In 1900 Brown played the University of Chicago, at Chicago. During the second half, Bates, the Brown captain, was injured and was taken from the game, and Sheehan, a big tackle, was made temporary captain. At that time the score was 6 to 6. Sheehan called the team together and addressed them in this manner:

"Look here, boys, we've got thirteen minutes to play. Get in and play like hell. Every one of you make a touchdown. We can beat 'em with ease."

For many years the last statement was one of Brown's battle-cries. Brown, by the way, won that game by a score of 12 to 6.

A former Brown man says that in a Harvard game some few years ago, Brown had been steadily plowing through the Crimson's left guard. Goldberg, of the Brown team, had been opening up big holes and Jake High, Brown's fullback, had been going through for eight and ten yards at a time. Goldberg, who was a big, stout fellow, not only was taking care of the Harvard guard, but was going through and making an endeavor to clean up the secondary defense. High, occasionally, when he had the ball, instead of looking where he was going, would run blindly into Goldberg and the play would stop dead. Finally, after one of these experiences, Jake cried out:



"Goldberg, if you would only keep out of my way, I would make the All-American."

In the same game, High, on a line plunge, got through, dodged the secondary defense and was finally brought down by Harvard's backfield man, O'Flaherty. Jake always ran with his mouth wide open, and O'Flaherty, who made a high tackle, was unfortunate enough to stick his finger in High's mouth. He let out a yell as Jake came down on it:

"What are you biting my finger for?" High as quickly responded:

"What are you sticking it in my mouth for?"

Huggins of Brown says: "The year that we beat Pennsylvania so badly out on Andrews Field, Brown had the ball on Penn's 2-yard line. Time was called for some reason, and we noticed that the backfield men were clustered about Crowther, our quarterback. We afterwards learned that all four of the backfield wanted to carry the ball over. Crowther reached down and plucked three blades of grass and the halfbacks and the fullback each drew one with the understanding that the one drawing the shortest blade could carry the ball. Much to their astonishment, they found that all the pieces of grass were of the same length. Crowther, who made the All-American that year, shouted:

"You all lose. I'll take it myself," and over the line he went with the ball tucked away under his arm.

"Johnny Poe was behind the door when fear went by," says Garry Cochran. "Every one knows of his wonderful courage. I remember that in the Harvard '96 game, at Cambridge, near the end of the first half, two of our best men (Ad Kelly and Sport Armstrong) were seriously hurt, which disorganized the team. The men were desperate and near the breaking point. Johnny, with his true Princeton spirit, sent this message to each man on the team:

"'If you won't be beat, you can't be beat.'"

"This message brought about a miracle. It put iron in each man's soul, and never from that moment did Harvard gain a yard, and for four succeeding years—'If you won't be beat, you can't be beat,' was Princeton's battle-cry.

"The good that Johnny did for Princeton teams was never heralded abroad. His work was noiseless, but always to the point.

"I remember the Indian game in '96. The score in the first half was 6 to 0, in favor of the Indians. I believe they had beaten Harvard and Penn, and tied Yale. There wasn't a word said in the club house when the team came off the field, but each man was digging in his locker for a special pair of shoes, which we had prepared for Yale. Naturally I was very bitter and refused to speak to any one. Then I heard the quiet, confident voice talking to Johnny Baird, who had his locker next to mine. I can't remember all he said, but this is the gist of his conversation:

"'Johnny, you're backing up the center. Why can't you make that line into a fighting unit? Tell 'em their grandfathers licked a hundred better Indians than these fellows are, and it's up to them to show they haven't back-bred.'

"Johnny Baird carried out these orders, and the score, 22 to 6, favoring Princeton, showed the result.

"Once more Johnny Poe's brains lifted Princeton out of a hole. I could mention many cases where Johnny has helped Princetonians, but they are personal and could not be published.

"I can only say, that when I lost Johnny Poe, I lost one who can never be replaced, and I feel like a traitor because I was not beside him when he fell."

* * * * *

Rinehart tells how he tried to get even with Sam Boyle.

"I went into professional football, after leaving Lafayette," says Rinehart. "I joined the Greensburg Athletic Club team at Greensburg, Pennsylvania, solely for the purpose of getting back at Sam Boyle, formerly of the University of Penn. He was playing on the Pittsburgh Athletic Club."

When I asked Rinehart why he wanted to get square with Sam Boyle, he said:

"For the reason that Sam, during the Penn-Lafayette contest in '97, had acted in a very unsportsmanlike manner and kept telling his associates to kill the Lafayette men and not to forget what Lafayette did to them last year, and a lot more, but possibly it was fortunate for Sam that he did not play in our Greensburg-Pittsburgh Athletic Club game. I was ready to square myself for Lafayette."

A lot of good football stories have been going the rounds, some old, some new, but none of them better than the one Barkie Donald, afterward a member of the Harvard Advisory Football Committee, tells on himself, in a game that Harvard played against the Carlisle Indians in 1896.

It was the first time Harvard and Carlisle had met—Harvard winning—4 to 0—and Donald played tackle against Bemus Pierce.

Donald, none too gentle a player, for he had to fight every day against Bert Waters, then a coach, knew how to use his arms against the Indian, and also when charging, how to do a little execution with his elbows and the open hand, just as the play was coming off. He was playing legitimately under the old game. He roughed it with the big Indian and caught him hard several times, but finally Bemus Pierce had something to say.

"Mr. Donald," he said, quietly, "you have been hitting me and if you do it again, I shall hit you." But Donald did not heed the warning, and in the next play he bowled at Bemus harder than ever for extra measure. Still the big Indian did not retaliate.

"But I thought I was hit by a sledge hammer in the next scrimmage," said Donald after the game. "I remember charging, but that was all. I was down and out, but when I came to I somehow wabbled to my feet and went back against the Indian. I was so dazed I could just see the big fellow moving about and as we sparred off for the next play he said in a matter of fact tone:

"'Mr. Donald, you hit me, one, two, three times, I hit you only one—we're square.'

"And you bet we were square," Donald always adds as he tells the story.

Tacks Hardwick, in common with most football players, thinks the world of Eddie Mahan.

"I have played football and baseball with Eddie," he says, "and am naturally an ardent admirer of his ability, his keen wit and his thorough sportsmanship. One of Eddie's greatest assets is his temperament. He seldom gets nervous. I have seen him with the bases full, and with three balls on the batter, turn about in the box with a smile on his face, wave the outfield back, and then groove the ball waist high. Nothing worried him. His ability to avoid tacklers in the broken field had always puzzled me. I had studied the usual methods quite carefully. Change of pace, reversing the field, spinning when tackled, etc.,—most of the tricks I had given thought to, but apparently Eddie relied little on these. He used them all instinctively, but favored none.

"Charlie Brickley had a favorite trick of allowing his arm to be tackled flat against his leg, then, at the very moment his opponent thought he had him, Charlie would wrench up his arm and break the grip.

"Percy Wendell used to bowl over the tackler by running very low. I relied almost exclusively on a straight arm, and 'riding a man.' This means that when a tackler comes with such force that a straight arm is not sufficient to hold him off, and you know he will break through, you put your hand on the top of his head, throw your hips sharply away, and vault as you would over a fence rail, using his head as a support. If he is coming hard, his head has sufficient power to give you quite a boost, and you can 'ride him' a considerable distance—often four or five yards. When his momentum dies, drop off and leave him. Well, Eddie didn't use any of these. Finally I asked him how he figured on getting by the tackler, and what the trick was he used so effectively.

"'It's a cinch,' Eddie replied. 'All I do is poke my foot out at him, give it to him; he goes to grab it, and I take it away!'



"Leo Leary had been giving the ends a talk on being 'cagey.' 'Cagey' play is foxy—such as never getting in the same position on every play, moving about, doing the unexpected. If you wish to put your tackle out, play outside him, and draw him out, and then at the last moment hop in close to your own tackle, and then charge your opponent. The reverse is true as well. The unexpected and unusual make up 'cagey' play. Much emphasis had been laid on this, and we were all thoroughly impressed, especially Weatherhead, that year a substitute.

"Weatherhead's appearance and actions on the field were well adapted to cagey play. Opponents could learn nothing by analyzing his expression. It seldom varied. His walk had a sort of tip-toe roll to it, much similar to the conventional stage villain, inspecting a room before robbing a safe. In the course of the afternoon game, Weatherhead put his coaching in practice.

"We had a habit—practically every team has—of shouting 'Signal' whenever a player did not understand the orders of the quarterback. Mal Logan had just snapped out his signals, when Al Weatherhead left his position. Casting furtive glances at the opponents, and tip-toeing along like an Indian scout at his best, the very personification of 'caginess,' Weatherhead approached Logan. Logan, thinking Al had discovered some important weak spot in the defense, leaned forward attentively. Weatherhead rolled up, and carefully shielding his mouth with his hand, asked in a stage whisper 'Signal.'

"A piece of thoughtfulness that expressed the spirit of the man who did it, and also the whole team, took place at the Algonquin Hotel at New London, on the eve of the Harvard-Yale game in 1914. The Algonquin is fundamentally a summer hotel, although it is open all the year. The Harvard team had their headquarters there, and naturally the place was packed with the squad and the numerous followers. Eddie Mahan and I roomed together, and in the room adjoining were Watson and Swigert, two substitute quarterbacks. Folding doors separated the rooms, and these had been flung open. In the night, it turned cold, and the summer bedding was insufficient. Swigert couldn't sleep, he was so chilled, so he got up, and went in search of blankets. He examined all the closets on that floor, without success; then he explored the floors above and below, and finally went down to the night clerk, and demanded some blankets of him. After considerable delay, he obtained two thin blankets, and thoroughly chilled from his walk in his bare feet, returned to the room. Passing our door, he spied Eddie curled up and shivering, about half asleep. I was asleep, but a cold, uncomfortable sleep that is no real rest. He walked in, and placing one blanket over Eddie and one over me, went back to his own bed colder than ever.

"I am a firm believer in rough, rugged, aggressive, bruising football," says Hardwick. "The rougher, the better, if, and only if, it is legitimate and clean football. I am glad to say that clean football has been prevalent in my experience. Only on the rarest occasions have I felt any unclean actions have been intentional and premeditated. We have made it a point to play fierce, hard and clean football, and have nearly always received the same treatment.

"In my freshman year, however, I felt that I had been wronged, and foolishly I took it to heart. Since that time I have changed my mind as I have had an opportunity to know the player personally and my own observation and the general high reputation he has for sportsmanship have thoroughly convinced me of my mistake. The particular play in question was in the Yale 1915 game. We started a wide end run, and I was attempting to take out the end. I dived at his knees but aimed too far in front, falling at his feet. He leaped in the air to avoid me, and came down on the small of my back, gouging me quite severely with his heel cleats. I felt that it was unnecessary and foolishly resented it."

One of the most famous games in football was the Harvard-Yale encounter at Springfield in '94. Bob Emmons was captain of the Harvard team and Frank Hinkey captain of Yale. This game was so severely fought that it was decided best to discontinue football relations between these two universities and no game took place until three years later.

Jim Rodgers, who was a substitute at Yale that year, relates some interesting incidents of that game:

"In those old strenuous days, they put so much fear of God in you, it scared you so you couldn't play. When we went up to Springfield, we were all over-trained. Instead of putting us up at a regular hotel, they put us up at the Christian Workers, that Stagg was interested in. The bedrooms looked like cells, with a little iron bed and one lamp in each room," says Jim. "You know after one is defeated he recalls these facts as terrible experiences. None of us slept at all well that night, and my knees were so stiff I could hardly walk. Yale relied much on Fred Murphy. Harvard had coached Hallowell to get Murphy excited. Murphy was quick tempered. If you got his goat, he was pretty liable to use his hands, and Harvard was anxious to have him put out of the game. Hallowell went to his task with earnestness. He got Murphy to the point of rage, but Murphy had been up against Bill Odlin, who used to coach at Andover, and Bill used to give you hell if you slugged when the umpire was looking. But when his back was turned you could do anything.

"Murphy stood about all he could and when he saw the officials were in a conference he gave Hallowell a back-hander, and dropped him like a brick. His nose was flattened right over his cheek-bone. Fortunately that happened on the Yale side of the field. If it had happened on the Harvard side, there would have been a riot. There was some noise when that blow was delivered; the whole crowd in the stand stood aghast and held its breath. So Harvard laid for Murphy and in about two plays they got him. How they got him we never knew, but suddenly it was apparent that Murphy was gone. The trainer finally helped Murphy up and the captain of the team told him in which direction his goal was. He would break through just as fine and fast as before, but the moment his head got down to a certain angle, he would go down in a heap. He was game to the core, however, and he kept on going.

"It was in this game that Wrightington, the halfback, was injured, though this never came out in the newspapers. Wrightington caught a punt and started back up the field. In those days you could wriggle and squirm all you wanted to and you could pile on a thousand strong, if you liked. Frank Hinkey was at the other end of the field playing wide, and ready if Wrightington should take a dodge. Murphy caught Wrightington and he started to wriggle. It was at this time that Louis Hinkey came charging down the field on a dead run. In trying to prevent Wrightington from advancing any further with the ball, Louis Hinkey's knee hit Wrightington and came down with a crash on his collar-bone and neck. Wrightington gave one moan, rolled over and fainted dead away. Frank Hinkey was not within fifteen yards of the play, and Louis did it with no evil intention. Frank thought that Wrightington had been killed and he came over and took Louis Hinkey by the hand, appreciating the severe criticism which was bound to be heaped upon his brother Louis. There was a furor. It was on everybody's tongue that Frank Hinkey had purposely broken Wrightington's collar-bone. Frank knew who did it, but the 'Silent Hinkey' never revealed the real truth. He protected his brother.

"Yale took issue on the point, and as a result the athletic relationship was suspended.

"It was in this game that Bronc Armstrong established the world's brief record for staying in the game. He was on the field for twenty seconds—then was ruled out. I think Frank Hinkey is the greatest end that was ever on a field. To my mind he never did a dirty thing, but he tackled hard. When Frank Hinkey tackled a man, he left him there. In later years when I was coaching, an old Harvard player who was visiting me, came out to Yale Field. He had never seen Hinkey play football, but he had read much about him. I pointed out several of the men to him, such as Heffelfinger, and others of about his type, all of whom measured up to his ideas, and finally said:



"'Where is that fellow Hinkey?' And when I pointed Hinkey out to him, he said:

"'Great guns, Harvard complaining about that little shrimp, I'm ashamed of Harvard.'

"Hinkey was a wonderful leader. Every man that ever played under him worshipped him. He had his team so buffaloed that they obeyed every order, down to the most minute detail.

"When Hinkey entered Yale, there were two corking end rushes in college, Crosby and Josh Hartwell. After about two weeks of practice, there was no longer a question as to whether Hinkey was going to make the team. It was a question of which one of the old players was going to lose his job. They called him 'consumptive Hinkey.'"

Every football player, great though he himself was in his prime, has his gridiron idol. The man, usually some years his elder, whose exploits as a boy he has followed. Joe Beacham's paragon was and is Frank Hinkey and the depth of esteem in which the former Cornell star held Hinkey is well exemplified in the following incident, which occurred on the Black Diamond Express, Eastbound, as it was passing through Tonawanda, New York. Beacham had been dozing, but awoke in time to catch a glimpse of the signboard as the train flashed by. Leaning slightly forward he tapped a drummer upon the shoulder. The salesman turned around. "Take off your hat," came the command. "Why?" the salesman began. "Take off your hat," repeated Beacham. The man did so. "Thank you; now put it on," came the command. The drummer summing up courage, faced Beacham and said, "Now will you kindly tell me why you asked me to do this?" Joe smiled with the satisfied feeling of an act well performed and said: "I told you to lift your hat because we are passing through the town where Frank Hinkey was born."

Later, in the smoking room, Joe heard the drummer discussing the incident with a crowd of fellow salesmen, and he said, concluding, "What I'd like to know is who in hell is Frank Hinkey?"

And late that evening when the train arrived in New York Joe Beacham and the traveling man had become the best of friends. In parting, Joe said: "If there's anything I haven't told you, I'll write you about it."

Sandy Hunt, a famous Cornell guard and captain, says:

"Here is one on Bill Hollenback, the last year he played for Pennsylvania against Cornell. Bill went into the game, thoroughly fit, but Mike Murphy, then training the team, was worried lest he be injured. In an early scrimmage Bill's ear was nearly ripped off. Blood flowed and Mike left the side lines to aid. Mike was waved away by Bill. 'It's nothing but a scratch, Mike, let me get back in the game.' Play was resumed. Following a scrimmage, Mike saw Bill rolling on the ground in agony. 'His ankle is gone,' quoth Mike, as he ran out to the field. Leaning over Bill, Mike said: 'Is it your ankle, or knee, Bill?' Bill, writhing in agony, gasped:

"'No; somebody stepped on my corn.'"

Hardwick has this to tell of the days when he coached Annapolis:

"One afternoon at Annapolis, the Varsity were playing a practice game and were not playing to form, or better, possibly, they were not playing as the coaches had reason to hope. There was an indifference in their play and a lack of snap and drive in their work that roused Head Coach Ingram's fighting blood. Incidentally, Ingram is a fighter from his feet up, every inch, as broad-minded as he is broad-shouldered, and a keen student of football. The constant letting up of play, and the lack of fight, annoyed him more and more. At last, a Varsity player sat down and called for water. Immediately, the cry was taken up by his team mates. This was more than Ingram could stand. Out he dashed from the side lines, right into the group of players, shaking his fist and shrieking:

"'Water! Water! What you need is fire, not water!'"

Fred Crolius tells a good story about Foster Sanford when he was coaching at West Point. One of the most interesting institutions to coach is West Point. Even in football field practice the same military spirit is in control, most of the coaches being officers. Only when a unique character like Sandy appears is the monotony shattered. Sandy is often humorous in his most serious moments. One afternoon not many weeks before the Navy game Sandy, as Crolius tells it, was paying particular attention to Moss, a guard whom Sanford tried to teach to play low. Moss was very tall and had never appreciated the necessity of bending his knees and straightening his back. Sanford disgusted with Moss as he saw him standing nearly erect in a scrimmage, and Sandy's voice would ring out, "Stop the play, Lieutenant Smith. Give Mr. Moss a side line badge. Moss, if you want to watch this game, put on a badge, then everybody will know you've got a right to watch it." In the silence of the parade ground those few words sounded like a trumpet for a cavalry charge, but Sandy accomplished his purpose and made a guard of Moss.

The day Princeton played Yale at New Haven in 1899, I had a brother on each side of the field; one was Princeton Class, 1895, and the other was an undergraduate at Yale, Class of 1901.

My brother, Dick, told me that his friends at Yale would joke him as to whether he would root for Yale or Princeton on November 25th of that year. I did not worry, for I had an idea. A friend of his told me the following story a week after the game:

"You had been injured in a mass play and were left alone, for the moment, laid out upon the ground. No one seemed to see you as the play continued. But Dick was watching your every move, and when he saw you were injured he voluntarily arose from his seat and rushed down the aisle to a place opposite to where you were and was about to go out on the field, when the Princeton trainer rushed out upon the field and stood you on your feet, and as Dick came back, he took his seat in the Yale grandstand. Yale men knew then where his interest in the game lay."

After Arthur Poe had kicked his goal from the field, Princeton men lost themselves completely and rushed out upon the field. In the midst of the excitement, I remember my brother, George, coming out and enthusiastically congratulating me.



CHAPTER XXII

LEST WE FORGET

Marshall Newell

There is no hero of the past whose name has been handed down in Harvard's football traditions as that of Marshall Newell. He left many lasting impressions upon the men who came in contact with him. The men that played under his coaching idolized him, and this extended even beyond the confines of Harvard University. This is borne out in the following tribute which is paid Newell by Herbert Reed, that was on the Cornell scrub when Newell was their coach.

"It is poignantly difficult, even to-day, years after what was to so many of us a very real tragedy," says Reed, "to accept the fact that Marshall Newell is dead. The ache is still as keen as on that Christmas morning when the brief news dispatches told us that he had been killed in a snowstorm on a railroad track at Springfield. It requires no great summoning of the imagination to picture this fine figure of a man, in heart and body so like his beloved Berkshire oaks, bending forward, head down, and driving into the storm in the path of the everyday duty that led to his death. It was, as the world goes, a short life, but a fruitful one—a life given over simply and without questioning to whatever work or whatever play was at hand.



"To the vast crowds of lovers of football who journeyed to Springfield to see this superman of sport in action in defense of his Alma Mater he will always remain as the personification of sportsmanship combined with the hard, clean, honest effort that marks your true football player. To a great many others who enjoyed the privilege of adventuring afield with him, the memory will be that of a man strong enough to be gentle, of magnetic personality, and yet withal, with a certain reserve that is found only in men whose character is growing steadily under the urge of quiet introspection. Yet, for a man so self-contained, he had much to give to those about him, whether these were men already enjoying place and power or merely boys just on the horizon of a real man's life. It was not so much the mere joy and exuberance of living, as the wonder and appreciation of living that were the springs of Marshall Newell's being.

"It was this that made him the richest poor man it was ever my fortune to know.

"The world about him was to Newell rich in expression of things beautiful, things mysterious, things that struck in great measure awe and reverence into his soul. A man with so much light within could not fail to shine upon others. He had no heart for the city or the life of the city, and for him, too, the quest of money had no attraction. Even before he went to school at Phillips Exeter, the character of this sturdy boy had begun to develop in the surroundings he loved throughout his life. Is it any wonder, then, that from the moment he arrived at school he became a favorite with his associates, indeed, at a very early stage, something of an idol to the other boys? He expressed an ideal in his very presence—an ideal that was instantly recognizable as true and just—an ideal unspoken, but an ideal lived. Just what that ideal was may perhaps be best understood if I quote a word or two from that little diary of his, never intended for other eyes but privileged now, a quotation that has its own little, delicate touch of humor in conjunction with the finer phrases:

"'There is a fine selection from Carmen to whistle on a load of logs when driving over frozen ground; every jolt gives a delightful emphasis to the notes, and the musician is carried along by the dictatorial leader as it were. What a strength there is in the air! It may be rough at times, but it is true and does not lie. What would the world be if all were open and frank as the day or the sunshine?'

"I want to record certain impressions made upon a certain freshman at Cornell, whither Newell went to coach the football team after his graduation from Harvard. Those impressions are as fresh to-day as they were in that scarlet and gold autumn years ago.

"Here was a man built like the bole of a tree, alight with fire, determination, love of sport, and hunger for the task in hand. He was no easy taskmaster, but always a just one. Many a young man of that period will remember, as I do, the grinding day's work when everything seemed to go wrong, when mere discouragement was gradually giving way to actual despair, when, somewhat clogged with mud and dust and blood, he felt a sudden slap on the back, and heard a cheery voice saying, 'Good work to-day. Keep it up.' Playing hard football himself, Newell demanded hard football of his pupils. I wish, indeed, that some of the players of to-day who groan over a few minutes' session with the soft tackling dummy of these times could see that hard, sole leather tackling dummy swung from a joist that went clear through it and armed with a shield that hit one over the head when he did not get properly down to his work, that Newell used.

"It was grinding work this, but through it one learned.

"That ancient and battered dummy is stowed away, a forgotten relic of the old days, in the gymnasium at Cornell. There are not a few of us who, when returning to Ithaca, hunt it up to do it reverence.

"Let him for a moment transfer his allegiance to the scrub eleven, and in that moment the Varsity team knew that it was in a real football game. They were hard days indeed on Percy Field, but good days. I have seen Newell play single-handed against one side of the Varsity line, tear up the interference like a whirlwind, and bring down his man. Many of us have played in our small way on the scrub when for purposes of illustration Newell occupied some point in the Varsity line. We knew then what would be on top of us the instant the ball was snapped. Yet when the heap was at its thickest Newell would still be in the middle of it or at the bottom, as the case might be, still working, and still coaching. Both in his coaching at Harvard and at Cornell he developed men whose names will not be forgotten while the game endures, and some of these developments were in the nature of eleventh-hour triumphs for skill and forceful, yet none the less sympathetic, personality.

"After all, despite his remarkable work as a gridiron player and tutor, I like best to think of him as Newell, the man; I like best to recall those long Sunday afternoons when he walked through the woodland paths in the two big gorges, or over the fields at Ithaca in company much of the time with—not the captain of the team, not the star halfback, not the great forward, but some young fellow fresh from school who was still down in the ruck of the squad. More than once he called at now one, now another fraternity house and hailed us: 'Where is that young freshman that is out for my team? I would like to have him take a little walk with me.' And these walks, incidentally, had little or nothing to do with football. They were great opportunities for the little freshman who wanted to get closer to the character of the man himself. No flower, no bit of moss, no striking patch of foliage escaped his notice, for he loved them all, and loved to talk about them. One felt, returning from one of these impromptu rambles, that he had been spending valuable time in that most wonderful church of all, the great outdoors, and spending it with no casual interpreter. Memories of those days in the sharp practice on the field grow dim, but these others I know will always endure.

"This I know because no month passes, indeed it is almost safe to say, hardly a week, year in and year out, in which they are not insistently resurgent.

"Marshall Newell was born in Clifton, N. J., on April 2, 1871. His early life was spent largely on his father's farm in Great Barrington, Mass., that farm and countryside which seemed to mean so much to him in later years. He entered Phillips Exeter Academy in the fall of 1887, and was graduated in 1890. Almost at once he achieved, utterly without effort, a popularity rare in its quality. Because of his relation with his schoolmates and his unostentatious way of looking after the welfare of others, he soon came to be known as Ma Newell, and this affectionate sobriquet not only clung to him through all the years at Exeter and Harvard, but followed him after graduation whithersoever he went. While at school he took up athletics ardently as he always took up everything. Thus he came up to Harvard with an athletic reputation ready made.

"It was not long before the class of '94 began to feel that subtler influence of character that distinguished all his days. He was a member of the victorious football eleven of 1890, and of the winning crew of 1891, both in his freshman year. He also played on the freshman football team and on the university team of '91, '92, '93, and rowed on the Varsity crews of '92 and '93. In the meantime he was gaining not only the respect and friendship of his classmates, but those of the instructors as well. Socially, and despite the fact that he was little endowed with this world's goods, he enjoyed a remarkable popularity. He was a member of the Institute of 1770, Dickey, Hasty Pudding, and Signet. In addition, he was the unanimous choice of his class for Second Marshal on Class Day. Many other honors he might have had if he had cared to seek them. He accepted only those that were literally forced upon him.

"In the course of his college career he returned each summer to his home in Great Barrington and quietly resumed his work on the farm.

"After graduation he was a remarkably successful football coach at Cornell University, and was also a vast help in preparing Harvard elevens. His annual appearance in the fall at Cambridge was always the means of putting fresh heart and confidence in the Crimson players.

"He turned to railroading in the fall of 1896, acting as Assistant Superintendent of the Springfield Division of the Boston and Albany Railroad. Here, as at college, he made a profound personal impression on his associates. The end came on the evening of December 24th, in 1897.

"In a memorial from his classmates and friends, the following significant paragraph appears: 'Marshall Newell belonged to the whole University. He cannot be claimed by any clique or class. Let us, his classmates, simply express our gratitude that we have had the privilege of knowing him and of observing his simple, grand life. We rejoice in memories of his comradeship; we deeply mourn our loss. To those whose affliction has been even greater than our own, we extend our sympathy.' This memorial was signed by Bertram Gordon Waters, Lincoln Davis, and George C. Lee, Jr., for the class, men who knew him well.

"Harvard men, I feel sure, will forgive me if I like to believe that Newell belonged not merely to the whole Harvard University, but to every group of men that came under his influence, whether the football squad at Cornell or the humble track walkers of the Boston and Albany.

"Remains, I think, little more for me to say, and this can best be said in Newell's own words, selections from that diary of which I have already spoken, and which set the stamp on the character of the man for all time. This, for instance:

"'It is amusing to notice the expression in the faces of the horses on the street as you walk along; how much they resemble people, not in feature, but in spirit. Some are cross and snap at the men who pass; others asleep; and some will almost thank you for speaking to them or patting their noses.' And this, in more serious vein: 'Happened to think how there was a resemblance in water and our spirits, or rather in their sources. Some people are like springs, always bubbling over with freshness and life; others are wells and have to be pumped; while some are only reservoirs whose spirits are pumped in and there stagnate unless drawn off immediately. Most people are like the wells, but the pump handle is not always visible or may be broken off. Many of the springs are known only to their shady nooks and velvet marshes, but, once found, the path is soon worn to them, which constantly widens and deepens. It may be used only by animals, but it is a blessing and comfort if only to the flowers and grasses that grow on its edge.'

"Serious as the man was, there are glints and gleams of quiet humor throughout this remarkable human document. One night in May he wrote, 'Stars and moon are bright this evening; frogs are singing in the meadow, and the fire-flies are twinkling over the grass by the spring. Tree toads have been singing to-day. Set two hens to-night, nailed them in. If you want to see determination, look in a setting hen's eye. Robins have been carrying food to their nests in the pine trees, and the barn swallows fighting for feathers in the air; the big barn is filled with their conversation.'

"In the city he missed, as he wrote, 'the light upon the hills.' Again, 'The stars are the eyes of the sky. The sun sets like a god bowing his head. Pine needles catch the light that has streamed through them for a hundred years. The wind drives the clouds one day as if they were waves of crested brown.' Where indeed in the crowded city streets was he to listen 'to the language of the leaves,' and how indeed, 'Feel the colors of the West.'

"Is it not possible that something more even than the example and influence of his character was lost to the world in his death? What possibilities were there not in store for a man who could feel and write like this: 'Grand thunderstorm this evening. Vibrations shook the house and the flashes of lightning were continuous for a short time. It is authority and majesty personified, and one instinctively bows in its presence, not with a feeling of dread, but of admiration and respect.'

"It was in the thunder and shock and blaze of just such a storm that I stood not long ago among his own Berkshire Hills, hoping thus to prepare myself by pilgrimage for this halting but earnest tribute to a great-hearted gentleman, who, in his quiet way, meant so much to so many of his fellow humans."

Walter B. Street

W. L. Sawtelle of Williams, who knew this great player in his playing days, writes as follows:

"No Williams contemporary of Walter Bullard Street can forget two outstanding facts of his college career: his immaculate personal character and his undisputed title to first rank among the football men whom Williams has developed. He was idolized because of his athletic prowess; he was loved because he was every inch a man. His personality lifted his game from the level of an intercollegiate contest to the plane of a man's expression of loyalty to his college, and his supremacy on the football field gave a new dignity to the undergraduate's ideals of true manhood.

"His name is indelibly written in the athletic annals of Williams, and his influence, apparently cut off by his early death, is still a vital force among those who cheered his memorable gains on the gridiron and who admired him for his virile character."

W. D. Osgood

Gone from among us is that great old-time hero, Win Osgood. In this chapter of thoroughbreds, let us read the tribute George Woodruff pays him:

"When my thoughts turn to the scores of fine, manly football players I have known intimately, Win Osgood claims, if not first place, at least a unique place, among my memories. As a player he has never been surpassed in his specialty of making long and brilliant runs, not only around, but through the ranks of his opponents. After one of his seventy- or eighty-yard runs his path was always marked by a zig-zag line of opposing tacklers just collecting their wits and slowly starting to get up from the ground. None of them was ever hurt, but they seemed temporarily stunned as though, when they struck Osgood's mighty legs, they received an electric shock.

"While at Cornell in 1892, Osgood made, by his own prowess, two to three touchdowns against each of the strong Yale, Harvard and Princeton elevens, and in the Harvard-Pennsylvania game at Philadelphia in 1894, he thrilled the spectators with his runs more than I have ever seen any man do in any other one game.

"But I would belittle my own sense of Osgood's real worth if I confined myself to expatiating on his brilliant physical achievements. His moral worth and gentle bravery were to me the chief points in him that arouse true admiration. When I, as coach of Penn's football team, discovered that Osgood had quietly matriculated at Pennsylvania, without letting anybody know of his intention, I naturally cultivated his friendship, in order to get from him his value as a player; but I found he was of even more value as a moral force among the players and students. In this way he helped me as much as by his play, because, to my mind, a football team is good or bad according to whether the bad elements or the good, both of which are in every set of men, predominate.

"In the winter of 1896, Osgood nearly persuaded me to go with him on his expedition to help the Cubans, and I have often regretted not having been with him through that experience. He went as a Major of Artillery to be sure, but not for the title, nor the adventure only, but I am sure from love of freedom and overwhelming sympathy for the oppressed. He said to me:

"'The Cubans may not be very lovely, but they are human, and their cause is lovely.'

"When Osgood, with almost foolhardy bravery, sat his horse directing his dilapidated artillery fire in Cuba, and thus conspicuous, made himself even more marked by wearing a white sombrero, he was not playing the part of a fool; he was following his natural impulse to exert a moral force on his comrades who could understand little but liberty and bravery.

"When the Angel of Death gave him the accolade of nobility by touching his brow in the form of a Mauser bullet, Win Osgood simply welcomed his friend by gently breathing 'Well,' a word typical of the man, and even in death, it is reported, continued to sit erect upon his horse."

Gordon Brown

There are many young men who lost a true friend when Gordon Brown died. He was their ideal. After his college days were over, he became very much interested in settlement work on the East Side in New York. He devoted much of his time after business to this great work which still stands as a monument to him. He was as loyal to it as he was to football when he played at Yale. Gordon Brown's career at Yale was a remarkable one. He was captain of the greatest football team Yale ever had. Whenever the 1900 team is mentioned it is spoken of as Gordon Brown's team. The spirit of this great thoroughbred still lives at Yale, still lives at Groton School where he spent six years. He was captain there and leader in all the activities in the school. He was one of the highest type college men I have ever known. He typified all the best there was in Yale. He was strong mentally, as well as physically.

It was my pleasure to have played against him in two Yale-Princeton games, '98 and '99. I have never known a finer sportsman than he. He played the game hard, and he played it fair. He had nothing to say to his opponents in the game. He was there for business. Always urging his fellow players on to better work. Every one who knew this gallant leader had absolute confidence in him. All admired and loved him. There was no one at Yale who was more universally liked and acknowledged as a leader in all the relations of the University than was Gordon Brown. The influence of such a man cannot but live as a guide and inspiration for all that is best at Yale University.

Gordon Brown's name will live in song and story. There were with him Yale men not less efficient in the football sense, as witnesses the following:

A Yale Song verse from the Yale Daily News, November 16th, 1900:

Jimmy Wear and Gordon Brown, Fincke and Stillman gaining ground; Olcott in the center stands With Perry Hale as a battering ram— No hope for Princeton;

James J. Hogan

The boys who were at Exeter when that big raw-boned fellow, Jim Hogan, entered there will tell of the noble fight he made to get an education. He worked with his hands early and late to make enough money to pay his way. His effort was a splendid one. He was never idle, and was an honor man for the greater part of his stay at school. He found time to go out for football, however, and turned out to be one of the greatest players that ever went to Exeter. Jim Hogan was one of the highest type of Exeter men, held up as an example of what an Exeter boy should be. His spirit still lives in the school. In speaking of Hogan recently, Professor Ford of Exeter, said:

"Whenever Hogan played football his hands were always moving in the football line. It was almost like that in the classroom, always on the edge of his seat fighting for every bit of information that he could get and determined to master any particularly difficult subject. It was interesting and almost amusing at times to watch him. One could not help respecting such earnestness. He possessed great powers of leadership and there was never any question as to his sincerity and perfect earnestness. He was not selfish, but always trying to help his fellow students accomplish something. His influence among the boys was thoroughly good, and he held positions of honor and trust from the time of his admission."

Jim was hungry for an education—eager to forge ahead. His whole college career was an earnest endeavor. He never knew what it was to lose heart. "Letting go" had no part in his life.

Jim was a physical marvel. His 206 pounds of bone and muscle counted for much in the Yale rush line. Members of the faculty considered him the highest type of Yale man, and it is said that President Hadley of Yale once referred to 1905 as "Hogan's Class."

As a football player, Jim had few equals. He was captain of the Yale team in his senior year and was picked by the experts as an "All-American Tackle."

Jim Hogan at his place in the Yale rush line was a sight worth seeing. With his jersey sleeves rolled up above his elbows and a smile on his face, he would break into the opposing line, smash up the interference and throw the backs for a loss.

I can see him rushing the ball, scoring touchdowns, making holes in the line, doing everything that a great player could do, and urging on his team mates:

"Harder, Yale; hard, harder, Yale."

He was a hard, strong, cheerful player; that is, he was cheerful as long as the other men fought fair.

Great was Jim Hogan. To work with him shoulder to shoulder was my privilege. To know him, was to love, honor and respect him.

Jim spent his last hours in New Haven, and later in a humble home on the hillside in Torrington, Conn., surrounded by loving friends, and the individual pictures of that strong Gordon Brown team hanging on the wall above him, a loving coterie of friends said good-bye. Many a boy now out of college realizes that he owes a great deal to the brotherly spirit of Jim Hogan.



Thomas J. Shevlin

There is a college tradition which embodies the thought that a man can never do as much for the university as the university has done for him.

But in that great athletic victory of 1915, when Yale defeated Princeton at New Haven, I believe Tom Shevlin came nearer upsetting that tradition than any one I know of. He contributed as much as any human being possibly could to the university that brought him forth.

Tom Shevlin's undergraduate life at New Haven was not all strewn with roses, but he was glad always to go back when requested and put his shoulder to the wheel. The request came usually at a time when Yale's football was in the slough of despond. He was known as Yale's emergency coach.

Tom Shevlin had nerve. He must have been full of it to tackle the great job which was put before him in the fall of 1915. Willingly did he respond and great was the reward.

When I saw him in New York, on his way to New Haven, I told him what a great honor I thought it was for Yale to single him out from all her coaches at this critical time to come back and try to put the Yale team in shape. It did not seem either to enthuse or worry him very much. He said:

"I just got a telegram from Mike Sweeney to wait and see him in New York before going to New Haven. I suppose he wants to advise me not to go and tackle the job, but I'm going just the same. Yale can't be much worse off for my going than she is to-day."

The result of Shevlin's coaching is well known to all, and I shall always remember him after the game with that contented happy look upon his face as I congratulated him while he stood on a bench in front of the Yale stand, watching the Yale undergraduates carry their victorious team off the field. Walter Camp stood in the distance and Shevlin yelled to him:

"Well, how about it, Walter?"

This victory will go down in Yale's football history as an almost miraculous event. Here was a team beaten many times by small colleges, humiliated and frowned upon not only by Yale, but by the entire college world. They presented themselves in the Yale bowl ready to make their last stand.

As for Princeton it seemed only a question as to how large her score would be. Men had gone to cheer for Princeton who for many years had looked forward to a decisive victory over Yale. The game was already bottled up before it started; but when Yale's future football history is written, when captain and coaches talk to the team before the game next year, when mass meetings are called to arouse college spirit, at banquets where victorious teams are the heroes of the occasion, some one will stand forth and tell the story of the great fighting spirit that Captain Wilson and his gallant team exhibited in the Yale bowl that November day.

Although Tom Shevlin, the man that made it possible, is now dead, his memory at Yale is sacred and will live long. Many will recall his wonderful playing, his power of leadership, his Yale captaincy, his devotion to Yale at a time when he was most needed. If, in the last game against Harvard, the team that fought so wonderfully well against Princeton could not do the impossible and defeat the great Haughton machine, it was not Shevlin's fault. It simply could not be done. It lessens in not the slightest degree the tribute that we pay to Tom Shevlin.

Francis H. Burr

Ham Fish was a great Harvard player in his day. When his playing days were over Walter Camp paid him the high tribute of placing him on the All Time, All-American team at tackle. Fish played at Harvard in 1907 and 1908, and was captain of the team in 1909. I know of no Harvard man who is in a better position to pay a tribute to Francis Burr, whose spirit still lives at Cambridge, than Ham Fish. They were team mates, and when in 1908 Burr remained on the side lines on account of injuries, Ham Fish was the acting Harvard captain. Fish tells us the following regarding Burr:

"Francis Burr was of gigantic frame, standing six feet three and agile as a young mountain lion. He weighed 200 pounds. The incoming class of 1905 was signalized by having this man who came from Andover. He stood out above his fellows, not only in athletic prowess but in all around manly qualities, both mental and moral. Burr had no trouble in making a place on the Varsity team at Guard. He was a punter of exceeding worth. In the year of 1908 he was captain of the Harvard team and wrought the most inestimable service to Harvard athletics by securing Percy Haughton as Head Coach. Hooks Burr was primarily responsible for Haughton and the abundance of subsequent victories. Just when Burr's abilities as player and captain were most needed he dislocated his collar bone in practice. I shall never forget the night before the Yale game how Burr, who had partially recovered, and was very anxious to play, reluctantly and unselfishly yielded to the coaches who insisted that he should not incur the risk of a more serious break. Harvard won that day, the first time in seven years and a large share of the credit should go to the injured leader. We were all happy over the result but none of us were as happy as he.

"Stricken with pneumonia while attending the Harvard Law School in 1910 he died, leaving a legacy full of encouragement and inspiration to all Harvard men. He exemplified in his life the Golden Rule,—'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.' Of him it can be truly said, his life was gentle as a whole, and the elements so mixed in him that 'nature might stand up and say to all the world,—"He was a man."'"

Neil Snow

The University of Michigan never graduated a man who was more universally loved than Neil Snow. What he did and the way he did it has become a tradition at Michigan. He was idolized by every one who knew him. As a player and captain he set a wonderful example for his men to pattern after. He was a powerful player; possessing such determination and fortitude that he would go through a stone wall if he had to. He was their great all-around athlete; good in football, baseball and track. He had the unique record of winning his Michigan M twelve times during his college course at Ann Arbor.

He played his last game of football at Pasadena, California. Neil was very fond of exercise. He believed in exercise, and when word was sent out that Neil Snow had gone, it was found that he had just finished playing in a game of racquets in Detroit, and before the flush and zest were entirely gone, the last struggle and participation in athletic contests for Neil Snow were over.

It was my experience to have been at Ann Arbor in 1900, when Biffy Lee coached the Michigan team. It was at this time that I met Neil Snow, who was captain of the team, and when I grew to know him, I soon realized how his great, quiet, modest, though wonderful personality, made everybody idolize him. Modesty was his most noticeable characteristic. He was always the last to talk of his own athletic achievements. He believed in action, more than in words. After his playing days were over he made a great name for himself as an official in the big games. The larger colleges in the East had come to realize with what great efficiency Neil Snow acted as an official and his services were eagerly sought.

Neil Snow loved athletics. He often referred to his college experiences. His example was one held up as ideal among the men who knew him.

When Billy Bannard died Johnny Poe wrote to Mrs. Bannard a letter, a portion of which follows:

I greatly enjoy thinking of those glorious days in the fall of '95, '96 and '97, when I was coaching at Princeton and saw so much of Billy, and if I live to a ripe old age I do not think I shall forget how he and Ad Kelly came on in the Yale game of '95, and with the score of 16-0 against us started in by steadily rushing the ball up to and over the Yale goal, and after the kick-off, once more started on the march for another touchdown.

It was a superb exhibition of nerve in the face of almost certain defeat and showed a spirit that would not be downed, and I have often thought of this game in different far-off parts of the world.

While Yale finally won 20-10 still Billy showed the same spirit that Farragut showed when told that the river was filled with torpedoes and that it would be suicidal to proceed. He replied, "Damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead!"

I love to think of Billy's famous fifty yard run for a touchdown through the Harvard team in '96 at Cambridge, when the score had been a tie, and how he with Ad Kelly and Johnny Baird went through the Yale team in that '96 game and ran the score up to 24, representing five touchdowns. Never before had a Yale team been driven like chaff before the wind, as that blue team was driven.

Billy Bannard and Ad Kelly's names were always coupled in their playing days at Princeton. These two halfbacks were great team mates. When Bill Bannard died Ad Kelly lost one of his best friends.

In Ad Kelly's recollections, we read:

"Whenever I think of my playing days I always recall the Harvard-Princeton game of 1896, and with it comes a tribute to one of us who has passed to the great beyond; one with whom I played side by side for three years, Bill Bannard. I always thought that in this particular game he never received the credit due him. In my opinion his run on that memorable day was the best I have ever seen. His running and dodging and his excellent judgment had no superior in the football annals of our day.

"In speaking of great individual plays that have won close games, his name should go down with Charlie Daly, Clint Wyckoff, Arthur Poe, Snake Ames and Dudley Dean, for with Reiter's splendid interference in putting out the Harvard left end, Billy Bannard's touchdown gave Princeton the confidence to carry her to victory that day and to the ultimate championship two weeks later."

Harry Hooper

When Henry Hooper, one of Dartmouth's greatest players, was taken away, every man who knew Hooper felt it a great personal loss. Those who had seen him play at Exeter and there formed his acquaintance and later at Dartmouth saw him develop into the mighty center rush of the 1903 Dartmouth team, idolized him.

C. E. Bolser of Dartmouth, who knew him well, says:

"Harry Hooper was a great center on a great team. The success of this eleven was due to its good fellowship and team work. The central figure was the idol of his fellow players. Such was Hooper. Shortly after the football season that year he was operated upon for appendicitis and it soon became evident that he could not recover. He was told of his plight.

"He bravely faced the inevitable and expressed the wish that if he really had to go he might have with him at the last his comrades of the football field. These team mates rallied at his request. They surrounded him; they talked the old days over, and supported by those with whom he had fought for the glory of his college this real hero passed into the Great Beyond, and deep down in the traditions of Dartmouth and Exeter the name of Harry Hooper is indelibly written."

The game of football is growing old. The ranks of its heroes are being slowly but surely thinned. The players are retiring from the game of life; some old and some young. The list might go on indefinitely. There are many names that deserve mention. But this cannot be. The list of thoroughbreds is a long one. Yours must be a silent tribute.

Doctor Andrew J. McCosh, Ned Peace, Gus Holly, Dudley Riggs, Harry Brown, Symmes, Bill Black, Pringle Jones, Jerry McCauley, Jim Rhodes, Bill Swartz, Frank Peters, George Stillman, H. Schoellkopf, Wilson of the Navy and Byrne of the Army, Eddie Ward, Albert Rosengarten, McClung, Dudley and Matthews.

Richard Harding Davis and Matthew McClung were two Lehigh men whose position in the football world was most prominent. The esteem in which they are held by their Alma Mater is enduring. I had talked with Dick Davis when this book was in its infancy. He was very much interested and asked that I write him a letter outlining what I would like to have him send me. Just before he died I received this letter from him. I regret he did not live to tell the story he had in mind.



His interest in football had been a keen one. He was one of the leaders at Lehigh, who first organized that University's football team. He was a truly remarkable player. What he did in football is well known to men of his day. He loved the game; he wrote about the game; he did much to help the game.



CHAPTER XXIII

ALOHA

"Hail and Farewell," crowded by the Hawaiians into one pregnant word! Would that this message might mean as much in as little compass. I can promise only brevity and all that brevity means in so vast a matter as football to a man who would love nothing better than to talk on forever.

We know that football has really progressed and improved, and that the boys of to-day are putting football on a higher plane than it has ever been on before. We are a progressive, sporting public.

Gone are the old Fifth Avenue horse buses, that used to carry the men to the field of battle; gone, too, are the Fifth Avenue Hotel and the Hoffman House, with their recollections of great victories fittingly celebrated. The old water bucket and sponge, with which Trainer Jim Robinson used to rush upon the field to freshen up a tired player, are now things of the past. To-day we have the spectacle of Pooch Donovan giving the Harvard players water from individual sanitary drinking cups!

The old block game is no more. Heavy mass play has been opened up. To-day there is something for the public to see; something interesting to watch at every point; something significant in every move. As a result, greatly increased multitudes witness the game. No longer do football enthusiasts stand behind ropes on the side lines. The popularity of the game has made it necessary to build huge stadia for the sport, to take the place of the old wooden stands.

College games, for the most part, nowadays are played on college grounds. Accordingly the sport has been withdrawn from the miscellaneous multitude and confined to the field where it really belongs and the spirit of the game is now just what it should be—exclusively collegiate.

Best of all, the modern style of play has made the game more than ever a heroic see-saw, with one side uppermost for a time only to jar the very ground with the shock of its fall.

Yet, victorious or defeated, the spirit through it all is one of splendid and overflowing college enthusiasm. While there is abounding joy in an unforeseen or hard won victory there is also much that is inspirational in the sturdy, courageous, devoted support of college-mates in the hour of defeat.

Isaac H. Bromley, Yale '53, once summed up eloquently the spirit of college life and sport in the following words:

"These contests and these triumphs are not all there is of college life, but they are a not unimportant part of it. The best education, the most useful training, come not from the classroom and from books, but from the attrition of mind on mind, from the wholesome emulation engendered by a common aim and purpose, from the whetting of wits by good-natured rivalry, the inspiration of youthful enthusiasms, the blending together of all of us in undying love for our common Mother.

"As to the future: We may not expect this unbroken round of victories to go on forever; we shall need sometimes, more than the inspiration of victory, the discipline of defeat. And it will come some day. Our champions will not last forever. Some time Stagg must make his last home run, and Camp his final touchdown. Some day Bob Cook will 'hear the dip of the golden oars' and 'pass from sight with the boatman pale.'

"It would be too much to think that all their successors will equally succeed. It might be monotonous. But of one thing we may be assured—that whatever happens, we shall never fail to extend the meed of praise to the victors. We shall be hereafter, as in the past we have always been, as stout in adversity as we have been merry in sunshine."

* * * * *

"Then strip, lads, and to it Though sharp be the weather; And if, by mischance you should happen to fall There are worse things in life Than a tumble on heather And life is itself, but a game, of football."



[Transcriber's Note:

Many words in this text were inconsistently hyphenated or spelled, so I have normalized them. The majority are football terms that originally appeared inconsistently as "full-back," "fullback," and "full back," for example.]

THE END