Book: Football Days

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[Illustration: CRASH OF CONFLICT

When Charge Meets Charge.]




CHAPTER XXI

CRASH OF CONFLICT


The start of a football game is most exciting; not alone for the
players, but for the spectators as well. Every one is keyed up in
anticipation of the contest. The referee's whistle blows; the ball is
kicked off--the game has begun.

Opponents now meet face to face on the field of battle. What happens on
the gridiron is plainly seen by the spectators, but it is not possible
for them to hear the conversations which take place. There is much good
natured joshing between the players, which brings out the humorous as
well as the serious side of the contest. In a game, and during the hard
days of practice, many remarks are made which, if overheard, would give
the spectators an insight into the personal, human side of the sport.

It behooves every team to make the most of the first five minutes of
play. Every coach in the country will tell his team to get the charge on
their opponents from the start. A good start usually means a good
ending.

From the side lines we see the men put their shoulders to their work,
charging and pushing their opponents aside to make a hole in the line,
through which the man with the ball may gain his distance; or we may see
a man on the defensive, full of grim determination to meet the oncoming
charges of his opponent. As we glance at the accompanying picture of a
Yale-West Point game, we will observe the earnest effort that is being
made in the great game of football--the crash of conflict.

One particularly amusing story is told about a former Lehigh player in a
Princeton game several years ago.

"After the match had been in progress twenty minutes or more," says a
Princeton man who played, "we began to show a large number of bruises on
our faces. This was especially the case with House Janeway, whose
opponent, at tackle, was a big husky Lehigh player. Janeway finally
became suspicious of the big husky, whose arms often struck him during
the scrimmage.

"'What have you got on your arm?' shouted Janeway at his adversary.

"'Never you mind. I'm playing my game,' was the big tackle's retort.

"Janeway insisted that the game be stopped temporarily for an
inspection. The Lehigh tackle demurred. Hector Cowan, whose face had
suffered, backed up Janeway's demand.

"'Have you anything on your arm?' demanded the referee of the Lehigh
player.

"'My sleeve,' was the curt reply.

"'Well, turn up your sleeve then.'

"The big tackle was forced to comply with the official's request, and
disclosed a silver bracelet.

"'Either take that off or go out of the game,' was the referee's orders.

"'But I promised a girl friend that I would wear it through the match,'
protested Lehigh's tackle. 'I can't take it off. Don't you
understand--it was _wished_ on!'

"'Well! I "wish" it off,' the referee replied. 'This is no society
affair.'

"The big tackle objected to this, declaring he would sooner quit the
game than be disloyal to the girl.

"'Then you will quit,' was the command of the umpire, and the big tackle
left the field, a substitute taking his place."

Lueder, a Cornell tackle, one of the best in his day, mentions a
personal affair that occurred in the Penn game in 1900, between Blondy
Wallace and himself.

Blondy's friends when they read this will think he had an off day in his
general football courtesy. Lueder states:

"When I was trying to take advantage of my opponent, I was outwitted and
was told to play on the square. I took Wallace's advice and never played
a nicer game of football in my life. Just this little reprimand, from an
older player, taught me a lot of football."

In the Yale-Brown game, back in 1898, Richardson, that wonderful Brown
quarterback, received the ball on a double pass from Dave Fultz and ran
65-yards before he was downed by Charlie de Saulles, the Yale
quarterback, on Yale's 5-yard line. When Richardson got up, he turned to
de Saulles and said:

"You fool, why did you tackle me? I lost a chance to be a hero."

Yale, by the way, won that game by a score of 18 to 14.

Yost relates a humorous experience he had at Michigan in 1901, which was
his most successful season at that University.

"Buffalo University came to Michigan with a much-heralded team. They
were coached by a Dartmouth man and had not been scored upon. Buffalo
papers referred to Michigan as the Woolly Westerners, and the Buffalo
enthusiasts placed bets that Michigan would not score. The time
regulation of the game, two halves, was thirty-five minutes, without
intermission. At the end of the first half the score was 65 to 0. During
this time many substitutions had been made, some nineteen or twenty men,
so that every player Buffalo brought with them had at one time or
another participated in the game.

"The Buffalo coach came to me and said:

"'Yost, we will have to cut this next half short.'

"'Why?' I asked. Of course, I did not realize that every available man
he had with him was used up, but I felt rather liberal at that stage of
the game and said:

"'Let them rest fifteen or twenty minutes for the intermission, and then
use them over again; use them as often as you like. I don't care.'

"About fifteen minutes after the second half had started, I discovered
on Michigan's side of the field, covered up in a blanket, a big fellow
named Simpson, one of the Buffalo players. I was naturally curious, and
said:

"'Simpson, what are you doing over here? You are on the wrong side.'

"'Don't say anything,' came the quick response, 'I know where I am at.
The coach has put me in three times already and I'm not going in there
again. Enough is enough for any one. _I've had mine._'

"The score was then 120 to 0, in favor of Michigan, and the Buffalo team
quit fifteen minutes before the game should have ended.

"It may be interesting to note that from this experience of Buffalo with
Michigan the expression, 'I've got you Buffaloed,' is said to have
originated, and to-day Michigan players use it as a fighting word."

Yost smiled triumphantly as he related the following:

"The day we played the Michigan Agricultural College we, of course, were
at our best. The M. A. C. was taken on as a preliminary game, which was
to be two twenty-minute halves.

"At the beginning of the second half the score was 118 to 0, in favor of
Michigan.

"At this time, a big husky tackle, after a very severe scrimmage had
taken place, stood up, took off his head gear, threw it across the field
and started for the side line, passing near where I was standing, when I
yelled at him:

"'The game is not over yet. Go back.'

"'Oh,' he said, 'we came down here to get some experience. I've had all
I want. Let the other fellows stay, if they want to; me for the dressing
room.'

"And when this fellow quit, all the other M. A. C. players stopped, and
the game ended right there. There were but four minutes left to play."

Somebody circulated a rumor that Yost had made the statement that
Michigan would beat Iowa one year 80 to 0. Of course, this rumor came
out in the papers on the day of the game, but Yost says:

"I never really said any such thing. However, we did beat them 107 to 0,
whereupon some fellow from Iowa sent me a telegram, after the game,
which read: 'Ain't it awful. Box their remains and send them home.'"

In Tom Shevlin's year at Yale, 1902, Mike Sweeney, his old trainer and
coach at Hill School, was in New Haven watching practice for about four
days before the first game. Practice that day was a sort of survival of
the fittest, for they were weeding out the backs, who were doing the
catching. About five backs were knocked out. A couple had been carried
off, with twisted knees, and still the coaches were trying for more
speed and diving tackles.

Tom had just obliterated a 150-pound halfback, who had lost the ball,
the use of his legs and his Varsity aspirations altogether. Stopped by
Sweeney, on his way back up the field, Tom remarked:

"Mike, this isn't football. It's war."

A Brown man tells the following interesting story:

"In a game that we were playing with some small college back in 1906 out
on Andrews Field, Brown had been continually hammering one tackle for
big gains. The ball was in the middle of the field and time had been
taken out for some reason or other. Huggins and Robby were standing on
the side lines, and just as play was about to be resumed, Robby noticed
that the end on the opposing team was playing out about fifteen feet
from his tackle, and was standing near us, when Robby said to him:

"'What's the idea? Why don't you get in there where you belong?'

"The end's reply was:

"'I'm wise. Do you think I'm a fool? I don't want to be killed.'"

During a scrub game, the year that Brown had the team that trimmed Yale
21 to 0, Huggins says:

"Goldberg, a big guard who, at that time, was playing on the second
eleven, kept holding Brent Smith's foot. Brent was a tackle; one of the
best, by the way, that we ever had here at Brown. Smith complained to
the coaches, who told him not to bother, but to get back into the game
and play football. This he did, but before he settled down to business,
he said to Goldberg:

"'If you hold my foot again, I'll kick you in the face.'

"About two plays had been run off, when Smith once more shouted:

"'He's holding me.' Robby went in back of him and said:

"'Why didn't you kick him?'

"'Kick him!' replied Brent. 'He held _both_ my feet!'"

Hardwick recalls another incident that has its share of humor, which
occurred in the Yale bowl on the day of its christening.

"Yale was far behind--some thirty points--playing rather raggedly. They
had possession of the ball on Harvard's 1-yard line and were attempting
a strong rushing attack in anticipation of a touchdown. They were
meeting with little or no success in penetrating Pennock and Trumbull,
backed by Bradlee. And on the third down they were one yard farther away
from the goal than at the start. They attempted another plunge on
tackle, and were using that uncertain form of offense, the direct pass.
The center was a trifle mixed and passed to the wrong man, with the
result that Yale recovered the ball on Harvard's 25-yard line. Wilson,
then a quarter for Yale, turned to his center and asked him sharply:

"'Why don't you keep track of the signals?'

"In a flash, the center rush turned and replied:

"'How do you expect me to keep track of signals, when I can hardly keep
track of the touchdowns.'"

Brown University was playing the Carlisle Indians some ten years ago at
the Polo Grounds at New York City. Bemus Pierce, the Indian captain,
called time just as a play was about to be run off, and the Brown team
continued in line, while Hawley Pierce, his brother, a tackle on the
Indian team, complained, in an audible voice, that some one on the Brown
team had been slugging him. Bemus walked over to the Brown line with his
brother, saying to him:

"Pick out the man who did it."

Hawley Pierce looked the Brunonians over, but could not decide which
player had been guilty of the rough work. By this time, the two minutes
were up, and the officials ordered play resumed. Bemus shouted to
Hawley:

"Now keep your eyes open and find out who it was. Show him to me, and
after the game I'll take care of him properly."

It is interesting to note that Bemus only weighed 230 pounds and his
little brother tipped the scale at 210 pounds.

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:

[Illustration: AINSWORTH, YALE'S TERROR IN AN UPHILL GAME]

"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!'

[Illustration: TWO TO ONE HE GETS AWAY

Brickley Being Tackled by Wilson and Avery.]

"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.

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