Book: Football Days

W >> William H. Edwards >> Football Days




"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:

[Illustration: SNAPPING THE BALL WITH LEWIS]

[Illustration: "TWO INSEPARABLES"

Frank Hinkey and the Ball.]

"'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.

[Illustration: MARSHALL NEWELL]

"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.

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