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Football Days - Memories of the Game and of the Men behind the Ball
by William H. Edwards
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W. C. Rhodes

One has only to hear Jim Rodgers tell the story of Billy Rhodes to realize how deeply the iron of football disaster sinks into the soul.

"Rhodes was captain of the losing team in the fall of '90, when Yale's Eleven was beaten by Harvard's," Rodgers tells us. "Arthur Cumnock was the Harvard captain, and the score was 12 to 6. Two remarkable runs for touchdowns made by Dudley Dean and Jim Lee decided the contest.

"For twenty years afterwards, back to Springfield, New Haven or Cambridge, wherever the Yale-Harvard games were played, came with the regularity of their occurrence, Billy Rhodes.

"He was to be seen the night before, and the morning of the game. He always had his tickets for the side line and wore the badge as an ex-Yale captain. But the game itself Billy Rhodes never saw.

"If at Springfield, he was to be found in the Massasoit House, walking the floor until the result of the game was known. If at New Haven, he was not at the Yale Field. He walked around the field and out into the woods. If the game was at Cambridge, he was not at Holmes Field, or later, at Soldiers' Field.

"When the game was over he would join in the celebration of victory, or sink into the misery of defeat, as the case might be. But he never could witness a game. The sting of defeat had left its permanent wound."

A YALE NIGHTMARE

Those who saw the Army defeat Yale at West Point in 1904 must realize what a blow it was to the Blue. The first score came as a result of a blocked kick by West Point, which was recovered by Erwin, who picked up the ball and dashed across the line for a touchdown. The Army scored the second time when Torney cut loose and ran 105 yards for a touchdown.

Sam Morse, captain of the Yale 1906 team, who played right halfback in this game, tells how the nightmare of defeat may come upon us at any time, even in the early season, and incidentally how it may have its compensations.

"An instance of the psychology of football is to be found in the fall of 1904, when Jim Hogan was captain of the Yale team," says Morse. "I had the pleasure of playing back of him on the defensive in almost every game of that year, and I got to depend so much on those bull-like charges of his that I fear that if I had been obliged to play back of some one else my playing would have been of inferior quality.

"Yale had a fine team that year, defeating both Harvard and Princeton with something to spare. The only eleven that scored on us was West Point, and they beat us. It is a strange thing that the Cadets always seem to give Yale a close game, as in that year even though beaten by both Harvard and Princeton by safe scores, and even though Yale beat Harvard and Princeton handily, the Army played us to a standstill.

"After the game, as is so often the case when men have played themselves out, there was a good deal of sobbing and a good many real tears were shed. Every man who has played football will appreciate that there are times when it is a very common matter for even a big husky man to weep. We were all in the West Point dressing-room when Jim Hogan arose. He felt what we all took to be a disgrace more keenly than any of us. There was no shake in his voice, however, or any tears in his eyes when he bellowed at us to stop blubbering.

"'Don't feel sorry for yourselves. I hope this thing will hurt us all enough so that we will profit by it. It isn't a matter to cry over—it's a matter to analyze closely and to take into yourself and to digest, and finally to prevent its happening again.'

"He drove it home as only Jim Hogan could. At the close Ralph Bloomer jumped to his feet and cried:

"'Jim, old man, we are with you, and you are right about it, and we will wipe this thing out in a way which will satisfy you and all the rest of the college.'

"The whole team followed him. Right then and there that aggregation became a Yale football team in the proper sense, and one of the greatest Yale football teams that ever played. It was the game followed by Jim's speech that made the eleven men a unit for victory.

"If Jim had been allowed to live a few more years the quality of leadership that he possessed would have made of him a very prominent and powerful man. His memory is one of the dearest things to all of us who were team mates or friends of his, but I hardly ever think of him without picturing him that particular day in the dressing-room at West Point, when in five minutes he made of eleven men a really great football team."

Even Eddie Mahan is not immune to the haunting memory of defeat, and perhaps because of the very fact that disaster came into his brilliant gridiron career only once, and then in his senior year, it hit him hard. The manner of its telling by this great player is sufficient proof of that. Here is Eddie's story:



"I enjoyed my football days at Harvard so well that I would like to go back each fall and play football for the rest of my life. I wish to goodness I could go back and play just one game over—that is the Cornell game of 1915. My freshman team won all its games, and during the three years that I played for the Harvard Varsity I never figured in a losing game except that one. Cornell beat Harvard 10 to 0. The score of that game will haunt me all my life long. This game has been a nightmare to me ever since. Every time I think of football that game is one of the first things that comes to mind. I fumbled a lot. I don't know why, but I couldn't seem to hold onto the ball.

"We blocked four kicks, but Cornell recovered every one. We sort of felt that there was more than the Cornell team playing against us—a goal from the field and a touchdown. Shiverick, of Cornell, stands out in my recollection of that game. He was a good kicker. Once he had to kick out from behind the goal post down in his own territory. Watson and I were both laying for a line buck; playing up close. Shiverick kicked one over my head, out of bounds at his own 45-yard line.

"I felt like a burglar after this game, because I felt that I had lost it. I was feeling pretty blue until the Monday after the game, when the coaches picked eleven men as the Varsity team, and just as soon as they sent these eleven men to a section of the field to get acquainted with each other—that was the beginning of team work. From the way those fellows went at it that day, and from the spirit they showed, we felt that no team could ever lick us again, neither Princeton nor Yale. The Cornell game acted like a tonic on the whole crowd. Instead of disheartening the team it instilled in us determination. We said:

"'We know what it is to be licked, and we'll be damned if we'll be licked again.'"

Jack de Saulles' football ambitions were realized when he made the Yale team at quarterback, the position which his brother Charlie, before him, had occupied. His spectacular runs, his able generalship, his ability to handle punts, coupled with that characteristic de Saulles' grit, made him a famous player.

Let this game little quarterback tell his own story:

"Billy Bull and I have often discussed the fact that when an attempt for a goal from the field failed, one of the players of the opposing side always touched the ball back of the goal line (thereby making it dead), and brought it out to the 25-yard line to kick. Of course, the ball is never dead until it is touched down. It was in the fall of 1902 when we were playing West Point. In the latter part of the second half of that game, with the score 6 to 6, Charlie Daly attempted a field goal, which was unsuccessful. What Billy Bull and I had discussed many times came into my mind like a flash. I picked the ball up and walked out with it as if it had been touched back of the goal. When I passed the 25-yard line, walking along casually, Bucky Vail, who was the referee, yelled to me to stop. I walked over to him unconcerned and said: 'Bucky, old boy! this ball is not dead, because I did not touch it down. And I am going down the field with it.' By that time the West Point men had taken their positions in order to receive the kick from the 25-yard line. While I was still walking down the field, in order to pass all the West Point men, before making my dash for a certain touchdown, it struck Bucky Vail that I was right, and he yelled out at the top of his voice. 'The ball is not dead. It is free.' Whereupon the West Point men started after me. An Army man tackled me on their 25-yard line, after I had taken the ball down the field for nearly a touchdown. I have often turned over in my bed at night since that time, cursing the action of Referee Vail. If he had not interfered with my play I would have walked down the field for a touchdown and victory for Yale. The final score remained 6 to 6.

"I have often thought of the painful hours I would have suffered had I missed the two open field chances in the disastrous game at Cambridge in the fall of 1902, when Yale was beaten 23 to 0. On two different occasions in that game a Harvard runner with interference had passed the whole Yale team. I was the only Yale man between the Harvard man and a touchdown. The supreme satisfaction I had in nailing both of those runners is one of the most pleasant recollections of my football career.

"When I was a little shaver, back in 1889, I lived at South Bethlehem, Pa. Paul Dashiell and Mathew McClung, who were then playing football at Lehigh University, took an interest in me. Paul Dashiell took me to the first football game I ever saw. Dibby McClung gave me one of the old practice balls of the Lehigh team. This was the first football I ever had in my hands. For weeks afterwards that football was my nightly companion in bed. These two Lehigh stars have always been my football heroes, and it was a happy day for me when I played quarterback on the Yale team and these two men acted as officials that day."



CHAPTER XIX

MEN WHO COACHED

The picture on the opposite page will recall to mind many a serious moment in the career of men who coached; when something had gone wrong; when some player had not come up to expectation; when a combination of poor judgment and ill luck was threatening to throw away the results of a season's work. Such scenes are never photographed, but they are preserved no less indelibly in the minds of all who have played this role.

Where is the old football player, who, gazing at this picture, will not be carried back to those days that will never come again; hours when you listened perhaps guiltily to the stinging words of the coach; moments when spurred on by the thunder and lightning of his wrath you could hardly wait to get out upon the field to grapple with your opponents. At such times, all that was worth while seemed to surge up within you, fiercely demanding a chance, while if you were a coach you yearned to get into the game, only to realize as the team trotted out on the field that yours was no longer a playing part. All you could expect henceforth would be to walk nervously up and down the side line with chills and thrills alternating along your spine.

There were no coaches in the old days. Football history relates that in the beginning fellows who wanted fun and exercise would chip in and buy a leather cover for a beef bladder. It was necessary to have a supply of these bladders on hand, for stout kicks frequently burst them.

In those days the ball was tossed up in the air and all hands rushed for it. There was no organization then, very few rules, and the football players developed themselves.

To-day the old-time player stands on the side lines and hears the coach yelling:

"Play hard! Fall on the ball! Tackle low! Start quick! Charge hard and fast!"

As far as the fundamentals go, the game seems to him much the same, but when he begins to recollect he sees how far it has really progressed. He recalls how the football coach became a reality and how a teacher of football appeared upon the gridiron.

Better coaching systems were installed as football progressed. Rules were expanded, trainers crept in, intercollegiate games were scheduled and competition and keen rivalry developed everywhere. In fact, the desire to win has become so firmly established in the minds of college men that we now have a finished product in our great American game of football—wonderfully attractive, but very expensive.

Competition has grown to such an extent that our coaching systems of to-day resemble, in a way, the plans for national preparedness—costly, but apparently necessary. All this means that the American football man, like the American captain of industry, or the American pioneer in any field of activity, is never content to stand still. His motto is, "Ever Onward."

It is not always the star player that makes the greatest coach. The mediocre man is quite likely to have absorbed as much football teaching ability as the star; and when his opportunity comes to coach, he sometimes gets more out of the men than the man with the big reputation.

Personality counts in coaching. In addition to a coach's keen sense of football, there must be a strong personality around which the players may rally. All this inspires confidence.

It is a joy for a coach to work with good material—the real foundation of success. The rules of to-day, however, give what, under old standards, was the weaker team a much broader opportunity for victory over physically larger and stronger opponents.

But there are days nevertheless when every coach gets discouraged; times when there is no response from the men he is coaching—when their slowness of mind and body seem to justify the despair of Charlie Daly who said to his team:

"You fellows are made of crockery from the neck down and ivory from the neck up."

Football is fickle. To-day you may be a hero. After the last game you may be carried off on the shoulders of enthusiastic admirers and dined and wined by hosts of friends; but across the field there is a grim faced coach who may already be scheming out a play for next year which will snatch you back from the "Hall of Fame" and make your friends describe you sadly as a "back-number."

Haughton arrived at Harvard at the psychological moment. Harvard had passed through many distressing years playing for the football supremacy. He found something to build upon, because, although the game at Cambridge was in the doldrums, there had been keen and capable coaching in the past.

Prominent among those who have worked hard for Harvard and whose work has been more than welcome, are Arthur Cumnock, that brilliant end rush, George Stewart, Doctor William A. Brooks, a former Harvard captain, Lewis, Upton, John Cranston, Deland, Hallowell, Thatcher, Forbes, Waters, Newell, Dibblee, Bill Reid, Mike Farley, Josh Crane, Charlie Daly, Pot Graves, Leo Leary, and others well versed in the game of football.

Haughton had had some experience not only in coaching at Cambridge but coaching at Cornell, and the Harvard football authorities realized that of all the Harvard graduates Haughton would probably be the best man to turn the tide in Harvard football.

Percy, who played tackle on a winning Crimson eleven, and Sam Felton will be well remembered as the fastest punters of their day.

The first Harvard team coached by Haughton defeated Yale. It was in 1908 when Haughton used a spectacular method, when he rushed Vic Kennard into the Crimson backfield after Ver Wiebe had brought the ball up the field where Haughton's craft sent Vic Kennard in to make the winning three points and Kennard himself will tell the story of that game. The next year Percy Haughton's team could not defeat the great Ted Coy, who kicked two goals from the field.

The performance of the Harvard 1908 team was the more remarkable because Burr, who was the captain and the great punter at that time, had been injured and the team was without his services. How well I remember him on the side lines keenly following the play, but brilliant in his self-denial.

There have been times when victories did not come to Harvard with the regularity that they have under the Haughton regime, but the scales go up and down year by year, game by game, and from defeats we learn much.

Let us read what this premier coach says upon reflection:

"Surely the game of football brings out the best there is in one. Aside from the mental and physical exercise, the game develops that inestimable quality of doing one's best under pressure. What better training for the game of life than the acid test of a championship game. Such a test comes not alone to the player but to the coach as well.

"What truer and finer friends can one have than those whom we have met through the medium of football! And finally as the years tend to narrow this precious list, through death, what greater privilege than to associate with the fellow whose muscles are lithe and whose mind is clean. Such a man was Francis H. Burr, captain of the Harvard team in 1908. Words fail me to express my sincere regard for that gallant leader. His spirit still lives at Cambridge; his type we miss.

"I am proud of the men who worked shoulder to shoulder in bringing about Harvard victories. The list is a long one. I shall always cherish the hearty co-operation of these men who gave their best for Harvard."

It was Al Sharpe, that great Cornell coach, who, in the fall of 1915 found it possible to break through the Harvard line of victories, and hanging on the walls in the trophy room at Cornell University is a much prized souvenir of Cornell's visit to Cambridge. That was the only defeat on the Harvard schedule. But sometimes defeats have to come to insure victory, and perhaps in that defeat by Cornell lay the reason for the overwhelming score against Yale.



Slowly, but surely, Al Sharpe has won his way into the front ranks of football coaches. Working steadfastly year after year he has built up and established a system that has set Cornell's football machinery upon a firm foundation.

Glenn Warner

Glenn Warner has contributed a great deal to football, both as a player and coach.

Warner was one of the greatest linemen that ever played on the Cornell team. After leaving college he began his coaching career in 1895 at the University of Georgia. His success there was remarkable. It attracted so much attention that he was called back to Cornell in 1897 and 1898. In 1899 Warner moved again and began his historic work at the Carlisle Indian School, turning out a team year after year that gave the big colleges a close battle and sometimes beat them.

There never was a team that attracted so much attention as the Carlisle Indians. They were popular everywhere and drew large crowds, not only on account of their being Redmen, but on account of their adaptability to the game. Warner, as their coach, wrought wonders with them, and really all the colleges at one time or another had their scalps taken by the Indians. They were the champion travelers of the game. Their games were generally all away from home, and yet the long trips did not seem to hamper them in their play. They got enjoyment out of traveling.

Going from Princeton to New York one Friday night some years ago, I was told by the conductor that the Carlisle football team was in the last car. I went back and talked with Warner. The Indian team were amusing themselves in one end of the car, and thus passing the time away by entering into a game they were accustomed to play on trips. One of the Carlisle players would stand in the center of the aisle and some fifteen or so men would group about him, in and about and on top of the seats. This central figure would bend over and close his eyes. Then some one from the crowd would reach over and spank the crouching Indian a terrific blow, hastily drawing back his hand. Then the Indian who had received the blow would straighten up and try, by the expression of guilt on the face of the one who had delivered the blow, to find his man. Their faces were a study, yet nearly every time the right man was detected.

Who is there in football who will ever forget the Indian team, their red blankets and all that was typical of them; the yells that the crowds gave as the Indians appeared. They seemed always to be fit. They were full of spirit and anxious to clash with their opponents.



I recall an incident in a Princeton-Carlisle game, when the game was being fiercely waged. Miller, the great Indian halfback, had scored a touchdown, after a long run. It was not long after this that a Princeton player was injured. Maybe the play was being slowed up a little. Anyway, time was taken out. One of the Indians seemed to sense the situation. The Princeton players were lying on the ground while the Carlisle men were prancing about eager to resume the fray, when one of the Indians remarked:

"White man play for wind. Indian play football."

In 1915 Warner went to the University of Pittsburgh. Here he has already begun to duplicate former successes. Cruikshank, Peck, and Wagner are three of Pittsburgh's many stars. Probably the greatest football player that Warner ever developed at the Carlisle Indian School was Jim Thorpe, whose picture appears on the opposite page. Unhappy the end, and not infrequently the back, who had to face this versatile player. Thorpe was a raider.

Billy Bull

Billy Bull of Yale is one of the old heroes who has kept in very close touch with the game. He has been a valuable coach at Yale and the Elis' kicking game is left entirely in his hands. He is an enthusiastic believer in the game. Immediately after leaving New Haven in 1889 he started to coach and since that time he has not missed a year. Years ago he inaugurated a routine system of coaching for the various styles of kicks. "My object," he said recently, "has been to turn out consistent rather than wonderful kickers. As a player I was early impressed with the value of kicking, not only in a general way but also in a particular way, such as the punt in an offensive way. For more than twenty-five years I have talked it up. For a long time I talked it to deaf ears, especially at Yale. I talked it when I coached at West Point for ten years and was generally set down as a harmless crank on the subject, but I have lived to see the time when every one agrees on the great value of this offensive kick.

"When I entered Yale I was an absolute greenhorn, but the greenhorn had a chance then, for he was able to play in actual scrimmage every day; now the squads are so big that opportunities for playing the game for long daily periods are entirely wanting.

"To-day it is a case of a heap big talk, a coach for every position, more talk, lots of system, blackboard exercises and mighty little actual play.

"I have often wondered if things were not being overdone as far as coaching goes in the preparatory schools at the present time. The superabundance of coaches and the demand for victory combine to force the boy.

"If there is any forcing to do, the college is the place for it, when the boy is older and better able to stand the strain. In recent years I have seen not a few brokendown boys enter college. Boys are coming to college now who needs must be told everything, and if there is not a large body of coaches about to tell them, they mutiny. They seem to forget, or not to know, that most is up to the man himself.

"When a boy comes to college with the idea that all that is necessary is for him to be told, constantly told how to do this and that, and he will deliver in the last ditch, I cannot help thinking that something is wrong.

"I have in mind right now a player in the line, who came to college after four years of school football. Ever since his entry he has complained that no one has told him anything. Now this particular player spends ten months of each year loafing, and expects in his two months of football to do a man's job in a big game.

"No amount of blackboard and other talk is going to make a player do a man's job and whip his opponent. No man can play a tackle job properly if he does not realize the kind of a proposition he is up against twelve months in the year and act accordingly. He has got to do his own thinking, and see to it himself that he has the necessary strength and toughness, to play the game, as one must to win."

Sanford the Unique

George Foster Sanford is unique in football. He made splendid teams when he coached at Columbia, while his subsequent record with the Rutgers Eleven attracted wide attention.

In the Columbia Alumni News of October, 1915, Albert W. Putnam, a former player, reviews seven years of Morningside football, and pays the following tribute to Foster Sanford:

"Sanford coached the teams of 1899, 1900 and 1901. He coached them ably, conscientiously and thoroughly, and in my opinion was the best football coach in the country."

"During my three years' experience as coach at Columbia," says Sanford, "we beat all the big teams except Harvard. I was fortunate enough to develop such men as Weekes, Morley, Wright, and Berrien, players whose records will always stand high in the Hall of Football Fame at Columbia. I was particularly well satisfied with the work I got out of Slocovitch, a former Yale player, whom the Yale coaches had never seemed to handle properly. I did not allow him to play over one day a week. This was because I had discovered that he was very heavily muscled; that if he played continuously he would become muscle bound. My treatment proved to fit the case exactly and Slocovitch became a star end for Columbia. We defeated Yale the first year; the next year at New Haven the contest was a strenuous one, and the game attracted unusual attention. It was in my own home town, and I had to stand for a lot of good natured kidding, but those who were there will remember how scared the Yale coaches got during the last part of the game, when Columbia made terrific advances. How Columbia's team fought Gordon Brown's Eleven almost to a standstill that day is something that the Yale coaches of that time will long remember."

An old Yale player, Bob Loree, whose father is a Trustee of Rutgers, induced Sanford to lend the college his assistance. Apparently this connection was an unmixed blessing. "Mr. L. F. Loree, Bob's father," says Sandy, "has frankly admitted that in his opinion Sanford's gift to the college (for he works without remuneration) has brought a spirit and a betterment of conditions which is worth fully as much as donations of thousands of dollars.

"From the first day I went there," continues Sandy, "I started to build up football for Rutgers and to rely on Rutgers men for my assistants. It was there that I met the best football man I ever coached, John T. Toohey. This remarkable tackle weighed 220 pounds. The life he led and the example he set will always have a lasting influence upon Rutgers men. For sad to relate, Toohey was killed in the railroad yards at Oneonta, where he was yard master. Toohey was a great leader, possessing a wonderful personality, and winning the immediate respect of every one who knew him."

Twenty-five years have passed since I saw Sanford that morning in the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Since then I have followed his football career with enthusiasm. Boyhood heroes live long in mind. He is what might be called a major surgeon in football, for it is a matter of record that he has been called back to Yale, not when the patient was merely sick, but in a serious condition. Usually the operation has been performed with such skill that the patient has rallied with disconcerting suddenness.

Talking to the Yale teams between the halves, giving instructions, which have turned dubious prospects into flaming victories, is a service which Sanford has rendered Yale more than once. Victory, as it happens, is the principal characteristic of Sanford's work. Long is the list of players whom Sanford has developed.

"In my coaching experience," Sandy tells us, "I doubt if I ever coached a man where my hard work counted for more at Yale than the case of Charlie Chadwick in 1897. For many years there has been a saying that a one man defense is as good as an eleven men defense, providing you can get one man who can do it.

"Of course this never worked out literally, but the case of Charlie Chadwick is probably the best explanation of its value. Besides being overdeveloped, he was temperamental. At times he would show great form and at other times his playing was hopeless. This year I was asked to come to New Haven and began coaching the linemen. Chadwick looked good to me, in spite of much criticism that was made by the coaches. In their opinion they thought he was not to be relied upon, so I decided to stake my reputation, and began in my own way, feeling sure that I could get results, in preparing him for the Harvard and Princeton games.



"I started out purposely annoying Chadwick in every possible way, going with him wherever he went. I went with him to his room evenings and did not leave until he had become so bored that he fell asleep, or that he got mad and told me to get out. I planned it that Chadwick approach the coaches whenever he saw them together and say: 'I wish you would let me play on this team. If you will I will play the game of my life. I will play like hell.' After he had made this speech two or three times, they were very positive that he was more than temperamental. I kept steadily at my plan, however, and felt sure it would work out.

"The line was finally turned over to me and I had opportunity to slip Chadwick in for two or three plays at left guard. He played like a demon; he was literally a one man defense, but he received no credit. I immediately removed him from the game and criticised him severely and told him to follow up the play and in case I needed him he would be handy. I realized what a great player he was proving to be, and my great problem then was how I was to convince the coaches that Chadwick should start the game. I tried it out a few times, but saw it was useless trying to convince them, so I decided to concentrate on Jim Rodgers, the Captain. Jim consented. My plan was to tell no one except Marshall, the man whose place Chadwick was to take. The lineup was called out in the dressing room before the game. Chadwick's name was not included. I had arranged with Julian Curtis, who was in close touch with the cheer leaders, that when I gave the signal, the Yale crowd would be instructed to stand and yell nothing but 'Chadwick, Chadwick, Chadwick.' The Yale team ran out upon the field. I stayed behind with Chadwick and came in through the gate holding him by the arm. Before going on the side lines I stopped him and said: 'Look here, Chadwick. It doesn't look as though you're going to play, but if I put you in that lineup how will you play?' Like a shot from a cannon he roared: 'I'll play like hell.'

"You could have heard him a mile. 'Well then, give me your sweater and warm up,' I said, and as I gave the signal to Julian Curtis, he passed the word on to the cheer leaders and the sight of Chadwick running up and down those side lines will never be forgotten. It is estimated that he leaped five yards at a stride, and with the students cheering, 'Chadwick, Chadwick, Chadwick,' he was sent out into the lineup—and the rest, well, you'd better ask the men who played on the Harvard team that day. It was a stream of men going on and off the field and they were headed for right guard position on the Harvard side. Harvard could not beat Chadwick, so the game ended in a tie."

Jim Rodgers, captain of that team, also has something to say of Chadwick.

"In the Harvard-Yale game," Rodgers writes, "Charlie Chadwick played the game of his life. He used up about six men who played against him that day, but he never could put out Bill Edwards the day we played Princeton. I played against Chadwick on the Scrub, and the first charge he made against me I went clean back to fullback. It was just as though an automobile had hit me. I played against Heffelfinger and a lot of them. I could hold those fellows. Gee! but I was sore. I said to myself, you won't do that again, and the next time I was set back just as far.

"One feature of this Yale-Princeton game impressed me tremendously, that of Bill Edwards' stand, against what I considered a superman, Charles Chadwick. Before the game I had confidently expected Big Bill to resign after about five minutes' play, knowing, as I did, how Chadwick was going. In this, however, Edwards was a great disappointment, as he stuck the game out and was stronger at the end, than at the start or half way through. Had he weakened at all, Ad Kelly's great offensive work would have been doomed to failure. Edwards finished up the game against Chadwick with a face that resembled a raw beefsteak. To my mind he was the worst punished man I have ever seen. He stood by his guns to the finish, and ever since then my hat has been off to him."

One of the most interesting characters in Southern football is W. R. Tichenor, a thorough enthusiast in the game and known wherever there is a football in the South. His father was president of the Alabama Polytechnic. He was a fine player and weighed about 120 pounds. He is the emergency football man of the South. Whenever there is a football dispute Tichenor settles it. Whenever a coach is taken sick, Tichenor is called upon to take his place. Whenever an emergency official is needed, Tich comes to the rescue. He tells the following story:

"Every boy who has been to Auburn in the last twenty years knows Bob Frazier. Many of them, however, may not recognize that name, as he has been called Bob 'Sponsor' for so long that few of them know his real name. Bob is as black as the inside of a coal mine and has rubbed and worked for the various teams at Auburn 'since the memory of man runneth not to the contrary.'



"Just after the Christmas holidays one year in the middle nineties, Bob, with the view of making a touch, called at Bill Williams' room one night.

"After asking Bill if he had had a good Christmas, 'Sponsor' remarked: 'You know, Mr. Williams, us Auburn niggers went down and played dem Tuskegee niggers a game of football during Christmas.'

"'Who did you have on the team, Bob?' inquired Bill.

"'Oh—we had a lot of dese niggers roun' town yere. They was me, an' Crooksie, an' Homer, an' Bear, an' Cockeye, an' a lot of dese yer town niggers.'

"'How did you come out?' asked Bill.

"'Oh, dem Tuskegee niggers give us a good lickin'.'

"'What position did you play?'

"'Me?' said Bob, 'I was de cap'en. I played all roun'. I played center. Den I played quarterback. Den I played halfback.'

"'What system of signals did you use and who called them?' was Bill's next inquiry.

"'Ain't I tole you, Mr. Williams, I was de cap'en. I called the signals. Dem niggers of mine couldn't learn no signals, so we jus' played lack we had some. I'd give some numbers to fool the Tuskegee niggers. But dem numbers didn't mean nothin'. I'd say, "two, four, six, eight, ten—tek dat ball, Homer, an' go roun' the end." Dat's de only sort of signals dem niggers could learn and sometimes dey missed dem. Dat's de reason we got beat and dem Tuskegee niggers got all my money. Mr. Williams, I'm jus' as nickless as a ha'nt. Can't you lem' me two bits til' Sadday night, please suh? Honest to God, I'll pay you back den, shore.'"

Listening to Yost

"Hurry Up" Yost is one of the most interesting and enthusiastic football coaches in the country. The title of "Hurry Up" has been given him on account of the "pep" he puts into his men and the speed at which they work. Whether in a restaurant or a crowded street, hotel lobby or on a railroad train, Yost will proceed to demonstrate this or that play and carefully explain many of the things well worth while in football. He is always in deadly earnest. Out of the football season, during business hours, he is ever ready to talk the game. Yost's football experience as a player began at the University of West Virginia, where he played tackle. Lafayette beat them that year 6 to 0. Shortly after this Yost entered Lafayette. His early experience in football there was under the famous football expert and writer, Parke Davis.

Yost and Rinehart wear a broad smile as they tell of the way Parke Davis used to entertain teams off the field. He always kept them in the finest of humor. Parke Davis, they say, is a born entertainer, and many an evening in the club house did he keep their minds off football by a wonderful demonstration of sleight-of-hand with the cards.

"If Parke Davis had taken his coat off and stuck to coaching he would have been one of the greatest leaders in that line in the country to-day," says Yost. "He was more or a less a bug on football. You know that to be good in anything one must be crazy about it. Davis was certainly a bug on football and so am I. Everybody knows that.

"I shall never forget Davis after Lafayette had beaten Cornell 6 to 0, in 1895, at Ithaca. That night in the course of the celebration Parke uncovered everything he had in the way of entertainment and gave an exhibition of his famous dance, so aptly named the 'dance du venture,' by that enthusiastic Lafayette alumnus, John Clarke.

"I have been at Michigan fifteen seasons. My 1901 team is perhaps the most remarkable in the history of football in many ways. It scored 550 points to opponents' nothing, and journeyed 3500 miles. We played Stanford on New Year's day, using no substitutes. On this great team were Neil Snow, and the remarkable quarterback Boss Weeks. Willie Heston, who was playing his first year at Michigan, was another star on this team. A picture of Michigan's great team appears on the opposite page.

"Boss Weeks' two teams scored more than 1200 points. If that team had been in front of the Chinese Wall and got the signal to go, not a man would have hesitated. Every man that played under Boss Weeks idolized him, and when word was brought to the university that he had died, every Michigan man felt that its university had lost one of its greatest men.

"I am perhaps more of a boy's man to-day than I ever was. There is a great satisfaction in feeling that you have an influence in the lives of the men under you. Coaching is a sacred job. There's no question about it.

"There is a wonderful athletic spirit at Michigan, and when we have mass meetings in the Hill Auditorium 6000 men turn out. At such a time one feels the great power behind an athletic team. Some of the great Michigan football players within my recollection were Jimmy Baird, Jack McLain, Neil Snow, Boss Weeks, Tom Hammond, Willie Heston, Herrnstein, grand old Germany Schultz, Benbrook, Stan Wells, Dan McGugin, Dave Allerdice, Hugh White and others I might mention on down to John Maulbetsch."

Reggie Brown is probably one of the most famous of the Harvard coaches. His work in Harvard football is to find out what the other teams are doing. He is on hand at Yale Field every Saturday when the Yale team plays. He is unique in his scouting work, in that he carries his findings in his head. His memory is his mental note book.



In talking with Harvard men I have found that the general impression is that the work of this coach is one of Harvard's biggest assets.

Jimmy Knox of Harvard is one of Haughton's most valued scouts. Every fall Princeton is his haven of scouting. He does it most successfully and in a truly sportsmanlike way.

One day en route to Princeton I met Knox on the train and sat with him as far as Princeton Junction. When we arrived at Princeton, a friend of mine called me aside and said:

"Who is that loyal Princeton man who seems never to miss a game?"

"He is not a Princeton man," I replied. "He is Knox the Harvard scout. He will be with Haughton to-morrow at Cambridge with his dope book."

"From questions asked me I am quite sure that there is an utter misconception of the work of the scouts for the big league teams," says Jimmy. "I have frequently been asked how I get in to see the practice of our opponents, how I manage to get their signals, how I anticipate what they are going to do, what is the value of scouting anyway. From five years' experience, I can say that I have never seen our opponents except in public games. I have never unconsciously noted a signal even for a kick, much less made a deliberate attempt to learn the opponents' signals or code. What little I know of their ultimate plans is merely by applying common sense to their problem, based on the material and methods which they command. As to the value of scouting, volumes might be written, but suffice it to say that it is the principal means of standardizing the game. If the big teams of the country played throughout the season in seclusion, the final games would be a hodge-podge of varying systems which would curtail the interest of the spectator and all but block the development of the game.

"The reports of the scouts give the various coaching corps a fixed objective so that the various teams come to their final game with what might be considered a uniform examination to pass. The result is a steady, logical development of the game from the inside and the maximum interest for the spectator. It is unfortunate that the public has misconstrued scouting to mean spying, for there is nothing underhanded in the scouting department of football as any big team coach will testify."

Knox tells of an interesting experience of his Freshman year.

"I never hear the question debated as to whether character is born in a man or developed as time goes on," says he, "without recalling my first meeting with Marshall Newell, probably the best loved man that ever graduated from Harvard. In the middle '90's it was considered beneath the dignity of a former Varsity player to coach any but Varsity candidates. Marshall Newell was an exception. Without solicitation he came over to the Freshman field many times and gave us youngsters the benefit of his advice. On his first trip he went into the lineup and gave us an example of how the game could be played by a master. When the practice was over, Ma Newell came up to me and said: 'I guess I was a little rough, my boy, but I just wanted to test your grit. You had better come over to the Varsity field to-morrow with two or three of the other fellows that I am going to speak to. I'll watch you and help you after you get there.' And he did. He was loved because he was big enough to disregard convention, to sympathize with the less proficient and to make an inferior feel as if he were on a plane of equality. The highest type of manhood was born with Marshall Newell and developed through every hour of a too short life.

"Only those who played football in the old days and have carefully followed it since appreciate the difference in the two types of game. I frequently wonder if the old type of game did not develop more in a man than the modern. As a freshman I was playing halfback on the second Varsity one afternoon when a sudden blow knocked me unconscious while the play was at one end of the field. When I regained consciousness the play was at the other end of the field, not a soul was near me or thinking of me. I had hardly got within ear-shot of the scrimmage when I heard Lewis, one of the Varsity coaches, call out, 'Come on, get in here, they can't kill fellows like you.' I went into the scrimmage and played the rest of the afternoon. It was a simple incident, but I learned two lessons of life from it: first, you can expect mighty little sympathy when you are down; second, you are not out if you will only go back and stick to it."

Dartmouth holds a unique position in college football. There are many men who were responsible for Dartmouth's success, men who have stood by year after year and worked out the football policy there.

It is my experience that Dartmouth men universally call Ed Hall the father of Dartmouth football. He has served faithfully on the Rules Committee as well as an official in the game.

Myron E. Witham, that great player and captain of the Dartmouth team which was victorious over Harvard the day that Harvard opened the Stadium, says: "If one goes back to Hanover and visits the trophy room he will see hanging there the winning football which Dartmouth men glory over as they recall that wonderful victory over Harvard. Ed Hall is the man who is often called upon to speak to the men between the halves. His talks have a telling effect. Hall's name is traditional at our college."

There are many football enthusiasts who recall that wonderful backfield that Dartmouth had, McCornack, Eckstrom, McAndrews and Crolius. These men got away wonderfully fast and hit the line like one man. They played every game without a substitute for two years.

Fred Crolius, who takes great delight in recalling the old days, has the following to say about one who coached:

"One man, whose influence more than any other one thing, succeeded in laying a foundation for Dartmouth's wonderful results, but whose name is seldom mentioned in that connection is Doctor Wurtenberg, who was brought up in the early Yale football school. He had the keenest sense of fundamental football and the greatest intensity of spirit in transmitting his hard earned knowledge. Four critical years he worked with us filling every one with his enthusiasm and those four years Dartmouth football gained such headway that nothing could stop its growth."

Enough space cannot be given to pay proper tribute to Walter McCornack, Dartmouth '97.

Myron Witham relates a humorous incident that happened in practice when McCornack was coach at Dartmouth. "Mac's serious and exacting demeanor on the practice field occasionally relaxed to enjoy a humorous situation. He chose to give a personal demonstration of my position and duty as quarterback in a particular formation around the end. He took my place and giving the proper signal, the team or rather ten-elevenths of the team went through with the play, leaving Mac behind standing in his tracks. Mac naturally was at a loss to locate the quarter, during the execution of the play and madly yelled, 'Where in the devil is that quarterback?' But immediately joined with the squad in the joke upon himself."

McCornack coached Dartmouth in the falls of 1901 and 1902. He brought the team up from nothing to a two years' defeat of Brown and two years' scoring on Harvard. The game with Harvard in the fall of 1902 resulted in a score of 16 to 6, Dartmouth out-rushing Harvard at least 3 to 1.

McCornack then resigned, but left a wealth of material and a scientific game at Dartmouth, which was as good as any in the country. This was the beginning of Dartmouth's success in modern football, and for it McCornack has been named the father of modern football at Dartmouth.

The greatest compliment ever paid McCornack, in so far as athletics were concerned, was by President William Jewett Tucker of Dartmouth, who told an alumnus of the institution:

"The discipline that McCornack maintained on the football field at Dartmouth was to the advantage of the general discipline of the institution."

For ten years after McCornack had stopped coaching at Dartmouth, the captain of the Dartmouth team would wear his sweater in a Harvard game as an emblem to go by. The sweater is now worn out, and no one knows where it is.

If Eddie Holt's record at Princeton told of nothing else than the making of a great guard, this would be enough to establish Holt's ability as a guard coach. Eddie and Sam Craig played alongside of each other in the Yale defeat of '97. Holt says:

"The story of the making of Sam Craig is the old story of the stone the builders rejected, which is now the head stone of the corner. Sam never forgot the '97 defeat and I never have myself. After this game Sam gave up football, although he was eligible to play. Two years later, after Princeton had been defeated by Cornell, something had to be done to strengthen the Princeton line. Sam Craig was at the Seminary. I remembered him," said Holt, "and went over to his room and told him that he was needed. I shall never forget how his face lit up as he felt there was an opportunity to serve Princeton and a chance to play on a winning team; a chance to come back. He responded to my hurry call, eager to make good. Coaching him was the finest thing I ever did in football. Good old Sam, I can see him now, standing on the side lines telling me that he guessed he was no good. You can never imagine how happy I was to see him improve day by day after I had taken a hold of him. The great game he played against Yale in '99 will always be one of my happiest recollections in football. My joy was supreme; the joy that comes to a coach as he sees his man make good—Sam sure did."

It is very doubtful whether the inside story of Harvard's victory over Yale in 1908 has ever been told. Those who remember this game know that the way for victory was paved by Ver Wiebe and Vic Kennard. Harry Kersburg, a Harvard coach, writes of that incident:

"The summer of 1907 and 1908, Kennard worked for several hours each day perfecting his kicking. This fact was known to only one of the coaches. In 1906 and 1907, Kennard played as a substitute but was most unfortunate in being smashed up in nearly every game in which he played. On account of this record, he was given little or no attention at the beginning of the 1908 season, even though the one coach who had great confidence in Kennard's ability as a kicker rooted hard for him at every coaches' meeting. About the middle of the season, Dave Campbell came on from the West and with the one lone coach became interested in Kennard. On the day of the Springfield Training School game, most of the Harvard coaches went down to New Haven, leaving the team in charge of Campbell and Kennard's other rooter. The psychological moment had arrived. Just as soon as the Harvard team had rolled up a tidy little score, Kennard was sent into the game and instructions were given to the quarterback that he was to signal for a drop kick every time the Harvard team was within forty yards of the opponent's goal—no matter what the angle might be. The game ended with Kennard having kicked four goals from the field out of six tries. Nearly all of them were kicked from an average distance of thirty yards and at very difficult angles. At the next coaches' meeting serious consideration was given to what Kennard had done and from that time on he came into his own.

"Now for Rex Ver Wiebe. For two years he had plugged away at a line position on the second team. In his senior year he was advanced to the Varsity squad. With all his hard work it seemed impossible for him to develop into anything but a mediocre lineman. The line coaches, with much regret, had about given up all hope. One afternoon, two weeks before the Yale game, one of the line coaches was standing on the side lines talking with Pooch Donovan about Ver Wiebe. Pooch said little, but kept a close watch on Ver Wiebe for the next two or three days. At the end of that time he came out with the statement that if Ver Wiebe could be taught how to start, he would rapidly develop into one of the best halfbacks on the squad. Pooch's advice was followed and in the Yale game, Ver Wiebe's rushes outside tackle were one of the features of the game and were directly responsible for the ball being brought down the field to such a position that it was possible to substitute Kennard, who kicked a goal from the field and won the first victory for Harvard against Yale in many years.

"It is a strange coincidence that the first of Harvard's string of victories against Yale was won by two men who a few weeks before the game were in the so-called football discard."

No greater honor can be accorded a football man than the invitation to come back to his Alma Mater and take charge of the football situation. Such a man has been selected after he has served efficiently at other institutions, for it takes long experience to become a great coach and there are very few men who have given up all their time to consecutive coaching.

Successful coaches, as a rule, are men who have a genius for it, and whose strong personalities bring out the natural ability of the men under them. Successful football is the result of a good system, plus good material.

Of the men who coach to-day, the experience of John H. Rush, popularly known as Speedy Rush, stands out as unique. Rush never played football, for he preferred track athletics, but he understood the theory of the game. At the University School in Cleveland where Rush taught for many years, he took charge of the football team, and although coaching mere boys, his results were marvelous, and in 1915, when the Princeton coaching system was in a slough of despond, it was decided to give Rush an opportunity to show what he could do at Princeton.



Rush makes no boasts. He is a silent worker, and football people at large were unanimous in their praise of his work at Princeton in the fall of 1915. Whatever the future holds in store for this coach, Princeton men at least are sure that an efficient policy has been established which will be followed out year after year, and that the loyal support of the Alumni is behind Rush.

There was never a time in Yale's history when so much general discussion and care entered into the selection of its football coach as in 1915. From the long list of Yale football graduates the honor was bestowed upon Tad Jones, a man whose remarkable playing record at Yale is well known. Football records tell of his wonderful runs. His personality enables him to get close to the men, and he was wonderfully successful at Exeter, coaching his old school. Tad Jones represents one of the highest types of college athletes.

In 1915 when the college authorities decided Columbia might re-enter the football arena, after a lapse of ten years, it was a wonderful victory for the loyal Columbia football supporters. A most thorough and exhaustive search was then made for the proper man to teach Columbia the new football. The man who won the Committee's unanimous vote was Thomas N. Metcalf, who played football at Oberlin, Ohio. Metcalf earned recognition in his first year. He realized that Columbia's re-entrance into football must be gradual, and his schedule was arranged accordingly. He developed Miller, a quarterback who stood on a par with the best quarterbacks in 1915. Columbia had great confidence in Metcalf, and the pick of the old men, notably Tom Thorp, one of the gamest players any team ever had, volunteered their aid.

One of the most prominent football coaches which Pennsylvania boasts of to-day, is Bob Folwell. Always a brilliant player, full of spirit and endowed with a great power of leadership, he was a huge success as a coach at Lafayette. His team beat Princeton. At Washington and Jefferson, he beat Yale twice. His ability as a coach was watched carefully not only by the graduates of Penn, but by the football world as a whole.

In 1916 this hard-working, energetic up-to-date coach assumed control of the football situation on Franklin Field.



CHAPTER XX

UMPIRE AND REFEREE

There is a group of individuals connected with football to whom the football public pays little attention, until at a most inopportune time in the game, a whistle is blown, or a horn is tooted and you see a presumptuous individual stepping off a damaging five yard penalty against your favorite team. At such a time you arise in your wrath and demand: "Who is that guy anyway? Where did he come from? Why did he give that penalty?" Other muffled tributes are paid him.

In calmer moments you realize that the officials are the caretakers of football. They see to it that the game is preserved to us year after year.

An official is generally a man who has served his time as a player. Those days over, he enters the arena as Umpire, Referee or Linesman.

One who has a keen desire to succeed in this line of work ought to train himself properly for the season's work. In anticipation of the afternoon's work, he must get his proper sleep; no night cafes or late hours should be his before a big contest.

The workings of football minds towards an official are most narrow and critical at times. The really wise official will remain away from both teams until just before the game, lest some one accuse him of being too familiar with the other side. He can offer no opinion upon the game before the contest.

Each college has its preferred list of officials. Much time is given to the selection of officials for the different games. Before a man can be chosen for any game it must be shown that he has had no ancestors at either of the colleges in whose game he will act and that he is always unprejudiced. At the same time the fact that a man has been approved as a football official by three of four big colleges is about as fine a football diploma as any one would wish.

For the larger games an official receives one hundred dollars and expenses. This seems a lot of money for an afternoon's work just for sport's sake, but there are many officials on the discarded list to-day who would gladly return all the money they ever received, if they could but regain their former popularity and prestige in the game. Certainly an official is not an over-paid man.

The wise official arrives at the field only a scant half hour before the game. Generally the head coach sends for you, and as he takes you to a secluded spot he describes in his most serious way an important play he will use in the game. He tells you that it is within the rules, but for some curious reason, anxiously asks your opinion. He informs you that the opposing team has a certain play which is clearly illegal and wants you to watch for it constantly. He furthermore warns you solemnly that the other team is going to try to put one of his best players out of the game and beseeches you to anticipate this cowardly action, and you smile inwardly. Football seriousness is oftentimes amusing. Some of our best Umpires always have a little talk with the team before the game.

I often remember the old days when Paul Dashiell, the famous Umpire, used to come into our dressing room. Standing in the center of the room, he would make an appeal to us in his earnest, inimitable way, not to play off-side. He would explain just how he interpreted holding and the use of arms in the game. He would urge us to be thoroughbreds and to play the game fair; to make it a clean game, so that it might be unnecessary to inflict penalties. "Football," he would say, "is a game for the players, not for the officials." Then he would depart, leaving behind him a very clear conviction with us that he meant business. If we broke the rules our team would unquestionably suffer.

Some of my most pleasant football recollections are those gained as an official in the game. I count it a rare privilege to have worked in many games year after year where I came in close contact with the players on different college teams; there to catch their spirit and to see the working out of victories and defeats at close range.

Here it is that one comes in close touch with the great power of leadership, that "do or die" spirit, which makes a player ready to go in a little harder with each play. Knocked over, he comes up with a grin and sets his jaw a little stiffer for next time.

As an official you are often thrilled as you see a man making a great play; you long to pat him on the back and say, "Well done!" If you see an undiscovered fumbled ball you yearn to yell out—"Here it is!" But all this you realize cannot be done unless one momentarily forgets himself like John Bell.

"My recollection is that I acted as an official in but one game," says he. "I was too intense a partisan. Nevertheless, I was pressed into service in a Lehigh-Penn game in the late '80's. I recall that Duncan Spaeth, now Professor of English at Princeton and coach of the Princeton crew, was playing on Pennsylvania's team. He made a long run with the ball; was thrown about the 20-yard line; rose, pushed on and was thrown again between the 5- and 10-yard line. Refusing to be downed, he continued to roll over a number of times, with several Lehigh players hanging on to him, until finally he was stopped, within about a foot of the goal line. Forgetting his official duties, in the excitement of the moment, it is alleged that the referee (myself) jumped up and down excitedly, calling out: 'Roll over, Spaethy, just once more!' And Spaethy did. A touchdown resulted. But the Referee's fate after the game was like that of St. Stephen—he was stoned."



In the old days one official used to handle the entire game. A man would even officiate in a game where his own college was a contestant. This was true in the case of Walter Camp, Tracy Harris, and other heroes of the past. Later the number of officials was increased. Such a list records Wyllys Terry, Alex Moffat, Pa Corbin, Ray Tompkins, S. V. Coffin, Appleton and other men who protected the game in the early stages.

Within my recollection, for many years the two most prominent, as well as most efficient officials, whose names were always coupled, were McClung, Referee, and Dashiell, Umpire. No two better officials ever worked together and there is as much necessity for team work in officiating as there is in playing. Both graduated from Lehigh, and the prominent position that they took in football was a source of great satisfaction to their university.

Officials come and go. These men have had their day, but no two ever contributed better work. The game of Football was safe in their hands.

Paul Dashiell and Walter Camp are the only two survivors of the original Rules Committee.

Dashiell's Reminiscences

"As an official, the first big game I umpired was in 1894 between Yale and Princeton, following this with nine consecutive years of umpiring the match," writes Dashiell. "After Harvard and Yale resumed relations, I umpired their games for six years running. I officiated in practically all the Harvard-Penn' games and Penn'-Cornell games during those years, as well as many of the minor games, having had practically every Saturday taken each fall during those twelve years, so I saw about all the football there was. When I look back on those years and what they taught me I feel that I'd not be without them for the world. They showed so much human nature, so many hundreds of plucky things, mingled with a lot of mean ones; such a show of manhood under pressure. I learned to know so many wonderful chaps and some of my most valued friendships were formed at those times. I liked the responsibility, too; although I knew that from one game to another I was walking on ice so thin that one bad mistake, however unintended, would break it.

"The rules were so incomplete that common sense was needed and, frequently, interpretation was simply by mutual consent. Bitterness of feeling between the big colleges made my duties all the harder. But it was an untold satisfaction when I could feel that I had done well, and as I said, the responsibility had its fascination and, in the main, was a great satisfaction.

"And then came the inevitable, a foul seen only by me, which called for an immediate penalty. This led to scathing criticism and accusations of unfairness by many that did not understand the incident, altogether leaving a sting that will go down with me to my grave in spite of my happy recollections of the game. I had always taken a great pride in the job, and in what the confidence of the big universities from one year to another meant. I knew a little better than anybody else how conscientiously I had tried to be fair and to use sense and judgment, and the end of it all hurt a lot.

"One friendship was made in these years that has been worth more than words can tell. I refer to that of Matthew McClung. To be known as a co-official with McClung was a privilege that only those who knew him can appreciate. I had known him before at Lehigh in his undergraduate days, and had played on the same teams with him. In after years we were officials together in a great many of the big games where feeling ran high and manliness and fairness, as well as judgment, were often put to a pretty severe test at short notice. Never was there a squarer sportsman, or a fairer, more conscientious and efficient official; nor a truer, more gallant type of real man than he. His early death took out of the game a man of the kind we can ill afford to lose and no tribute that I could pay him would be high enough.

"One night after a Yale-Harvard game at Cambridge, I was boarding the midnight train for New York. The porter had my bag, and as we entered the car, he confided in me, in an almost awestruck tone, that: 'Dad dere gentlemin in de smokin' compartment am John L. Sullivan.'

"I crept into my berth, but next morning, in the washroom, I recognized John L. as the only man left. He emerged from his basin and asked:

"'Were you at that football game yesterday?' and then 'Who won?'

"I told him, and by way of making conversation, asked him if he was interested in all those outdoor games. But his voice dropped to the sepulchral and confidential, as he said:

"'There's murder in that game!'

"I answered: 'Well! How about the fighting game?'

"He came back with: 'Sparring! It doesn't compare in roughness, or danger, with football. In sparring you know what you are doing. You know what your opponent is trying to do, and he's right there in front of you, and, there's only one! But in football! Say, there's twenty-two people trying to do you!'

"There being only twenty-one other than the player concerned, I could not but infer that he meant to indicate the umpire as the twenty-second."

My Personal Experiences

In my experience as an official I recall the fact that I began officiating as a Referee, and had been engaged and notified in the regular way to referee the Penn'-Harvard game on Franklin Field in 1905. When I arrived at the field, McClung was the other official. He had never umpired but had always acted as a Referee. In my opinion a man should be either Referee or Umpire. Each position requires a different kind of experience and I do not believe officials can successfully interchange these positions. Those who have officiated can appreciate the predicament I was in, especially just at that time when there was so much talk of football reform, by means of changing the rules, changing the style of the game, stopping mass plays. However, I consented; for appreciating that McClung was sincere in his statement that he would do nothing but referee, I was forced to accept the Umpire's task.

It was a game full of intense rivalry. The desire to win was carrying the men beyond the bounds of an ordinarily spirited contest, and the Umpire's job proved a most severe task. It was in this game that either four or five men were disqualified.

I continued several years after this in the capacity of Umpire. One unfortunate experience as Umpire came as a result of a penalty inflicted upon Wauseka, an Indian player who had tackled too vigorously a Penn' player who was out of bounds. Much wrangling ensued and a policeman was called upon the field. It was the quickest way to keep the game from getting out of hand.

Washington and Jefferson played the Indians at Pittsburgh some years ago. I acted as Umpire. The game was played in a driving rain storm and a muddier field I never saw. The players, as well as the officials, were covered with mud. In fact my sweater was saturated, the players having used it as a sort of towel to dry their hands. A kicked ball had been fumbled on the goal line and there was a battle royal on the part of the players to get the coveted ball. I dived into the scramble of wriggling, mud-covered players to detect the man who might have the ball. The stockings and jerseys of the players were so covered with mud that you could not tell them apart. As I was forcing my way down into the mass of players I heard a man shouting for dear life: "I'm an Indian! I'm an Indian! It's my ball!"

When I finally got hold of the fellow with the ball I could not for the life of me tell whether he was an Indian or not. However, I held up the decision until some one got a bucket and sponge and the player's face was mopped off, whereupon I saw that he was an Indian all right. He had scored a touchdown for his team.

An official in the game is subject to all sorts of criticisms and abuse. Sometimes they are humorous and others have a sting which is not readily forgotten.

I admit, on account of my size, there were times in a game when I would get in a player's way; sometimes in the spectators' way. During a Yale-Harvard game, in which I was acting as an official, the play came close to the side line, and I had taken my position directly between the players and the spectators, when some kind friend from the bleachers yelled out:

"Get off the field, how do you expect us to see the game?"

I shall never forget one poor little fellow who had recovered a fumbled ball, while on top of him was a wriggling mass of players trying to get the ball. As I slowly, but surely, forced my way down through the pile of players I finally landed on top of him. I shall never forget how he grunted and yelled, "Six or seven of you fellows get off of me."

It was in the same game that some man from the bleachers called out as I was running up the field: "Here comes the Beef Trust."

There was a coach of a Southern college who tried to put over a new one on me, when I caught him coaching from the side lines in a game with Pennsylvania on Franklin Field. I first warned him, and when he persisted in the offense, I put him behind the ropes, on a bench, besides imposing the regular penalty. It was not long after this, that I discovered he had left the bench. I found him again on the side line, wearing a heavy ulster and change of hat to disguise himself, but this quick change artist promptly got the gate.

I knew a player who had an opportunity to get back at an official, but there was no rule to meet the situation. A penalty had been imposed, because the player had used improper language. A heated argument followed, and I am afraid the Umpire was guilty of a like offense, when the player exclaimed:

"Well! Well! Why don't you penalize yourself?"

He surely was right. I should have been penalized.

One sometimes unconsciously fails to deal out a kindness for a courtesy done. That was my experience in a Harvard-Yale game at Cambridge one year. On the morning before the game, while I was at the Hotel Touraine, I was making an earnest effort to get, what seemed almost impossible, a seat for a friend of mine. I had finally purchased one for ten dollars, and so made known the fact to two or three of my friends in the corridor. About this time a tall, athletic, chap, who had heard that I wanted an extra ticket, volunteered to get me one at the regular price, which he succeeded in doing. I had no difficulty in returning my speculator's ticket. I thanked the fellow cordially for getting me the ticket. I did not see him again until late that afternoon when the game was nearly over. Some rough work in one of the scrimmages compelled me to withdraw one of the Harvard players from the game. As I walked with him to the side lines, I glanced at his face, only to recognize my friend—the ticket producer. The umpire's task then became harder than ever, as I gave him a seat on the side line. That player was Vic Kennard.

Evarts Wrenn, one of our foremost officials a few years ago, has had some interesting experiences of his own.

"While umpiring a game between Michigan and Ohio State, at Columbus," he says, "Heston, Michigan's fullback, carrying the ball, broke through the line, was tackled and thrown; recovered his feet, started again, was tackled and thrown again, threw off his tacklers only to be thrown again. Again he broke away. All this time I was backing up in front of the play. As Heston broke away from the last tacklers, I backed suddenly into the outstretched arms of the Ohio State fullback, who, it appears, had been backing up step by step with me. Heston ran thirty yards for a touchdown. You can imagine how unpopular I was with the home team, and how ridiculous my plight appeared.

"Another instance occurred in a Chicago-Cornell game at Marshall Field," Wrenn goes on to say. "You know it always seems good to an official to get through a game without having to make any disagreeable decisions. I was congratulating myself on having got through this game so fortunately. As I was hurrying off the field, I was stopped by the little Cornell trainer, who had been very much in evidence on the side lines during the game. He called to me.

"'Mr. Wrenn' (and I straightened, chucking out my chest and getting my hand ready for congratulations). 'That was the —— —— piece of umpiring I ever saw in my life.' I cannot describe my feelings. I was standing there with my mouth open when he had got yards away."

Dan Hurley, who was captain of the 1904 Harvard team, writes me, as follows:

"Football rules are changed from year to year. The causes of these changes are usually new points which have arisen the year previous during football games. A good many rules are interpreted according to the judgment of each individual official. I remember two points that arose in the Harvard-Penn' game in 1904, at Soldiers' Field. In this year there was great rivalry between the players representing Harvard and Pennsylvania. The contest was sharp and bitterly fought all the way through. Both teams had complained frequently to Edwards, the Umpire. Finally he caught two men red-handed, so to speak. There was no argument. Both men admitted it. It so happened that both men were very valuable to their respective teams. The loss of either man would be greatly felt. Both captains cornered Edwards and both agreed that he was perfectly right in his contention that both men should have to leave the field, but—and it was this that caused the new rule to be enforced the next year. Both captains suggested that they were perfectly willing for both men to remain in the game despite the penalty, and with eager faces both captains watched Edwards' face as he pondered whether he should or should not permit them to remain in the game. He did, however, allow both to play. Of course, this ruling was establishing a dangerous precedent; therefore, the next year the Rules Committee incorporated a new rule to the effect that two captains of opposing teams could not by mutual agreement permit a player who ought to be removed for committing a foul to remain in the game."

Bill Crowell of Swarthmore, later a coach at Lafayette, is another official who has had curious experiences.

"In a Lehigh-Indian game a few years ago at South Bethlehem, in which I was acting as referee," he says, "in the early part of the game Lehigh held Carlisle for four downs inside of the three-yard line, and when on the last try, Powell, the Indian back, failed to take it over, contrary to the opinion of Warner, their coach. I called out, 'Lehigh's ball,' and moved behind the Lehigh team which was forming to take the ball out of danger. Just before the ball was snapped, and everything was quiet in the stands, Warner called across the field:

"'Hey! Crowell! you're the best defensive man Lehigh's got.'"

Phil Draper, famous in Williams football, and without doubt one of the greatest halfbacks that ever played, also served his time as an official. He says:

"From my experience as an official, I believe that most of their troubles come from the coaches. If things are not going as well with their team as they ought to go, they have a tendency to blame it on the officials in order to protect themselves."

"There was, in my playing days, as now, the usual controversy in reference to the officials of the game," says Wyllys Terry, "and the same controversies arose in those days in regard to the decisions which were given. My sympathies have always been with the officials in the game in all decisions that they have rendered. It is impossible for them to see everything, but when they come to make a decision they are the only ones that are on the spot and simply have to decide on what they see at the moment.

"It is a difficult position. Thousands say you are right, thousands say you are wrong—but my belief has always been that nine times out of ten the official's decision is correct. It was my misfortune to officiate in but one large game; that between Harvard and Princeton in the fall of '87. This was the year that there was a great outcry regarding the rules, particularly in reference to tackling. It was decided that a tackle below the waist was a foul and the penalty was disqualification. I was appointed Umpire in the Harvard-Princeton game of that year. Before the game I called the teams together and told them what the representatives of the three colleges had agreed upon. They had authorized me to carry the rules out in strict accordance with their instructions and I proposed to do so. In the early part of the game there was a scrimmage on one side of the field and after the mass had been cleared away, I heard somebody call for me. On looking around I found that the call came from Holden, Captain of the Harvard team. He called my attention to the fact that he was still being tackled and that the man had both his arms around his knee, with his head resting on it. He demanded, under the agreed interpretation of the rules, that the tackle be decided a foul, and that the man be disqualified and sent from the field. The question of intent was not allowed me, for I had to decide on the facts as they presented themselves. The result was that Cowan, one of the most powerful, and one of the best linemen that ever stood on a football field, was disqualified. The Captain of the Princeton team remarked at the time, 'I would rather have any three men disqualified than Cowan.' As the game up to that time had been very close, and the Princeton sympathizers were sure of victory, I believe I was the most cordially hated ex-football player that ever existed. Shortly after this the Harvard men had the Princeton team near their goal line and in possession of the ball. Two linemen used their hands, which on the offense is illegal, and made a hole through which the Harvard halfback passed and crossed the line for a touchdown amid tremendous cheers from the Harvard contingent. This touchdown was not allowed by the Umpire. Again I was the most hated football man that lived, so far as Harvard was concerned. The result was I had no friends on either side of the field.

"After the game, in talking it over with Walter Camp, he assured me that the decisions had been correct, but that he was very glad he had not had to make them. In spite of these decisions, I was asked to umpire in a number of big games the next year: but that one experience had been enough for me. I never appeared again in that or any other official capacity. I have been trying for the last thirty-two years to get back the friends which, before that game, I had in both Princeton and Harvard circles, with only a fair amount of success."

I have always considered it a great privilege to have been associated as an official in the game with Pa Corbin. I know of no man that ever worked as earnestly and intelligently to carry out his official duties, and year after year he has kept up his interest in the game, not only as a coach, but as a thoroughly competent official.

As a favorite with all colleges his services were eagerly sought. He recollects the following:—

"The experience that made as much of an impression upon me as any, was the game with Penn-Lafayette which came just after the experience of the year before which developed so much rough play. The man agreed upon for Umpire, did not appear, and after waiting a while the two captains came to me and asked if I would umpire in addition to acting as referee. I accused them of conspiracy to put me entirely out of business, but they insisted and I reluctantly acquiesced. I told both teams that I would be so busy that I would have no time for arguments or even investigation and any move that seemed to me like roughness would be penalized to the full extent of the rules regardless of whom he was or of how many. The result was that it was one of the most decent games and in fact almost gentlemanly that I have ever experienced."

Joe Pendleton has been an official for twenty years. He is an alert, conscientious officer in the game. I have worked many times with Joe and he is a very interesting partner in the official end of the game.

In the fall of 1915 Joe had a very severe illness and his absence from the football field was deeply regretted.

Joe always wore his old Bowdoin sweater and when out upon the field, the big B on the chest of Joe's white sweater almost covered him up.

"A few years ago I had occasion to remove a player from a game for a foul play," says Joe, "and in a second the quarterback was telling me of my mistake. 'Why, you can't put that man out,' he said, and when I questioned him as to where he got such a mistaken idea, his reply was:

"'Why, he is our captain!'

"In another game after the umpire had disqualified a player for kicking an opponent, the offending player appealed to me, basing his claim on the ground that he had not kicked the man until after the whistle had been blown and the play was over. Another man on the same team claimed exemption from a penalty on the ground that he had slugged his opponent while out of bounds. He actually believed that we could not penalize for fouls off the playing field.

"The funniest appeal I ever had made to me was made by a player years ago who asked that time be taken out in order that he might change a perfectly good jersey for one of a different color. It seems he had lost his jersey and had borrowed one from a player on the home team. When I asked him why he wanted to change his jersey he replied:

"'Because my own team are kicking the stuffing out of me and I must get a different colored jersey. At times my team mates take me for an opponent.'

"In a game where it was necessary to caution the players against talking too much to their opponents one particularly curious incident occurred.

"One team, in order to give one of the larger college elevens a stiff practice game, had put in the field two or three ringers. The big college team men were rather suspicious that their opponents were not entirely made up of bona fide students. A big tackle on the larger team made the following remark to a supposed ringer:

"'I'll bet you five to one you cannot name the president of your college.' The answer came back, 'Well, old boy, perhaps I can't, but perhaps I can show you how to play tackle and that's all I'm here for.'"

The Princeton-Yale game of 1915 was one of the most bitterly contested in the history of football. Princeton was a strong favorite, but Yale forced the fighting and had their opponents on the defensive almost from the beginning. Princeton's chances were materially hurt by a number of severe penalties which cost her considerably in excess of one hundred yards. Each of the officials had a hand in the infliction of the penalties, but the Referee, who happened to be Nate Tufts of Brown, had, of course, to enforce them all by marking off the distance given to Yale and putting the ball in the proper place.

In the evening after the game, a number of football officials and others were dining in New York; in the party was a Princeton graduate, who was introduced to Mr. Tufts, the Referee of the game of the afternoon. At the introduction the Princeton man remarked that when he was a boy he had read of Jesse James, the McCoy brothers, and other noted bandits and train robbers, but that he took off his hat to Mr. Tufts as the king of them all.

Okeson, a star player of Lehigh and prominent official, recalls this game:

"In 1908 I umpired in a memorable game which took place at New Haven between Yale and Princeton, which resulted in a victory for Yale, 12-10. This was before any rule was inserted calling for the Referee to notify the teams to appear on the field at the beginning of the second half. At that time a ten-minute intermission was allowed between the halves. The first half closed with the score 10-0 in favor of Princeton. At the end of about seven minutes Mike Thompson, who was Referee, following the custom that had grown up, although no rule required it, left the field to notify the teams to return. When he came back I asked him if he had found them, for on the old Yale Field it was something of a job to locate the teams once they had passed through the gates. Mike said that they were in the Field House on the other side of the baseball field and that he had called in to them. The Princeton players appeared in a minute or two, but no sign of Yale. Finally, getting suspicious, Mike asked Bill Roper, who was head coach at Princeton that year, if the Yale team had been in the Field House. The answer was 'No,' and we suddenly woke up to the fact that although time for the intermission had ended three or four minutes before, the Yale team was not notified, and furthermore, no one knew where they were except that they were somewhere under the stands. There were many gates and to leave by one to search meant running a chance that the Yale team might appear almost immediately through another and then the game be further delayed by the absence of the Referee. This being the case, Mike had no choice but to do as he did, namely, send messengers through all gates. One of these messengers met the Yale team coming along under the stands. The coaches had decided that time must be up, although none of them had kept a record of it, and had started back finally without any notice. Eight minutes over the legal ten had been taken before they appeared on the field and Bill Roper was raging. As Yale won in the second half it was only natural that we officials were greatly censored by Princeton, and Yale did not escape criticism. Yet the whole thing came from the fact that a custom had grown up of depending on the Referee to find and bring the teams back to the field instead of each team either staying on the field, or failing that, taking the responsibility on themselves of getting back in time. Yale simply followed the usual custom and 'Mike' was misled due to being told that both teams had gone to the Field House by one of those ready volunteers who furnish information whether they know anything about the subject in hand or not."



CHAPTER XXI

CRASH OF CONFLICT

The start of a football game is most exciting; not alone for the players, but for the spectators as well. Every one is keyed up in anticipation of the contest. The referee's whistle blows; the ball is kicked off—the game has begun.

Opponents now meet face to face on the field of battle. What happens on the gridiron is plainly seen by the spectators, but it is not possible for them to hear the conversations which take place. There is much good natured joshing between the players, which brings out the humorous as well as the serious side of the contest. In a game, and during the hard days of practice, many remarks are made which, if overheard, would give the spectators an insight into the personal, human side of the sport.

It behooves every team to make the most of the first five minutes of play. Every coach in the country will tell his team to get the charge on their opponents from the start. A good start usually means a good ending.

From the side lines we see the men put their shoulders to their work, charging and pushing their opponents aside to make a hole in the line, through which the man with the ball may gain his distance; or we may see a man on the defensive, full of grim determination to meet the oncoming charges of his opponent. As we glance at the accompanying picture of a Yale-West Point game, we will observe the earnest effort that is being made in the great game of football—the crash of conflict.

One particularly amusing story is told about a former Lehigh player in a Princeton game several years ago.

"After the match had been in progress twenty minutes or more," says a Princeton man who played, "we began to show a large number of bruises on our faces. This was especially the case with House Janeway, whose opponent, at tackle, was a big husky Lehigh player. Janeway finally became suspicious of the big husky, whose arms often struck him during the scrimmage.

"'What have you got on your arm?' shouted Janeway at his adversary.

"'Never you mind. I'm playing my game,' was the big tackle's retort.

"Janeway insisted that the game be stopped temporarily for an inspection. The Lehigh tackle demurred. Hector Cowan, whose face had suffered, backed up Janeway's demand.

"'Have you anything on your arm?' demanded the referee of the Lehigh player.

"'My sleeve,' was the curt reply.

"'Well, turn up your sleeve then.'

"The big tackle was forced to comply with the official's request, and disclosed a silver bracelet.

"'Either take that off or go out of the game,' was the referee's orders.

"'But I promised a girl friend that I would wear it through the match,' protested Lehigh's tackle. 'I can't take it off. Don't you understand—it was wished on!'

"'Well! I "wish" it off,' the referee replied. 'This is no society affair.'

"The big tackle objected to this, declaring he would sooner quit the game than be disloyal to the girl.

"'Then you will quit,' was the command of the umpire, and the big tackle left the field, a substitute taking his place."

Lueder, a Cornell tackle, one of the best in his day, mentions a personal affair that occurred in the Penn game in 1900, between Blondy Wallace and himself.

Blondy's friends when they read this will think he had an off day in his general football courtesy. Lueder states:

"When I was trying to take advantage of my opponent, I was outwitted and was told to play on the square. I took Wallace's advice and never played a nicer game of football in my life. Just this little reprimand, from an older player, taught me a lot of football."

In the Yale-Brown game, back in 1898, Richardson, that wonderful Brown quarterback, received the ball on a double pass from Dave Fultz and ran 65-yards before he was downed by Charlie de Saulles, the Yale quarterback, on Yale's 5-yard line. When Richardson got up, he turned to de Saulles and said:

"You fool, why did you tackle me? I lost a chance to be a hero."

Yale, by the way, won that game by a score of 18 to 14.

Yost relates a humorous experience he had at Michigan in 1901, which was his most successful season at that University.

"Buffalo University came to Michigan with a much-heralded team. They were coached by a Dartmouth man and had not been scored upon. Buffalo papers referred to Michigan as the Woolly Westerners, and the Buffalo enthusiasts placed bets that Michigan would not score. The time regulation of the game, two halves, was thirty-five minutes, without intermission. At the end of the first half the score was 65 to 0. During this time many substitutions had been made, some nineteen or twenty men, so that every player Buffalo brought with them had at one time or another participated in the game.

"The Buffalo coach came to me and said:

"'Yost, we will have to cut this next half short.'

"'Why?' I asked. Of course, I did not realize that every available man he had with him was used up, but I felt rather liberal at that stage of the game and said:

"'Let them rest fifteen or twenty minutes for the intermission, and then use them over again; use them as often as you like. I don't care.'

"About fifteen minutes after the second half had started, I discovered on Michigan's side of the field, covered up in a blanket, a big fellow named Simpson, one of the Buffalo players. I was naturally curious, and said:

"'Simpson, what are you doing over here? You are on the wrong side.'

"'Don't say anything,' came the quick response, 'I know where I am at. The coach has put me in three times already and I'm not going in there again. Enough is enough for any one. I've had mine.'

"The score was then 120 to 0, in favor of Michigan, and the Buffalo team quit fifteen minutes before the game should have ended.

"It may be interesting to note that from this experience of Buffalo with Michigan the expression, 'I've got you Buffaloed,' is said to have originated, and to-day Michigan players use it as a fighting word."

Yost smiled triumphantly as he related the following:

"The day we played the Michigan Agricultural College we, of course, were at our best. The M. A. C. was taken on as a preliminary game, which was to be two twenty-minute halves.

"At the beginning of the second half the score was 118 to 0, in favor of Michigan.

"At this time, a big husky tackle, after a very severe scrimmage had taken place, stood up, took off his head gear, threw it across the field and started for the side line, passing near where I was standing, when I yelled at him:

"'The game is not over yet. Go back.'

"'Oh,' he said, 'we came down here to get some experience. I've had all I want. Let the other fellows stay, if they want to; me for the dressing room.'

"And when this fellow quit, all the other M. A. C. players stopped, and the game ended right there. There were but four minutes left to play."

Somebody circulated a rumor that Yost had made the statement that Michigan would beat Iowa one year 80 to 0. Of course, this rumor came out in the papers on the day of the game, but Yost says:

"I never really said any such thing. However, we did beat them 107 to 0, whereupon some fellow from Iowa sent me a telegram, after the game, which read: 'Ain't it awful. Box their remains and send them home.'"

In Tom Shevlin's year at Yale, 1902, Mike Sweeney, his old trainer and coach at Hill School, was in New Haven watching practice for about four days before the first game. Practice that day was a sort of survival of the fittest, for they were weeding out the backs, who were doing the catching. About five backs were knocked out. A couple had been carried off, with twisted knees, and still the coaches were trying for more speed and diving tackles.

Tom had just obliterated a 150-pound halfback, who had lost the ball, the use of his legs and his Varsity aspirations altogether. Stopped by Sweeney, on his way back up the field, Tom remarked:

"Mike, this isn't football. It's war."

A Brown man tells the following interesting story:

"In a game that we were playing with some small college back in 1906 out on Andrews Field, Brown had been continually hammering one tackle for big gains. The ball was in the middle of the field and time had been taken out for some reason or other. Huggins and Robby were standing on the side lines, and just as play was about to be resumed, Robby noticed that the end on the opposing team was playing out about fifteen feet from his tackle, and was standing near us, when Robby said to him:

"'What's the idea? Why don't you get in there where you belong?'

"The end's reply was:

"'I'm wise. Do you think I'm a fool? I don't want to be killed.'"

During a scrub game, the year that Brown had the team that trimmed Yale 21 to 0, Huggins says:

"Goldberg, a big guard who, at that time, was playing on the second eleven, kept holding Brent Smith's foot. Brent was a tackle; one of the best, by the way, that we ever had here at Brown. Smith complained to the coaches, who told him not to bother, but to get back into the game and play football. This he did, but before he settled down to business, he said to Goldberg:

"'If you hold my foot again, I'll kick you in the face.'

"About two plays had been run off, when Smith once more shouted:

"'He's holding me.' Robby went in back of him and said:

"'Why didn't you kick him?'

"'Kick him!' replied Brent. 'He held both my feet!'"

Hardwick recalls another incident that has its share of humor, which occurred in the Yale bowl on the day of its christening.

"Yale was far behind—some thirty points—playing rather raggedly. They had possession of the ball on Harvard's 1-yard line and were attempting a strong rushing attack in anticipation of a touchdown. They were meeting with little or no success in penetrating Pennock and Trumbull, backed by Bradlee. And on the third down they were one yard farther away from the goal than at the start. They attempted another plunge on tackle, and were using that uncertain form of offense, the direct pass. The center was a trifle mixed and passed to the wrong man, with the result that Yale recovered the ball on Harvard's 25-yard line. Wilson, then a quarter for Yale, turned to his center and asked him sharply:

"'Why don't you keep track of the signals?'

"In a flash, the center rush turned and replied:

"'How do you expect me to keep track of signals, when I can hardly keep track of the touchdowns.'"

Brown University was playing the Carlisle Indians some ten years ago at the Polo Grounds at New York City. Bemus Pierce, the Indian captain, called time just as a play was about to be run off, and the Brown team continued in line, while Hawley Pierce, his brother, a tackle on the Indian team, complained, in an audible voice, that some one on the Brown team had been slugging him. Bemus walked over to the Brown line with his brother, saying to him:

"Pick out the man who did it."

Hawley Pierce looked the Brunonians over, but could not decide which player had been guilty of the rough work. By this time, the two minutes were up, and the officials ordered play resumed. Bemus shouted to Hawley:

"Now keep your eyes open and find out who it was. Show him to me, and after the game I'll take care of him properly."

It is interesting to note that Bemus only weighed 230 pounds and his little brother tipped the scale at 210 pounds.

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