Crash of conflictCRASH OF CONFLICTWhen Charge Meets Charge.
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 pushingtheir 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 waswishedon!'
"'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 preliminarygame, 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 thatday 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 heldbothmy 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 goalthan 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.
In 1900 Brown played the University of Chicago, at Chicago. During the second half, Bates, the Brown captain, was injured and was taken from the game, and Sheehan, a big tackle, was made temporary captain. At that time the score was 6 to 6. Sheehan called the team together and addressed them in this manner:
"Look here, boys, we've got thirteen minutes to play. Get in and play like hell. Every one of you make a touchdown. We can beat 'em with ease."
For many years the last statement was one of Brown's battle-cries. Brown, by the way, won that game by a score of 12 to 6.
A former Brown man says that in a Harvard game some few years ago, Brown had been steadily plowing through the Crimson's left guard. Goldberg, of the Brown team, had been opening up big holes and Jake High, Brown's fullback, had been going through for eight and ten yards at a time. Goldberg, who was a big, stout fellow, not only was taking care of the Harvard guard, but was going through and making an endeavor to clean up the secondary defense. High, occasionally, when he had the ball, instead of looking where he was going, would run blindly into Goldberg and the play would stopdead. Finally, after one of these experiences, Jake cried out:
Ainsworth, Yale's terror in an uphill gameAINSWORTH, YALE'S TERROR IN AN UPHILL GAME
"Goldberg, if you would only keep out of my way, I would make the All-American."
In the same game, High, on a line plunge, got through, dodged the secondary defense and was finally brought down by Harvard's backfield man, O'Flaherty. Jake always ran with his mouth wide open, and O'Flaherty, who made a high tackle, was unfortunate enough to stick his finger in High's mouth. He let out a yell as Jake came down on it:
"What are you biting my finger for?" High as quickly responded:
"What are you sticking it in my mouth for?"
Huggins of Brown says: "The year that we beat Pennsylvania so badly out on Andrews Field, Brown had the ball on Penn's 2-yard line. Time was called for some reason, and we noticed that the backfield men were clustered about Crowther, our quarterback. We afterwards learned that all four of the backfield wanted to carry the ball over. Crowther reached down and plucked three blades of grass and the halfbacks and the fullback each drew one with the understanding that the one drawing the shortest blade could carry the ball. Much to their astonishment, they found that all the pieces of grass were of the same length. Crowther, who made the All-American that year, shouted:
"You all lose. I'll take it myself," and over the line he went with the ball tucked away under his arm.
"Johnny Poe was behind the door when fear went by," says Garry Cochran. "Every one knows of his wonderful courage. I remember that in the Harvard '96 game, at Cambridge, near the end of the first half, two of our best men (Ad Kelly and Sport Armstrong) were seriously hurt, which disorganized the team. The men were desperate and near the breaking point. Johnny, with his true Princeton spirit, sent this message to each man on the team:
"'If you won't be beat, you can't be beat.'"
"This message brought about a miracle. It put iron in each man's soul, and never from that moment did Harvard gain a yard, and for four succeeding years—'If you won't be beat, you can't be beat,' was Princeton's battle-cry.
"The good that Johnny did for Princeton teams was never heralded abroad. His work was noiseless, but always to the point.
"I remember the Indian game in '96. The score in the first half was 6 to 0, in favor of the Indians. I believe they had beaten Harvard and Penn, and tied Yale. There wasn't a word said in the club house when the team came off the field, but each man was digging in his locker for a special pair of shoes, which we had prepared for Yale. Naturally I was very bitter and refused to speak to any one. Then I heard thequiet, confident voice talking to Johnny Baird, who had his locker next to mine. I can't remember all he said, but this is the gist of his conversation:
"'Johnny, you're backing up the center. Why can't you make that line into a fighting unit? Tell 'em their grandfathers licked a hundred better Indians than these fellows are, and it's up to them to show they haven't back-bred.'
"Johnny Baird carried out these orders, and the score, 22 to 6, favoring Princeton, showed the result.
"Once more Johnny Poe's brains lifted Princeton out of a hole. I could mention many cases where Johnny has helped Princetonians, but they are personal and could not be published.
"I can only say, that when I lost Johnny Poe, I lost one who can never be replaced, and I feel like a traitor because I was not beside him when he fell."
Rinehart tells how he tried to get even with Sam Boyle.
"I went into professional football, after leaving Lafayette," says Rinehart. "I joined the Greensburg Athletic Club team at Greensburg, Pennsylvania, solely for the purpose of getting back at Sam Boyle, formerly of the University of Penn. He was playing on the Pittsburgh Athletic Club."
When I asked Rinehart why he wanted to get square with Sam Boyle, he said:
"For the reason that Sam, during the Penn-Lafayette contest in '97, had acted in a very unsportsmanlike manner and kept telling his associates to kill the Lafayette men and not to forget what Lafayette did to them last year, and a lot more, but possibly it was fortunate for Sam that he did not play in our Greensburg-Pittsburgh Athletic Club game. I was ready to square myself for Lafayette."
A lot of good football stories have been going the rounds, some old, some new, but none of them better than the one Barkie Donald, afterward a member of the Harvard Advisory Football Committee, tells on himself, in a game that Harvard played against the Carlisle Indians in 1896.
It was the first time Harvard and Carlisle had met—Harvard winning—4 to 0—and Donald played tackle against Bemus Pierce.
Donald, none too gentle a player, for he had to fight every day against Bert Waters, then a coach, knew how to use his arms against the Indian, and also when charging, how to do a little execution with his elbows and the open hand, just as the play was coming off. He was playing legitimately under the old game. He roughed it with the big Indian and caught him hard several times, but finally Bemus Pierce had something to say.
"Mr. Donald," he said, quietly, "you have beenhitting me and if you do it again, I shall hit you." But Donald did not heed the warning, and in the next play he bowled at Bemus harder than ever for extra measure. Still the big Indian did not retaliate.
"But I thought I was hit by a sledge hammer in the next scrimmage," said Donald after the game. "I remember charging, but that was all. I was down and out, but when I came to I somehow wabbled to my feet and went back against the Indian. I was so dazed I could just see the big fellow moving about and as we sparred off for the next play he said in a matter of fact tone:
"'Mr. Donald, you hit me, one, two, three times, I hit you only one—we're square.'
"And you bet we were square," Donald always adds as he tells the story.
Tacks Hardwick, in common with most football players, thinks the world of Eddie Mahan.
"I have played football and baseball with Eddie," he says, "and am naturally an ardent admirer of his ability, his keen wit and his thorough sportsmanship. One of Eddie's greatest assets is his temperament. He seldom gets nervous. I have seen him with the bases full, and with three balls on the batter, turn about in the box with a smile on his face, wave the outfield back, and then groove the ball waist high. Nothing worried him. His ability to avoid tacklers in the broken field had always puzzled me. I had studied the usual methods quite carefully.Change of pace, reversing the field, spinning when tackled, etc.,—most of the tricks I had given thought to, but apparently Eddie relied little on these. He used them all instinctively, but favored none.
"Charlie Brickley had a favorite trick of allowing his arm to be tackled flat against his leg, then, at the very moment his opponent thought he had him, Charlie would wrench up his arm and break the grip.
"Percy Wendell used to bowl over the tackler by running very low. I relied almost exclusively on a straight arm, and 'riding a man.' This means that when a tackler comes with such force that a straight arm is not sufficient to hold him off, and you know he will break through, you put your hand on the top of his head, throw your hips sharply away, and vault as you would over a fence rail, using his head as a support. If he is coming hard, his head has sufficient power to give you quite a boost, and you can 'ride him' a considerable distance—often four or five yards. When his momentum dies, drop off and leave him. Well, Eddie didn't use any of these. Finally I asked him how he figured on getting by the tackler, and what the trick was he used so effectively.
"'It's a cinch,' Eddie replied. 'All I do is poke my foot out at him, give it to him; he goes to grab it, and I take it away!'
Two to one he gets awayTWO TO ONE HE GETS AWAYBrickley Being Tackled by Wilson and Avery.
"Leo Leary had been giving the ends a talk on being 'cagey.' 'Cagey' play is foxy—such as never getting in the same position on every play, moving about, doing the unexpected. If you wish to put your tackle out, play outside him, and draw him out, and then at the last moment hop in close to your own tackle, and then charge your opponent. The reverse is true as well. The unexpected and unusual make up 'cagey' play. Much emphasis had been laid on this, and we were all thoroughly impressed, especially Weatherhead, that year a substitute.
"Weatherhead's appearance and actions on the field were well adapted to cagey play. Opponents could learn nothing by analyzing his expression. It seldom varied. His walk had a sort of tip-toe roll to it, much similar to the conventional stage villain, inspecting a room before robbing a safe. In the course of the afternoon game, Weatherhead put his coaching in practice.
"We had a habit—practically every team has—of shouting 'Signal' whenever a player did not understand the orders of the quarterback. Mal Logan had just snapped out his signals, when Al Weatherhead left his position. Casting furtive glances at the opponents, and tip-toeing along like an Indian scout at his best, the very personification of 'caginess,' Weatherhead approached Logan. Logan, thinking Al had discovered some important weak spot in the defense,leaned forward attentively. Weatherhead rolled up, and carefully shielding his mouth with his hand, asked in a stage whisper 'Signal.'
"A piece of thoughtfulness that expressed the spirit of the man who did it, and also the whole team, took place at the Algonquin Hotel at New London, on the eve of the Harvard-Yale game in 1914. The Algonquin is fundamentally a summer hotel, although it is open all the year. The Harvard team had their headquarters there, and naturally the place was packed with the squad and the numerous followers. Eddie Mahan and I roomed together, and in the room adjoining were Watson and Swigert, two substitute quarterbacks. Folding doors separated the rooms, and these had been flung open. In the night, it turned cold, and the summer bedding was insufficient. Swigert couldn't sleep, he was so chilled, so he got up, and went in search of blankets. He examined all the closets on that floor, without success; then he explored the floors above and below, and finally went down to the night clerk, and demanded some blankets of him. After considerable delay, he obtained two thin blankets, and thoroughly chilled from his walk in his bare feet, returned to the room. Passing our door, he spied Eddie curled up and shivering, about half asleep. I was asleep, but a cold, uncomfortable sleep that is no real rest. He walked in, and placing one blanket over Eddieand one over me, went back to his own bed colder than ever.
"I am a firm believer in rough, rugged, aggressive, bruising football," says Hardwick. "The rougher, the better, if, and only if, it is legitimate and clean football. I am glad to say that clean football has been prevalent in my experience. Only on the rarest occasions have I felt any unclean actions have been intentional and premeditated. We have made it a point to play fierce, hard and clean football, and have nearly always received the same treatment.
"In my freshman year, however, I felt that I had been wronged, and foolishly I took it to heart. Since that time I have changed my mind as I have had an opportunity to know the player personally and my own observation and the general high reputation he has for sportsmanship have thoroughly convinced me of my mistake. The particular play in question was in the Yale 1915 game. We started a wide end run, and I was attempting to take out the end. I dived at his knees but aimed too far in front, falling at his feet. He leaped in the air to avoid me, and came down on the small of my back, gouging me quite severely with his heel cleats. I felt that it was unnecessary and foolishly resented it."
One of the most famous games in football was the Harvard-Yale encounter at Springfield in '94. Bob Emmons was captain of the Harvardteam and Frank Hinkey captain of Yale. This game was so severely fought that it was decided best to discontinue football relations between these two universities and no game took place until three years later.
Jim Rodgers, who was a substitute at Yale that year, relates some interesting incidents of that game:
"In those old strenuous days, they put so much fear of God in you, it scared you so you couldn't play. When we went up to Springfield, we were all over-trained. Instead of putting us up at a regular hotel, they put us up at the Christian Workers, that Stagg was interested in. The bedrooms looked like cells, with a little iron bed and one lamp in each room," says Jim. "You know after one is defeated he recalls these facts as terrible experiences. None of us slept at all well that night, and my knees were so stiff I could hardly walk. Yale relied much on Fred Murphy. Harvard had coached Hallowell to get Murphy excited. Murphy was quick tempered. If you got his goat, he was pretty liable to use his hands, and Harvard was anxious to have him put out of the game. Hallowell went to his task with earnestness. He got Murphy to the point of rage, but Murphy had been up against Bill Odlin, who used to coach at Andover, and Bill used to give you hell if you slugged when the umpire was looking. But when his back was turned you could do anything.
"Murphy stood about all he could and when he saw the officials were in a conference he gave Hallowell a back-hander, and dropped him like a brick. His nose was flattened right over his cheek-bone. Fortunately that happened on the Yale side of the field. If it had happened on the Harvard side, there would have been a riot. There was some noise when that blow was delivered; the whole crowd in the stand stood aghast and held its breath. So Harvard laid for Murphy and in about two plays they got him. How they got him we never knew, but suddenly it was apparent that Murphy was gone. The trainer finally helped Murphy up and the captain of the team told him in which direction his goal was. He would break through just as fine and fast as before, but the moment his head got down to a certain angle, he would go down in a heap. He was game to the core, however, and he kept on going.
"It was in this game that Wrightington, the halfback, was injured, though this never came out in the newspapers. Wrightington caught a punt and started back up the field. In those days you could wriggle and squirm all you wanted to and you could pile on a thousand strong, if you liked. Frank Hinkey was at the other end of the field playing wide, and ready if Wrightington should take a dodge. Murphy caught Wrightington and he started to wriggle. It was at this time that Louis Hinkey came charging down the field on a dead run. In trying to prevent Wrightington from advancing any further with the ball, Louis Hinkey's knee hit Wrightington and came down with a crash on his collar-bone and neck. Wrightington gave one moan, rolled over and fainted dead away. Frank Hinkey was not within fifteen yards of the play, and Louis did it with no evil intention. Frank thought that Wrightington had been killed and he came over and took Louis Hinkey by the hand, appreciating the severe criticism which was bound to be heaped upon his brother Louis. There was a furor. It was on everybody's tongue that Frank Hinkey had purposely broken Wrightington's collar-bone. Frank knew who did it, but the 'Silent Hinkey' never revealed the real truth. He protected his brother.
"Yale took issue on the point, and as a result the athletic relationship was suspended.
"It was in this game that Bronc Armstrong established the world's brief record for staying in the game. He was on the field for twenty seconds—then was ruled out. I think Frank Hinkey is the greatest end that was ever on a field. To my mind he never did a dirty thing, but he tackled hard. When Frank Hinkey tackled a man, he left him there. In later years when I was coaching, an old Harvard player who was visiting me, came out to Yale Field. He had never seen Hinkey play football, but he had read much about him. I pointed out several ofthe men to him, such as Heffelfinger, and others of about his type, all of whom measured up to his ideas, and finally said:
Snapping the ball with LewisSNAPPING THE BALL WITH LEWIS
Two inseparables.TWO INSEPARABLES.Frank Hinkey and the Ball.
"'Where is that fellow Hinkey?' And when I pointed Hinkey out to him, he said:
"'Great guns, Harvard complaining about that little shrimp, I'm ashamed of Harvard.'
"Hinkey was a wonderful leader. Every man that ever played under him worshipped him. He had his team so buffaloed that they obeyed every order, down to the most minute detail.
"When Hinkey entered Yale, there were two corking end rushes in college, Crosby and Josh Hartwell. After about two weeks of practice, there was no longer a question as to whether Hinkey was going to make the team. It was a question of which one of the old players was going to lose his job. They called him 'consumptive Hinkey.'"
Every football player, great though he himself was in his prime, has his gridiron idol. The man, usually some years his elder, whose exploits as a boy he has followed. Joe Beacham's paragon was and is Frank Hinkey and the depth of esteem in which the former Cornell star held Hinkey is well exemplified in the following incident, which occurred on the Black Diamond Express, Eastbound, as it was passing through Tonawanda, New York. Beacham had been dozing, but awoke in time to catch a glimpse of the signboard as the train flashed by. Leaningslightly forward he tapped a drummer upon the shoulder. The salesman turned around. "Take off your hat," came the command. "Why?" the salesman began. "Take off your hat," repeated Beacham. The man did so. "Thank you; now put it on," came the command. The drummer summing up courage, faced Beacham and said, "Now will you kindly tell me why you asked me to do this?" Joe smiled with the satisfied feeling of an act well performed and said: "I told you to lift your hat because we are passing through the town where Frank Hinkey was born."
Later, in the smoking room, Joe heard the drummer discussing the incident with a crowd of fellow salesmen, and he said, concluding, "What I'd like to know is who in hell is Frank Hinkey?"
And late that evening when the train arrived in New York Joe Beacham and the traveling man had become the best of friends. In parting, Joe said: "If there's anything I haven't told you, I'll write you about it."
Sandy Hunt, a famous Cornell guard and captain, says:
"Here is one on Bill Hollenback, the last year he played for Pennsylvania against Cornell. Bill went into the game, thoroughly fit, but Mike Murphy, then training the team, was worried lest he be injured. In an early scrimmage Bill's ear was nearly ripped off. Blood flowed and Mike left the side lines to aid. Mike was wavedaway by Bill. 'It's nothing but a scratch, Mike, let me get back in the game.' Play was resumed. Following a scrimmage, Mike saw Bill rolling on the ground in agony. 'His ankle is gone,' quoth Mike, as he ran out to the field. Leaning over Bill, Mike said: 'Is it your ankle, or knee, Bill?' Bill, writhing in agony, gasped:
"'No; somebody stepped on my corn.'"
Hardwick has this to tell of the days when he coached Annapolis:
"One afternoon at Annapolis, the Varsity were playing a practice game and were not playing to form, or better, possibly, they were not playing as the coaches had reason to hope. There was an indifference in their play and a lack of snap and drive in their work that roused Head Coach Ingram's fighting blood. Incidentally, Ingram is a fighter from his feet up, every inch, as broad-minded as he is broad-shouldered, and a keen student of football. The constant letting up of play, and the lack of fight, annoyed him more and more. At last, a Varsity player sat down and called for water. Immediately, the cry was taken up by his team mates. This was more than Ingram could stand. Out he dashed from the side lines, right into the group of players, shaking his fist and shrieking:
"'Water! Water! What you need is fire, not water!'"
Fred Crolius tells a good story about Foster Sanford when he was coaching at West Point.One of the most interesting institutions to coach is West Point. Even in football field practice the same military spirit is in control, most of the coaches being officers. Only when a unique character like Sandy appears is the monotony shattered. Sandy is often humorous in his most serious moments. One afternoon not many weeks before the Navy game Sandy, as Crolius tells it, was paying particular attention to Moss, a guard whom Sanford tried to teach to play low. Moss was very tall and had never appreciated the necessity of bending his knees and straightening his back. Sanford disgusted with Moss as he saw him standing nearly erect in a scrimmage, and Sandy's voice would ring out, "Stop the play, Lieutenant Smith. Give Mr. Moss a side line badge. Moss, if you want to watch this game, put on a badge, then everybody will know you've got a right to watch it." In the silence of the parade ground those few words sounded like a trumpet for a cavalry charge, but Sandy accomplished his purpose and made a guard of Moss.
The day Princeton played Yale at New Haven in 1899, I had a brother on each side of the field; one was Princeton Class, 1895, and the other was an undergraduate at Yale, Class of 1901.
My brother, Dick, told me that his friends at Yale would joke him as to whether he would root for Yale or Princeton on November 25th of that year. I did not worry, for I had an idea. Afriend of his told me the following story a week after the game:
"You had been injured in a mass play and were left alone, for the moment, laid out upon the ground. No one seemed to see you as the play continued. But Dick was watching your every move, and when he saw you were injured he voluntarily arose from his seat and rushed down the aisle to a place opposite to where you were and was about to go out on the field, when the Princeton trainer rushed out upon the field and stood you on your feet, and as Dick came back, he took his seat in the Yale grandstand. Yale men knew then where his interest in the game lay."
After Arthur Poe had kicked his goal from the field, Princeton men lost themselves completely and rushed out upon the field. In the midst of the excitement, I remember my brother, George, coming out and enthusiastically congratulating me.
LEST WE FORGET
Marshall Newell
There is no hero of the past whose name has been handed down in Harvard's football traditions as that of Marshall Newell. He left many lasting impressions upon the men who came in contact with him. The men that played under his coaching idolized him, and this extended even beyond the confines of Harvard University. This is borne out in the following tribute which is paid Newell by Herbert Reed, that was on the Cornell scrub when Newell was their coach.
"It is poignantly difficult, even to-day, years after what was to so many of us a very real tragedy," says Reed, "to accept the fact that Marshall Newell is dead. The ache is still as keen as on that Christmas morning when the brief news dispatches told us that he had been killed in a snowstorm on a railroad track at Springfield. It requires no great summoning of the imagination to picture this fine figure of a man, in heart and body so like his beloved Berkshire oaks, bending forward, head down, and driving into the storm in the path of theeveryday duty that led to his death. It was, as the world goes, a short life, but a fruitful one—a life given over simply and without questioning to whatever work or whatever play was at hand.
Marshall NewellMARSHALL NEWELL
"To the vast crowds of lovers of football who journeyed to Springfield to see this superman of sport in action in defense of his Alma Mater he will always remain as the personification of sportsmanship combined with the hard, clean, honest effort that marks your true football player. To a great many others who enjoyed the privilege of adventuring afield with him, the memory will be that of a man strong enough to be gentle, of magnetic personality, and yet withal, with a certain reserve that is found only in men whose character is growing steadily under the urge of quiet introspection. Yet, for a man so self-contained, he had much to give to those about him, whether these were men already enjoying place and power or merely boys just on the horizon of a real man's life. It was not so much the mere joy and exuberance of living, as the wonder and appreciation of living that were the springs of Marshall Newell's being.
"It was this that made him the richest poor man it was ever my fortune to know.
"The world about him was to Newell rich in expression of things beautiful, things mysterious, things that struck in great measure awe and reverence into his soul. A man with so much light within could not fail to shine upon others. Hehad no heart for the city or the life of the city, and for him, too, the quest of money had no attraction. Even before he went to school at Phillips Exeter, the character of this sturdy boy had begun to develop in the surroundings he loved throughout his life. Is it any wonder, then, that from the moment he arrived at school he became a favorite with his associates, indeed, at a very early stage, something of an idol to the other boys? He expressed an ideal in his very presence—an ideal that was instantly recognizable as true and just—an ideal unspoken, but an ideal lived. Just what that ideal was may perhaps be best understood if I quote a word or two from that little diary of his, never intended for other eyes but privileged now, a quotation that has its own little, delicate touch of humor in conjunction with the finer phrases:
"'There is a fine selection from Carmen to whistle on a load of logs when driving over frozen ground; every jolt gives a delightful emphasis to the notes, and the musician is carried along by the dictatorial leader as it were. What a strength there is in the air! It may be rough at times, but it is true and does not lie. What would the world be if all were open and frank as the day or the sunshine?'
"I want to record certain impressions made upon a certain freshman at Cornell, whither Newell went to coach the football team after his graduation from Harvard. Those impressionsare as fresh to-day as they were in that scarlet and gold autumn years ago.
"Here was a man built like the bole of a tree, alight with fire, determination, love of sport, and hunger for the task in hand. He was no easy taskmaster, but always a just one. Many a young man of that period will remember, as I do, the grinding day's work when everything seemed to go wrong, when mere discouragement was gradually giving way to actual despair, when, somewhat clogged with mud and dust and blood, he felt a sudden slap on the back, and heard a cheery voice saying, 'Good work to-day. Keep it up.' Playing hard football himself, Newell demanded hard football of his pupils. I wish, indeed, that some of the players of to-day who groan over a few minutes' session with the soft tackling dummy of these times could see that hard, sole leather tackling dummy swung from a joist that went clear through it and armed with a shield that hit one over the head when he did not get properly down to his work, that Newell used.
"It was grinding work this, but through it one learned.
"That ancient and battered dummy is stowed away, a forgotten relic of the old days, in the gymnasium at Cornell. There are not a few of us who, when returning to Ithaca, hunt it up to do it reverence.
"Let him for a moment transfer his allegianceto the scrub eleven, and in that moment the Varsity team knew that it was in a real football game. They were hard days indeed on Percy Field, but good days. I have seen Newell play single-handed against one side of the Varsity line, tear up the interference like a whirlwind, and bring down his man. Many of us have played in our small way on the scrub when for purposes of illustration Newell occupied some point in the Varsity line. We knew then what would be on top of us the instant the ball was snapped. Yet when the heap was at its thickest Newell would still be in the middle of it or at the bottom, as the case might be, still working, and still coaching. Both in his coaching at Harvard and at Cornell he developed men whose names will not be forgotten while the game endures, and some of these developments were in the nature of eleventh-hour triumphs for skill and forceful, yet none the less sympathetic, personality.
"After all, despite his remarkable work as a gridiron player and tutor, I like best to think of him as Newell, the man; I like best to recall those long Sunday afternoons when he walked through the woodland paths in the two big gorges, or over the fields at Ithaca in company much of the time with—not the captain of the team, not the star halfback, not the great forward, but some young fellow fresh from school who was still down in the ruck of the squad. More than once he called at now one, now another fraternityhouse and hailed us: 'Where is that young freshman that is out for my team? I would like to have him take a little walk with me.' And these walks, incidentally, had little or nothing to do with football. They were great opportunities for the little freshman who wanted to get closer to the character of the man himself. No flower, no bit of moss, no striking patch of foliage escaped his notice, for he loved them all, and loved to talk about them. One felt, returning from one of these impromptu rambles, that he had been spending valuable time in that most wonderful church of all, the great outdoors, and spending it with no casual interpreter. Memories of those days in the sharp practice on the field grow dim, but these others I know will always endure.
"This I know because no month passes, indeed it is almost safe to say, hardly a week, year in and year out, in which they are not insistently resurgent.
"Marshall Newell was born in Clifton, N. J., on April 2, 1871. His early life was spent largely on his father's farm in Great Barrington, Mass., that farm and countryside which seemed to mean so much to him in later years. He entered Phillips Exeter Academy in the fall of 1887, and was graduated in 1890. Almost at once he achieved, utterly without effort, a popularity rare in its quality. Because of his relation with his schoolmates and his unostentatious way of looking after the welfare of others, he sooncame to be known as Ma Newell, and this affectionate sobriquet not only clung to him through all the years at Exeter and Harvard, but followed him after graduation whithersoever he went. While at school he took up athletics ardently as he always took up everything. Thus he came up to Harvard with an athletic reputation ready made.
"It was not long before the class of '94 began to feel that subtler influence of character that distinguished all his days. He was a member of the victorious football eleven of 1890, and of the winning crew of 1891, both in his freshman year. He also played on the freshman football team and on the university team of '91, '92, '93, and rowed on the Varsity crews of '92 and '93. In the meantime he was gaining not only the respect and friendship of his classmates, but those of the instructors as well. Socially, and despite the fact that he was little endowed with this world's goods, he enjoyed a remarkable popularity. He was a member of the Institute of 1770, Dickey, Hasty Pudding, and Signet. In addition, he was the unanimous choice of his class for Second Marshal on Class Day. Many other honors he might have had if he had cared to seek them. He accepted only those that were literally forced upon him.
"In the course of his college career he returned each summer to his home in Great Barrington and quietly resumed his work on the farm.
"After graduation he was a remarkably successful football coach at Cornell University, and was also a vast help in preparing Harvard elevens. His annual appearance in the fall at Cambridge was always the means of putting fresh heart and confidence in the Crimson players.
"He turned to railroading in the fall of 1896, acting as Assistant Superintendent of the Springfield Division of the Boston and Albany Railroad. Here, as at college, he made a profound personal impression on his associates. The end came on the evening of December 24th, in 1897.
"In a memorial from his classmates and friends, the following significant paragraph appears: 'Marshall Newell belonged to the whole University. He cannot be claimed by any clique or class. Let us, his classmates, simply express our gratitude that we have had the privilege of knowing him and of observing his simple, grand life. We rejoice in memories of his comradeship; we deeply mourn our loss. To those whose affliction has been even greater than our own, we extend our sympathy.' This memorial was signed by Bertram Gordon Waters, Lincoln Davis, and George C. Lee, Jr., for the class, men who knew him well.
"Harvard men, I feel sure, will forgive me if I like to believe that Newell belonged not merely to the whole Harvard University, but to every group of men that came under his influence,whether the football squad at Cornell or the humble track walkers of the Boston and Albany.
"Remains, I think, little more for me to say, and this can best be said in Newell's own words, selections from that diary of which I have already spoken, and which set the stamp on the character of the man for all time. This, for instance:
"'It is amusing to notice the expression in the faces of the horses on the street as you walk along; how much they resemble people, not in feature, but in spirit. Some are cross and snap at the men who pass; others asleep; and some will almost thank you for speaking to them or patting their noses.' And this, in more serious vein: 'Happened to think how there was a resemblance in water and our spirits, or rather in their sources. Some people are like springs, always bubbling over with freshness and life; others are wells and have to be pumped; while some are only reservoirs whose spirits are pumped in and there stagnate unless drawn off immediately. Most people are like the wells, but the pump handle is not always visible or may be broken off. Many of the springs are known only to their shady nooks and velvet marshes, but, once found, the path is soon worn to them, which constantly widens and deepens. It may be used only by animals, but it is a blessing and comfort if only to the flowers and grasses that grow on its edge.'
"Serious as the man was, there are glints andgleams of quiet humor throughout this remarkable human document. One night in May he wrote, 'Stars and moon are bright this evening; frogs are singing in the meadow, and the fire-flies are twinkling over the grass by the spring. Tree toads have been singing to-day. Set two hens to-night, nailed them in. If you want to see determination, look in a setting hen's eye. Robins have been carrying food to their nests in the pine trees, and the barn swallows fighting for feathers in the air; the big barn is filled with their conversation.'
"In the city he missed, as he wrote, 'the light upon the hills.' Again, 'The stars are the eyes of the sky. The sun sets like a god bowing his head. Pine needles catch the light that has streamed through them for a hundred years. The wind drives the clouds one day as if they were waves of crested brown.' Where indeed in the crowded city streets was he to listen 'to the language of the leaves,' and how indeed, 'Feel the colors of the West.'
"Is it not possible that something more even than the example and influence of his character was lost to the world in his death? What possibilities were there not in store for a man who could feel and write like this: 'Grand thunderstorm this evening. Vibrations shook the house and the flashes of lightning were continuous for a short time. It is authority and majesty personified, and one instinctively bows in its presence, not with a feeling of dread, but of admiration and respect.'
"It was in the thunder and shock and blaze of just such a storm that I stood not long ago among his own Berkshire Hills, hoping thus to prepare myself by pilgrimage for this halting but earnest tribute to a great-hearted gentleman, who, in his quiet way, meant so much to so many of his fellow humans."
Walter B. Street
W. L. Sawtelle of Williams, who knew this great player in his playing days, writes as follows:
"No Williams contemporary of Walter Bullard Street can forget two outstanding facts of his college career: his immaculate personal character and his undisputed title to first rank among the football men whom Williams has developed. He was idolized because of his athletic prowess; he was loved because he was every inch a man. His personality lifted his game from the level of an intercollegiate contest to the plane of a man's expression of loyalty to his college, and his supremacy on the football field gave a new dignity to the undergraduate's ideals of true manhood.
"His name is indelibly written in the athletic annals of Williams, and his influence, apparently cut off by his early death, is still a vital force among those who cheered his memorable gainson the gridiron and who admired him for his virile character."
W. D. Osgood
Gone from among us is that great old-time hero, Win Osgood. In this chapter of thoroughbreds, let us read the tribute George Woodruff pays him:
"When my thoughts turn to the scores of fine, manly football players I have known intimately, Win Osgood claims, if not first place, at least a unique place, among my memories. As a player he has never been surpassed in his specialty of making long and brilliant runs, not only around, but through the ranks of his opponents. After one of his seventy- or eighty-yard runs his path was always marked by a zig-zag line of opposing tacklers just collecting their wits and slowly starting to get up from the ground. None of them was ever hurt, but they seemed temporarily stunned as though, when they struck Osgood's mighty legs, they received an electric shock.
"While at Cornell in 1892, Osgood made, by his own prowess, two to three touchdowns against each of the strong Yale, Harvard and Princeton elevens, and in the Harvard-Pennsylvania game at Philadelphia in 1894, he thrilled the spectators with his runs more than I have ever seen any man do in any other one game.
"But I would belittle my own sense of Osgood's real worth if I confined myself to expatiating on his brilliant physical achievements. His moral worth and gentle bravery were to me the chief points in him that arouse true admiration. When I, as coach of Penn's football team, discovered that Osgood had quietly matriculated at Pennsylvania, without letting anybody know of his intention, I naturally cultivated his friendship, in order to get from him his value as a player; but I found he was of even more value as a moral force among the players and students. In this way he helped me as much as by his play, because, to my mind, a football team is good or bad according to whether the bad elements or the good, both of which are in every set of men, predominate.
"In the winter of 1896, Osgood nearly persuaded me to go with him on his expedition to help the Cubans, and I have often regretted not having been with him through that experience. He went as a Major of Artillery to be sure, but not for the title, nor the adventure only, but I am sure from love of freedom and overwhelming sympathy for the oppressed. He said to me:
"'The Cubans may not be very lovely, but they are human, and their cause is lovely.'
"When Osgood, with almost foolhardy bravery, sat his horse directing his dilapidated artillery fire in Cuba, and thus conspicuous, made himself even more marked by wearing a white sombrero, he was not playing the part of a fool;he was following his natural impulse to exert a moral force on his comrades who could understand little but liberty and bravery.
"When the Angel of Death gave him the accolade of nobility by touching his brow in the form of a Mauser bullet, Win Osgood simply welcomed his friend by gently breathing 'Well,' a word typical of the man, and even in death, it is reported, continued to sit erect upon his horse."
Gordon Brown
There are many young men who lost a true friend when Gordon Brown died. He was their ideal. After his college days were over, he became very much interested in settlement work on the East Side in New York. He devoted much of his time after business to this great work which still stands as a monument to him. He was as loyal to it as he was to football when he played at Yale. Gordon Brown's career at Yale was a remarkable one. He was captain of the greatest football team Yale ever had. Whenever the 1900 team is mentioned it is spoken of as Gordon Brown's team. The spirit of this great thoroughbred still lives at Yale, still lives at Groton School where he spent six years. He was captain there and leader in all the activities in the school. He was one of the highest type college men I have ever known. He typified all the best there was in Yale. He was strong mentally, as well as physically.
It was my pleasure to have played against him in two Yale-Princeton games, '98 and '99. I have never known a finer sportsman than he. He played the game hard, and he played it fair. He had nothing to say to his opponents in the game. He was there for business. Always urging his fellow players on to better work. Every one who knew this gallant leader had absolute confidence in him. All admired and loved him. There was no one at Yale who was more universally liked and acknowledged as a leader in all the relations of the University than was Gordon Brown. The influence of such a man cannot but live as a guide and inspiration for all that is best at Yale University.
Gordon Brown's name will live in song and story. There were with him Yale men not less efficient in the football sense, as witnesses the following:
A Yale Song verse from theYale Daily News, November 16th, 1900: