Book: Football Days

W >> William H. Edwards >> Football Days




"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.

[Illustration:

Johnson Edgar Allen
Arthur Nelson Gresham Johnny

THE POE FAMILY]

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.

[Illustration: JUST BOYS]

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.

[Illustration: HOBEY BAKER WALTER CAMP, JR. SNAKE AMES, JR.]

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.

[Illustration: THE ELECT]

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.

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.