The Project Gutenberg eBook ofFootball DaysThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Football DaysAuthor: William H. EdwardsRelease date: March 25, 2006 [eBook #18048]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Stacy Brown, Suzanne Lybarger, Brian Janes andthe Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOOTBALL DAYS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Football DaysAuthor: William H. EdwardsRelease date: March 25, 2006 [eBook #18048]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Stacy Brown, Suzanne Lybarger, Brian Janes andthe Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net
Title: Football Days
Author: William H. Edwards
Author: William H. Edwards
Release date: March 25, 2006 [eBook #18048]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Stacy Brown, Suzanne Lybarger, Brian Janes andthe Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOOTBALL DAYS ***
BY
PRINCETON 1900
WITH INTRODUCTION BYWALTER CAMPYALE 1880
MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANYNEW YORK1916
Copyright, 1916, ByMOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANYNEW YORK
THREE VICTORIOUS PRINCETON CAPTAINSHillebrand, Cochran, EdwardsHILLEBRAND, COCHRAN, EDWARDS
Princeton '95
HONORED AND BELOVED BY HOSTS OF FRIENDS, HE REPRESENTED THE HIGHEST IDEALS OF AMERICAN FOOTBALL, NOT ONLY IN LIFE, BUT IN HIS DEATH UPON THE BATTLEFIELD IN FRANCE.AS I THINK OF HIM, THE STIRRING LINES OF HENRY NEWBOLDT COME TO ME AS A FITTING EULOGY:VITA LAMPADAThere's a breathless hush in the Close to-night—Ten to make and the match to win—A bumping pitch and a blinding light,An hour to play and the last man in.And it's not for the sake of a ribboned-coatOr the selfish hope of a season's fame,But his captain's hand on his shoulder smote,"Play up! play up! and play the game!"The sand of the desert is sodden red—Red with the wreck of a square that broke,The gatling jammed and the Colonel deadAnd the Regiment blind with dust and smoke.The river of death has brimmed its banks,And England's far, and honor a name—But the voice of a school boy rallies the ranks,"Play up! play up! and play the game!"This is the word that year by yearWhile in her place the school is setEvery one of the sons must hear,And none that hears it dares forget.Thus they all with a joyful mind—Bear their life like a torch in flame—And failing, fling to the host behind,"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
HONORED AND BELOVED BY HOSTS OF FRIENDS, HE REPRESENTED THE HIGHEST IDEALS OF AMERICAN FOOTBALL, NOT ONLY IN LIFE, BUT IN HIS DEATH UPON THE BATTLEFIELD IN FRANCE.
AS I THINK OF HIM, THE STIRRING LINES OF HENRY NEWBOLDT COME TO ME AS A FITTING EULOGY:
VITA LAMPADAThere's a breathless hush in the Close to-night—Ten to make and the match to win—A bumping pitch and a blinding light,An hour to play and the last man in.And it's not for the sake of a ribboned-coatOr the selfish hope of a season's fame,But his captain's hand on his shoulder smote,"Play up! play up! and play the game!"The sand of the desert is sodden red—Red with the wreck of a square that broke,The gatling jammed and the Colonel deadAnd the Regiment blind with dust and smoke.The river of death has brimmed its banks,And England's far, and honor a name—But the voice of a school boy rallies the ranks,"Play up! play up! and play the game!"This is the word that year by yearWhile in her place the school is setEvery one of the sons must hear,And none that hears it dares forget.Thus they all with a joyful mind—Bear their life like a torch in flame—And failing, fling to the host behind,"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
VITA LAMPADAThere's a breathless hush in the Close to-night—Ten to make and the match to win—A bumping pitch and a blinding light,An hour to play and the last man in.
VITA LAMPADA
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned-coatOr the selfish hope of a season's fame,But his captain's hand on his shoulder smote,"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
The sand of the desert is sodden red—Red with the wreck of a square that broke,The gatling jammed and the Colonel deadAnd the Regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed its banks,And England's far, and honor a name—But the voice of a school boy rallies the ranks,"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
This is the word that year by yearWhile in her place the school is setEvery one of the sons must hear,And none that hears it dares forget.
Thus they all with a joyful mind—Bear their life like a torch in flame—And failing, fling to the host behind,"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
I value more highly than any other athletic gift I have ever received, the Princeton football championship banner that hangs on my wall. It was given to me by a friend who sent three boys to Princeton. It is a duplicate of the one that hangs in the trophy room of the gymnasium there.How often have I gazed longingly at the names of my loyal team-mates inscribed upon it. Many times have I run over in my mind the part that each one played on the memorable occasion when that banner was won. Memories cluster about that token that are dear and sacred to me.I see before me not only the faces of my team, but the faces of men of other years and other universities who have contributed so much to the great game of football. I recall the preparatory school days and the part that football played in our school and college careers. Again I see the athletic fields and the dressing rooms. I hear the earnest pleading of the coaches.I see the teams run out upon the field and hear the cheering throng. The coin is tossed in the air. The shrill blast of the referee's whistle signals the game to start. The ball is kicked off, and the contest is on.The thousands of spectators watch breathlessly. For the time the whole world is forgotten, except for the issue being fought out there before them.But we are not dressed in football suits nowadays. We are on the side lines. We have a different part to play. Years have compelled a change. In spirit, however, we are still "in the game."It is to share these memories with all true lovers of football and to pay a tribute to the heroes of the gridiron who are no longer with us that I have undertaken this volume. Let us together retrace the days in which we lived: days of preparation, days of victory, and days of defeat. Let us also look into the faces of some of the football heroes of years ago, and recall the achievements that made them famous. And let us recall, too, the men of the years just past who have so nobly upheld the traditions of the American game of football, and helped to place it on its present high plane.William H. Edwards.
I value more highly than any other athletic gift I have ever received, the Princeton football championship banner that hangs on my wall. It was given to me by a friend who sent three boys to Princeton. It is a duplicate of the one that hangs in the trophy room of the gymnasium there.
How often have I gazed longingly at the names of my loyal team-mates inscribed upon it. Many times have I run over in my mind the part that each one played on the memorable occasion when that banner was won. Memories cluster about that token that are dear and sacred to me.
I see before me not only the faces of my team, but the faces of men of other years and other universities who have contributed so much to the great game of football. I recall the preparatory school days and the part that football played in our school and college careers. Again I see the athletic fields and the dressing rooms. I hear the earnest pleading of the coaches.
I see the teams run out upon the field and hear the cheering throng. The coin is tossed in the air. The shrill blast of the referee's whistle signals the game to start. The ball is kicked off, and the contest is on.
The thousands of spectators watch breathlessly. For the time the whole world is forgotten, except for the issue being fought out there before them.
But we are not dressed in football suits nowadays. We are on the side lines. We have a different part to play. Years have compelled a change. In spirit, however, we are still "in the game."
It is to share these memories with all true lovers of football and to pay a tribute to the heroes of the gridiron who are no longer with us that I have undertaken this volume. Let us together retrace the days in which we lived: days of preparation, days of victory, and days of defeat. Let us also look into the faces of some of the football heroes of years ago, and recall the achievements that made them famous. And let us recall, too, the men of the years just past who have so nobly upheld the traditions of the American game of football, and helped to place it on its present high plane.
William H. Edwards.
My CornerMY CORNER"Fond memory sheds the light of other days around me."
They say that no man ever made a successful football player who was lacking in any quality of imagination. If this be true, and time and again has it been proved, then there is no more fitting dedication to a book dealing with the gridiron heroes of the past than to a man like Johnny Poe. For football is the abandon of body and mind to the obsession of the spirit that knows no obstacle, counts no danger and for the time being is dull and callous to physical pain or exhaustion. It is a something that makes one see visions as Johnny saw them!There is no sport in the world that brings out unselfishness as does this great gridiron game of ours. Every fall, second and scrub teams throughout the country sacrifice themselves only to let others enter the promised land of victory. It is a strange thing but one almost never hears any real football player criticise another's making the team, either his own or an All America. Although the player in this sport appreciates the loyal support of the thousands on the stands, every man realizes that his checks on the Bank of Cheers can never be cashed unless there is a deposit of hard work and practice. Perhaps all this in an indistinct and indefinite way explains why football players, the country over, understand each other and that when the game is attacked for any reason they stand shoulder to shoulder in defence of what they know down in the bottom of their hearts has such an influence on character building. And there is no one better fitted to tell the story of this and of the gridiron heroes than Big Bill Edwards, known not only as a player but far and wide as one of the best officials that ever handled the game. "A square deal and no roughing" was his motto, and every one realized it and accepted every decision unquestioningly. His association with players in so many angles has given him a particular insight into the sport and has enabled him to tell this story as no one else could.And what names to conjure with! The whistle blows and a shadowy host springs into action before one's misty eyes—Alex Moffat, the star of kickers, Hector Cowan, Heffelfinger, Gordon Brown, Ma Newell, Truxton Hare, Glass, Neil Snow and Shevlin, giants of linemen. But I must stop before I trespass upon what Bill Edwards will do better. Here's to them all—forty years of heroes!Walter Camp.
They say that no man ever made a successful football player who was lacking in any quality of imagination. If this be true, and time and again has it been proved, then there is no more fitting dedication to a book dealing with the gridiron heroes of the past than to a man like Johnny Poe. For football is the abandon of body and mind to the obsession of the spirit that knows no obstacle, counts no danger and for the time being is dull and callous to physical pain or exhaustion. It is a something that makes one see visions as Johnny saw them!
There is no sport in the world that brings out unselfishness as does this great gridiron game of ours. Every fall, second and scrub teams throughout the country sacrifice themselves only to let others enter the promised land of victory. It is a strange thing but one almost never hears any real football player criticise another's making the team, either his own or an All America. Although the player in this sport appreciates the loyal support of the thousands on the stands, every man realizes that his checks on the Bank of Cheers can never be cashed unless there is a deposit of hard work and practice. Perhaps all this in an indistinct and indefinite way explains why football players, the country over, understand each other and that when the game is attacked for any reason they stand shoulder to shoulder in defence of what they know down in the bottom of their hearts has such an influence on character building. And there is no one better fitted to tell the story of this and of the gridiron heroes than Big Bill Edwards, known not only as a player but far and wide as one of the best officials that ever handled the game. "A square deal and no roughing" was his motto, and every one realized it and accepted every decision unquestioningly. His association with players in so many angles has given him a particular insight into the sport and has enabled him to tell this story as no one else could.
And what names to conjure with! The whistle blows and a shadowy host springs into action before one's misty eyes—Alex Moffat, the star of kickers, Hector Cowan, Heffelfinger, Gordon Brown, Ma Newell, Truxton Hare, Glass, Neil Snow and Shevlin, giants of linemen. But I must stop before I trespass upon what Bill Edwards will do better. Here's to them all—forty years of heroes!
Walter Camp.
Walter Camp.WALTER CAMP.Yale's Captain, '78-'79.
Hillebrand, Cochran, EdwardsMy CornerWalter Camp, Yale's Captain '78-'79The Old Fifth Avenue Send-OffOld Yale Heroes—Lee McClung's TeamWe Beat AndoverLafayette's Great TeamHouse in DisorderHit Your Man LowRepairsThe Old FaithfulsJim Rodgers' TeamCochran Was Game to the EndOn to New Haven—All Dressed Up and Ready to GoHillebrand's Last ChargeAl Sharpe's GoalTouching the Match to VictoryAlex Moffat and His TeamOld Penn HeroesPa Corbin's TeamBreakers Ahead—Phil King in the Old DaysLookout, Princeton!Barrett on One of His Famous Dashes; Exeter-Andover Game, 1915Bill Hollenback Coming at You"The Next Day the Picture Was Gone"—Jim Cooney Making a Hole for Dana KaferJohnny Poe, Football Player and SoldierNorthcroft Kicking the Field Goal Anticipated by the Navy and Feared by the ArmyCadets and Middies Entering the FieldTwo Aces—Bill Morley and Harold WeeksVic Kennard's KickSam White's RunKing, of Harvard, Making a Run; Mahan Putting Black on His HeadPrinceton's Team"Nothing Got by John DeWitt"John DeWitt About to Pick Up the BallThe Ever Reliable Brickley—A Football Thoroughbred—Tack HardwickThe Poe FamilyJust BoysHobey Baker, Walter Camp, Jr., Snake Ames, Jr.The ElectHow It Hurts to LoseCornell's Great Team—1915One Scene Never Photographed in FootballHarvard, 1915The Greatest Indian of Them AllLearning the ChargeBilly Bull Advising with Captain TalbotMichigan's Famous TeamColumbia Back in the Game, 1915Close to a Thriller. Erwin of Pennsylvania Scoring Against CornellCrash of Conflict. When Charge Meets ChargeAinsworth, Yale's Terror in an Uphill GameTwo to One He Gets Away—Brickley Being Tackled by Wilson and AverySnapping the Ball with Lewis. "Two Inseparables"—Frank Hinkey and the BallMarshall NewellMcClung, Referee, Shevlin and Hogan
The Old Fifth Avenue Send-OffTHE OLD FIFTH AVENUE SEND-OFF
PREP. SCHOOL DAYS
To every man there comes a moment that marks the turning point of his career. For me it was a certain Saturday morning in the autumn of 1891. As I look back upon it, across the years, I feel something of the same thrill that stirred my boyish blood that day and opened a door through which I looked into a new world.
I had just come to the city, a country boy, from my home in Lisle, N. Y., to attend the Horace Mann School. As I walked across Madison Square, I glanced toward the old Fifth Avenue Hotel, where my eyes fell upon the scene depicted in the accompanying picture. Almost before I was aware of it my curiosity led me to mingle with the crowd surging in and out of the hotel, and I learned by questioning the bystanders that it was the headquarters of the Yale team, which that afternoon was to play Princeton at the Polo Grounds. The players were about to leave the hotel for the field, and I hurried inside to catch a glimpse of them.
The air was charged with enthusiasm, and I soon caught the infection—although it was all new to me then—of the vital power of college spirit which later so completely dominated my life. I recall with vividness how I lingered and waited for something to happen. Men were standing in groups, and all eyes were centered upon the heroes of the team. Every one was talking football. Some of the names heard then have never been forgotten by me. There was the giant Heffelfinger whom every one seemed anxious to meet. I was told that he was the crack Yale guard. I looked at him, and, then and there, I joined the hero worshippers.
I also remember Lee McClung, the Yale captain, who seemed to realize the responsibilities that rested upon his shoulders. There was an air of restraint upon him. In later years he became Treasurer of the United States and his signature was upon the country's currency. My most vivid recollection of him will be, however, as he stood there that day in the corridor of the famous old hotel, on the day of a great football conflict with Princeton. Then Sanford was pointed out to me, the Yale center-rush. I recall his eagerness to get out to the "bus" and to be on his way to the field. When the starting signal was given by the captain, Sanford's huge form was in the front rank of the crowd that poured out upon the sidewalk.
The whole scene was intensely thrilling to me,and I did not leave until the last player had entered the "bus" and it drove off. Crowds of Yale men and spectators gave the players cheer after cheer as they rolled away. The flags with which the "bus" was decorated waved in the breeze, and I watched them with indescribable fascination until they were out of sight. The noise made by the Yale students I learned afterwards was college cheering, and college cheers once heard by a boy are never forgotten.
Many in that throng were going to the game. I could not go, but the scene that I had just witnessed gave me an inspiration. It stirred something within me, and down deep in my soul there was born a desire to go to college.
I made my way directly to the Y. M. C. A. gymnasium, then at the corner of Fourth Avenue and Twenty-third Street. Athletics had for me a greater attraction than ever before, and from that day I applied myself with increased enthusiasm to the work of the gymnasium.
The following autumn I entered St. John's Military Academy at Manlius, N. Y., a short distance from my old home. I was only seventeen years of age and weighed 217 pounds.
Former Adjutant General William Verbeck—then Colonel Verbeck—was Head Master. Before I was fairly settled in my room, the Colonel had drafted me as a candidate for the football team. I wanted to try for the team, and was as eager to make it as he evidently was tohave me make it. But I did not have any football togs, and the supply at the school did not contain any large enough.
So I had to have some built for me. The day they arrived, much to my disappointment, I found the trousers were made of white canvas. Their newness was appalling and I pictured myself in them with feelings of dismay. I robbed them of their whiteness that night by mopping up a lot of mud with them behind the gymnasium. When they had dried—by morning—they looked like a pair of real football trousers.
George Redington of Yale was our football coach. He was full of contagious fire. Redington seemed interested in me and gave me much individual coaching. Colonel Verbeck matched him in love of the game. He not only believed in athletics, but he played at end on the second team, and it was pretty difficult for the boys to get the best of him. They made an unusual effort to put the Colonel out of the plays, but, try as hard as they might, he generally came out on top. The result was a decided increase in the spirit of the game.
We had one of the best preparatory school teams in that locality, but owing to our distance from the larger preparatory schools, we were forced to play Syracuse, Hobart, Hamilton, Rochester, Colgate, and Cazenovia Seminary—all of whom we defeated. We also played against the Syracuse Athletic Association, whoseteam was composed of professional athletes as well as former college players. Bert Hanson, who had been a great center at Yale, was one of this team.
Old Yale Heroes--Lee McClung's TeamH. Wallis Coxe Cochran Nessler Heffelfinger W. Winter MillsSanford Hartwell Morrison Graves StillmanMcCormick McClung L. T. BlissC. Bliss Hinkey Barbour T. DyerOLD YALE HEROES—LEE MCCLUNG'S TEAM
Recalling the men who played on our St. John's team, I am confident that if all of them had gone to college, most of them would have made the Varsity. In fact, some did.
It was decided that I should go to Lawrenceville School, en route to Princeton. It was on the trip from Trenton to Lawrenceville, in the big stage coach loaded with boys, I got my first dose of homesickness. The prospect of new surroundings made me yearn for St. John's.
The "blue hour" of boyhood, however, is a brief one. I was soon engaged in conversation with a little fellow who was sitting beside me and who began discussing the ever-popular subject of football. He was very inquisitive and wanted to know if I had ever played the game, and if I was going to try for the team.
He told me about the great game Lawrenceville played with the Princeton Varsity the year before, when Lawrenceville scored six points before Princeton realized what they were really up against. He fascinated me by his graphic description. There was a glowing account of the playing of Garry Cochran, the great captain of the Lawrenceville team, who had just graduated and gone to Princeton, together with Sport Armstrong, the giant tackle.
These men were sure to live in Lawrenceville's history if for nothing else than the part they had played in that notable game, although Princeton rallied and won 8 to 6. It was not long before I learned that my newly-made friend was Billy McGibbon, a member of the Lawrenceville baseball team.
"Just wait until you see Charlie de Saulles and Billy Dibble play behind the line," he went on; and from that moment I began to be a part of the new life, the threshold of which I was crossing. Strangely enough the memory of getting settled in my new quarters faded with the eventful moment when the call for candidates came, and I went out with the rest of the boys to try for the team.
Competition was keen and many candidates offered themselves. I was placed on the scrub team. One of my first attempts for supremacy was in the early part of the season when I was placed as right guard of the scrub against Perry Wentz, an old star player of the school and absolutely sure of his position. I recall how on several occasions the first team could not gain as much distance through the second as the men desired, and Wentz, who later on distinguished himself on the Varsity at Princeton and still later as a crack player on Pennsylvania, seemed to have trouble in opening up my position.
Max Rutter, the Lawrenceville captain, withthe directness that usually characterizes such officers, called this fact to Wentz's attention. Wentz, who probably felt naturally his pride of football fame, became quite angry at Rutter's remark that he was being outplayed. He took off his nose-guard, threw it on the ground and left the field.
Rutter moved me over to the first team in Wentz's place. That night there was a general upset on the team which was settled amicably, however, and the next day Wentz continued playing in his old place. The position of guard was given to me on the other side of the line, George Cadwalader being moved out to the position of tackle. This was the same Cadwalader who subsequently went to Yale and made a great name for himself on the gridiron, in spite of the fact that he remained at New Haven but one year.
It was here at Lawrenceville that this great player made his reputation as a goal kicker, a fame that was enhanced during his football days at Yale. Max Rutter, the captain of the Lawrenceville team, went to Williams and played on the Varsity, eventually becoming captain there also. Ned Moffat, nephew of Princeton's great Alex Moffat, played end rush.
About this time I began to realize that Billy McGibbon had given me a correct line on Charlie de Saulles and Billy Dibble. These twoplayers worked wonderfully well together, and were an effective scoring machine with the assistance of Doc MacNider and Dave Davis.
During these days at Lawrenceville Owen Johnson gathered the material for those interesting stories in which he used his old schoolmates for the characters. The thin disguise of Doc Macnooder does not, however, conceal Doc MacNider from his old schoolboy friends. The same is true of the slightly changed names of Garry Cochran, Turk Righter, Charlie de Saulles and Billy Dibble.
Charlie de Saulles, after graduation, went to Yale and continued his wonderful, spectacular career on the gridiron. We will spend an afternoon with him on the Yale field later.
Billy Dibble went to Williams and played a marvelous game until he was injured, early in his freshman year. It was during those days that I met Garry Cochran, Sport Armstrong and other Princeton coaches for the first time. They used to come over to assist in coaching our team. Our regular coaches at Lawrenceville were Walter B. Street, who had been a famous football star years before at Williams, and William J. George, renowned in Princeton's football history as a center-rush. I cannot praise the work of these men too highly. They were thoroughbreds in every sense of the word.
It was one of the old traditions of Lawrenceville football to have a game every year withPennington Seminary. What man is there who attended either school who does not recall the spirit of those old-time contests?
The Hill School was another of our football rivals. The trip to Pottstown, Pa., was an event eagerly looked forward to—so also was the Hill School's return game at Lawrenceville. The rivalry between the two schools was keen.
Everything possible was done at the Hill School to make our visit a pleasant one. The score of 28 to 0, by which Lawrenceville won the game that year, made it especially pleasant.
As I recall that trip, two men stand out in my memory. One was John Meigs, the Head Master. The other was Mike Sweeney, the Trainer and Athletic Director. They were the two central figures of Hill School traditions.
Interest in football was emphasized at that time by the approaching game with Andover at Lawrenceville. This was the first time that these two teams had ever played. Andover was probably more renowned in football annals than any school Lawrenceville had played up to this time. The Lawrenceville coaches realized that the game would be a strenuous one. After a conference, the two coaches decided that it would be wise to see Andover play at Andover the week before we were to play them. Accordingly, Mr. George went to Andover, and when he returned, he gathered the team around him in one of the recitation halls and described carefully the offenseand defense of our coming opponents. He also demonstrated with checkers what each man did in every play and placed emphasis on the work of Eddie Holt, who was acting captain of the Andover team. To represent Holt's giant build he placed one checker on top of another, saying, as I remember, with great seriousness:
"This topped checker represents Holt. He must be taken care of, and it will require two Lawrenceville men to stop him on every play. I am certain of this for Holt was a marvel last Saturday."
During the week we drilled secretly and most earnestly in anticipation of defeating Andover. The game attracted an unusually large number of spectators. Lawrenceville made it a gala day for its alumni, and all the old Andover and Lawrenceville boys who could get there witnessed the game.
When the Andover team ran out upon the field we were all anxious to see how big Holt loomed up. He certainly was a giant and towered high above the other members of his team. Soon the whistle blew, and the trouble was on. In memory now I can see Billy Dibble circling Andover's end for twenty-five yards, scoring a touchdown amid tremendous excitement.
This all transpired during the first minute and a half of play. Emerson once said, "We live by moments," and the first minute and a half of that game must stand out as one of the eventfulperiods in the life of every man who recalls that day of play. No grown-up schoolboy can fail to appreciate the scene or miss the wave of boyish enthusiasm that rolled over the field at this unlooked for beginning of a memorable game between schoolboys.