Book: Football Days

W >> William H. Edwards >> Football Days




Paul Dashiell and Walter Camp are the only two survivors of the
original Rules Committee.


Dashiell's Reminiscences

"As an official, the first big game I umpired was in 1894 between Yale
and Princeton, following this with nine consecutive years of umpiring
the match," writes Dashiell. "After Harvard and Yale resumed relations,
I umpired their games for six years running. I officiated in practically
all the Harvard-Penn' games and Penn'-Cornell games during those years,
as well as many of the minor games, having had practically every
Saturday taken each fall during those twelve years, so I saw about all
the football there was. When I look back on those years and what they
taught me I feel that I'd not be without them for the world. They showed
so much human nature, so many hundreds of plucky things, mingled with a
lot of mean ones; such a show of manhood under pressure. I learned to
know so many wonderful chaps and some of my most valued friendships were
formed at those times. I liked the responsibility, too; although I knew
that from one game to another I was walking on ice so thin that one bad
mistake, however unintended, would break it.

"The rules were so incomplete that common sense was needed and,
frequently, interpretation was simply by mutual consent. Bitterness of
feeling between the big colleges made my duties all the harder. But it
was an untold satisfaction when I could feel that I had done well, and
as I said, the responsibility had its fascination and, in the main, was
a great satisfaction.

"And then came the inevitable, a foul seen only by me, which called for
an immediate penalty. This led to scathing criticism and accusations of
unfairness by many that did not understand the incident, altogether
leaving a sting that will go down with me to my grave in spite of my
happy recollections of the game. I had always taken a great pride in the
job, and in what the confidence of the big universities from one year to
another meant. I knew a little better than anybody else how
conscientiously I had tried to be fair and to use sense and judgment,
and the end of it all hurt a lot.

"One friendship was made in these years that has been worth more than
words can tell. I refer to that of Matthew McClung. To be known as a
co-official with McClung was a privilege that only those who knew him
can appreciate. I had known him before at Lehigh in his undergraduate
days, and had played on the same teams with him. In after years we were
officials together in a great many of the big games where feeling ran
high and manliness and fairness, as well as judgment, were often put to
a pretty severe test at short notice. Never was there a squarer
sportsman, or a fairer, more conscientious and efficient official; nor a
truer, more gallant type of real man than he. His early death took out
of the game a man of the kind we can ill afford to lose and no tribute
that I could pay him would be high enough.

"One night after a Yale-Harvard game at Cambridge, I was boarding the
midnight train for New York. The porter had my bag, and as we entered
the car, he confided in me, in an almost awestruck tone, that: 'Dad dere
gentlemin in de smokin' compartment am John L. Sullivan.'

"I crept into my berth, but next morning, in the washroom, I recognized
John L. as the only man left. He emerged from his basin and asked:

"'Were you at that football game yesterday?' and then 'Who won?'

"I told him, and by way of making conversation, asked him if he was
interested in all those outdoor games. But his voice dropped to the
sepulchral and confidential, as he said:

"'There's murder in that game!'

"I answered: 'Well! How about the fighting game?'

"He came back with: 'Sparring! It doesn't compare in roughness, or
danger, with football. In sparring you know what you are doing. You know
what your opponent is trying to do, and he's right there in front of
you, and, there's only one! But in football! Say, there's twenty-two
people trying to do you!'

"There being only twenty-one other than the player concerned, I could
not but infer that he meant to indicate the umpire as the
twenty-second."


My Personal Experiences

In my experience as an official I recall the fact that I began
officiating as a Referee, and had been engaged and notified in the
regular way to referee the Penn'-Harvard game on Franklin Field in 1905.
When I arrived at the field, McClung was the other official. He had
never umpired but had always acted as a Referee. In my opinion a man
should be either Referee or Umpire. Each position requires a different
kind of experience and I do not believe officials can successfully
interchange these positions. Those who have officiated can appreciate
the predicament I was in, especially just at that time when there was so
much talk of football reform, by means of changing the rules, changing
the style of the game, stopping mass plays. However, I consented; for
appreciating that McClung was sincere in his statement that he would do
nothing but referee, I was forced to accept the Umpire's task.

It was a game full of intense rivalry. The desire to win was carrying
the men beyond the bounds of an ordinarily spirited contest, and the
Umpire's job proved a most severe task. It was in this game that either
four or five men were disqualified.

I continued several years after this in the capacity of Umpire. One
unfortunate experience as Umpire came as a result of a penalty inflicted
upon Wauseka, an Indian player who had tackled too vigorously a Penn'
player who was out of bounds. Much wrangling ensued and a policeman was
called upon the field. It was the quickest way to keep the game from
getting out of hand.

Washington and Jefferson played the Indians at Pittsburgh some years
ago. I acted as Umpire. The game was played in a driving rain storm and
a muddier field I never saw. The players, as well as the officials, were
covered with mud. In fact my sweater was saturated, the players having
used it as a sort of towel to dry their hands. A kicked ball had been
fumbled on the goal line and there was a battle royal on the part of the
players to get the coveted ball. I dived into the scramble of wriggling,
mud-covered players to detect the man who might have the ball. The
stockings and jerseys of the players were so covered with mud that you
could not tell them apart. As I was forcing my way down into the mass of
players I heard a man shouting for dear life: "I'm an Indian! I'm an
Indian! It's my ball!"

When I finally got hold of the fellow with the ball I could not for the
life of me tell whether he was an Indian or not. However, I held up the
decision until some one got a bucket and sponge and the player's face
was mopped off, whereupon I saw that he was an Indian all right. He had
scored a touchdown for his team.

An official in the game is subject to all sorts of criticisms and abuse.
Sometimes they are humorous and others have a sting which is not readily
forgotten.

I admit, on account of my size, there were times in a game when I would
get in a player's way; sometimes in the spectators' way. During a
Yale-Harvard game, in which I was acting as an official, the play came
close to the side line, and I had taken my position directly between the
players and the spectators, when some kind friend from the bleachers
yelled out:

"Get off the field, how do you expect us to see the game?"

I shall never forget one poor little fellow who had recovered a fumbled
ball, while on top of him was a wriggling mass of players trying to get
the ball. As I slowly, but surely, forced my way down through the pile
of players I finally landed on top of him. I shall never forget how he
grunted and yelled, "Six or seven of you fellows get off of me."

It was in the same game that some man from the bleachers called out as I
was running up the field: "Here comes the Beef Trust."

There was a coach of a Southern college who tried to put over a new one
on me, when I caught him coaching from the side lines in a game with
Pennsylvania on Franklin Field. I first warned him, and when he
persisted in the offense, I put him behind the ropes, on a bench,
besides imposing the regular penalty. It was not long after this, that I
discovered he had left the bench. I found him again on the side line,
wearing a heavy ulster and change of hat to disguise himself, but this
quick change artist promptly got the gate.

I knew a player who had an opportunity to get back at an official, but
there was no rule to meet the situation. A penalty had been imposed,
because the player had used improper language. A heated argument
followed, and I am afraid the Umpire was guilty of a like offense, when
the player exclaimed:

"Well! Well! Why don't you penalize yourself?"

He surely was right. I should have been penalized.

One sometimes unconsciously fails to deal out a kindness for a courtesy
done. That was my experience in a Harvard-Yale game at Cambridge one
year. On the morning before the game, while I was at the Hotel Touraine,
I was making an earnest effort to get, what seemed almost impossible, a
seat for a friend of mine. I had finally purchased one for ten dollars,
and so made known the fact to two or three of my friends in the
corridor. About this time a tall, athletic, chap, who had heard that I
wanted an extra ticket, volunteered to get me one at the regular price,
which he succeeded in doing. I had no difficulty in returning my
speculator's ticket. I thanked the fellow cordially for getting me the
ticket. I did not see him again until late that afternoon when the game
was nearly over. Some rough work in one of the scrimmages compelled me
to withdraw one of the Harvard players from the game. As I walked with
him to the side lines, I glanced at his face, only to recognize my
friend--the ticket producer. The umpire's task then became harder than
ever, as I gave him a seat on the side line. That player was Vic
Kennard.

Evarts Wrenn, one of our foremost officials a few years ago, has had
some interesting experiences of his own.

"While umpiring a game between Michigan and Ohio State, at Columbus," he
says, "Heston, Michigan's fullback, carrying the ball, broke through the
line, was tackled and thrown; recovered his feet, started again, was
tackled and thrown again, threw off his tacklers only to be thrown
again. Again he broke away. All this time I was backing up in front of
the play. As Heston broke away from the last tacklers, I backed suddenly
into the outstretched arms of the Ohio State fullback, who, it appears,
had been backing up step by step with me. Heston ran thirty yards for a
touchdown. You can imagine how unpopular I was with the home team, and
how ridiculous my plight appeared.

"Another instance occurred in a Chicago-Cornell game at Marshall
Field," Wrenn goes on to say. "You know it always seems good to an
official to get through a game without having to make any disagreeable
decisions. I was congratulating myself on having got through this game
so fortunately. As I was hurrying off the field, I was stopped by the
little Cornell trainer, who had been very much in evidence on the side
lines during the game. He called to me.

"'Mr. Wrenn' (and I straightened, chucking out my chest and getting my
hand ready for congratulations). 'That was the ---- ---- piece of
umpiring I ever saw in my life.' I cannot describe my feelings. I was
standing there with my mouth open when he had got yards away."

Dan Hurley, who was captain of the 1904 Harvard team, writes me, as
follows:

"Football rules are changed from year to year. The causes of these
changes are usually new points which have arisen the year previous
during football games. A good many rules are interpreted according to
the judgment of each individual official. I remember two points that
arose in the Harvard-Penn' game in 1904, at Soldiers' Field. In this
year there was great rivalry between the players representing Harvard
and Pennsylvania. The contest was sharp and bitterly fought all the way
through. Both teams had complained frequently to Edwards, the Umpire.
Finally he caught two men red-handed, so to speak. There was no
argument. Both men admitted it. It so happened that both men were very
valuable to their respective teams. The loss of either man would be
greatly felt. Both captains cornered Edwards and both agreed that he was
perfectly right in his contention that both men should have to leave the
field, but--and it was this that caused the new rule to be enforced the
next year. Both captains suggested that they were perfectly willing for
both men to remain in the game despite the penalty, and with eager faces
both captains watched Edwards' face as he pondered whether he should or
should not permit them to remain in the game. He did, however, allow
both to play. Of course, this ruling was establishing a dangerous
precedent; therefore, the next year the Rules Committee incorporated a
new rule to the effect that two captains of opposing teams could not by
mutual agreement permit a player who ought to be removed for committing
a foul to remain in the game."

Bill Crowell of Swarthmore, later a coach at Lafayette, is another
official who has had curious experiences.

"In a Lehigh-Indian game a few years ago at South Bethlehem, in which I
was acting as referee," he says, "in the early part of the game Lehigh
held Carlisle for four downs inside of the three-yard line, and when on
the last try, Powell, the Indian back, failed to take it over, contrary
to the opinion of Warner, their coach. I called out, 'Lehigh's ball,'
and moved behind the Lehigh team which was forming to take the ball out
of danger. Just before the ball was snapped, and everything was quiet in
the stands, Warner called across the field:

"'Hey! Crowell! you're the best defensive man Lehigh's got.'"

Phil Draper, famous in Williams football, and without doubt one of the
greatest halfbacks that ever played, also served his time as an
official. He says:

"From my experience as an official, I believe that most of their
troubles come from the coaches. If things are not going as well with
their team as they ought to go, they have a tendency to blame it on the
officials in order to protect themselves."

"There was, in my playing days, as now, the usual controversy in
reference to the officials of the game," says Wyllys Terry, "and the
same controversies arose in those days in regard to the decisions which
were given. My sympathies have always been with the officials in the
game in all decisions that they have rendered. It is impossible for them
to see everything, but when they come to make a decision they are the
only ones that are on the spot and simply have to decide on what they
see at the moment.

"It is a difficult position. Thousands say you are right, thousands say
you are wrong--but my belief has always been that nine times out of ten
the official's decision is correct. It was my misfortune to officiate
in but one large game; that between Harvard and Princeton in the fall of
'87. This was the year that there was a great outcry regarding the
rules, particularly in reference to tackling. It was decided that a
tackle below the waist was a foul and the penalty was disqualification.
I was appointed Umpire in the Harvard-Princeton game of that year.
Before the game I called the teams together and told them what the
representatives of the three colleges had agreed upon. They had
authorized me to carry the rules out in strict accordance with their
instructions and I proposed to do so. In the early part of the game
there was a scrimmage on one side of the field and after the mass had
been cleared away, I heard somebody call for me. On looking around I
found that the call came from Holden, Captain of the Harvard team. He
called my attention to the fact that he was still being tackled and that
the man had both his arms around his knee, with his head resting on it.
He demanded, under the agreed interpretation of the rules, that the
tackle be decided a foul, and that the man be disqualified and sent from
the field. The question of intent was not allowed me, for I had to
decide on the facts as they presented themselves. The result was that
Cowan, one of the most powerful, and one of the best linemen that ever
stood on a football field, was disqualified. The Captain of the
Princeton team remarked at the time, 'I would rather have any three men
disqualified than Cowan.' As the game up to that time had been very
close, and the Princeton sympathizers were sure of victory, I believe I
was the most cordially hated ex-football player that ever existed.
Shortly after this the Harvard men had the Princeton team near their
goal line and in possession of the ball. Two linemen used their hands,
which on the offense is illegal, and made a hole through which the
Harvard halfback passed and crossed the line for a touchdown amid
tremendous cheers from the Harvard contingent. This touchdown was not
allowed by the Umpire. Again I was the most hated football man that
lived, so far as Harvard was concerned. The result was I had no friends
on either side of the field.

"After the game, in talking it over with Walter Camp, he assured me that
the decisions had been correct, but that he was very glad he had not had
to make them. In spite of these decisions, I was asked to umpire in a
number of big games the next year: but that one experience had been
enough for me. I never appeared again in that or any other official
capacity. I have been trying for the last thirty-two years to get back
the friends which, before that game, I had in both Princeton and Harvard
circles, with only a fair amount of success."

I have always considered it a great privilege to have been associated
as an official in the game with Pa Corbin. I know of no man that ever
worked as earnestly and intelligently to carry out his official duties,
and year after year he has kept up his interest in the game, not only as
a coach, but as a thoroughly competent official.

As a favorite with all colleges his services were eagerly sought. He
recollects the following:--

"The experience that made as much of an impression upon me as any, was
the game with Penn-Lafayette which came just after the experience of the
year before which developed so much rough play. The man agreed upon for
Umpire, did not appear, and after waiting a while the two captains came
to me and asked if I would umpire in addition to acting as referee. I
accused them of conspiracy to put me entirely out of business, but they
insisted and I reluctantly acquiesced. I told both teams that I would be
so busy that I would have no time for arguments or even investigation
and any move that seemed to me like roughness would be penalized to the
full extent of the rules regardless of whom he was or of how many. The
result was that it was one of the most decent games and in fact almost
gentlemanly that I have ever experienced."

Joe Pendleton has been an official for twenty years. He is an alert,
conscientious officer in the game. I have worked many times with Joe
and he is a very interesting partner in the official end of the game.

In the fall of 1915 Joe had a very severe illness and his absence from
the football field was deeply regretted.

Joe always wore his old Bowdoin sweater and when out upon the field, the
big B on the chest of Joe's white sweater almost covered him up.

"A few years ago I had occasion to remove a player from a game for a
foul play," says Joe, "and in a second the quarterback was telling me of
my mistake. 'Why, you can't put that man out,' he said, and when I
questioned him as to where he got such a mistaken idea, his reply was:

"'Why, he is our captain!'

"In another game after the umpire had disqualified a player for kicking
an opponent, the offending player appealed to me, basing his claim on
the ground that he had not kicked the man until after the whistle had
been blown and the play was over. Another man on the same team claimed
exemption from a penalty on the ground that he had slugged his opponent
while out of bounds. He actually believed that we could not penalize for
fouls off the playing field.

"The funniest appeal I ever had made to me was made by a player years
ago who asked that time be taken out in order that he might change a
perfectly good jersey for one of a different color. It seems he had lost
his jersey and had borrowed one from a player on the home team. When I
asked him why he wanted to change his jersey he replied:

"'Because my own team are kicking the stuffing out of me and I must get
a different colored jersey. At times my team mates take me for an
opponent.'

"In a game where it was necessary to caution the players against talking
too much to their opponents one particularly curious incident occurred.

"One team, in order to give one of the larger college elevens a stiff
practice game, had put in the field two or three ringers. The big
college team men were rather suspicious that their opponents were not
entirely made up of bona fide students. A big tackle on the larger team
made the following remark to a supposed ringer:

"'I'll bet you five to one you cannot name the president of your
college.' The answer came back, 'Well, old boy, perhaps I can't, but
perhaps I can show you how to play tackle and that's all I'm here for.'"

The Princeton-Yale game of 1915 was one of the most bitterly contested
in the history of football. Princeton was a strong favorite, but Yale
forced the fighting and had their opponents on the defensive almost from
the beginning. Princeton's chances were materially hurt by a number of
severe penalties which cost her considerably in excess of one hundred
yards. Each of the officials had a hand in the infliction of the
penalties, but the Referee, who happened to be Nate Tufts of Brown, had,
of course, to enforce them all by marking off the distance given to Yale
and putting the ball in the proper place.

In the evening after the game, a number of football officials and others
were dining in New York; in the party was a Princeton graduate, who was
introduced to Mr. Tufts, the Referee of the game of the afternoon. At
the introduction the Princeton man remarked that when he was a boy he
had read of Jesse James, the McCoy brothers, and other noted bandits and
train robbers, but that he took off his hat to Mr. Tufts as the king of
them all.

Okeson, a star player of Lehigh and prominent official, recalls this
game:

"In 1908 I umpired in a memorable game which took place at New Haven
between Yale and Princeton, which resulted in a victory for Yale, 12-10.
This was before any rule was inserted calling for the Referee to notify
the teams to appear on the field at the beginning of the second half. At
that time a ten-minute intermission was allowed between the halves. The
first half closed with the score 10-0 in favor of Princeton. At the end
of about seven minutes Mike Thompson, who was Referee, following the
custom that had grown up, although no rule required it, left the field
to notify the teams to return. When he came back I asked him if he had
found them, for on the old Yale Field it was something of a job to
locate the teams once they had passed through the gates. Mike said that
they were in the Field House on the other side of the baseball field and
that he had called in to them. The Princeton players appeared in a
minute or two, but no sign of Yale. Finally, getting suspicious, Mike
asked Bill Roper, who was head coach at Princeton that year, if the Yale
team had been in the Field House. The answer was 'No,' and we suddenly
woke up to the fact that although time for the intermission had ended
three or four minutes before, the Yale team was not notified, and
furthermore, no one knew where they were except that they were somewhere
under the stands. There were many gates and to leave by one to search
meant running a chance that the Yale team might appear almost
immediately through another and then the game be further delayed by the
absence of the Referee. This being the case, Mike had no choice but to
do as he did, namely, send messengers through all gates. One of these
messengers met the Yale team coming along under the stands. The coaches
had decided that time must be up, although none of them had kept a
record of it, and had started back finally without any notice. Eight
minutes over the legal ten had been taken before they appeared on the
field and Bill Roper was raging. As Yale won in the second half it was
only natural that we officials were greatly censored by Princeton, and
Yale did not escape criticism. Yet the whole thing came from the fact
that a custom had grown up of depending on the Referee to find and bring
the teams back to the field instead of each team either staying on the
field, or failing that, taking the responsibility on themselves of
getting back in time. Yale simply followed the usual custom and 'Mike'
was misled due to being told that both teams had gone to the Field House
by one of those ready volunteers who furnish information whether they
know anything about the subject in hand or not."

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