Yale and Princeton men will not forget in a hurry the two wonderful runs for touchdowns, one from about the center of the field, that Chadwick made in 1902.

"I note," writes Chadwick, "that there is a general impression that the opening in the line through which I went was large enough to accommodate an express train. As a matter of fact, the opening was hardly large enough for me to squeeze through. The play was not to make a large opening, and I certainly remember the sensation of being squeezed when going through the line.

"There were some amusing incidents in connection with that particular game that come back to me now. I remember that when going down on the train from New York to Princeton, I was very much amused at Mike Murphy's efforts to get Tom Shevlin worked up so he would play an extra good game. Mike kept telling Tom what a good man Davis was and how the latter was going to put it all over him. Tom clenched his fists, put on a silly grin and almost wept. It really did me a lot of good, as it helped to keep my mind off the game. When it did come to the game, his first big game, Shevlin certainly played wonderful football.

"I had been ill for about a week and a half before this game and really had not played in practice for two or three weeks. Mike was rather afraid of my condition, so he told me to be the last man always to get up before the ball was put in play. I carefully followed his advice and as a result a lot of my friends in the stand kept thinking that I had been hurt.

"Toward the end of the game we were down about on Princeton's 40-yard line. It was the third down and the probabilities were that we would not gain the distance, so I decided to have Bowman try for a drop-kick. I happened to glance over at the side line and there was old Mike Murphy making strenuous motions with his foot. The umpire, Dashiell, saw him too, and put him off the side lines for signalling. I remember being extremely angry at the time because I was not looking at the side lines for any signals and had decided on a drop kick anyhow.

"In my day it was still the policy to work the men to death, to drill them to endure long hours of practice scrimmage. About two weeks before the Princeton game in my senior year, we were in a slump. We had a long, miserable Monday's practice. A lot of the old coaches insisted that football must be knocked into the men by hard work, but it seemed to me that the men knew a lot of football. They were fundamentally good and what they really needed was condition to enable them to show their football knowledge. It is needless to say that I was influenced greatly in this by Mike Murphy and his knowledge of men and conditioning them. Joe Swann, the field coach, and Walter Camp were in accord, so we turned down the advice of a lot of the older coaches and gave the Varsity only about five minutes' scrimmage during the week and a half preceding the Princeton game, with the exception of the Bucknell game the Saturday before. During the week before the Princeton and Harvard games we went up to Ardsley and had no practice for three days. There was a five-minutes' scrimmage on Thursday. This was an unusual proceeding, but it was so intensely hot the day of the Princeton game, and we all lost so much weight something unusual had to be done. The team played well in the Princeton game, but it was simply a coming team then. In the Harvard game, which we won 23 to 0, it seemed to me that we were at the top of our form.

"I think the whole incident was a lesson to us at New Haven of the great value of condition to men who know a great deal of football. I know from my own experience during the three preceding years that it had been too little thought of. The great cry had too often been 'We must drum football into them, no matter what their physical condition.'

"After the terribly exhausting game at Princeton, which we won, 12 to 5, DeWitt Cochrane invited the team to go to his place at Ardsley and recuperate. It really was our salvation, and I have always been most grateful to Mr. and Mrs. Cochrane for so generously giving up their house completely to a mob of youngsters. We spent three delightful days, almost forgot football entirely, ate ravenously and slept like tops.

"Big Eddie Glass was a wonderful help in interference. I used to play left half and Eddie left guard. On plays where I would take the ball around the end, or skirting tackle, Eddie would either run in the interference or break through the line and meet me some yards beyond. We had a great pulling and hauling team that year, and the greatest puller and hauler was Eddie Glass. Perry Hale, who played fullback my sophomore year, was a great interferer. He was big, and strong and fast. On a straight buck through tackle, when he would be behind me, if there was not a hole in the proper place, he would whirl me all the way round and shoot me through a hole somewhere else. It would, of course, act as an impromptu delayed play. In one game I remember making a forty yard run to a touchdown on such a manoeuver."



Arthur Poe

There never was as much real football ability concealed in a small package as there was in that great player, Arthur Poe. He was always using his head, following the ball, strong in emergency. He was endowed with a wonderful personality, and a man who always got a lot of fun out of the game and made fun for others, but yet was on the job every minute. He always inspired his team mates to play a little harder. Rather than write anything more about this great player, let us read with him the part he so ably played in some of Princeton's football games.

"The story of my run in 1898 is very simple. Yale tried a mass play on Doc Hillebrand, which, as usual, was very unsuccessful in that quarter. He broke through and tackled the man with the ball. While the Yale men were trying to push him forward, I grabbed the ball from his arms and had a clear field and about ten yards start for the goal line. I don't believe I was ever happier in my life than on this day when I made the Princeton team and scored this touchdown against Yale.

"In the second half McBride tried a center drive on Booth and Edwards. The line held and I rushed in, and grabbed the ball, but before I got very far the Referee blew his whistle, and after I had run across the goal line I realized that the touchdown was not going to be allowed.

"Lew Palmer and I were tried at end simply to endeavor to provide a defense against the return runs of de Saulles on punts. He, by the way, was the greatest open field runner I have ever seen.

"My senior year started auspiciously and the prospects for a victorious eleven appeared especially bright, as only two of the regular players of the year before had graduated. The first hard game was against Columbia, coached by Foster Sanford, who had a wealth of material drawn from the four corners of the earth. In the latter part of the game my opponent by way of showing his disapproval of my features attempted to change them, but was immediately assisted to the ground by my running mate and was undergoing an unpleasant few moments, when Sanford, reinforced by several dozen substitutes, ran to his rescue and bestowed some unkind compliments on different parts of my pal's anatomy. With the arrival of Burr McIntosh and several old grads, however, we were released from their clutches, and the game proceeded.

"After the Cornell game the Yale game was close at hand. We were confident of our ability to win, though we expected a bitter hard struggle, in which we were not disappointed. Through a well developed interference on an end run, Reiter was sent around the end for several long gains, resulting in a touchdown, but Yale retaliated by blocking a kick and falling on the ball for a touchdown. Sharpe, a few minutes later, kicked a beautiful goal, so that the score was 10 to 6 in Yale's favor. The wind was blowing a gale all through the first half and as Yale had the wind at their backs we were forced to play a rushing game, but shortly after the second half began the wind died down considerably so that McBride's long, low kicks were not effective to any great extent.

"Yale was on the defensive and we were unable to break through for the coveted touchdown, though we were able to gain ground consistently for long advances. In the shadow of their goal line Yale held us mainly through the wonderful defensive playing of McBride. I never saw a finer display of backing up the rush line than that of McBride during the second half. So strenuous was the play that eight substitutions had been made on our team, but with less than five minutes to play we started a furious drive for the goal line from the middle of the field, and with McClave, Mattis and Lathrope carrying the ball we went to Yale's 25-yard line in quick time.

"With only about a minute to play it was decided to try a goal from the field. I was selected as the one to make the attempt. I was standing on the 34-yard line, about ten yards to the left of centre when I kicked; the ball started straight for the far goal post, but apparently was deflected by air currents and curved in not more than a yard from the post. I turned to the Referee, saw his arms raised and heard him say 'Goal' and then everything broke loose.

"I saw members of the team turning somersaults, and all I remember after that was being seized by a crowd of alumni who rushed out upon the field, and hearing my brother Ned shout, 'You damned lucky kid, you have licked them again.' I kicked the ball with my instep, having learned this from Charlie Young of Cornell, who was then at Princeton Seminary and was playing on the scrub team. The reason I did this was because Lew Palmer and myself wore light running shoes with light toes, not kicking shoes at all.

"After the crowd had been cleared off the field there were only 29 seconds left to play, and after Yale had kicked off we held the ball without risking a play until the whistle blew, when I started full speed for the gate, followed by Bert Wheeler. I recall knocking down several men as we were bursting through and making our way to the bus. It was the first, last and only goal from the field I ever attempted, and the most plausible explanation for its success was probably predestination."



Arthur Poe was a big factor in football, even when he wasn't running or kicking Yale down to defeat.

"Bill Church's roughness, in my freshman year, had the scrub bluffed," continues Arthur. "When Lew Palmer volunteered to play halfback and take care of Bill on punts, Bill was surprised on the first kick he attempted to block to feel Lew's fist on his jaw and immediately shouted:

"'I like you for that, you damn freshman.'

"That was the first accident that attracted attention to Lew. Palmer was one of the gamest men and he won a Varsity place by the hardest kind of work.

"Well do I recall the indignation meeting of the scrub to talk over plans of curbing Johnny Baird and Fred Smith in their endeavor to kill the scrub."

John DeWitt

Big John DeWitt was the man who brought home the Yale bacon for the Tigers in 1903. To be exact he not only carried, but also kicked it home. Two surprise parties by a single player in so hard a game are rare indeed. Whenever I think of DeWitt I think of his great power of leadership. He was an ideal captain. He thought things out for himself. He was the spirit of his team.

This great Princeton captain was one of the most versatile football men known to fame. Playing so remarkably in the guard position, he also did the kicking for his team and was a great power in running with the ball.

DeWitt thought things out almost instantly and took advantage of every possible point. The picture on the opposite page illustrates wonderfully well how he exerted and extended himself. This man put his whole soul into his work and was never found wanting. His achievements will hold a conspicuous place in football history. Nothing got by John DeWitt.

DeWitt's team in 1903 was the first to bring victory over Yale to Princeton since 1899. On that day John DeWitt scored a touchdown and kicked a placement goal, which will long be remembered. Let us go back and play a part of that game over with John himself.

"Whenever I think of football my recollections go back to the Yale game of 1903," says DeWitt. "My most vivid recollections are of my loyal team mates whose wonderful spirit and good fellowship meant so much to the success of that Eleven. Without their combined effort Princeton could not have won that day.

"We had a fine optimistic spirit before the game and the fact that Jim Hogan scored a touchdown for Yale in the first part of the game seemed to put us on our mettle and we came back with the spirit that I have always been proud of. Hogan was almost irresistible. You could hardly stop him when he had the ball. He scored between Harold Short and myself and jammed through for about 12 yards to a touchdown. If you tackled Jim Hogan head on he would pull you right over backwards. He was the strongest tackle I ever saw. He seemed to have overpowering strength in his legs. He was a regular player. He never gave up until the whistle blew, but after the Princeton team got its scoring machine at work, the Princeton line outplayed the Yale line.

"I think Yale had as good a team as we had, if not better, that day. The personnel of the team was far superior to ours, but we had our spirit in the game. We were going through Yale to beat the band the last part of the game."

DeWitt, describing the run that made him famous, says:

"Towards the end of the first half, with the score 6 to 0 against Princeton, Yale was rushing us down the field. Roraback, the Yale center, was not able to pass the ball the full distance back for the punter. Rockwell took the ball from quarterback position and passed it to Mitchell, the fullback. On this particular play our whole line went through on the Yale kick formation. No written account that I have ever seen has accurately described just what happened. Ralph Davis was the first man through, and he blocked Mitchell's kick. Ridge Hart, who was coming along behind him, kicked the loose ball forward and the oval was about fifteen to twenty yards from where it started. I was coming through all the time.

"As the bouncing ball went behind Mitchell it bobbed up right in front of me. I probably broke all rules of football by picking it up, but the chances looked good and I took advantage of them. I really was wondering then whether to pick it up or fall on it, but figured that it was harder to fall on it than to pick it up, so I put on all the steam I had and started for the goal. Howard Henry was right behind me until I got near the goal post. After I had kicked the goal the score was 6 to 6. Never can I forget the fierce playing on the part of both teams that now took place.

"Shortly after this in the second half I punted down into Yale's territory. Mitchell fumbled and Ralph Davis fell on the ball on the 30-yard line. We tried to gain, but could not. Bowman fell on the ball after the ensuing kick, which was blocked. It had rolled to the 5-yard line. Yale tried to gain once; then Bowman went back to kick. I can never pay enough tribute to Vetterlein, to the rare judgment that he displayed at this point in the game. When he caught that punt and heeled it, he used fine judgment; but for his good head work we never would have won that game. I kicked my goal from the field from the 43-yard line.



"As Ralph Davis was holding the ball before I kicked it, the Yale players, who were standing ten yards away were not trying to make it any the easier for us. I remember in particular Tom Shevlin was kidding Ralph Davis, who replied: 'Well, Tom, you might as well give it to us now—the score is going to be 11-6,' and just then what Davis had said came through.

"If any one thinks that my entire football experience was a bed of roses, I want to assure him that it was not. I experienced the sadness of injury and of not making the team. The first day I lined up I broke three bones in one hand. Three weeks later, after they had healed I broke the bones in my other hand and so patiently waited until the following year to make the team.

"The next year I went through the bitter experience of defeat, and we were beaten good and plenty by Yale. Defeat came again in 1902. It was in that year that I met, as my opponent, the hardest man I ever played against, Eddie Glass. The Yale team came at me pretty hard the first fifteen minutes. Glass especially crashed into me. He was warned three times by Dashiell in the opening part of the game for strenuous work. Glass was a rough, hard player, but he was not an unfair player at that. I always liked good, rough football. He played the game for all it was worth and was a Gibraltar to the Yale team.

"Now that my playing days are over, I think there is one thing that young fellows never realize until they are through playing; that they might have helped more; that they might have given a few extra minutes to perfect a play. The thing that has always appealed to me most in football is to think of what might have been done by a little extra effort. It is very seldom you see a man come off the field absolutely used up. I have never seen but one or two cases where a man had to be helped to the dressing room. I have always thought such a man did not give as much as he should,—we're all guilty of this offense. A little extra punch might have made a touchdown."

Tichenor, of the University of Georgia, tells the following:

"In a Tech-Georgia game a peculiar thing happened. One of the goal lines was about seven yards from the fence which was twelve feet high and perfectly smooth. Tech had worked the ball down to within about three yards of Georgia's goal near the fence. Here the defense of the Red and Black stiffened and, taking the ball on downs, Ted Sullivan immediately dropped back for a kick. The pass was none too good and he swung his foot into the ball, which struck the cross bar, bounded high up in the air, over the fence, behind the goal post.

"Then began the mighty wall-scaling struggle to get over the fence and secure the coveted ball. As fast as one team would try to boost each other over, their opponents would pull them down. This contest continued for fully five minutes while the crowd roared with delight. In the meantime George Butler, the Referee, took advantage of the situation and, with the assistance of several spectators, was boosted over the fence where he waited for some player to come and fall on the ball, which was fairly hidden in a ditch covered over with branches. Butler tells to this day of the amusing sight as he beheld first one pair of hands grasping the top of the fence; one hand would loosen, then the other; then another set of hands would appear. Heads were bobbing up and down and disappearing one after the other. The crowd now became interested and showed their partiality, and with the assistance of some of the spectators a Tech player made his way over the fence and began his search for the ball, closely followed by a Georgia player. They rushed around frantically looking for the ball. Then Red Wilson joined in the search and quickly located it in the ditch; soon had it safely in his arms and Tech scored a touchdown.

"This was probably the only touchdown play in the history of the game which none of the spectators saw and which only the Referee and two other players saw at the time the player touched the ball down."

That Charlie Brickley was in the way of bringing home the bacon to Harvard is well known to all. There have been very few players who were as reliable as this star. It was in his senior year that he was captain of the team and when the announcement came at the start of the football season that Brickley had been operated upon for appendicitis the football world extended to him its deepest sympathy. During his illness he yearned to get out in time to play against Yale. This all came true. The applause which greeted him when Haughton sent this great player into the game—with the Doctor's approval—must have impressed him that one and all were glad to see him get into the game.

Let us hear what Brickley has to say about playing the game.

"I have often been asked how I felt when attempting a drop kick in a close game before a large crowd. During my first year I was a little nervous, but after that it didn't bother me any more than as if I were eating lunch. Constant practice for years gave me the feeling that I could kick the ball over every time I tried. If I was successful, those who have seen me play are the best judges. Confidence is a necessity in drop kicking. The three hardest games I ever played in were the Dartmouth 3 to 0 game in 1912, and Princeton 3 to 0 in 1913, and the Yale 15 to 5 game of the same year. The hardest field goal I ever had to kick was against Princeton in the mud in 1913.



"The most finished player in all around play I ever came across is Tack Hardwick. He could go through a game, or afternoon's practice and perform every fundamental function of the game in perfect fashion. The most interesting and remarkable player I ever came across was Eddie Mahan. He could do anything on the football field. He was so versatile, that no real defense could be built against him. He had a wonderful intuitive sense and always did just the right thing at the right time."



CHAPTER XV

"THE BLOODY ANGLE"

Football in its very nature is a rough game. It calls for the contact of bodies under high momentum and this means strains and bruises! Thanks to the superb physical condition of players, it usually means nothing more serious.

The play, be it ever so hard, is not likely to be dangerous provided it is clean, and the worst indictment that can be framed against a player of to-day, and that by his fellows, is that he is given to dirty tactics. This attitude has now been established by public opinion, and is reflected in turn by the strictness of officials, the sentiment of coaches and football authorities generally. So scientific is the game to-day that only the player who can keep his head, and clear his mind of angry emotions, is really a valuable man in a crisis.

Again, the keynote of success in football to-day is team work, perfect interlocking of all parts. In the old days play was individual, man against man, and this gave rise in many cases to personal animosity which frequently reduced great football contests to little more than pitched battles. Those who to-day are prone to decry football as a rough and brutal sport—which it no longer is—might at least reverse their opinions of the present game, could they have spent a certain lurid afternoon in the fall of '87 at Jarvis Field where the elevens of Harvard and Princeton fought a battle so sanguinary as to come down to us through the years legended as a real crimson affair. One of the saddest accidents that ever occurred on a university football field happened in this contest and suggested the caption of "the Bloody Angle," the historic shambles of the great Gettysburg battle.

Luther Price, who played halfback on the Princeton teams of '86 and '87 and who was acting captain the larger part of the latter season, tells the following story of the game:

"Princeton's contest with Harvard in the autumn of '87 was the bloodiest game that I ever experienced or saw. At that period the football relations between the two colleges were fast approaching a crisis and the long break between the institutions followed a couple of seasons later. It is perhaps true that the '87 game was largely responsible for the rupture because it left secret bitterness.

"In fact, the game was pretty near butchery and the defects of the rules contributed to this end. Both sides realized that the contest was going to be a hummer but neither imagined the extent of the casualties. Had the present rules applied there would have been a long string of substitutes in the game and the caption of 'The Bloody Angle' could not have been applied.

"In those days an injured player was not allowed to leave the field of play without the consent of the opponents' captain. One can easily grasp the fact that your adversaries' captain was not apt to permit a player, battered almost to worthlessness, to go to the bench and to allow you to substitute a strong and fresh player. Therein lies the tale of this game.

"Princeton was confident of winning but not overconfident. We went out to Jarvis field on a tallyho from Boston, and I recall how eagerly we dashed upon the field, anxious for the scrap to begin. It was a clear, cold day with a firm turf—a condition that helped us, as we were lighter than Harvard, especially behind the line. None of our backs weighed more than 155 pounds.

"Holden, the Crimson captain, was probably the most dangerous of our opponents. He was a deceptive running back owing to the difficulty of gauging his pace. He was one of the speediest sprinters in the Eastern colleges and if he managed to circle either end it was almost good-bye to his opponents.

"We were all lying in wait for Holden, not to cripple him or take any unfair advantage, but to see that he did not cross our goal line. It was not long before we had no cause to be concerned on that score. But before Holden was disposed of we suffered a most grievous loss in the disqualification of Hector Cowan, our left guard and our main source of strength. Princeton worked a majority of the tricks through Cowan and when he was gone we lost the larger part of our offensive power.

"Cowan's disqualification was unjustified by his record or by any tendency toward unfair play, though this statement should not be regarded as a reflection on the fairness of Wyllys Terry, the old Yale player, who was the umpire. Walter Camp, by the way, was the referee.

"There never was a fairer player than Cowan, and such a misfortune as losing him by disqualification for any act on the field was never dreamt of by the Princeton men. The trouble was that Terry mistook an accident for a deliberate act. Holden was skirting Princeton's left end when Cowan made a lunge to reach him. Holden's deceptive pace was nearly too much for even such a star as Cowan, whose hands slipped from the Harvard captain's waist down to below his knees until the ankles were touched. Cowan could have kept his hands on Holden's ankles, but as tackling below the knees was foul, he quickly let go. But Holden tumbled and several Princeton men were on him in a jiffy.

"Harvard immediately claimed that it was a foul tackle. It was a desperate claim but it proved successful. To our astonishment and chagrin, Terry ruled Cowan off the field. Cowan was thunderstruck at the decision and protested that he never meant to tackle unfairly. We argued with Terry but he was unrelenting. To him it seemed that Cowan meant to make a foul tackle. The situation was disheartening but we still felt that we had a good chance of pulling through even without Cowan.

"What was particularly galling to us was that we had allowed two touchdowns to slip from our grasp. Twice we had carried the ball to within a few yards of the Harvard line and had dropped the ball when about to cross it. Both errors were hardly excusable and were traceable to over-anxiety to score. With Cowan on the field we had found that he could open up the Harvard line for the backs to make long runs but now that he was gone we could be sure of nothing except grilling work.

"Soon after occurred the most dramatic and lamentable incident which put Holden out of the game. We had been warned long before the contest that Holden was a fierce tackler and that if we, who were back of the Princeton line, wished to stay in the game it would be necessary to watch out for his catapultic lunges.

"Holden made his tackles low, a kind of a running dive with his head thrust into his quarry's stomach. The best policy seemed, in case Holden had you cornered, to go at him with a stiff arm and a suddenly raised knee to check his onslaught and, if possible, shake him off in the shuffle, but that was a mighty difficult matter for light backs to do.

"First the line was opened up so that I went through. Harding, the Harvard quarter, who was running up and down the Crimson line like a panther, didn't get me. My hand went against his face and somehow I got rid of him. Finally I reached Holden, who played the fullback position while on the defensive, and had him to pass in order to get a touchdown. There was a savage onslaught and Holden had me on the ground.

"A few moments later Ames, who played back with Channing and me, went through the Harvard line and again Holden was the only obstacle to a touchdown for Princeton. There was another savage impact and both players rolled upon the ground, but this time Holden did not get up. He got his man but he was unconscious or at least seemingly so. His chest bone had been broken. It was a tense moment. We all felt a pang of sympathy, for Holden was a square, if rough, player. Harvard's cheers subsided into murmurs of sorrow and Holden was carried tenderly off the field.

"The accident made Harvard desperate, and as we were without Cowan we were in the same mental condition. It was hammer and tongs from that time on. I don't know that there was any intention to put players out of business, but there was not much mercy shown.

"It appeared to me that some doubt existed on the Harvard side as to who caused Holden's chest bone to be broken, but that the suspicion was mainly directed at me. Several years later an article written at Harvard and published in the Public Ledger in Philadelphia gave a long account of how I broke Holden's chest bone. This seemed to confirm my notion that there was a mixup of identity. However that may be, it soon became evident in the game that I was marked for slaughter.

"Vic Harding made a profound and lasting impression on me both with his hands and feet. In fact, Harding played in few games of importance in which he was not disqualified. He was not a bad fellow at all in social relations, but on a football field he was the limit of 'frightfulness.' I don't know of any player that I took so much pleasure in punching as Harding. Ames and Harding also took delight in trying to make each other's faces change radically in appearance.

"I think that Harding began to paint my face from the start of the game and that as it proceeded he warmed up to the task, seeing that he was making a pretty good job of it. He had several mighty able assistants. The work was done with several hundred Wellesley College girls, who were seated on benches close to the sideline, looking on with the deepest interest and, as it soon appeared, with much sympathy. I will not forget how concerned they looked.

"By the middle of the second half I guess they did see a spectacle in me for they began to call to me and hold out handkerchiefs. At first I didn't realize what they meant for I was so much engaged with the duties that lay in front of me that it was difficult to notice them, but their entreaties soon enlightened me. They were asking me as a special favor to clean my face with their handkerchiefs, but I replied—perhaps rather abruptly—that I really didn't have time to attend to my facial toilet.

"My nose had been broken, both eyes well closed and my canvas jacket and doeskin knickerbockers were scarlet or crimson—whichever you prefer—in hue. Strength was quickly leaving me and the field swam. I finally propped myself up against a goal post. The next thing I knew was that I was being helped off the field. My brother, Billy, who was highly indignant over the developments, took my place. This was about ten or fifteen minutes before the end of the game, which then consisted of two 45 minute periods.

"Ames emerged from the game with nothing more than the usual number of cuts and bruises. At that time we did not have any nose-guards, head-guards and other paraphernalia such as are used nowadays, except that we could get ankle braces, and Ames wore one. That ankle stood the test during the fight.

"A majority of the other players were pretty well cut up. After Cowan was disqualified Bob (J. Robb) Church, subsequently Major in the United States Army Medical Corps and formerly the surgeon of Roosevelt's Rough Riders in the Spanish War, was shifted from tackle to Cowan's position at guard. Chapin, a brilliant student, who had changed from Amherst to Princeton, went in at tackle. He was a rather erratic player, and Harvard kept pounding in his direction with the result that Bob Church had a sea of trouble and I was forced to move up close to the line for defensive work. It was this that really put me out of business. My left shoulder had been hurt early in the season and it was bound in rubber, but fortunately it was not much worse off than at the beginning of the game.

"Bob Church risked his life more than once in the Spanish War and for his valor he received a Medal of Honor from Congress, but it is safe to say that he never got such a gruelling as in this Harvard game. He was battered to the extent of finding it difficult to rise after tackling and finally he was lining up on his knees. It was a magnificent exhibition of pluck. As I recall, Bob lasted to the end of the game.

"It was not until near the close that any scoring took place and then Harvard made two touchdowns in quick succession. We lacked substitutes to put in and, even if we had had them, it is doubtful whether we could have got them in as long as a player was able to stand up. The only satisfaction we had was that we had done the best we could to win and our confidence that with Cowan we could have won even if Holden had not been hurt. We had beaten Harvard the year before with essentially the same team that we played in this game."



CHAPTER XVI

THE FAMILY IN FOOTBALL

It is almost possible, I think, to divide football men into two distinct classes—those who are made into players (and often very good ones) by the coaches and those who are born with the football instinct. Just how to define football instinct is a puzzle, but it is very easy to discern it in a candidate, even if he never saw a football till he set foot on the campus. By and large, it will be read first in a natural aptitude for following the ball. After that, in the general way he has of handling himself, from falling on the ball to dodging and straight arm. Watch the head coach grin when some green six-foot freshman dives for a rolling ball and instinctively clutches it into the soft part of his body as he falls on it. Nobody told him to do it just that way, or to keep his long arms and legs under control so as to avoid accident, but he does it nevertheless and thus shows his football instinct.

There is still another kind of football instinct, and that is the kind that is passed down from father to son and from brother to brother. They say that the lacemakers of Nottingham don't have to be taught how to make lace because, as children, they somehow absorb most of the necessary knowledge in the bosom of their family, and I think the same thing is true of sons and brothers of football players. Generally, they pick up the essentials of the game from "Pop" long before they get to school or college or else are properly educated by an argus-eyed brother.



But the matter of getting football knowledge—of developing the instinct—isn't always left to the boy. Unless I'm grievously mistaken it's more often the fond father who takes the first step. In fact, some fathers I've known have, with a commendable eye to future victories, even dated the preparation of their offspring from the hour when he was first shown them by the nurse: "Let me take a squint at the little rascal," says the beaming father and expertly examines the young hopeful's legs. "Ah, hah, bully! We'll make a real football player out of him!"

And so, some day when Dick or Ken is six or seven, Father produces a strange looking, leather-cased bladder out of a trunk where Mother hasn't discovered it and blows it up out on the front porch under the youngster's inquisitive eye and tucks in the neck and laces it up.

"What is it, Pop? What you going to do with it?"

"That's what men call a football, Son. And right now I'm going to kick it." And kick it he does—all around the lot—until after a particularly good lift he chuckles to himself, the old war horse, and with the smell of ancient battles in his nostrils sits down to give the boy his first lesson in the manliest and best game on earth. And this first lesson is tackling. Perhaps the picture on the opposite page will remind you of the time you taught your boys the good old game.

This particular kind of football instinct has produced many of the finest players the colleges have ever seen. In a real football family there isn't much bluffing as to what you can do nor are there many excuses for a fumble or a missed tackle. With your big brothers' ears open and their tongues ready with a caustic remark, it doesn't need "Pop's" keen eye to keep you within the realms of truth as to the length of your run or why you missed that catch.

Quite often, as it happens, "Pop" is thinking of a certain big game he once played in and remembering a play—Ah! if only he could forget that play!—in which he fumbled and missed the chance of a life-time. Like some inexorable motion picture film that refuses to throw anything but one fatal scene on the screen, his recollections make the actors take their well-remembered positions and the play begins. For the thousandth time he gnashes his teeth as he sees the ball slip from his grasp. "Dog-gone it," he mutters, "if my boy doesn't do better in the big game than I did, I'll whale the hide off him!"

Strangely enough not all brothers of a football family follow one another to the same college, and there have been several cases where brother played against brother. But for the only son of a great player to go anywhere else than to his father's college would be rank heresy. I daresay even the other college wouldn't like it.



Of famous fathers whose football instinct descended without dilution into their sons perhaps the easiest remembered have been Walter Camp, who captained the Elis in '78 and '79 and whose son, Walter, Jr., played fullback in 1911—Alfred T. Baker, one of the Princeton backs in '83, and '84, whose son Hobey captained his team in 1914—Snake Ames, who played in four championship games for Princeton against both Yale and Harvard, and whose son, Knowlton Ames, Jr., played on the Princeton teams of '12, '13 and '14—and that sterling Yale tackle of '91 and '92, "Wallie" Winter, whose son, Wallace, Jr., played on his Freshman team in 1915.

When we come to enumerating the brothers who have played, it is the Poe family which comes first to mind. Laying aside friendship or natural bias, I feel that my readers will agree with me in the belief that it would be hard to find six football players ranking higher than the six Poe brothers. Altogether, Princeton has seen some twenty-two years of Poes, during at least thirteen of which there was a Poe on the Varsity team. Johnson Poe, '84, came first, to be followed by Edgar Allen, twice captain, then by Johnny, now in his last resting place "somewhere in France," then by Nelson, then Arthur, twice the fly in Yale's ointment, and lastly by Gresham Poe. I haven't a doubt but that after due lapse of time this wonderful family will produce other Poes, sons and cousins, to carry on the precious tradition.

Next in point of numbers probably comes the Riggs family of five brothers, of whom three, Lawrence, Jesse and Dudley, played on Princeton teams, while Harry and Frank were substitutes. The Hodge family were four who played at Princeton—Jack, Hugh, Dick and Sam.

After the Riggs family comes the Young family of Cornell—Ed., Charles, George and Will—all of whom played tremendously for the Carnelian and White in the nineties. Charles Young later studied at the Theological Seminary at Princeton and played wonderful football on the scrub in my time from sheer love of sport, since as he is, at this writing, physical director at Cornell. Amherst boasts of the wonderful Pratt brothers, who did much for Amherst football.

Of threes there are quite a number. Prominent among them have been the Wilsons of both Yale and Princeton, Tom being a guard on the Princeton teams of 1911 and 1912, while Alex captained Yale in 1915 and saw another brother in orange and black waiting on the side lines across the field. Situations like this are always productive of thrills. Let the brother who has been waiting longingly throw off his blanket and rush across the field into his position and instantly the news flashes through the stands. "Brother against brother!" goes the thrilling whisper—and every heart gives an extra throb as it hungers in an unholy but perfectly human way for a clash between the two. There were three Harlan brothers who played at Princeton in '81, '83, '84.

At Harvard Lothrope, Paul and Ted Withington; Percy, Jack and Sam Wendell.

In Cornell a redoubtable trio were the Taussigs. Of these J. Hawley Taussig played end for four years ending with the '96 team. Charles followed in the same position in '99, '00 and '01 and Joseph K., later Lieutenant Commander of the torpedoboat destroyer Wadsworth played quarter on the Naval Academy team in '97 and '98.

A third trio of brothers were the Greenways of Yale. Of these, John and Gil Greenway played both football and baseball while Jim Greenway rowed on the crew. Another Princeton family, well known, has been the Moffats. The first of these to play football was Henry, who played on the '73 team which was the first to beat Yale. He was followed by the redoubtable Alex, who kicked goals from all over the field in '82, '83, and '84, by Will Moffat who was a Varsity first baseman and by Ned Moffat who played with me at Lawrenceville. Equally well known have been the Hallowells of Harvard—F. W. Hallowell, '93, R. H. Hallowell, '96, and J. W. Hallowell, '01. Another Hallowell—Penrose—was on the track team, while Colonel Hallowell, the father, was always a power in Harvard athletics.

When we come to cite the pairs of brothers who have played, the list seems endless. The first to come to mind are Laurie Bliss of the Yale teams of '90, '91 and '92 and "Pop" Bliss of the '92 team, principally, I think, because of Laurie's wonderful end running behind interference and because "Pop" Bliss, at a crucial moment in a Harvard-Yale game deliberately disobeyed the signal to plunge through centre on Harvard's 2-yard line and ingeniously ran around the end for a touchdown. Tommy Baker and Alfred Baker were brothers.

Continuing the Yale list, there have been the Hinkeys, Frank and Louis, who need no praise as wonderful players—Charlie and Johnny de Saulles—Sherman and "Ted" Coy—W. O. Hickok, the famous guard of '92, '93 and '94 and his brother Ross—Herbert and Malcolm McBride, both of whom played fullback—Tad Jones and his brother Howard—the Philbins, Steve and Holliday—Charlie Chadwick and his younger brother, George, who captained his team in 1902. Their father before them was an athlete.

In Harvard there have been the Traffords, Perry and Bernie—Arthur Brewer and Charley the fleet of foot, who ran ninety yards in the Harvard-Princeton game of 1895 and caught Suter from behind—the two Shaws,—Evarts Wrenn, '92 and his famous cousin Bob who played tennis quite as well as he played football.



Princeton, too, has seen many pairs of brothers—"Beef" Wheeler, the famous guard of '92, '93 and '94 and Bert Wheeler, the splendid fullback of '98 and '99 whose cool-headed playing helped us win from Yale both in Princeton and at New Haven—the Rosengartens, Albert and his cousin Fritz and Albert's brother who played for Pennsylvania—the Tibbotts, Dave and Fred—J. R. Church, '88, and Bill Church, the roaring, stamping tackle of '95 and '96—Ross and Steve McClave—Harry and George Lathrope—Jarvis Geer and Marshall Geer who played with me on teams at both school and college—Billy Bannard and Horace Bannard—Fred Kafer and Dana Kafer, the first named being also the very best amateur catcher I have ever seen. Fred Kafer, by the way, furnished an interesting anachronism in that while he was one of the ablest mathematicians of his time in college he found it wellnigh impossible to remember his football signals! Let us not forget, too, Bal Ballin, who was a Princeton captain, and his brother Cyril.

In other colleges, the instances of football skill developed by brotherly emulation have been nearly as well marked. Dartmouth, for instance, produced the Bankhart brothers—Cornell, the Starbucks—one of them, Raymond, captaining his team—the Cools, Frank and Gib—the latter being picked by good judges as the All-America center in 1915—and the Warners, Bill and Glenn.

The greatest three players from any one family that ever played the backfield would probably be the three Draper brothers—Louis, Phil and Fred. All went to Williams and all were stars; heavy, fast backs, who were good both on defense and offense, capable of doing an immense amount of work and never getting hurt.

At Pennsylvania, there have been the Folwells, Nate and R. C. Folwell and the Woodruffs, George and Wiley, although George Woodruff, originator of the celebrated "guards back," was a Yale man long before he coached at Pennsylvania. It is impossible for any one who saw Jack Minds play to forget this great back of '94, '95, '96 and '97, whose brother also wore the Red and Blue a few years later.

Doubtless there have been many more fathers, brothers and sons who have been equally famous and I ask indulgence for my sins of omission, for the list is long. Principally, I have recalled their names for the reason that I knew or now know many of these great players intimately and so have learned the curious longing—perhaps "passion"—for the game which is passed from one to the other of a football family. In a way this might be compared with the military spirit which allows a family to state proudly that "we have always been Army (or Navy) people." And who shall say that the clash and conflict of this game, invented and played only by thoroughly virile men, are not productive of precisely those qualities of which the race may, some day, well stand in need. If by the passing down from father to son and from brother to brother of a spirit of cheerful self-denial throughout the hard fall months—of grim doggedness under imminent defeat and of fair play at all times, whether victor or vanquished—a finer, truer sense of what a man may be and do is forged out of the raw material, then football may feel that it has served a purpose even nobler than that of being simply America's greatest college game.



CHAPTER XVII

OUR GOOD OLD TRAINERS

There are not many football enthusiasts who analyze the factors that bring victory. Many of us do not appreciate the importance attached to the trainer, or realize the great part that he plays, until we are out of college. We know that the men who bore the brunt of the battle have received their full share of glory—the players and coaches.

But there arises in the midst of our athletic world men who trained, men who safeguarded the players. Trainers have been associated with football since the early eighties, and a careful trainer's eye should ever be on the lookout wherever football is played. Players, coaches and trainers go hand in hand in football.

Every one of these men that I have known has had a strong personality. Each one, however, differed somewhat from the others. There is a great affection on the part of the players for the man who cares for their athletic welfare. These men are often more than mere trainers. Their personalities have carried them farther than the dressing room. Their interest in the boys has continued after they left college. Their influence has been a lasting one, morally, as well as physically.

On account of their association, the trainers keep pace with the men about them; not limiting their interest to athletics. They are always found entertaining at the athletic banquets, and their personalities count for much on the campus. They are all but boys grown up, with well known athletic records behind them. In the hospital, or in the quietness of a college room, or on trips, the trainer is a friend and adviser.

Go and talk to the trainer of the football team if you want to get an unbiased opinion of the team's work or of the value of the individual coaches. Some of our trainers know much about the game of football—the technical side—and their advice is valuable.

Every trainer longs to handle good material, but more power to the trainer who goes ahead with what he's got and makes the best out of it without a murmur. In our recollections we know of teams that were reported to be going stale—"over-trained"—"a team of cripples"—who slumped—could not stand the test—were easily winded—could not endure.

They were nightmares to the trainer. Soon you read in the daily press indications that a change of trainer is about to take place in such a college.

Then we turn to another page of our recollections where we read:

"The team is fit to play the game of their lives." "Only eleven men were used in to-day's game." "Great tribute to the trainer." "Men could have played all day"—"no time taken out"—"not a man injured"—"pink of condition." Usually all this spells victory.

Jack McMasters was the first trainer that I met. "Scottie," as every one affectionately called him, never asked a man to work for him any harder than he would work himself. In a former chapter you have read how Jack and I put in some hard work together.

I recall a trip to Boston, where Princeton was to play Harvard. Most of the Princeton team had retired for the night. About ten o'clock Arthur Poe came down into the corridor of the Vendome Hotel and told "Scottie" that Bill Church and Johnny Baird were upstairs taking a cold shower.

Jack was furious, and without stopping for the elevator hustled upstairs two steps at a time only to find both of these players sound asleep in bed. Needless to say that Arthur Poe kept out of sight until Jack retired for the night. A trainer's life is not all pleasure.

Once after the train had started from Princeton this same devilish Arthur Poe, as Jack would call him, rushed up forward to where Jack was sitting in the train and said:

"Jack, I don't see Bummie Booth anywhere on the train. I guess he must have been left behind."

With much haste and worry Jack made a hurried search of the entire train to find Booth sitting in the last seat in the rear car with a broad grin on his face.

Jack's training experience was a very broad one. He trained many victorious teams at Harvard after he left Princeton and was finally trainer at Annapolis. A pronounced decoration that adorns "Scottie" is a much admired bunch of gold footballs and baseballs, which he wears suspended from his watch chain—in fact, so many, that he has had to have his chain reinforced. If you could but sit down with Jack and admire this prized collection and listen to some of his prized achievements—humorous stories of the men he has trained and some of the victories which these trophies designate you would agree with me that no two covers could hold them.

But we must leave Jack for the present at home with his family in Sandy Hook Cottage, Drummore by Stranraer, Scotland, in the best of health, happy in his recollection of a service well rendered and appreciated by every one who knew him.

Jim Robinson

There was something about Jim Robinson that made the men who knew him in his training days refer to him as "Dear Old Jim," and although he no longer cries out from the side lines "trot up, men," a favorite expression of his when he wanted to keep the men stirring about, there still lives within all of us who knew him a keen appreciation of his service and loyalty to the different colleges where he trained.

He began training at Princeton in 1883 and he finished his work there. How fine was the tribute that was paid him on the day of his funeral! Dolly Dillon, captain of the 1906 team, and his loyal team mates, all of whom had been carefully attended by Jim Robinson on the football field that fall, acted as pallbearers. There was also a host of old athletes and friends from all over the country who came to pay their last tribute to this great sportsman and trainer.

Mike Murphy and Jim Robinson were always contesting trainers. At Princeton that day with the team gathered around, Murphy related some interesting and touching experiences of Jim's career.

Jim's family still lives at Princeton, and on one of my recent visits there, I called upon Mrs. Robinson. We talked of Jim, and I saw again the loving cups and trophies that Jim had shown me years before.

Jim Robinson trained many of the heroes of the old days, Hector Cowan being one of them. In later years he idolized the playing of that great football hero, John DeWitt, who appreciated all that Jim did to make his team the winner. The spirit of Jim Robinson was comforting as well as humorous. No mention of Jim would be complete without his dialect.



He was an Englishman and abused his h's in a way that was a delight to the team. Ross McClave tells of fun at the training table one day when he asked Jim how to spell "saloon." Jim, smiling broadly and knowing he was to amuse these fellows as he had the men in days gone by, said: "Hess—Hay—Hell—two Hoes—and—a Hen."

Few men got more work out of a team than did Jim Robinson. There was always a time for play and a time for work with Jim.

Mike Murphy

Mike Murphy was the dean of trainers.

Bob Torrey, one of the most remarkable center-rushes that Pennsylvania ever had, is perhaps one of the greatest admirers of Mike Murphy during his latter years. Torrey can tell it better than I can.

"Murphy's sense of system was wonderful; he was a keen observer and had a remarkable memory; he seemed to do very little in the way of bookkeeping, but his mind was carefully pigeon-holed and was a perfect card index.

"He could have thirty men on the field at once and carry on conversations with visitors and graduates; issue orders to workmen and never lose sight of a single one of his men. He was popular wherever he went. His fame was not only known here, but abroad. His charm of manner and his cheerful courage will be remembered by all who knew him, but only those who knew him well realize what an influence he had on the boys with whom he worked, and how high were his ideals of manhood. The amount of good done by Mike Murphy in steering boys into the right track can never be estimated."

Prep' School boys athletically inclined followed Murphy. Many a man went to college in order to get Murphy's training. He was an athletic magnet.

"The Old Mike"

The town of Natick, Mass., boasts of Mike Murphy's early days. Wonderful athletic traditions centered there. His early days were eventful for his athletic success, as he won all kinds of professional prizes for short distance running. Boyhood friends of Mike Murphy tell of the comradeship among Mike Murphy, Keene Fitzpatrick, Pooch and Piper Donovan—all Natick boys. They give glowing accounts of the "truck team" consisting of this clever quartet, each of whom were "ten-second" men in the sprinting game.

If that great event which was run off at the Marlboro Fair and Cattle Show could be witnessed to-day, thousands of admirers would love to see in action those trainers, see them as the Natick Hose truck defeated the Westboro team that day, and sent the Westboro contingent home with shattered hopes and empty pocketbooks.

"In connection with Army-Navy games," writes Crolius of Dartmouth, "I'll never forget Mike Murphy's wonderful ability to read men's condition by their 'mental attitude.' He was nearly infallible in his diagnosis."

Once we questioned Mike. He said, "Go get last year's money back, you're going to lick them!" And true to his uncanny understanding he was right. Was it any wonder that men gave Murphy the credit due him?

Mike Murphy had a strong influence over the players. He was their ever-present friend. He could talk to a man, and his personality could reach farther than any of the coaches. The teams that Murphy talked to between the halves, both at Yale and Pennsylvania, were always inspired. Mike Murphy always gave a man something of himself.

It is interesting to read what a fellow trainer, Keene Fitzpatrick, has to say of Mike:

"Mike first started to train at Yale. Then he went to the Detroit Athletic Club in Detroit; then he came back to Yale; then he went to the University of Pennsylvania; then back to Yale again, and finally back to the University of Penn', where he died.

"We were always great friends and got together every summer; we used to go up to a little country town, Westboro, on a farm; had a little room in a farmhouse outside of the town of Natick, and there we used to get together every year (Mike and Fitz') and share our opinions, and compare and give each other the benefit of our discoveries of the season's work.

"Murphy was one of the greatest sprinters this world ever had. They called him 'stucky' because he had so much grit and determination. The year after Mike died the Intercollegiate was held at Cambridge. All the trainers got together and a lot of flowers were sent out to Mike's grave in Hopkinton, Massachusetts."

A CHAT WITH POOCH DONOVAN

Pooch Donovan's success at Harvard goes hand in hand with that of Haughton.

In the great success of Harvard's Varsity, year after year, the fine hand of the trainer has been noticeable. Harvard's teams have stood the test wonderfully well, and all the honors that go with victory have been heaped upon Pooch Donovan's head.

Every man on the Harvard squad knows that Donovan can get as much work out of his players as it is possible for any human being to get out of them. Pooch Donovan served at Yale in 1888, 1889 and 1890, when Mike Murphy was trainer there. He and Donovan used to have long talks together and they were ever comparing notes on the training of varsity teams. Pooch Donovan owes much to Mike Murphy, and the latter was Pooch's loyal supporter.

"What made Mike Murphy a sturdy man, was that he was such a hard loser—he could not stand to lose," says Donovan.

"You know the thing that keeps me young is working shoulder to shoulder with these young fellows." This to me, in the dressing-room, where we have no time for anything but cold truths. "It was the same thing that kept Mike Murphy going ten years after the doctors said he would soon be all in. That was when he returned to Yale, after he had been at Pennsylvania. There is something about this sort of work that invigorates us and keeps us young. I'm no longer a young man in years, but it is the spirit and inspiration of youth with which this work identifies me that keeps me really young."

When I asked Pooch about Eddie Mahan's great all-around ability, his face lighted up, and I saw immediately that what I had heard was true—that Donovan simply idolized Eddie Mahan. Mahan lives in Natick, Massachusetts, where Donovan also has his home. He has seen Ned Mahan grow to manhood. Mahan had his first football training as a player on the Natick High School team.

"Ned Mahan," said Pooch, "was the best all-around football man I have ever handled. He was easy to handle, eager to do as he was told, and he never caused the trainer any worry. Up to the very last moment he played, he was eager to learn everything he could that would improve his game. He had lots of football ability.

"You know Mahan was a great star at Andover. He kicked wonderfully there and was good in all departments of the game, and he improved a hundred per cent. after he came to Harvard."

Pooch Donovan told me about the first day that Eddie Mahan came out upon the Harvard field. At Cambridge, little is known by the head coach about a freshman's ability. One day Haughton said to Pooch Donovan:

"Where is that Natick friend of yours? Bring him over to the Stadium and let's see him kick."

Donovan got Mahan and Haughton said to Mahan:

"Let's see you kick."

Mahan boosted the ball seventy yards, and Haughton said:

"What kind of a kick is that?"

Mahan thought it was a great kick.

"How do you think any ends can cover that?" said Haughton.

Mahan thereupon kicked a couple more, low ones, but they went about as far.

"Who told you you could kick?" quoth Haughton. "You must kick high enough for your ends to cover the distance."

"Take it easy and don't get excited," Donovan was whispering to Mahan on the side. "Take your time, Ned."

But Mahan continued kicking from bad to worse. Haughton was getting disgusted, and finally remarked:

"Your ends never can cover those punts."

Mahan then kicked one straight up over his head, and the first word ever uttered by him on the Harvard field, was his reply to Haughton:

"I guess almost any end can cover that punt," he said.

Donovan tells me that he used to carry in his pocket a few blank cartridges for starting sprinters. Sitting on a bench with some friends, on Soldiers' Field, one day he reached into his hip pocket for some loose tobacco. Unconsciously he stuffed into the heel of his pipe a blank cartridge that had become mixed with the tobacco. The gun club was practicing within hearing distance of the field. As Donovan lighted his pipe the cartridge went off. He thought he was shot. Leaping to his feet he ran down the field, his friends after him.

"I was surprised at my own physical condition—at my being able to stand so well the shock of being shot," says Donovan in telling the story. "My friends thought also that I was shot. But when I slowed up, still bewildered, and they caught up with me, they were puzzled to see my face covered with powder marks and a broken pipe stem sticking out of my mouth.

"Not until then did any of us realize what had really happened. The cartridge had grazed my nose slightly, but outside of that I was all right. Since then I am very careful what I put in my tobacco."

Eddie is known as "Pooch Donovan's pet." Probably the bluest time that Donovan ever had—in fact, he says it was the bluest—was when Eddie Mahan had an off-day in the Stadium. That was the day when Cornell beat Harvard. Mahan himself says it was the worst day he ever had in his life, and he blames himself.

"It was just as things will come sometimes," Pooch said to me. "Nobody knows why they will come, but come they will once in a while."

"Burr, the great Harvard captain," said Pooch, "was a natural born leader of men. He knew a lot of football and Haughton thought the world of him. Burr went along finely until the last week of the season. Then, in falling on the ball, he bruised his shoulder, and would not allow himself to go into the Yale game. It was really this display of good judgment on his part that enabled Harvard to win.

"Too often a team has been handicapped by the playing of a crippled veteran. As a matter of fact, the worst kind of a substitute is often better than a crippled player. The fact that the great captain, Burr, stood on the side lines while his team was playing, urged his team mates on to greater efforts.

"In this same game the opposite side of this question was demonstrated. Bobbie Burch, the Yale captain, who had been injured the week before the game, was put in the game. His injury handicapped the Yale team considerably."

Pooch Donovan has been eight years at Harvard. He has five gold footballs, which he prizes and wears on his watch chain. During the eight years there have been five victories over Yale, two ties and one defeat. Pooch has been a football player himself and the experience has made him a better trainer.

In 1895 he played on Temple's team of the Duquesne Athletic Club. He was trainer and halfback, and was very fond of the game. Later on he played in Cleveland against the Chicago Athletic Club, on whose team played Heffelfinger, Sport Donnelly, and other famous knights of the gridiron.

"In the morning we did everything we could to make the stay of the visiting team pleasant," says Donovan, regarding those days, "but in the afternoon it was different, and in the midst of the game a fellow couldn't help wondering how men could be so nice to each other in the morning and so rough in the afternoon."

Pooch Donovan cannot say enough in favor of Doctor E. H. Nichols, the doctor for the Harvard team. Pooch's judgment is endorsed by many a Harvard man that I have talked to.

Keene Fitzpatrick

When Biffy Lea was coaching at the University of Michigan in 1901, it was my opportunity and privilege to see something of Western football. I was at Ann Arbor assisting Lea the last week before Michigan played Chicago. Michigan was defeated. That night at a banquet given to the Michigan team, there arose a man to respond to a toast.

His words were cheering to the men and roused them out of the gloom of despair and defeat to a strong hope for the coming year. That man was Keene Fitzpatrick. I had heard much about him, but now that I really had come to meet him I realized what a magnetic man he was.

He knew men and how to get the best out of them. Fitzpatrick went from Michigan to Yale, from Yale back to Michigan, and then to Princeton, where Princeton men hope he will always stay.

Michigan admirers were loath to lose Fitzpatrick and their tribute to him on leaving was as follows:

"The University of Michigan combination was broken yesterday when Keene Fitzpatrick announced that he had accepted Princeton's offer, to take effect in the fall of 1910. He was trainer for Michigan for 15 years. For five years Fitz' has been sought by every large university in the East.

"What was Michigan's loss, was Princeton's gain. He made men better, not alone physically, but morally. His work has been uplifting along all lines of university activities. In character and example he is as great and untiring as in his teaching and precept. The final and definite knowledge of his determination to leave Michigan is a severe blow to the students all of whom know and appreciate his work. Next to President Angell, no man of the University of Michigan, in the last ten years, has exerted a more wholesome influence upon the students than has Keene Fitzpatrick. His work brought him in close touch with the students and his influence over them for good has been wonderful. He is a man of ideals and clean life."

"To 'Fitz,' as the boys called him, as much as to the great coach Yost is due Michigan's fine record in football. His place will be hard to fill. Fitz has aided morally in placing athletics on a high plane and in cultivating a fine spirit of sportsmanship. He was elected an honorary member of the class of 1913 at Princeton. The Secretary of the class wrote him a letter in which he said: 'The senior class deeply appreciates your successful efforts, and in behalf of the University takes this opportunity of expressing its indebtedness to you for the valuable results which you have accomplished.'"

Yost had a high opinion of Fitzpatrick.

"Fitz and I worked together for nine years," writes Yost. "We were like brothers during that association at Michigan. There is no one person who contributed so much to the University of Michigan as this great trainer. His wonderful personality, his expert assistance and that great optimism of his stood out as his leading qualifications. My association with him is one of the pleasantest recollections of my life. He put the men in shape, trained them and developed them. They were 'usable' all the time. He is a trainer who has his men in the finest mental condition possible. I don't think there was ever a trainer who kept men more fit, physically and mentally, than Keene Fitzpatrick."

There were in Michigan two players, brothers, who were far apart in skill. Keene says one was of varsity calibre, but wanted his brother, too, to make the Eleven. "Once," says Keene, "when we were going on a trip, John, who was a better player, said, 'I will not go if Joe cannot go,' so in order to get John, we had to take Joe."

Fitzpatrick tells of an odd experience in football. "In 1901 Michigan went out to Southern California and played Leland Stanford University at Pasadena, January 1. When the Michigan team left Ann Arbor for California in December, it was 12 deg. below zero and when they played on New Year's it was 80 deg. at 3 P. M."

Stanford was supposed to have a big advantage due to the climate. Michigan won by a score of 49 to 0. Michigan used but eleven men in the game, and it was their first scrimmage since Thanksgiving Day. A funny thing happened en route to Pasadena.

"Every time the train stopped," said Keene, "we hustled the men out to give them practice running through signals and passing the ball. Everything went well until we arrived in Ogden, Utah. We hustled the men out as usual for a work-out, and in less than two minutes the men were all in, lying down on the ground, gasping for breath. We could not understand what was wrong, until some one came along and reminded us that we were in a very high altitude and that it affected people who were not accustomed to it. We all felt better when we received that information."

Michael J. Sweeney

There are few trainers in our prep. schools who can match the record of Mike Sweeney. He has been an important part of the Hill School's athletics for years. Many of the traditions of this school are grouped, in fact, about his personality. Hill School boys are loud in their praises of Sweeney's achievements. He always had a strong hold on the students there. He has given many a boy words of encouragement that have helped him on in the school, and this same boy has come back to him in after life to get words of advice.

Many colleges tried to sever his connection with Hill School. I know that at one time Princeton was very anxious to get Sweeney's services. He was happy at Hill School, however, and decided to stay. It was there at Hill School that Sweeney turned out some star athletes. Perhaps one of the most prominent was Tom Shevlin. Sweeney saw great possibilities in Shevlin. He taught him the fundamentals that made Shevlin one of the greatest ends that ever played at Yale. He typified Sweeney's ideal football player. Shevlin never lost an opportunity to express appreciation of what Sweeney had done for him.

Tom gave all credit for his athletic ability to Mike Sweeney of Hill and Mike Murphy of Yale. His last desire for Yale athletics was to bring Sweeney to Yale and have him installed, not as a direct coach or trainer of any team, but more as a general athletic director, connected with the faculty, to advise and help in all branches of college sport.

Tom Shevlin idolized Sweeney. Those who were at the banquet of the 1905 team at Cambridge will recall the tribute that Shevlin then paid to him. He declared that he regarded Sweeney as "the world's greatest brain on all forms of athletics."

Whenever Mike Sweeney puts his heart into his work he is one of the most completely absorbed men I know.

Sweeney possesses an uncanny insight into the workings of the games and individuals. Oftentimes as he sits on the side lines he can foretell an accident coming to a player.

Mike was sitting on the Yale side lines one day, and remarked to Ed Wylie, a former Hill School player—a Yale substitute at that time:

"They ought to take Smith out of the game; he shows signs of weakening. You'd better go tell the trainer to do it."

But before Wylie could get to the trainer, several plays had been run off and the man who had played too long received an injury, and was done for. Sweeney's predictions generally ring true.

It is rather remarkable, and especially fortunate that a prep. school should have such an efficient athletic director. For thirteen years Sweeney acted in that capacity and coached all the teams. He taught other men to teach football.

Jack Moakley

Had any one gone to Ithaca in the hope of obtaining the services of Jack Moakley, the Cornell trainer, he would have found this popular trainer's friends rising up and showing him the way to the station, because there never has been a human being who could sever the relations between Jack Moakley and Cornell.

The record he has made with his track teams alone entitles him to a high place, if not the highest place, on the trainer's roll of honor. To tell of his achievements would fill an entire chapter, but as we are confining ourselves to football, his work in this department of Cornell sports stands on a par with any football trainer.

Jack Moakley takes his work very seriously and no man works any harder on the Cornell squad than does their trainer. Costello, a Cornell captain of years ago, relates the following incident:

"Jack Moakley had a man on his squad who had a great habit of digging up unusual fads, generally in the matter of diet. At this particular time he had decided to live solely on grape nuts. As he was one of the best men on the team, Jack did not burden himself with trouble over this fad, although at several times Moakley told him that he might improve if he would eat some real food. However, when this man started a grape nut campaign among the younger members of the squad he aroused Jack's ire and upon his arrival at the field house he wiped the black board clean of all instructions and in letters a foot high wrote:

"They who eat beef are beefy." "They who eat nuts are nutty."

The resultant kidding finally made the old beefsteak popular with our friend.

Johnny Mack

It would not seem natural if one failed to see Johnny Mack on the side lines where Yale is playing. In eleven years at New Haven Yale teams were never criticised on account of their condition. The physical condition of the Yale team has always been left entirely in Johnny Mack's hands, and the hard contests that they went through in the season of 1915 were enough to worry any trainer. Johnny Mack was always optimistic.

There is much humor in Johnny Mack. It is amusing to hear Johnny tell of the experience that he and Pooch Donovan had in a Paris restaurant, and I'm sure you can all imagine the rest. Johnny said they got along pretty well with their French until they ordered potatoes and the waiters brought in a peck of peas.

It is a difficult task for a trainer to tell whether a player is fully conscious of all that is going on in a game. Sometimes a hard tackle or a blow on the head will upset a man. Johnny Mack tells a story that illustrates this fact:

"There was a quarterback working in the game one day. I thought he was going wrong. I said to the coach: 'I think something has happened to our quarterback.' He told me to go out and look him over. I went out and called the captain to one side after I had permission from the Referee. I asked him if he thought the quarterback was going right. He replied that he thought he was, but called out some signals to him to see if he knew them. The quarter answered the captain's questions after a fashion and the captain was satisfied, but, just the same, he didn't look good to me. I asked the captain to let me give him a signal; one we never used, and one the captain did not even know.

"Said I, 'What's this one—48-16-32-12?'

"'That's me through the right end,' he said.

"'Not on your life, old man,' said I, 'that's you and me to the side lines!'

"I remember one fall," says Johnny, "when we were very shy on big material at Yale. The coaches told me to take a walk about the campus and hunt up some big fellows who might possibly come out for football. While going along the Commons at noon, the first fellow I met was a big, fine looking man, a 210 pounder at least, with big, broad shoulders. I stopped him and asked if he had ever played football.

"'Yes,' he said, 'I played a little at school. I'll come out next week.' I told him not to bother about next week, but to come out that afternoon—that I'd meet him at the gym' at one o'clock and have some clothes for him. He came at one o'clock and I told one of the rubbers to have some clothes ready. When I came back at 1:30 and looked around I couldn't recognize him. 'Where in the world is my big fellow?' I said to Jim the rubber.

"'Your big fellow? Why, he just passed you,' said Jim.

"'No,' said I, 'that can't be the man; that must be some consumptive.'

"'Just the same, that's your big fellow in his football suit,' said Jim. 'The biggest part of him is hanging up in there on a nail.'

"Some tailors, these fellows have nowadays."

Johnny Mack further tells of an amusing incident in Foster Sanford's coaching.

"At early practice in New Haven Sanford was working the linemen," says Johnny. "He picked a green, husky looking boy out of the line of candidates and was soon playing against him. He didn't know who Sandy was, and believe me, Sandy was handling him pretty rough to see what he was made of. The first thing you know the fellow was talking to himself and, when Sandy was careless, suddenly shot over a stiff one on Sandy's face and yelled:

"'I'm going to have you know that no man's going to push me around this field.'

"Sandy was happy as could be. He patted the chap on the back and roared, 'Good stuff; you're all right. You're the kind of a man I want. We can use men like you!'

"But Foster Sanford was not the only old-timer who could take the young ones' hard knocks," says Johnny. "I've seen Heffelfinger come back to Yale Field after being out of college twenty years and play with the scrubs for fifty-five minutes without a layoff! I never saw a man with such endurance.

"Ted Coy was a big, good-natured fellow. He was never known to take time out in a game in the four years he played football. In his senior year he didn't play until the West Point game. While West Point was putting it all over us, Coy was on the side lines, frantically running up and down. But we had strict instructions from the doctor not to play him, no matter what happened.

"Suddenly Coy said: 'Johnny, let me in. I'm not going to have my team licked by this crowd.' And in he jumped.

"I saw him call Philbin up alongside of him and the first thing I knew I saw Philbin and Coy running up the field like a couple of deer. In just three plays they took the ball from our own 5-yard line to a touchdown. After that there was a different spirit in the team. Coy was an inspiration to his players."

"One more story," says Johnny.

"There were two boys at New Haven. Their first names were Jack, and both were substitutes on the scrub. About the middle of the second half in the Harvard game, the coach told me to go and warm up Jack. One of the Jacks jumped up, while the other Jack sank back on the bench with surprise and sorrow on his face. Seeing that a mistake had been made, I said, 'Not you, but you, Jack,' and pointed to the other. As the right Jack jumped up, the cloudy face turned to sunshine, as only a football player can imagine, and the sunny smile of the first Jack turned to deepest gloom, an affecting sight I shall never forget."

"Huggins of Brown"

I know of no college trainer who seems to get more pleasure out of his work than Huggins of Brown. There are numerous incidents that are recorded in this book that have been the experiences of this good-natured trainer.

A trainer's life is not always a merry one. Many things occur that tend to worry him, but he gets a lot of fun out of it just the same. Huggins says:

"Some few years ago Brown had a big lineman on its team who had never been to New York, where we went that year to meet Carlisle. The players put in quite a bit of time jollying him and having all sorts of fun at his expense. We stopped at one of the big hotels, and the rooms were on the seventh and eighth floors. In the rooms were the rope fire escapes, common in those days, knotted every foot or so. The big lineman asked what it was for, and the other fellows told him, but added that this room was the only one so equipped and that he must look sharp that none of the others helped themselves to it for their protection against fire.

"That night, as usual, I was making my rounds after the fellows had gone to bed. Coming into this player's room I saw that he was asleep, but that there appeared to be some strange, unusual lump in the bed. I immediately woke him to find out what it was. Much to my amusement, I discovered that he had wound about fifteen feet of the rope around his body and I had an awful job trying to assure him that the boys had been fooling him. Nothing that I could say, however, would convince him, and I left him to resume his slumbers with the rope still wrapped tightly about his body."

Huggins not only believes that Brown University is a good place to train, but he thinks it is a good place to send his boy. He has a son who is a freshman at Brown as I write. Huggins went to Brown in the fall of 1896, as trainer. Here is another good Huggins story:

"Sprackling, our All-American quarterback of a few years ago, always had his nerve with him and, however tight the place, generally managed to get out with a whole skin. But I recall one occasion when the wind was taken out of his sails; he was at a loss what to say or how to act. We were talking over prospects on the steps in front of the Brown Union one morning just before college opened, the fall that he was captain, when a young chap came up and said:

"'Are you Sprackling, Captain of the Team?'

"'That's me,' replied Sprack.

"'Well, I'm coming out for quarterback,' the young man declared, 'and I expect to make it. I can run the 100 in ten-one and the 220 in evens and I'm a good quarterback. I'm going to beat you out of your job.'

"Sprack, for once in his life, was flustered to death. When several of the boys who were nearby and had heard the conversation, began to laugh, he grew red in the face and quickly got up and walked away without a word. But before I could recover myself, the promising candidate had disappeared."

Harry Tuthill, specialist in knees and ankles, was the first trainer West Point ever had. When he turned up at the Academy he was none too sure that a football was made of leather and blown up.

He got his job at the Point through the bandaging of Ty Cobb's ankle. An Army coach saw him do it and said:

"Harry, if you can do that, the way you do it, come to West Point and do it for us."

Tuthill was none too welcome to the authorities other than the football men. In the eyes of the superintendent every cadet was fit to do anything that might be required of him.

"You've got to make good with the Supe," said the coaches.

So Harry went out and watched the dress parade and the ensuing double time review. After the battalion was dismissed, Tuthill was introduced to the Superintendent.

"Well, Mr. Tuthill," said the Superintendent, "I'm glad to meet you, but I really do not see what we need of a trainer."

Harry shifted his feet and gathering courage blurted out:

"Run those boys around again and then ask them to whistle."

* * * * *

There are many other trainers who deserve mention in this chapter, men who are earnestly and loyally giving up their lives to the training of the young men in our different colleges, but space will not permit to take up any more of these interesting characters. Their tribute must be a silent one, not only from myself but from the undergraduates and graduates of the colleges to which they belong and upon whose shoulders are heaped year after year honors which are due them.

FIRST DOCTOR IN CHARGE OF ANY TEAM

Doctor W. M. Conant, Harvard '79, says:

"I believe I was the first doctor associated with the Harvard team, and so far as I know, the first doctor who was in charge of any team at any college. At Harvard this custom has been kept up. I was requested by Arthur Cumnock, who had been beaten the previous year by Yale, to come out and help him win a game. This I consented to do provided I had absolute control of the medical end of the team, which consisted not only of taking care of the men who were injured, but also of their diet. This has since been taken up by the trainer.

"The late George Stewart and the late George Adams were the coaches in charge that year, and my recollections of some of the difficulties that arose because of new methods are very enjoyable—even at this late day. So far as I know this was the first season men were played in the same position opposite one another. In other words, there was an attempt to form a second eleven—which is now a well recognized condition.

"I had a house built under the grandstand where every man from our team was stripped, rubbed dry and put into a new suit of clothes, also given a certain amount of hot drink as seemed necessary. This was a thing which had never been done before, and in my opinion had a large influence in deciding the game in Harvard's favor; as the men went out upon the field in the second half almost as fresh as when they started the first half.

"I remember that I had not seen a victory over Yale since I was graduated from college in 1879. Some of the suggestions that I made about the time men should be played were laughed at. The standpoint I took was that a man should not be allowed by the coach to play until he was deemed fit. The physician in charge was also a matter of serious discussion. Many of these points are now so well established that to the present generation it is hardly possible to make them realize that from 1890 to 1895 it was necessary to make a fight to establish certain well-known methods.

"What would the present football man think of being played for one and one-half hours whether he was in shape or not? The present football man does not appreciate what some of the older college graduates went through in order to bring about the present reasonable methods adopted in handling the game."



CHAPTER XVIII

NIGHTMARES

There are few players who never experienced defeat in football. At such a time sadness reigns. Men who are big in mind and body have broken down and cried bitterly. How often in our experience have we seen men taken out of the game leaving it as though their hearts would break, only to go to the side lines, and there through dimmed eyes view the inevitable defeat, realizing that they were no longer a factor in the struggle. Such an experience came to Frank Morse in that savage Penn-Princeton game of years ago at Trenton. He had given of his best; he played a wonderful game, but through an injury he had to be removed to the side lines. Let this great hero of the past tell us something about the pangs of defeat as he summons them to mind in his San Francisco office after an interval of twenty-two years.

"The average American university football player takes his defeats too seriously—in the light of my retrospect—much too seriously," writes Morse. "As my memory harks back to the blubbering bunch of stalwart young manhood that rent the close air of the dressing-room with its dismal howls after each of the five defeats in which I participated, I am convinced that this is not what the world expects of strong men in the hour of adversity.

"A stiff upper lip is what the world admires, and it will extend the hand of sympathy and help to the man who can wear it. This should be taught by football coaches to their men as a part of the lessons of life that football generally is credited with teaching.

"Alex Moffat, than whom no more loyal and enthusiastic Princetonian ever lived, to my mind, had the right idea. During one of those periods of abysmal depths of despondency into which a losing team is plunged, he rushed into the room, waving his arms over his head in his characteristic manner, and in his high-pitched voice yelled:

"'Here, boys, get down to work; cut out this crying and get to cussing.'

"Doubtless much of this was due to the strain and the high tension to which the men were subjected, but much of it was mere lack of effort at restraint.

"Johnny Poe, as stout-hearted a man as ever has, or ever will stand on a football field, once said to me:

"'This sob stuff gives me a pain in the neck but, like sea-sickness, when the rest of the crowd start business, it's hard to keep out of it. Besides, I don't suppose there's any use getting the reputation of being exclusive and too stuck up to do what the rest of the gang do.'

"Of the defeats in which I participated, probably none was more disheartening than the one suffered at the hands of the University of Pennsylvania in 1892 at the Manheim cricket grounds near Philadelphia. I shall always believe that the better Princeton team would have won with comparative ease had it not been for the wind. In no game in which I ever played was the wind so largely the deciding factor in the result. The flags on the poles along the stands stood out stiffly as they snapped in the half gale.

"Pennsylvania won the toss and elected to have the wind at their backs. For forty-five minutes every effort made against the Red and Blue was more than nullified by the blustering god AEolus. When Pennsylvania kicked, it was the rule and not the exception for the ball to go sailing for from one-half to three quarters the length of the field. On the other hand, I can see in my mind's eye to-day, as clearly as I did during the game, a punt by Sheppard Homans, the Princeton fullback, which started over the battling lines into Pennsylvania territory, slowed up, hung for an instant in the air and then was swept back to a point approximating the line from where it started.

"It was the most helpless and exasperating feeling that I ever experienced. The football player who can conceive of a game in which under no circumstances was it permissible to kick, but instead provided a penalty, can perhaps appreciate the circumstances.

"In the second half, when we changed goals, the flags hung limply against their staffs, but we had spent ourselves in the unequal contest during the first half."

Nightmares, even those of football, do not always beget sympathy. Upon occasion a deal of fun is poked at the victim, and this holds true even in the family circle.

Tom Shevlin was noted as the father of a great many good stories, but it was proverbial that he refrained from telling one upon himself. However, in at least one instance he deviated from habit to the extent of relating an incident concerning his father and the father of Charlie Rafferty, captain of the Yale 1903 eleven. Tom at the time was a sophomore, and Shevlin, senior, who idolized his son, made it a practice of attending all important contests in which he participated, came on from Minneapolis in his private car to witness the spectacle of Tom's single-handed defeat of "The Princetons." As it chanced the Shevlin car was put upon a siding adjoining that on which the car of Gill Rafferty lay. Rafferty, as a matter of fact, was making his laborious way down the steps as Mr. Shevlin emerged from his car. Mr. Rafferty looked up, blinked in the November sunlight and then nodded cheerfully. "Well, Shevlin," he said, "I suppose by to-night we'll be known simply as the fathers of two great Yale favorites." Shevlin nodded and said "he fancied such would be the case." A few hours later, in the gloom of the twilight, after Yale had been defeated, the elder Shevlin was finding his somber way to the steps of his car and met Rafferty face to face. Shevlin nodded and was about to pass on without speaking, when Rafferty placed his hand upon his shoulder. "Well, Shevlin," he said solemnly, "I see we are still old man Shevlin and old man Rafferty."