The Yale team had also heard some words of football wisdom in their dressing room. Previous encounters with Princeton had taught them that the Tiger could also rally. They came on the field prepared to fight harder than ever. McBride and Brown were exhorting their men to do their utmost.

Princeton was out-rushing Yale but not out-kicking them. Yale knew that as well as we did.

It was a Yale fumble that gave us the chance we were waiting for. Bill Roper, who had taken Lew Palmer's place at left end, had his eyes open. He fell on the ball. Through his vigilance, Princeton got the chance to score. Now was our chance.

Time was passing quickly. We all knew that something extraordinary would have to be done to win the day. It remained for Arthur Poe to crystallize this idea into action. It seemed an inspiration.

"We've got to kick," he said to me, "and I would like to try a goal from the field. We haven't got much time."

Nobody appreciated the situation more than I did. I knew we would have to take a chance and there was no one I would have selected for the job quicker than Arthur Poe. How we needed a touchdown or a goal from the field!

Poe, Pell and myself were the three members of the original team left. How the substitutes rallied with us and gave the perfect defence that made Poe's feat possible is a matter of history. As I looked around from my position to see that the defensive formation was right, I recall how small Arthur Poe looked there in the fullback position. Here was a man doing something we had never rehearsed as a team. But safe and sure the pass went from Horace Bannard and as Biffy Lea remarked after the game, "when Arthur kicked the ball, it seemed to stay up in the air about twenty minutes."

Some people have said that I turned a somersault and landed on my ear, and collapsed. Anyhow, it all came our way at the end, the ball sailed over the cross bar. The score then was 11 to 10, and the Princeton stand let out a roar of triumph that could be heard way down in New Jersey.

There were but thirty-six seconds left for play. Yale made a splendid supreme effort to score further. But it was futile.

Crowds had left the field before Poe made his great goal kick. They had accepted a Yale victory as inevitable. Some say that bets were paid on the strength of this conviction. The Yale News, which went to press five minutes before the game ended, got out an edition stating that Yale had won. They had to change that story.

During the seconds preceding Poe's kick for a goal I had a queer obsession. It was a serious matter to me then. I can recall it now with amusement. "Big" was a prefix not of my own selection. I had never appreciated its justification, however, until that moment.

Horace Bannard was playing center. I had my left hand clasped under the elastic in his trouser leg, ready to form a barrier against the Yale forwards. Brown, Hale and McBride tried to break through to block the kick. I thought of a million things but most of all I was afraid of a blocked kick. To be frank, I was afraid I would block it—that Poe couldn't clear me, that he would kick the ball into me.



I crouched as low as I could, and the more I worried the larger I seemed to be and I feared greatly for what might occur behind me. It seemed as if I were swelling up. But finally, as I realized that the ball had gone over me and was on its way to the goal, I breathed a sigh of relief and said,

"Thank God, it cleared!"

How eager we were to get that ball, the hard-earned prize, which now rests in the Princeton gymnasium, a companion ball to the one of the 1898 victory. Yes, it had all been accomplished, and we were happy. New Haven looked different to us. It was many years since Princeton had sent Yale down to defeat on Yale Field.

Victory made us forget the sadness of former defeats. It was a joyous crowd that rode back to the private cars. Varsity players and substitutes shared alike in the joy, which was unrestrained. We soon had our clothes changed, and were on our way to New York for the banquet and celebration of our victory.

Arthur Poe was the lion of the hour. No finer fellow ever received more just tribute.

It would take a separate volume to describe the incidents of that trip from New Haven to New York. Before it had ended we realized if we never had realized it before how sweet was victory, and how worth while the striving that brought it to us.

Suffice it to say that that Yale football was the most popular "passenger" on the train. Over and over we played the game and a million caresses were lavished upon the trophy.

This may seem an excess of sentiment to some, but those who have played football understand me. Looking back through the retrospect of seventeen years, I realize that I did not fully understand then the meaning of those happy moments. I now appreciate that it was simply the deep satisfaction that comes from having made good—the sense of real accomplishment.

Enthusiastic Princeton men were waiting for us at the Grand Central Station. They escorted us to the Murray Hill Hotel, and the wonderful banquet that awaited us. The spirit of the occasion will be understood by football players and enthusiasts who have enjoyed similar experiences.

The members of the team just sat and listened to speeches by the alumni and coaches. It all seemed too good to be true. When the gathering broke up, the players became members of different groups, who continued their celebration in the various ways provided by the hospitality of the great city.



Hillebrand and I ended the night together. When we awoke in the morning, the Yale football was there between our pillows, the bandaged shoulder and collar-bone of Hillebrand nestling close to it.

Then came the home-going of the team to Princeton, and the huge bonfire that the whole university turned out to build. Some nearby wood yard was looking the next day for thirty-six cords of wood that had served as the foundation for the victorious blaze. It was learned afterward that the owner of the cord-wood had backed the team—so he had no regrets.

The team was driven up in buses from the station. It was a proud privilege to light the bonfire. Every man on the team had to make a speech and then we had a banquet at the Princeton Inn. Later in the year the team was banqueted by the alumni organizations around the country. Every man had a peck of souvenirs—gold matchsafes, footballs, and other things. Nothing was too good for the victors. Well, well, "To the victors belong the spoils." That is the verdict of history.



CHAPTER VI

HEROES OF THE PAST

THE EARLY DAYS

We treasure the memory of the good men who have gone before. This is true of the world's history, a nation's history, that of a state, and of a great university. Most true is it of the memory of men of heroic mold. As schoolboys, our imaginations were fired by the records of the brilliant achievements of a Perry, a Decatur or a Paul Jones; and, as we grow older, we look back to those heroes of our boyhood days, and our hearts beat fast again as we recall their daring deeds and pay them tribute anew for the stout hearts, the splendid fighting stamina, and the unswerving integrity that made them great men in history.

In every college and university there is a hall of fame, where the heroes of the past are idolized by the younger generations. Trophies, portraits, old flags and banners hang there. Threadbare though they may be, they are rich in memories. These are, however, only the material things—"the trappings and the suits" of fame—but in the hearts of university men the memory of the heroes of the past is firmly and reverently enshrined. Their achievements are a distinguished part of the university's history—a part of our lives as university men—and we are ever ready now to burn incense in their honor, as we were in the old days to burn bonfires, in celebration of their deeds.

It is well now that we recall some of the men who have stood in the front line of football; in the making and preservation of the great game. Many of them have not lived to see the results of their service to the sport which they deemed to be manly and worth while. It is, however, because they stood there during days, often full of stress and severe criticism of the game, staunch and resistless, that football occupies its present high plane in the athletic world.

It may be that some of their names are not now associated with football. Some of them are captains of industry. They are in the forefront of public affairs. Some of them are engaged in the world's work in far-away lands. But the spirit that these men apply to their life work is the same spirit that stirred them on the gridiron. Their football training has made them better able to fight the battle of life.

Men who gave signals, are now directing large industries. Players who carried the ball, are now carrying trade to the ends of the world. Men who bucked the line, are forging their way sturdily to the front. Men who were tackles, are still meeting their opponents with the same intrepid zeal. The men who played at end in those days, are to-day seeing that nothing gets around them in the business world. The public is the referee and umpire. It knows their achievements in the greater game of life.

It is not my purpose to select an all-star football team from the long list of heroes past and present. It is not possible to select any one man whom we can all crown as king. We all have our football idols, our own heroes, men after whom we have patterned, who were our inspiration.

We can never line up in actual scrimmage the heroes of the past with those of more recent years. What a treat if this could be arranged!

There are many men I have idolized in football, not only for their record as players, but for the loyalty and spirit for the game which they have inspired.

Walter Camp

When I asked Walter Camp to write the introduction to this book, I told him that as he had written about football players for twenty years it was up to some one to relate some of his achievements as a football player. We all know Walter Camp as a successful business man and as a football genius whose strategy has meant much to Yale. His untiring efforts, his contributions to the promotion of the best interests of the game, stand as a brilliant record in the history of football. To give him his just due would require a special volume. The football world knows Walter Camp as a thoroughbred, a man who has played the game fairly, and sees to it that the game is being played fairly to-day.

We have read his books, enjoyed his football stories, and kept in touch with the game through his newspaper articles. He is the loyal, ever-present critic on the side lines and the helpful adviser in every emergency. He has helped to safeguard the good name of football and kept pace with the game until to-day he is known as the "Father of football."

Let us go back into football history where, in the recollections of others, we shall see Freshman Camp make the team, score touchdowns, kick goals and captain Yale teams to victory.

F. R. Vernon, who was a freshman at Yale when Camp was a sophomore, draws a vivid word picture of Camp in his active football days. Vernon played on the Yale team with Camp.

"Walter Camp in his football playing days," says Vernon, "was built physically on field running lines; quick on his legs and with his arms. His action was easy all over and seemed to be in thorough control from a well-balanced head, from which looked a pair of exceptionally keen, piercing, expressive brown eyes.

"Camp was always alert, and seemed to sense developments before they occurred. One of my chief recollections of Camp's play was his great confidence with the ball. In his room, on the campus, in the gym', wherever he was, if possible, he would have a football with him. He seemed to know every inch of its surface, and it seemed almost as if the ball knew him. It would stick to his palm, like iron to a magnet.

"In one of his plays, Camp would run down the side of the field, the ball held far out with one arm, while the other arm was performing yeoman service in warding off the oncoming tacklers. Frequently he would pass the ball from one hand to the other, while still running, depending upon which arm he saw he would need for defense. Smilingly and confidently, Camp would run the gauntlet of opposing players for many consecutive gains. I do not recall one instance in which he lost the ball through these tactics.

"It was a pretty game to play and a pretty game to look at. Would that the rules could be so worded as to make the football of Camp's time the football of to-day!

"Walter Camp's natural ability as a football player was recognized as soon as he entered Yale in 1876. He made the 'varsity at once and played halfback. It was in the first Harvard football game at Hamilton Park that the Harvard captain, who was a huge man with a full, bushy beard, saw Walter Camp, then a stripling freshman in uniform, and remarked to the Yale Captain:

"'You don't mean to let that child play; he is too light; he will get hurt.'

"Walter made a mental note of that remark, and during the game the Harvard captain had occasion to remember it also, when in one of the plays Camp tackled him, and the two went to the ground with a heavy thud. As the Harvard captain gradually came to, he remarked to one of his team mates:

"'Well, that little fellow nearly put me out!'

"Camp's brilliant playing earned him the captaincy of the team in 1878 and 1879. He had full command of his men and was extremely popular with them, but this did not prevent his being a stickler for discipline.

"In my day on the Yale team with Camp," Vernon states, "Princeton was our dire opponent. For a week or so before a Princeton game, we all agreed to stay on the campus and to be in bed every night by eleven o'clock. Johnny Moorhead, who was one of our best runners, decided one night to go to the theatre, however, and was caught by Captain Camp, whereupon we were all summoned out of bed to Camp's room, shortly before midnight. After the roundup we learned the reason for our unexpected meeting. There was some discussion in which Camp took very little part. No one expected that Johnny would receive more than a severe reprimand and this feeling was due largely to the fact that we needed him in the game. Imagine our surprise, therefore, when Camp, who had left us for a moment, returned to the room and handed in his resignation as captain of the team. We revolted at this. Johnny, who sized up the situation, rather than have the team lose Camp, decided to quit the team himself. What occurred the next day between Camp and Johnny Moorhead we never knew, but Johnny played in the game and squared himself."

Walter Camp's name is coupled with that of Chummy Eaton in football history. "Eaton was on the left end rush line," says Vernon, "and played a great game with Camp down the side line. When one was nearly caught for a down, the other would receive the ball from him on an over-head throw and proceed with the run. Camp and Eaton would repeat this play, sending the ball back and forth down the side of the field for great gains.

"In one of the big games in the fall of 1879, Eaton had a large muscle in one of his legs torn and had to quit playing for that season." Vernon was put in Chummy's place. "But I couldn't fill Chummy's shoes," Vernon acknowledges, "for he and Camp had practiced their beautiful side line play all the fall.

"The next year Chummy's parents wouldn't let him play, but Chummy was game—he simply couldn't resist—it was a case of Love Before Duty with him. He played on the Yale team the next fall, however, but not as Eaton, and every one who followed football was wondering who that star player 'Adams' was and where he came from. But those on the inside knew it was Chummy.

"Frederic Remington," says Vernon, "was a member of our team. We were close friends and spent many Sunday afternoons on long walks. I can see him now with his India ink pencil sketching as we went along, and I must laugh now at the nerve I had to joke him about his efforts.

"Remy was a good football player and one of the best boxers in college. Dear Old Remy is gone, but he left his mark."

Other men, equally prominent old Yale men tell me, who were on the team that year were Hull, Jack Harding, Ben Lamb, Bob Watson, Pete Peters and many others.

Walter Camp, as Yale gridiron stories go, was not only captain of his team, but in reality also its coach. Perhaps he can be called the pioneer coach of Yale football. It is most interesting to listen to old time Yale players relate incidents of the days when they played under Walter Camp as their captain: how they came to his room by invitation at night, sat on the floor with their backs to the wall, with nothing in the center of the room but a regulation football. There they got together, talked things over, made suggestions and comparisons. And it is said of Camp that he would do more listening by far than talking. This was characteristic, for although he knew so much of the game he was willing to get every point of view and profit by every suggestion.

In 1880 Camp relinquished the captaincy to R. W. Watson. Yale again defeated Harvard, Camp kicking a goal from placement. Following this R. W. Watson ran through the entire Harvard team for a touchdown.

Harvard men were greatly pained when Walter Camp played again in 1881. He should have graduated in 1880. This game was also won by Yale, thus making the fourth victorious Yale team that Camp played on. This record has never been equalled. Camp played six years at Yale.

John Harding was another of the famous old Yale stars who played on Walter Camp's team.

"It is now more than thirty-five years since my days on the football gridiron," writes Harding. "What little elementary training I got in football, I attribute to the old game of 'theory,' which for two years on spring and summer evenings, after supper, we used to play at St. Paul's School in Concord, N. H., on the athletic grounds near the Middle School. One fellow would be 'it' as we dashed from one side of the grounds to the other and when one was trapped he joined the 'its,' until everybody was caught. I learned there how to dodge, as well as the rudiments of the necessary football accomplishment of how to fall down without getting hurt. As a result of this experience, with my chum, W. A. Peters, when we got down to Yale in the fall of '76, we offered ourselves as willing victims for the University football team, and with the result that we both 'made' the freshman team, and had our first experience in a match game of football against the Harvard freshman at Boston. I don't remember who won that contest, but I do remember the University eleven, under Eugene Baker's careful training, beating Harvard that fall at New Haven and my football enthusiasm being fired up to a desire to make the team, if it were possible.

"Of course, Walter Camp has for many years, and deservedly so, been regarded as the father of football at Yale, but in my day, and at least until Baker left college, he was only an ordinary mortal and a good halfback. Baker was the unquestioned star and I cannot disabuse my mind that he was the original football man of Yale, and at least entitled to the title of 'grandfather' of the game there and it was from him that my tuition mainly came.

"My impression is that Baker was always for the open running and passing game and that mass playing and flying wedges and the various refinements of the game that depended largely on 'beef' were of a later day.

"For four years I played in the rush line with Walter Camp as a halfback, and for two years, at least, with Hull and Ben Lamb on either side of me, all of us somehow understanding each other's game and all being ready and willing to help each other out. Whatever ability and dexterity I may have developed seemed to show itself at its best when playing with them and to prove that good team work and 'knowing your man' wins.

"I got to know Walter Camp's methods and ways of playing, so that, somehow or other, I could judge pretty well where the ball was going to drop when he kicked and could navigate myself about so that I was, more often than any one else on our side, near the ball when it dropped to the ground, and, if perchance, it happened to be muffed by an opposing player, which put me 'on side,' the chances of a touchdown, if I got the ball, were excellent, and Hull and Lamb were somehow on hand to back me up and were ready to follow me in any direction.

"During my last two years of football the 'rushers' were unanimously of the opinion that the kicking, dodging and passing open game was the game we should strive for and that it was the duty of the halfback and backs to end their runs with a good long punt, wherever possible, and give us a chance to get under the ball when it came down, while the rest of the team behind the line were in favor of a running mass play game, particularly in wet and slippery weather.

"I remember once in my senior year our divergence of views on this question, about three weeks before the final game, nearly split our team, and that as a result I nearly received the doubtful honor of becoming the captain of a defeated Yale team. Camp, fearful of wet weather and possible snow at the Thanksgiving game, and with Channing, Eaton and Fred Remington as the heavy Yale ends and everybody 'big' in the rush line excepting myself, was trying to develop us with as little kicking as possible, and was sensitive because of the protests from the rush line that there was no kicking. We were all summoned one evening to his room in Durfee; the situation explained, together with his unwillingness to assume the responsibility of captain unless his ideas were followed; his fear of defeat, if they were not followed, his willingness to continue on the team as a halfback and to do his best and his resignation as captain with the suggestion of my taking the responsibility of the position. Things looked blue for Yale when Walter walked out of the door, but after some ten minutes' discussion we decided that the open game was the better, despite Camp's opinion to the contrary, but that we could not play the open game without Camp as captain. Some one was sent out to bring Walter back; matters were smoothed out; we played the open game and never lost a touchdown during the season. But during the four years I was on the Yale varsity we never lost but one touchdown, from which a goal was kicked and there were no goals kicked from the field. This goal was lost to Princeton, and I think was in the fall of '78, the year that Princeton won the championship. The two men that were more than anybody else responsible for the record were Eugene Baker and Walter Camp, but behind it all was the old Yale spirit, which seems to show itself better on the football field than in any other branch of athletics."

Theodore M. McNair

On December 19th, 1915, there appeared in the newspapers a notice of the death of an old Princeton athlete, in Japan—Theodore M. McNair—who, while unknown to the younger football enthusiasts, was considered a famous player in his day. To those who saw him play the news brought back many thrills of his adventures upon the football field. The following is what an old fellow player has to say about his team mate:

"Princeton has lost one of her most remarkable old time athletes in the death of Theodore M. McNair of the class of 1879.

"McNair was a classmate of Woodrow Wilson. After his graduation he became a Presbyterian missionary, a professor in a Tokio college and the head of the Committee that introduced the Christian hymnal into Japan.

"To old Princeton graduates, however, McNair is known best as a great football player who was halfback on the varsity three years and was regarded as a phenomenal dodger, runner and kicker. In the three years of his varsity experience McNair went down to defeat only once, the first game in which he appeared as a regular player. The contest was with Harvard and was played between seasons—April 28th, 1877—at Cambridge. Harvard won the game by 2 touchdowns to 1 for the Tigers. McNair made the touchdown for his team. This match is interesting in that it marked the first appearance of the canvas jacket on the football field. Smock, one of the Princeton halfbacks, designed such a jacket for himself and thereafter for many seasons football players of the leading Eastern colleges adopted the garment because it made tackling more difficult under the conditions of those days. McNair was of large frame and fleet of foot. He was especially clever in handling and passing the ball, which in those days was more of an art than at present. It was not unusual for the ball to be passed from player to player after a scrimmage until a touchdown or a field goal was made.

"Walter Camp was one of McNair's Yale adversaries. They had many punting duels in the big games at St. George's Cricket Grounds, Hoboken, but Camp never had the satisfaction of sending McNair off the field with a beaten team."

Alexander Moffat

Every football enthusiast who saw Alex Moffat play had the highest respect for his ability in the game. Alex Moffat was typically Princetonian. His interest in the game was great, and he was always ready to give as much time as was needed to the coaching of the Princeton teams. His hard, efficient work developed remarkable kickers. He loved the game and was a cheerful, encouraging and sympathetic coach. From a man of his day I have learned something about his playing, and together we can read of this great all-round athlete.

Alex Moffat was so small when he was a boy that he was called "Teeny-bits." He was still small in bone and bulk when he entered Princeton. Alex had always been active in sport as a boy. Small as he was, he played a good game of baseball and tennis and he distinguished himself by his kicking in football before he was twelve years of age. The game was then called Association Football, and kicking formed a large part of it. At an early age, he became proficient in kicking with right or left foot. When he was fifteen he created a sensation over at the Old Seminary by kicking the black rubber Association football clear over Brown Hall. That was kick enough for a boy of fifteen with an old black, rubber football. If anybody doubts it, let him try to do the trick.



The Varsity team of Princeton in the fall of '79 was captained by Bland Ballard of the class of '80. He had a bunch of giants back of him. There were fifteen on the team in those days, and among them were such men as Devereaux, Brotherlin, Bryan, Irv. Withington, and the mighty McNair. The scrub team player at that time was pretty nearly any chap that was willing to take his life in his hands by going down to the field and letting those ruthless giants step on his face and generally muss up his physical architecture.

When Alex announced one day that he was going to take a chance on the scrub team, his friends were inclined to say tenderly and regretfully, "Good night, sweet prince." But Alex knew he was there with the kick, whether it came on the left or right, and he made up his mind to have a go with the canvas-backed Titans of the Varsity team. One fond friend watching Alex go out on the field drew a sort of consolation from the observation that "perhaps Alex was so small the Varsity men wouldn't notice him." But Alex soon showed them that he was there. He got in a punt that made Bland Ballard gasp. The big captain looked first at the ball, way up in the air, then looked at Alex and he seemed to say as the Scotsman said when he compared the small hen and the huge egg, "I hae me doots. It canna be."

After that the Varsity men took notice of Alex. When the ball was passed back to him next the regulars got through the scrub line so fast that Alex had to try for a run. Bland Ballard caught him up in his arms, and finding him so light and small, spared himself the trouble of throwing him down. Ballard simply sank down on the ground with Alex in his arms and began rolling over and over with him towards the scrub goal. Alex cried "Down! Down!" in a shrill, treble voice that brought an exclamation from the side line. "It's a shame to do it. Bland Ballard is robbing the cradle."

Such was Alex Moffat in the fall of '79, still something of the "Teeny-bits" that he was in early boyhood. In two years Alex's name was on the lips of every gridiron man in the country, and in his senior year, as captain, he performed an exploit in goal kicking that has never been equalled.

In the game with Harvard in the fall of '83, he kicked five goals, four being drop kicks and one from a touchdown. His drop kicks were all of them long and two of them were made with the left foot. Alex grew in stature and in stamina and when he was captain he was regarded as one of the most brilliant fullbacks that the game had ever known. He never was a heavy man, but he was swift and slippery in running, a deadly tackler, and a kicker that had not his equal in his time.

Alex remained prominent in football activity until his death in 1914. He served in many capacities, as member of committees, as coach, as referee and as umpire. He was a man of happy and sunny nature who made many friends. He loved life and made life joyous for those who were with him. He was idolized at Princeton and his memory is treasured there now.

Wyllys Terry

One of the greatest halfbacks that ever played for Yale is Wyllys Terry, and it is most interesting to hear this player of many years ago tell of some of his experiences. Terry says:

"It has been asked of me who were the great players of my time. I can only say, judging from their work, that they were all great, but if I were compelled to particularize, I should mention the names of Tompkins, Peters, Hull, Beck, Twombly, Richards; in fact, I would have to mention each team year by year. To them I attribute the success of Yale's football in my time, and for many years after that to the unfailing zeal and devotion of Walter Camp.

"There were no trainers, coaches, or rubbers at that time. The period of practice was almost continuous for forty-five minutes. It was the idea in those days that by practice of this kind, staying power and ability would be brought out. The principal points that were impressed upon the players were for the rushers to tackle low and follow their man.

"This was to them practically a golden text. The fact that a man was injured, unless it was a broken bone, or the customary badly sprained ankle, did not relieve a man from playing every day.

"It was the spirit, though possibly a crude one, that only those men were wanted on the team who could go through the battering of the game from start to finish.

"The discipline of the team was rigorous; men were forced to do as they were told. If a man did not think he was in any condition to play he reported to the captain. These reports were very infrequent though, for I know in my own case, the first time I reported, I was so lame I could hardly put one foot before the other, but was told to take a football and run around the track, which was a half mile long and encircled the football field. On my return I was told to get back in my position and play. As a result, there were very few players who reported injuries to the captain.

"This, when you figure the manner in which teams are coached to-day, may appear brutal and a waste of good material, but as a matter of fact, it was not. It made the teams what they were in those days—strong, hard and fast.

"As to actual results under this policy, I can only say that, during my period in college, we never lost a game.

"Training to-day is quite different. I think more men are injured nowadays than in my time under our severe training. I think further that this softer training is carried to an extreme, and that the football player of to-day has too much attention paid to his injury, and what he has to say, and the trainer, doctors and attendants are mostly responsible for having the players incapacitated by their attention.

"The spirit of Yale in my day, a spirit which was inculcated in our minds in playing games, was never to let a member of the opposing team think he could beat you. If you experienced a shock or were injured and it was still possible to get back to your position either in the line or backfield—get there at once. If you felt that your injury was so severe that you could not get back, report to your captain immediately and abide by his decision, which was either to leave the field or go to your position.

"It may be said by some of the players to-day that the punts in those days were more easily caught than those of to-day. There is nothing to a remark like that. The spiral kick was developed in the fall of '82, and I know that both Richards and myself knew the fellow who developed it. From my experience in the Princeton game I can testify that Alex Moffat was a past master at it.

"One rather amusing thing I remember hearing years ago while standing with an old football player watching a Princeton game. The ball was thrown forward by the quarterback, which was a foul. The halfback, who was playing well out, dashed in and caught the ball on the run, evaded the opposing end, pushed the half back aside and ran half the length of the field, scoring a touchdown. The applause was tremendous. But the Umpire, who had seen the foul, called the ball back. A fair spectator who was standing in front of me, asked my friend why the ball was called back. My friend remarked: 'The Princeton player has just received an encore, that's all.'

"While the game was hard and rough in the early days, yet I consider that the discipline and the training which the men went through were of great assistance to them, physically, morally and intellectually, in after years. Some of the pleasantest friendships that I hold to-day were made in connection with my football days, among the graduates of my own and other colleges.

"When fond parents ask the advisability of letting their sons play football, I always tell them of an incident at the Penn-Harvard game at Philadelphia, one year, which I witnessed from the top of a coach. A young girl was asked the question:

"'If you were a mother and had a son, would you allow him to play football?'

"The young lady thought for a moment and then answered in this spirited, if somewhat devious, fashion:

"'If I were a son and had a mother, you bet I'd play!'"

Memories of John C. Bell

In my association with football, among the many friendships I formed, I prize none more highly than that of John C. Bell, whose activity in Pennsylvania football has been kept alive long since his playing day. Let us go back and talk the game over with him.

"I played football in my prep. school days," he says, "and on the 'Varsity teams of the University of Pennsylvania in the years '82-'83-'84. After graduation, following a sort of nominating mass meeting of the students, I was elected to the football committee of the University, about 1886, and served as chairman of that committee until 1901; retiring that season when George Woodruff, after a term of ten years, terminated his relationship as coach of our team.

"I also served, as you know, as a representative of the University on the Football Rules Committee from about 1886 until the time I was appointed Attorney General in 1911.

"More pleasant associations and relationships I have never had than those with my fellow-members of that Committee in the late '80's and the '90's, including Camp of Yale; Billy Brooks, Bert Waters, Bob Wrenn and Percy Haughton of Harvard; Paul Dashiell of Annapolis; Tracy Harris, Alex Moffat and John Fine of Princeton; and Professor Dennis of Cornell. Later the Committee, as you know, was enlarged by the admission of representatives from the West; and among them were Alonzo Stagg, of Chicago University, and Harry Williams of Minnesota. Finer fellows I have never known; they were one and all Nature's noblemen.

"Some of them, alas! like Alex Moffat, have gone to the Great Beyond. Representing rival universities, between whose student bodies and some of whose alumni, partisan feeling ran high in the '90's, nothing, however, save good fellowship and good cheer ever existed between Alex and me.

"I am genuinely glad that I played the game with my team-mates; witnessed for many years nearly all the big games of the eastern colleges; mingled season after season with the players and the enthusiastic alumni of the competing universities in attendance at the annual matches; sat and deliberated each recurring year, as I have said, with those fine fellows who made and amended the rules, and in this way helped to develop the game, the manliest of all our sports; and that I have thus breathed, recreated and been invigorated in a football atmosphere every autumn for more than a third of a century. Growing older every year, one still remains young—as young in heart and spirit as when he donned the moleskins, and caught and kicked and carried the ball himself. And all these football experiences make one a happier, stronger and more loyal man.

"I remember in my prep. school days playing upon a team made up largely of high school boys. One game stands out in my recollection. It was against the Freshmen team of the University of Pennsylvania, captained by Johnny Thayer who went down with the Titanic.

"Arriving after the game had started, I came out to the side-lines and called to the captain asking whether I was to play. He glowered at me and made no answer. A few minutes later our 'second captain' called to me to come into the game, saying that Smith was only to play until I arrived. Quick as a flash I stepped into the field of play, and almost instantly Thayer kicked the ball over the rush line and it came bounding down right into my arm. Off I went like a flash through the line, past the backs and fullbacks, only to be over-taken within a few yards of the goal. The teams lined up, and thereupon Thayer, with his eagle eye looking us over, called out to our captain 'how many fellows are you playing anyway?' Instantly our captain ordered Smith off the field saying 'you were only to play until Bell came,' and poor Smith left without any audible murmur. This is what might be called one of the accidents of the game.

"Perhaps the most memorable game in which I played was against Harvard in 1884 when Pennsylvania won upon Forbes Field by the score of 4 to 0. It was our first victory over the Crimson, not to be repeated again until the memorable game of 1894, which triumph was again repeated, after still another decade, in our great victory of 1904. This last victory came after five years of continuing defeats, and I remember that we were all jubilant when we heard the news from Cambridge. I recall that Dr. J. William White, C. S. Packard and I were playing golf at the Country Club and when some one brought out the score to us we dropped our clubs, clasped hands and executed an Indian dance, shouting "Rah! rah! rah! Pennsylvania!" Why, old staid philosopher, should the leading surgeon of the city, the president of its oldest and largest trust company, and the district attorney of Philadelphia, thus jump for joy and become boys once more?

"Recurring to the game of 1884 I can hear the cheers of the University still ringing in my ears when we returned from Harvard. A few weeks later our team went up to Princeton to see the Harvard-Princeton match and I recall, as though it were yesterday, Alex Moffat kicking five goals against Appleton's team, three of them with the right and two with the left foot. No other player I ever knew or heard of was so ambipedextrous (if I may use the word) as Alex Moffat. I remember walking in from the field with Harvard's captain, and he said to me 'Moffat is a phenomenon.' Truly he was."



CHAPTER VII

HEROES OF THE PAST—GEORGE WOODRUFF'S STORY

Enthusiastic George Woodruff tells of his football experiences in the following words:

"I went to Yale a green farmer boy who had never heard of the college game of football until I arrived at New Haven to take my examinations in the fall of '85. Incidentally I made the team permanently the second day I was on the field, having scored against the varsity from the middle of the field in three successive runs; whereas the varsity was not able to score against the scrub. I was used perhaps more times than any other man in running with the ball up to a very severe injury to my knee in the fall of '87, just a week and a day before the Princeton game, from which time, until I left college (although I played in all of the championship games) I was not able to run with the ball, actually being on the field only two days after my injury in '87 until the end of the '88 season, outside of the days on which I played the games. I tried not to play in the fall of '88 because of the condition of my knee and because I was Captain of the Crew, but Pa Corbin insisted that I must play in the championship games or he would not row: and of course I acceded to his wishes thereby secretly gratifying my own.

"And now about the men with whom I played: Kid Wallace played end the entire four years. Wallace was a great amusement and comfort to his fellow-players on account of his general desire to put on the appearance of a 'tough' of the worst description; whereas he was at heart a very fine and gallant gentleman.

"Pudge Heffelfinger played the other guard from me in my last year and when he first appeared on the Yale field he was a ridiculous example of a raw-boned Westerner, being 6 feet 4 inches tall and weighing only about 178 pounds. During the season, however, the exercise and good food at the training table caused Heffelfinger to gain 25 pounds of solid bone, sinew and muscle. The green days of his first year in 1888 were remembered against him in an affectionate way by the use of Yale for several years of 'Pa' Corbin's oft reiterated expression brought forth by Pudge's greenness, which would cause 'Pa' to exclaim: 'Darn you, Heffelfinger!' with great emphasis on the 'Darn.'

"Billy Graves played on the team during most of these years, he being the most graceful football runner I have ever seen, unless it were Stevenson of Pennsylvania.

"Lee McClung was a harder worker in his running than most of the men named above, but tremendously effective. He is accredited with being the first man who intentionally started as though to make an end run and then turned diagonally back through the line, in order to open up the field through which he then ran with incredible speed and determination. This was one of the first premeditated plays of a trick nature which ultimately led to my invention of the delayed pass which works upon the same principle only with incalculably greater ease and effect.

"The game with Princeton in the Fall of 1885 clings to my memory beyond any other game I ever played in, because it was the first real championship game of my career, and I had not as yet fully developed into an actual player. The loss of this game to Princeton in the last six minutes of playing because of the Lamar run—Yale had Princeton 5 to 0—has been a nightmare to most of the Yale players ever since. I attribute the fact that Yale only had five points to two hard-luck facts.

"Through my own intensity at the beginning of the game I over-ran Harry Beecher on my first signal, causing the signal giver to think that I was rattled so that, although I afterward ran with the ball some 25 or 30 times with consistent gains of from 2 to 5 yards under the almost impossible conditions known as the 'punt rush,' the signal for my regular play was not given again in spite of the fact that my ground gaining had been one of the steadiest features of the Yale play throughout the year, and because Watkinson was allowed to try five times in succession for goals from the field, close up, only one of which he made; whereas Billy Bull could probably have made at least three out of the five; but of course Bull's ability was not so well-known then. The direct cause of the Lamar run was due to the fact that all the fast runners and good tacklers of the Yale line were down the field under a kick, so close to Toler, the other halfback from Lamar, that when Toler muffed the ball so egregiously that it bounded over our heads some 15 yards, Lamar who had not come across the field to back Toler up, had been able to get the ball on the bound and on the dead run, thus having in front of him all the Princeton team except Toler; whereas the Yale team was depleted by the fact that Wallace, Corwin, Gill (who had come on as a substitute) myself and even Harry Beecher from quarterback, had run down the field to within a few yards of Toler before he muffed the ball. We all turned and watched Lamar run, being so petrified that not one of us took a step, and, although the scene is photographed on my memory, I cannot see one of all the Yale players making a tackle at Lamar. Hodge, the Princeton quarterback, kicked the goal, thus making the score 6 to 5 and winning the game. The outburst from the Princeton contingent at the end of the game was one of the most heartfelt and spontaneous I have ever heard or seen. I understand that practically all of Lamar's uniform was torn into pieces and handed out to the various Princeton girls and their escorts who had come to New Haven to see the game.

"The Yale-Princeton game in the fall of 1886 was a remarkable as well as a disagreeable one. We played at Princeton when the field at that time combined the elements of stickiness and slipperiness to an unbelievable extent. It rained heavily throughout the game and the proverbial 'hog on ice' could not have slipped and slathered around worse than all the players on both sides. There was a long controversy about who should act as referee (in those days we had only one official) and after a delay of about an hour from the time the game should have begun, Harris, a Princeton man, was allowed to do the officiating. Bob Corwin, who was end-rush, only second to Wallace in his ability, was captain of the team.

"Yale made one touchdown which seemed to be perfectly fair but which was disallowed; and later, in the second half, Watkinson for Yale kicked the ball so that it rolled across the goal line, whereupon a crowd, which was standing around the ropes (in those days there was practically no grandstand) crowded onto the field where Savage, the Princeton fullback had fallen on the ball. The general report is that Kid Wallace held Savage while Corwin pulled the slippery ball away from him, and that when Harris, the referee, was able to dig his way through the crowd he found Corwin on the ball, and in view of the great fuss that had been made about his previous decision, was not able to credit Savage's statement that he (Savage) had said 'down' long before the Yale ends had been able to pull the ball away from him. The result was that the touchdown was allowed. Thereupon the crowd all came onto the field and we were not able to clear it for some 10 or 15 minutes, so that there was not time enough to finish the full 45 minutes of the second-half of the game before dark. This led to some bitter discussion between Yale and Princeton as to whether the game had been played. This discussion was settled by the intercollegiate committee in declaring that Yale had won the game, 4 to 0, but that no championship should be awarded. It is interesting to note, however, that all the gold footballs worn by the Yale players of this game are marked 'Champions, 1886.'

"A word about the Princeton men who were playing during my four years at college.

"Irvine was a fine steady player and his success at Mercersburg is in keeping with the promise shown in his football days.

"Hector Cowan played against me three years at guard and he fully deserved the great reputation he had at that time in every particular of the game, including running with the ball.

"George was one of the very best center rushes I have ever seen and probably would have made a great player elsewhere along the line if he had been relieved from the obscuring effect of playing center at the time a center had no particular opportunity to show his ability.

"Snake Ames for some reason was never able to do anything against the Yale team during the time I was playing, but his work in some later games that I saw and in which I officiated, convinced me that he was worthy of his nickname, because there are only a few men who are able to wind their way through an entire field of opponents with as much celerity and effect as Ames would display time after time.

"In the fall of '86 Yale beat Harvard 29 to 4, with great ease, and if it had not been for injuries to Yale players, could probably have made it 50 or 60 to 0. Most of the Yale players came out of the game with very disgraceful marks of the roughness of the Harvard men. I had a badly broken nose from an intentional blow. George Carter had a cut requiring eight stitches above his eye. The tackle next to me had a face which was pounded black and blue all over. To the credit of the Harvard men I will say that they came to the box at the theater that night occupied by the Yale team and apologized for what they had done, stating that they had been coached to play in that way and that they would never again allow anybody to coach who would try to have the Harvard players use intentionally unfair roughness.

"When I entered Pennsylvania I found a more or less happy-go-lucky brilliant man, Arthur Knipe, who was not considered fully worthy of being on even the Pennsylvania teams of those days, namely: teams that were being beaten 60 or 70 to 0 by Yale, Harvard and Princeton. I succeeded in arousing the interest of Knipe, and although in my mind he never, during his active membership of the Pennsylvania team, came up to 75 per cent. of his true playing value, he was, even so, undoubtedly the peer of any man that ever played football. Knipe was brilliant but careless, and was at once the joy and despair of any coach who took an interest in his men. He captained the 1894 Pennsylvania team with which I sprung the 'guards back' and 'short end defense.'

"Jack Minds I remember seeing, in 1893, standing around on the field as a member of the second or third scrub teams. I suppose he would not have been invited to preliminary training except for his own courage and pertinacity which caused him to demand to be taken. With no thought that he could possibly make the team I gradually found myself using him in 1894, until he was a fixture at tackle, although he dodged the scales throughout the entire fall in order that I might not know that he only weighed 162 pounds.



"I will not enlarge upon the ability of men like George Brooke, Wylie Woodruff, Buck Wharton, Joe McCracken, John Outland and others, but anybody speaking of Pennsylvania players during the late '90's cannot pass by Truxton Hare, who stands forth as a Chevalier Bayard among the ranks of college football players. Hare entered Pennsylvania in '97 from St. Paul without any thought that he was likely to be even a mediocre player. He weighed only about 178 pounds at the time and was immature. Although his wonderfully symmetrical build, in which he looked like a magnified Billy Graves, kept him from looking as large as Heffelfinger at his greatest development at Yale, Hare was certainly ten pounds heavier in fine condition than Heffelfinger was before the latter left Yale."



CHAPTER VIII

ANECDOTES AND RECOLLECTIONS

In the latter eighties the signal from the quarterback to the center for putting the ball in play was a pressure of the fingers and thumb on the hips of the center. In the '89 championship game between Yale and Princeton, Yale had been steadily advancing the ball and it looked as if they had started out for a march up the field for a touchdown. In those days signals were not rattled off with the speed that they are given now, and the quarterback often took some time to consider his next play, during which time he might stand in any position back of the line.

Playing right guard on the Princeton team was J. R. Thomas, more familiarly known as Long Tommy. He was six feet six or seven inches tall and built more longitudinally than otherwise. It occurred to Janeway, who was playing left guard, that Long Tommy's great length and reach might be used to great advantage when occasion offered.

He, therefore, took occasion to say to Thomas during a lull in the game, "If you get a chance, reach over when Wurtenburg—the Yale quarter—isn't looking, and pinch the Yale center so that he will put the ball in play when the backs are not expecting it." The Yale center, by the way, was Bert Hanson. Yale continued to advance the ball on two or three successive plays and finally had a third down with two yards to gain. At this critical moment the looked-for opportunity arrived. Wurtenburg called a consultation of the other backs to decide on the next play. While the consultation was going on Long Tommy reached over and gently nipped Hanson where he was expecting the signal. Hanson immediately put the ball in play and as a result Janeway broke through and fell on the ball for a ten yards gain and first down for Princeton.

To say that the Yale team were frantic with surprise and rage would be putting it mildly. Poor Hanson came in for some pretty rough flagging. He swore by all that was good and holy that he had received the signal to put the ball in play, which was true. But Wurtenburg insisted that he had not given the signal. There was no time for wrangling at that moment as the referee ordered the game to proceed.

Yale did not learn how that ball came to be put in play until some time after the game, which was the last of the season, when Long Tommy happening to meet up with Hanson and several other Yale players in a New York restaurant, told with great glee how he gave the signal that stopped Yale's triumphant advance.

* * * * *

Numerals and combinations of numbers were not used as signals until 1889. Prior to that, phrases, catch-words and gestures were the only modes of indicating the plays to be used. For instance, the signal for Hector Cowan of Princeton to run with the ball was an entreaty by the captain, who in those days usually gave the signals, addressed to the team, to gain an uneven number of yards. Therefore the expression, "Let's gain three, five or seven yards," would indicate to the team that Cowan was to take the ball, and an effort was made to open up the line for him at the point at which he usually bucked it.

Irvine, the other tackle, ran with the ball when an even number of yards was called for.

For a kick the signal was any phrase which asked a question, as for instance, "How many yards to gain?"

One of the signals used by Corbin, captain of Yale, to indicate a certain play, was the removal of his cap. They wore caps in those days. A variation of this play was indicated if in addition to removing his cap he expectorated emphatically.

Hodge, the Princeton quarterback, noticing the cap signals, determined that he would handicap the captain's strategy by stealing his cap. He called the team back and very earnestly impressed upon them the advantage that would accrue if any of them could surreptitiously get possession of Captain Corbin's head-covering. Corbin, however, kept such good watch on his property that no one was able to purloin it.

Sport Donnelly, who played left end on Princeton's '89 team, was perhaps one of the roughest players that ever went into a game, and at the same time one of the best ends that ever went down the field under a kick.

Donnelly was one of the few men that could play his game up to the top notch and at the same time keep his opponent harassed to the point of frenzy by a continual line of conversation in a sarcastic vein which invariably got the opposing player rattled.

He would say or do something to the man opposite him which would goad that individual to fury and then when retaliation was about to come in the shape of a blow, he would yell "Mr. Umpire," and in many instances the player would be ruled off the field.

Donnelly's line of conversation in a Yale game, addressed to Billy Rhodes who played opposite him, would be somewhat as follows:

"Ah, Mr. Rhodes, I see Mr. Gill is about to run with the ball."

Just then Gill would come tearing around from his position at tackle and Donnelly would remark:

"Well, excuse me, Mr. Rhodes, for a moment, I've got to tackle Mr. Gill."

He would then sidestep in such a manner as to elude Rhodes's manoeuvres to prevent him breaking through, and stop Gill for a loss.

Hector Cowan, who was captain of the Princeton '88 team was another rough player. In those days the men in the heat of playing would indulge in exclamations hardly fit for a drawing room. In fact most of the time the words used would have been more in place among a lot of pirates.

Cowan was no exception to the rule so far as giving vent to his feelings was concerned, but he invariably used one phrase to do so. He was a fellow of sterling character and was studying for the ministry. Not even the excitement of the moment could make him forget himself to the extent of the other players, and where their language would have to be represented in print by a lot of dashes, Cowan's could be printed in the blackest face type without offending anyone.

It was amusing to see this big fellow, worked up to the point of explosion, wave his arms and exclaim:

"Oh, sugar!"

It would bring a roar of mock protest from the other players, and threats to report him for his rough talk. While the men made joke of Hector's talk they had a thorough respect for his sterling principles.

VICTORIOUS DAYS AT YALE

During the early days of football Yale's record was an enviable one. The schedules included, Yale, Harvard, Princeton, University of Pennsylvania, Rutgers, Columbia, Stevens Institute of Technology, Dartmouth, Amherst, and University of Michigan.

It is interesting to note that since the formation of the Football Association, in 1879 to 1889, Yale had been awarded the championship flag five times, Princeton one, Harvard none. Yale had won 95 out of 98 games, having lost three to Princeton, one to Harvard and one to Columbia. Since 1878 Yale had lost but one game and that by one point. This was the Tilly Lamar game, which Princeton won. In points Yale had scored, since points began to be counted, 3001 to her opponents' 56; in goals 530 to 19 and in touchdowns 219 to 9, which is truly a unique record.

It was during this period that Pa Corbin, a country boy, entered Yale and in his senior year became captain of the famous '88 team. This brilliant eleven had a wonderfully successful season and Yale men now began to take stock and really appreciate the remarkable record that was hers upon the field of football.

In commemoration of these victories, Yale men gathered from far and near, crowding Delmonico's banquet hall to the limit to pay tribute to Yale athletic successes.

"And it came to pass, when the people heard the sound of the trumpet, and the people shouted with a great shout ... they took the city."

In a room beautifully decorated with Yale banners and trophies four hundred Elis sat down to enjoy the Bulldog Feast, and there honored and cheered to the echo the great football traditions of Yale and the men who made her famous by so vast a margin.

Chauncey M. Depew in his address that evening stated that for the only time in one hundred and eighty-eight years the alumni of Yale met solely to celebrate her athletic triumphs.

Pa Corbin, captain of the victorious '88 football team, responded, as follows:

"Again we have met the enemy and he is ours. In fact we have been successful so many times there is something of a sameness about it. It is a good deal like what the old man said about leading a good life. It is monotonous, but satisfactory. There are perhaps a few special reasons why we won the championship this year, but the general principles are the same, which have always made us win. First, by following out certain traditions, which are handed down to us year by year from former team captains and coaches; the necessity of advancing each year beyond the point attained the year before; the mastering of the play of our opponents and planning our game to meet it. Second, by the hard, conscientious work, such as only a Yale team knows how to do. Third, by going on to the field with that high courage and determination which has always been characteristic of the Yale eleven, something like the spirit of the ancient Greeks who went into battle with the decision to return with their shields or on them. Sometimes they have been animated with the spirit which knows no defeat, like the little drummer boy, who was ordered by Napoleon in a crisis in the battle to beat a retreat. The boy did not move. 'Boy, beat a retreat.' He did not stir, but at a third command, he straightened up and said: 'Sire, I know not how, but I can beat a charge that will wake the dead.' He did so and the troops moved forward and were victorious. It is this same spirit which in many cases has seemed to animate our men.



"But our victory is due in a great measure this year to a man who knows more about football than any man in this country, who gave much of his valuable time in continually advising and in actual coaching on the field. I refer to Walter Camp, and as long as his spirit hovers over the Yale campus and our traditions for football playing are religiously followed out there is no reason why Yale should not remain, as she always has been, at the head of American football."

Those were Corbin's recollections the year of that great victory. Time has not dimmed them, nor has his memory faded. Rather the opposite. From what follows you will note that a woman now enters the camp of the Eli coaching staff, mention of whom was not made in Corbin's speech of '88.

Pa Corbin prides himself in the fact that twenty-five years afterward he brought his old team mates together and gave them a dinner. The menu card tells of the traditional coaching system of Corbin's great team of '88 and beneath the picture of Mr. and Mrs. Walter Camp appears in headlines:

"HEAD COACHES OF THE YALE FOOTBALL TEAM OF 1888"

"The head-coaches of the Yale team," says Corbin, "were really Mr. and Mrs. Walter Camp. They had been married in the summer of 1888 and were staying with relatives in New Haven. Mr. Camp had just begun his connection with a New Haven concern which occupied most of his time. Mrs. Camp was present at Yale Field every day at the football practice and made careful note of the plays, the players and anything that should be observed in connection with the style of play and the individual weakness or strength. She gave her observations in detail to her husband at supper every night and when I arrived Mr. Camp would be thoroughly familiar with that day's practice and would be ready for suggestions as to plays and players to be put in operation the next day.

"This method was pursued during the entire season and was practically the only systematic coaching that the team received. Of course there were several old players like Tompkins '84, Terry '85 and Knapp '82, who came to the field frequently.

"At that time it was customary for me to snap the ball back to the quarter with my foot. By standing the ball on end and exercising a certain pressure on the same it was possible to have it bound into the quarterback's hands. It was necessary, therefore, for me to attend to this detail as well as to block my opponent and make holes through the line for the backs.

"While the rules of the game at that time provided for an Umpire as well as a Referee, the fact that there was no neutral zone and players were in close contact with each other on the line of scrimmage gave opportunity for more roughness than is customary at the present time. Neither were the officials so strict about their rulings.

"Prior to this time it had been customary to give word signals for the different plays, these being certain words which were used in various sentences relating to football and the progress of the game. As center, I was so tall that a system of sign signals was devised which I used entirely in the Princeton game, and the opponents, from the talk, which continued as usual, supposed that word signals were being used and were entirely ignorant of the sign signals during the progress of the game. The pulling of the visor of my cap was a kick signal. Everything that I did with my left hand in touching different parts of my uniform on the left side from collar to shoe lace meant a signal for a play at different points on the left side of the line. Similar signals with my right hand meant similar plays on the right side of the line. The system worked perfectly and there was no case of missed signal. The next year the use of numbers for signals began, and has continued until the present date.

"The work of the Yale team during the season was very much retarded by injuries to their best players. The papers were so filled with these accounts that the general opinion of the public was that the team would be in poor physical condition to meet Princeton. As luck would have it, however, the invalids reached a convalescing stage in time to enter the Wesleyan game on the Saturday before the one to be played with Princeton in fairly good condition.

"Head Coach Camp and I attended the Princeton-Harvard game at Princeton on that day. Upon our return to New York we received a telegram from Mrs. Camp to the effect that the score made by Yale against Wesleyan was 105 to nothing. One of the graduate coaches was much impressed with the opportunity to turn a few pennies and he requested that the information be kept quiet until he could see a few Princeton men. The result was that he negotiated the small end of several stakes at long odds against Yale. When the news of the Wesleyan score was made public the next morning, the opinion of the public changed somewhat as to the merit of the team. It nevertheless went into the Princeton game as not being the favorite and in the opinion of disinterested persons it was expected that Princeton would win handsomely."

Cowan the great has this to say:

"I happened to be down on the grounds to watch the practice just a few days before the Yale game. They did not have enough scrub to make a good defense. Jim Robinson happened to see me there and asked me to play. He had asked me before, and I had always refused, but this time for some reason I accepted and he took me to the Club house.

"I got into my clothes. The shoes were about three sizes too small. That day I played guard opposite Tracy Harris. I played well enough so that they wanted me to come down the next day, as they said they wanted good practice. The next day I was put against Captain Bird, who had been out of town the first day I played. He had the reputation of being not at all delicate in the way he handled the scrub men who played against him, so that they had learned to keep away from him.

"As I had not played before, I did not know enough to be afraid of him, so when the ball was put in play I simply charged forward at the quarterback and was able to spoil a good many of his plays. I heard afterward that Bird asked Jim Robinson who that damn freshman was that played against him. The next year I was put in Bird's place at left guard, as he had graduated and fought all comers for the place. I was never put on the scrub again.

"My condition when in Princeton was the best. Having been raised in the country, I knew what hard work was and in the five years that I played football I never left the field on account of injury either in practice or in games with other teams.

"It is a great thing to play the game of football as hard as you can. I never deliberately went to do a man up. If he played a rough game, I simply played him the harder. I never struck a man with my fist in the game. I do not remember ever losing my temper. Perhaps I did not have temper enough.

"When we speak of a football man's nerve I would say that any man who stopped to think of himself is not worthy of the game, but there is one man who seemed to me had a little more nerve than the average. I think that he played for two years on our scrub, and the reason that he was kept there so long was on account of his size. He only weighed about 138 pounds, but for all the time he played on the scrub he played halfback and no one ever saw him hesitate to make every inch that he could, even though he knew he had to suffer for it.

"In the fall of '88, I think, Yup Cook played right tackle on the Varsity. He was very strong in his shoulders and arms and had the grip of a blacksmith. Channing, this nervy little 138-pounder, played left halfback on the scrub. When he went into the line, Cook would take him by the shoulders and slam him into the ground. Our playing field at the time was very dry and the ground was like a rock. I used to feel very sorry for the little fellow. On his elbows and hips and knees he had raw sores as big as silver dollars; yet he never hesitated to make the attempt, and he never called 'down' to save himself from punishment. The next year he made the team. Everybody admired him.

"Football men must never forget Tilly Lamar, who played halfback. I think he was one of the greatest halfbacks and one who would have made a record in any age of football. I have seen him go through a line with nearly every man on the opposing team holding him. He would break loose from one after the other.

"Lamar was a short, chunky fellow and ran close to the ground with his back level, and about the only place one could get hold of him was his shoulders. He would always turn toward the tackler instead of away, and it had the effect of throwing him over his head. The only way that the Yale men could stop him at all was to dive clear under and get him by the legs.

"You have always heard a lot about Snake Ames. Snake was a very spectacular player, but one very hard to stop, especially in an open field. He was very fast and during the last year of his playing he developed a duck and would go clear under the man trying to tackle him. This he did by putting one hand flat on the ground, so that his body would just miss the ground; even the good tacklers that Yale always had were not able to stop him.

"One of Princeton's old reliables was our center, George, '89. He may not have got much out of the plaudits from the grandstand, but those of us who knew what he was doing appreciated his work. We always felt safe as to our center. He was steady and brilliant.

"It was during this time that Yale developed a wedge play on center. There were no restrictions as to how the line would be formed, and Yale would put all their guards and tackles and ends back, forming a big V with the man with the ball in the center.

"Yale had been able to knock the opposing center out of the way till they struck George. How well I remember this giant, who was able to hold the whole wedge until he could knock the sides in and pile them up in a bunch. Yale soon gave him up and tried to gain elsewhere.

"I must tell you about one more of Princeton's football players. Not so much for his playing, but for his head work. During the years that I was captain, in the fall of '88 the rules were changed so that one was allowed to block an opponent only by the body. In other words, not allowed to use hands or arms in blocking. It was Sam Hodge, who played end and worked out what is known to-day as boxing the tackle. You can understand what effect it would have on a man who was not used to it. The end would knock the opposing tackle and send him clear out of the play and the half would keep the end out."

I once asked Cowan to tell something about his experiences and men he played against.

"The Yale game was the great game in my days," he said. "Harvard did not have the football instinct as well developed as Yale, and it is of the Yale players that I have more in mind. One man I will always remember is Gill, who played left tackle for Yale and was captain during his senior year. I remember him because we had a good deal to do with each other. When I ran with the ball I had to get around him if I made any advance, and I must say that I found it no easy thing to do, as he was a sure tackler. And when he ran with the ball I had the good pleasure of cutting his runs short.

"Another man whom I consider one of the greatest punters of the past is Bull of Yale. I have stopped a good many punts and drop kicks in my play, but I do not remember stopping a single kick of his, and it was not because I did not try. He kicked with his left foot, and with his back partially towards the line would kick a very high ball, and when you jumped into him—on the principle, that if you cannot get the ball, get the man—you had the sensation of striking something hard."

After Cowan had stopped playing and graduated he acted as an official in a good many of the big games. He states as follows:

"You ask about my own experiences as an official, and for experience with other officials. I always got along pretty well as a referee. There was very little kicking on my decisions. But I was good for nothing as an umpire. I could not keep my eyes off the ball, so did not see the fouls as much as I should. You boys have probably heard how I was ruled off the field in a Harvard-Princeton game in '88. I remember Terry of Yale who refereed that game, above all others. There was a rule at that time that intentional tackling below the knees was a foul and the penalty was disqualification. Our game had just started. We had only two or three plays, Harvard having the ball. I broke through the line and tackled the man as soon as he had the ball. I had him around the legs about the knees, but in his efforts to get away, my hands slipped down. But at the moment remembering the rule I let him go, and for this I was disqualified. I might say that we lost the game, for we did not have any one to take my place. I had always been in my place and no one ever thought that I would not be there. My being disqualified was probably the reason for the Princeton defeat.

"I do not think that Terry intended to be unfair. The game had just started, and he was trying to be strict, and without stopping to think whether it was intentional or not. He saw the rule being broken and acted on the impulse of the moment. I have since heard that Terry felt very bad about it afterwards. I never felt right towards him until I had a chance to get even with him, and it came in this way. The Crescent Club of Brooklyn played the Cleveland Athletic Club at Cleveland. George and myself were invited to play with the Cleveland club, and on the Crescent team were Alex Moffat and Terry. Terry played left halfback, and right here was where I got in my work. When Terry ran with the ball I generally had a chance to help him meet the earth. I had one chance in particular. Terry got the ball and got around our end, and on a long end run I took after him, caught him from the side, threw him over my head out of bounds. As we were both running at the top of our speed he hit the ground with considerable force. I felt better towards him after this game."

In such vivid phrases as these a great hero of the past tells of things well worth recording.

* * * * *

Football competition is very strong. There is the keenest sort of rivalry among college teams. There is very little love on the part of the men who play against each other on the day of the contest, but after the game is all over, and these men meet in after years, very strong friendships are often formed. Sometimes these opponents never meet again, but down deep in their hearts they have a most wholesome regard for each other, and so in my recollections of the old heroes, it will be most interesting to hear in their own words, something about their own achievements and experiences in the games they played thirty years ago. Hector Cowan, who captained the '88 team at Princeton, played three years against George Woodruff of Yale. It has been twenty-eight years since that wonderful battle took place between these two men. It is still talked about by people who saw the game, and now let us read what these two contestants say about each other.

"Of the three years that I played guard I met George Woodruff as my opponent," says Cowan, "and I always felt that he was the strongest man I had to meet and one who was always on the square. He played the game for what it was worth, and he showed later that he could teach it to others by the way he taught the Penn' team."

Says George Woodruff, delving into the old days: "Hector Cowan played against me three years at guard, and he fully deserves the reputation he had at that time in every particular of the game, including running with the ball. I doubt whether any other Princeton man was ever more able to make ground whenever he tried, although Cowan was not in any particular a showy player. For some reason or other, Cowan seems to have had a reputation for rough play, which shows how untrue traditions can be handed down. I never played against or with a finer and steadier player, or one more free from the remotest desire to play roughly for the sake of roughness itself."

When Heffelfinger's last game had been played there appeared in a newspaper of November 26th, 1888, a farewell to Heffelfinger.

Good-by Heff! the boys will miss you, And the old men, too, and the girls; You tossed the other side about as if they were ten-pins; You took Little Bliss under your wing and he ran with the ball like a pilot boat by the Teutonic. You used eyes, ears, shoulders, legs, arms and head and took it all in. You're the best football rusher America, or the world, has shown; And best of all you never slugged, lost your temper or did anything mean; Oh come thou mighty one, go not away, The team thou must not fail: Stay where thou art, please, Heffelfinger, stay, And still be true to Yale— Linger, yet linger, Heffelfinger, a truly civil engineer. His trust would ne'er surrender; unstrap thy trunks, Excuse this scalding tear. Still be Yale's best defender! Linger, oh, linger, Heffelfinger. Princeton and Harvard, there is cause to fear Will dance joy's double shuffle when of thy Western flight they come to hear. Stay and their tempers ruffle. Linger, oh, linger, Heffelfinger.

John Cranston

"My inspiration for the game came when my country cousin returned from Exeter and told me he believed I had the making of a football player," says John Cranston, who was Harvard's famous old center and former coach. "At once I pestered him with all kinds of questions about the requirements, and believed that some day I would do something. I shall always remember my first day on the field at Exeter. Lacking the wherewithal to buy the regulation suit, I appeared in the none too strong blue shirt and overalls used on the farm. I remember too that it was not long before Harding said: 'Take that young countryman to the gymnasium before he is injured for life; he doesn't know which way to run when he gets the ball; he doesn't know the game; and he looks too thick headed to play the game anyway.'

"As boys on neighboring farms of Western New York, three of us, who were later to play on different college teams, hunted skunks and rabbits together. Had we been on the same team we would have been side by side. Cook was a great tackle at Princeton; Reed one of the best guards Cornell ever had; and I, owing to some good team mates, played as center on the first Harvard eleven to defeat Yale. It is said that Cook in his first game at Exeter grabbed the ball and started for his own goal for a touchdown, and that Reed after playing the long afternoon in the game which Cornell won, asked the Referee which side was victorious.

"I well remember that at Exeter we were planning how to celebrate our victory over Andover, even to the most minute detail. We knew who was to ring the academy and church bells of the town, and where we were to have the bonfire at night. We were deprived of that pleasure on account of the great playing and better spirit of the Andover team. A few of our Exeter men then and there made a silent compact that Exeter would feel a little better after another contest with Andover. The following three years we defeated Andover by large scores.

"Any one who has played the game can recall some amusing situations. I recall the first year at Harvard when we were playing against the Andover team that suddenly the whole Andover School gave the Yale cheer. Dud Dean, who was behind me, fired up and said it was the freshest thing he had ever heard. At Springfield I remember one Yale-Harvard game started with ten men of my own school, Exeter, in the game. In another Yale game we were told to look ugly and defiant as we lined up to face Yale, but I was forced to laugh long and hard when I found myself facing Frankie Barbour, the little Yale quarter, who lived with me in the same dormitory at Exeter for three years."



CHAPTER IX

THE NINETIES AND AFTER

Men of to-day who never had an opportunity of seeing Foster Sanford play will be interested in some anecdotes of his playing days and to read in another chapter of this book some of his coaching experiences.

"As a boy," said Sandy, "I lived in New Haven. I chalked the lines on the football field for the game in which Tilly Lamar made his famous run for Princeton. I played on the college team two years before I entered Yale. I learned a lot of football playing against Billy Rhodes, that great Yale tackle.

"I'll tell you about the day I made the Yale team in my freshman year. Pa Corbin took me in hand. I think he wanted to see if I had lots of nerve. He told me to report at nine o'clock for practice. He put me through a hard, grueling work-out, showing me how to snap the ball; how to charge and body check. All this took place in a driving rain, and he kept me out until one o'clock, when he said: