halves, both at Yale and Pennsylvania, were always inspired.
Mike Murphy always gave a man something of himself.
It is interesting to read what a fellow trainer, Keene Fitzpatrick, has
to say of Mike:
"Mike first started to train at Yale. Then he went to the Detroit
Athletic Club in Detroit; then he came back to Yale; then he went to the
University of Pennsylvania; then back to Yale again, and finally back to
the University of Penn', where he died.
"We were always great friends and got together every summer; we used to
go up to a little country town, Westboro, on a farm; had a little room
in a farmhouse outside of the town of Natick, and there we used to get
together every year (Mike and Fitz') and share our opinions, and compare
and give each other the benefit of our discoveries of the season's work.
"Murphy was one of the greatest sprinters this world ever had. They
called him 'stucky' because he had so much grit and determination. The
year after Mike died the Intercollegiate was held at Cambridge. All the
trainers got together and a lot of flowers were sent out to Mike's grave
in Hopkinton, Massachusetts."
A CHAT WITH POOCH DONOVAN
Pooch Donovan's success at Harvard goes hand in hand with that of
Haughton.
In the great success of Harvard's Varsity, year after year, the fine
hand of the trainer has been noticeable. Harvard's teams have stood the
test wonderfully well, and all the honors that go with victory have been
heaped upon Pooch Donovan's head.
Every man on the Harvard squad knows that Donovan can get as much work
out of his players as it is possible for any human being to get out of
them. Pooch Donovan served at Yale in 1888, 1889 and 1890, when Mike
Murphy was trainer there. He and Donovan used to have long talks
together and they were ever comparing notes on the training of varsity
teams. Pooch Donovan owes much to Mike Murphy, and the latter was
Pooch's loyal supporter.
"What made Mike Murphy a sturdy man, was that he was such a hard
loser--he could not stand to lose," says Donovan.
"You know the thing that keeps me young is working shoulder to shoulder
with these young fellows." This to me, in the dressing-room, where we
have no time for anything but cold truths. "It was the same thing that
kept Mike Murphy going ten years after the doctors said he would soon be
all in. That was when he returned to Yale, after he had been at
Pennsylvania. There is something about this sort of work that
invigorates us and keeps us young. I'm no longer a young man in years,
but it is the spirit and inspiration of youth with which this work
identifies me that keeps me really young."
When I asked Pooch about Eddie Mahan's great all-around ability, his
face lighted up, and I saw immediately that what I had heard was
true--that Donovan simply idolized Eddie Mahan. Mahan lives in Natick,
Massachusetts, where Donovan also has his home. He has seen Ned Mahan
grow to manhood. Mahan had his first football training as a player on
the Natick High School team.
"Ned Mahan," said Pooch, "was the best all-around football man I have
ever handled. He was easy to handle, eager to do as he was told, and he
never caused the trainer any worry. Up to the very last moment he
played, he was eager to learn everything he could that would improve his
game. He had lots of football ability.
"You know Mahan was a great star at Andover. He kicked wonderfully there
and was good in all departments of the game, and he improved a hundred
per cent. after he came to Harvard."
Pooch Donovan told me about the first day that Eddie Mahan came out upon
the Harvard field. At Cambridge, little is known by the head coach about
a freshman's ability. One day Haughton said to Pooch Donovan:
"Where is that Natick friend of yours? Bring him over to the Stadium and
let's see him kick."
Donovan got Mahan and Haughton said to Mahan:
"Let's see you kick."
Mahan boosted the ball seventy yards, and Haughton said:
"What kind of a kick is that?"
Mahan thought it was a great kick.
"How do you think any ends can cover that?" said Haughton.
Mahan thereupon kicked a couple more, low ones, but they went about as
far.
"Who told you _you_ could kick?" quoth Haughton. "You must kick high
enough for your ends to cover the distance."
"Take it easy and don't get excited," Donovan was whispering to Mahan
on the side. "Take your time, Ned."
But Mahan continued kicking from bad to worse. Haughton was getting
disgusted, and finally remarked:
"Your ends never can cover those punts."
Mahan then kicked one straight up over his head, and the first word ever
uttered by him on the Harvard field, was his reply to Haughton:
"I guess almost any end can cover _that_ punt," he said.
Donovan tells me that he used to carry in his pocket a few blank
cartridges for starting sprinters. Sitting on a bench with some friends,
on Soldiers' Field, one day he reached into his hip pocket for some
loose tobacco. Unconsciously he stuffed into the heel of his pipe a
blank cartridge that had become mixed with the tobacco. The gun club was
practicing within hearing distance of the field. As Donovan lighted his
pipe the cartridge went off. He thought he was shot. Leaping to his feet
he ran down the field, his friends after him.
"I was surprised at my own physical condition--at my being able to stand
so well the shock of being shot," says Donovan in telling the story. "My
friends thought also that I was shot. But when I slowed up, still
bewildered, and they caught up with me, they were puzzled to see my face
covered with powder marks and a broken pipe stem sticking out of my
mouth.
"Not until then did any of us realize what had really happened. The
cartridge had grazed my nose slightly, but outside of that I was all
right. Since then I am very careful what I put in my tobacco."
Eddie is known as "Pooch Donovan's pet." Probably the bluest time that
Donovan ever had--in fact, he says it was the bluest--was when Eddie
Mahan had an off-day in the Stadium. That was the day when Cornell beat
Harvard. Mahan himself says it was the worst day he ever had in his
life, and he blames himself.
"It was just as things will come sometimes," Pooch said to me. "Nobody
knows why they will come, but come they will once in a while."
"Burr, the great Harvard captain," said Pooch, "was a natural born
leader of men. He knew a lot of football and Haughton thought the world
of him. Burr went along finely until the last week of the season. Then,
in falling on the ball, he bruised his shoulder, and would not allow
himself to go into the Yale game. It was really this display of good
judgment on his part that enabled Harvard to win.
"Too often a team has been handicapped by the playing of a crippled
veteran. As a matter of fact, the worst kind of a substitute is often
better than a crippled player. The fact that the great captain, Burr,
stood on the side lines while his team was playing, urged his team mates
on to greater efforts.
"In this same game the opposite side of this question was demonstrated.
Bobbie Burch, the Yale captain, who had been injured the week before the
game, was put in the game. His injury handicapped the Yale team
considerably."
Pooch Donovan has been eight years at Harvard. He has five gold
footballs, which he prizes and wears on his watch chain. During the
eight years there have been five victories over Yale, two ties and one
defeat. Pooch has been a football player himself and the experience has
made him a better trainer.
In 1895 he played on Temple's team of the Duquesne Athletic Club. He was
trainer and halfback, and was very fond of the game. Later on he played
in Cleveland against the Chicago Athletic Club, on whose team played
Heffelfinger, Sport Donnelly, and other famous knights of the gridiron.
"In the morning we did everything we could to make the stay of the
visiting team pleasant," says Donovan, regarding those days, "but in the
afternoon it was different, and in the midst of the game a fellow
couldn't help wondering how men could be so nice to each other in the
morning and so rough in the afternoon."
Pooch Donovan cannot say enough in favor of Doctor E. H. Nichols, the
doctor for the Harvard team. Pooch's judgment is endorsed by many a
Harvard man that I have talked to.
Keene Fitzpatrick
When Biffy Lea was coaching at the University of Michigan in 1901, it
was my opportunity and privilege to see something of Western football. I
was at Ann Arbor assisting Lea the last week before Michigan played
Chicago. Michigan was defeated. That night at a banquet given to the
Michigan team, there arose a man to respond to a toast.
His words were cheering to the men and roused them out of the gloom of
despair and defeat to a strong hope for the coming year. That man was
Keene Fitzpatrick. I had heard much about him, but now that I really had
come to meet him I realized what a magnetic man he was.
He knew men and how to get the best out of them. Fitzpatrick went from
Michigan to Yale, from Yale back to Michigan, and then to Princeton,
where Princeton men hope he will always stay.
Michigan admirers were loath to lose Fitzpatrick and their tribute to
him on leaving was as follows:
"The University of Michigan combination was broken yesterday when Keene
Fitzpatrick announced that he had accepted Princeton's offer, to take
effect in the fall of 1910. He was trainer for Michigan for 15 years.
For five years Fitz' has been sought by every large university in the
East.
"What was Michigan's loss, was Princeton's gain. He made men better,
not alone physically, but morally. His work has been uplifting along all
lines of university activities. In character and example he is as great
and untiring as in his teaching and precept. The final and definite
knowledge of his determination to leave Michigan is a severe blow to the
students all of whom know and appreciate his work. Next to President
Angell, no man of the University of Michigan, in the last ten years, has
exerted a more wholesome influence upon the students than has Keene
Fitzpatrick. His work brought him in close touch with the students and
his influence over them for good has been wonderful. He is a man of
ideals and clean life."
"To 'Fitz,' as the boys called him, as much as to the great coach Yost
is due Michigan's fine record in football. His place will be hard to
fill. Fitz has aided morally in placing athletics on a high plane and in
cultivating a fine spirit of sportsmanship. He was elected an honorary
member of the class of 1913 at Princeton. The Secretary of the class
wrote him a letter in which he said: 'The senior class deeply
appreciates your successful efforts, and in behalf of the University
takes this opportunity of expressing its indebtedness to you for the
valuable results which you have accomplished.'"
Yost had a high opinion of Fitzpatrick.
"Fitz and I worked together for nine years," writes Yost. "We were like
brothers during that association at Michigan. There is no one person
who contributed so much to the University of Michigan as this great
trainer. His wonderful personality, his expert assistance and that great
optimism of his stood out as his leading qualifications. My association
with him is one of the pleasantest recollections of my life. He put the
men in shape, trained them and developed them. They were 'usable' all
the time. He is a trainer who has his men in the finest mental condition
possible. I don't think there was ever a trainer who kept men more fit,
physically and mentally, than Keene Fitzpatrick."
There were in Michigan two players, brothers, who were far apart in
skill. Keene says one was of varsity calibre, but wanted his brother,
too, to make the Eleven. "Once," says Keene, "when we were going on a
trip, John, who was a better player, said, 'I will not go if Joe cannot
go,' so in order to get John, we had to take Joe."
Fitzpatrick tells of an odd experience in football. "In 1901 Michigan
went out to Southern California and played Leland Stanford University at
Pasadena, January 1. When the Michigan team left Ann Arbor for
California in December, it was 12 deg. below zero and when they played on
New Year's it was 80 deg. at 3 P. M."
Stanford was supposed to have a big advantage due to the climate.
Michigan won by a score of 49 to 0. Michigan used but eleven men in the
game, and it was their first scrimmage since Thanksgiving Day. A funny
thing happened en route to Pasadena.
"Every time the train stopped," said Keene, "we hustled the men out to
give them practice running through signals and passing the ball.
Everything went well until we arrived in Ogden, Utah. We hustled the men
out as usual for a work-out, and in less than two minutes the men were
all in, lying down on the ground, gasping for breath. We could not
understand what was wrong, until some one came along and reminded us
that we were in a very high altitude and that it affected people who
were not accustomed to it. We all felt better when we received that
information."
Michael J. Sweeney
There are few trainers in our prep. schools who can match the record of
Mike Sweeney. He has been an important part of the Hill School's
athletics for years. Many of the traditions of this school are grouped,
in fact, about his personality. Hill School boys are loud in their
praises of Sweeney's achievements. He always had a strong hold on the
students there. He has given many a boy words of encouragement that have
helped him on in the school, and this same boy has come back to him in
after life to get words of advice.
Many colleges tried to sever his connection with Hill School. I know
that at one time Princeton was very anxious to get Sweeney's services.
He was happy at Hill School, however, and decided to stay. It was there
at Hill School that Sweeney turned out some star athletes. Perhaps one
of the most prominent was Tom Shevlin. Sweeney saw great possibilities
in Shevlin. He taught him the fundamentals that made Shevlin one of the
greatest ends that ever played at Yale. He typified Sweeney's ideal
football player. Shevlin never lost an opportunity to express
appreciation of what Sweeney had done for him.
Tom gave all credit for his athletic ability to Mike Sweeney of Hill and
Mike Murphy of Yale. His last desire for Yale athletics was to bring
Sweeney to Yale and have him installed, not as a direct coach or trainer
of any team, but more as a general athletic director, connected with the
faculty, to advise and help in all branches of college sport.
Tom Shevlin idolized Sweeney. Those who were at the banquet of the 1905
team at Cambridge will recall the tribute that Shevlin then paid to him.
He declared that he regarded Sweeney as "the world's greatest brain on
all forms of athletics."
Whenever Mike Sweeney puts his heart into his work he is one of the most
completely absorbed men I know.
Sweeney possesses an uncanny insight into the workings of the games and
individuals. Oftentimes as he sits on the side lines he can foretell an
accident coming to a player.
Mike was sitting on the Yale side lines one day, and remarked to Ed
Wylie, a former Hill School player--a Yale substitute at that time:
"They ought to take Smith out of the game; he shows signs of weakening.
You'd better go tell the trainer to do it."
But before Wylie could get to the trainer, several plays had been run
off and the man who had played too long received an injury, and was done
for. Sweeney's predictions generally ring true.
It is rather remarkable, and especially fortunate that a prep. school
should have such an efficient athletic director. For thirteen years
Sweeney acted in that capacity and coached all the teams. He taught
other men to teach football.
Jack Moakley
Had any one gone to Ithaca in the hope of obtaining the services of Jack
Moakley, the Cornell trainer, he would have found this popular trainer's
friends rising up and showing him the way to the station, because there
never has been a human being who could sever the relations between Jack
Moakley and Cornell.
The record he has made with his track teams alone entitles him to a high
place, if not the highest place, on the trainer's roll of honor. To tell
of his achievements would fill an entire chapter, but as we are
confining ourselves to football, his work in this department of Cornell
sports stands on a par with any football trainer.
Jack Moakley takes his work very seriously and no man works any harder
on the Cornell squad than does their trainer. Costello, a Cornell
captain of years ago, relates the following incident:
"Jack Moakley had a man on his squad who had a great habit of digging up
unusual fads, generally in the matter of diet. At this particular time
he had decided to live solely on grape nuts. As he was one of the best
men on the team, Jack did not burden himself with trouble over this fad,
although at several times Moakley told him that he might improve if he
would eat some real food. However, when this man started a grape nut
campaign among the younger members of the squad he aroused Jack's ire
and upon his arrival at the field house he wiped the black board clean
of all instructions and in letters a foot high wrote:
"They who eat beef are beefy."
"They who eat nuts are nutty."
The resultant kidding finally made the old beefsteak popular with our
friend.
Johnny Mack
It would not seem natural if one failed to see Johnny Mack on the side
lines where Yale is playing. In eleven years at New Haven Yale teams
were never criticised on account of their condition. The physical
condition of the Yale team has always been left entirely in Johnny
Mack's hands, and the hard contests that they went through in the season
of 1915 were enough to worry any trainer. Johnny Mack was always
optimistic.
There is much humor in Johnny Mack. It is amusing to hear Johnny tell of
the experience that he and Pooch Donovan had in a Paris restaurant, and
I'm sure you can all imagine the rest. Johnny said they got along pretty
well with their French until they ordered potatoes and the waiters
brought in a peck of peas.
It is a difficult task for a trainer to tell whether a player is fully
conscious of all that is going on in a game. Sometimes a hard tackle or
a blow on the head will upset a man. Johnny Mack tells a story that
illustrates this fact:
"There was a quarterback working in the game one day. I thought he was
going wrong. I said to the coach: 'I think something has happened to our
quarterback.' He told me to go out and look him over. I went out and
called the captain to one side after I had permission from the Referee.
I asked him if he thought the quarterback was going right. He replied
that he thought he was, but called out some signals to him to see if he
knew them. The quarter answered the captain's questions after a fashion
and the captain was satisfied, but, just the same, he didn't look good
to me. I asked the captain to let me give him a signal; one we never
used, and one the captain did not even know.
"Said I, 'What's this one--48-16-32-12?'
"'That's me through the right end,' he said.
"'Not on your life, old man,' said I, 'that's you and me to the side
lines!'
"I remember one fall," says Johnny, "when we were very shy on big
material at Yale. The coaches told me to take a walk about the campus
and hunt up some big fellows who might possibly come out for football.
While going along the Commons at noon, the first fellow I met was a big,
fine looking man, a 210 pounder at least, with big, broad shoulders. I
stopped him and asked if he had ever played football.
"'Yes,' he said, 'I played a little at school. I'll come out next week.'
I told him not to bother about next week, but to come out that
afternoon--that I'd meet him at the gym' at one o'clock and have some
clothes for him. He came at one o'clock and I told one of the rubbers to
have some clothes ready. When I came back at 1:30 and looked around I
couldn't recognize him. 'Where in the world is my big fellow?' I said to
Jim the rubber.
"'Your big fellow? Why, he just passed you,' said Jim.
"'No,' said I, 'that can't be the man; that must be some consumptive.'
"'Just the same, that's your big fellow in his football suit,' said
Jim. 'The biggest part of him is hanging up in there on a nail.'
"_Some_ tailors, these fellows have nowadays."
Johnny Mack further tells of an amusing incident in Foster Sanford's
coaching.
"At early practice in New Haven Sanford was working the linemen," says
Johnny. "He picked a green, husky looking boy out of the line of
candidates and was soon playing against him. He didn't know who Sandy
was, and believe me, Sandy was handling him pretty rough to see what he
was made of. The first thing you know the fellow was talking to himself
and, when Sandy was careless, suddenly shot over a stiff one on Sandy's
face and yelled:
"'I'm going to have you know that no man's going to push _me_ around
this field.'
"Sandy was happy as could be. He patted the chap on the back and roared,
'Good stuff; you're all right. You're the kind of a man I want. We can
use men like you!'
"But Foster Sanford was not the only old-timer who could take the young
ones' hard knocks," says Johnny. "I've seen Heffelfinger come back to
Yale Field after being out of college twenty years and play with the
scrubs for fifty-five minutes without a layoff! I never saw a man with
such endurance.
"Ted Coy was a big, good-natured fellow. He was never known to take time
out in a game in the four years he played football. In his senior year
he didn't play until the West Point game. While West Point was putting
it all over us, Coy was on the side lines, frantically running up and
down. But we had strict instructions from the doctor not to play him, no
matter what happened.
"Suddenly Coy said: 'Johnny, let me in. I'm not going to have my team
licked by this crowd.' And in he jumped.
"I saw him call Philbin up alongside of him and the first thing I knew I
saw Philbin and Coy running up the field like a couple of deer. In just
three plays they took the ball from our own 5-yard line to a touchdown.
After that there was a different spirit in the team. Coy was an
inspiration to his p |
