Book: Football Days

W >> William H. Edwards >> Football Days




One day, one play, often ruins a man's chances. I had played as a
regular in the first three games of the season. I was being tried out
and had been found wanting. I had proved a disappointment, and I knew
Cochran knew it and I knew the whole college would know it, but I made
up my mind to give the very best I had in me, and hoped to square myself
later and make the team. I knew what it was to be humiliated, taken out
of a game, and to realize that I had not stood the test. I began to
reason it out--maybe I was carried away with the fact of having played
on the varsity team--maybe I did not give my best. Anyway I learned
much that day. It was my first big lesson of failure in football. That
failure and its meaning lived with me.

I have always had great respect for Rinehart, and his great team mates.
Walbridge and Barclay were a great team in themselves, backed up by Bray
at fullback. It was this same team that, later in the fall, beat
Pennsylvania, without the services of Captain Walbridge, who had been
injured.

It was not long after this that Princeton played Cornell at Princeton. I
recall the day I first saw Joe Beacham, that popular son of Cornell, who
afterwards coached West Point. He is now in the regular army, stationed
at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. He was captain of the Cornell team in '96.
He had on his team the famous players, Dan Reed, on whom Cornell counts
much in these years to assist Al Sharpe in the coaching; Tom Fennel,
Taussig and Freeborn. With these stars assisting, Cornell could do
nothing with Princeton's great team and the score 37 to 0 tells the
tale.

I was not playing in this game, but recall the following incident. Joe
Beacham was making a flying run through the Princeton team. A very
pretty girl covered with furs, wearing the red and white of Cornell, was
enthusiastically yelling at the top of her voice "Go it, Joe! go it,
Joe!" much to the delight and admiration of the Princeton
undergraduates near her. Since then Joe has told me that it was his
sister. Maybe it was, but as Joe was rushing onward, with Dan Reed and
Tom Fennel interfering wonderfully for him, and urged on by his fond
admirer in the grandstand, his progress was rudely halted by the huge
form of Edwin Crowdis which appeared like a cloud on the horizon and
projected itself before the oncoming scoring machine of Cornell. When
they met, great was the crash, for Crowdis spilled the player, ball and
all. This was the time, the place, and the girl; and it meant that Edwin
Crowdis had made the Princeton Varsity team.

[Illustration:

Brink Thorne Hubby Bray Bishop Park Davis
Rowland Jones Walbridge Barclay Ziser Rinehart Herr Gates
Spear Best Weidenmeyer Hill Trexler

LAFAYETTE'S GREAT TEAM]

I realized it at the moment, and although I knew that it would probably
put me in the substitute ranks for the rest of the season, I was wild
with joy to see Edwin develop at this particular moment, and perform his
great play. His day had come, his was the reward, and Joe Beacham had
been laid low. As for the girl, she subsided abruptly, and is said to
have remarked, as Crowdis smashed the Cornell machine: "Well, I never
did like a fat man anyway!"

One day in a practice game, against the scrub, this year, Garry Cochran,
who was standing on the side lines resting from the result of an injury,
became so frantic over the poor showing of the varsity, pulled off his
sweater and jumped into the game in spite of the trainers' earnest
entreaty not to. He tried to instill a new spirit into the game. It was
one of those terrible Monday practice games, of which every football
player knows. The varsity could not make any substantial gains against
the second team, which was unusually strong that year, as most of the
varsity substitutes were playing. How frantic Bill Church was! He was
playing tackle alongside of Edwin Crowdis, against whom I was playing.
My chances of making the Varsity were getting slimmer. Very few practice
days were left before the men would be selected for the final game. I
was making the last earnest stand. The varsity line men were not opening
up the scrub line as easily as they desired, and we were all stopping up
the offensive play of the Varsity. I was going through very low and
tackling Crowdis around the legs, trying to carry him back into the
play. Church was very angry at my doing this, and told Crowdis to hit
me, if I did it again, but Edwin was a good-natured, clean player; in
fact, I doubt if he ever rough played any man. Finally, after several
plays, Church said, "If you don't hit him, I will," and he sure made
good his threat, for on the next play, when I was at the bottom of the
heap in the scrimmage, Church handed me one of those stiff "Bill Church
blows," emphasizing the tribute with his leather thumb protector. There
was a lively mixup and the scrub and Varsity had an open fight. All was
soon forgotten, but I still "wear an ear," the lobe of which is a
constant reminder of Bill Church's spirited play. Nothing ever stood in
Church's way; he was a hard player, and a powerful tackle.

Slowly but surely, Cochran's great team was perfecting itself into a
machine. The victory against Harvard at Cambridge was the team's worthy
reward for faithful service and attention given to the details of the
game.

As a reward for service rendered, the second team with the Varsity
substitutes were taken on the trip, and as we saw the great Princeton
team winning, every man was happy and proud of the joy and knowledge of
giving something material towards their winning. Sore legs, injuries and
mistakes were at such a time forgotten. All that was felt was the keen
sense of satisfaction that comes to men who have helped in the
construction.

Billie Bannard, aided by superb interference of Fred Smith, was able to
make himself the hero of that game by a forty-five yard run. Bill Church
the great tackle broke through the Harvard line and blocked Brown's
kick, and the ever-watchful end-rush, Howard Brokaw, fell on the ball
for a touchdown. Cochran had been injured and removed from the game, but
he was frantic with joy as he walked up and down the Princeton side
lines, urging further touchdowns.

A happy crowd of Princetonians wended their way back to Princeton to put
the finishing touches on the team before the Yale game. Those of you
who recall that '96 game in New York will remember that 6 to 0 in favor
of Yale was the score, at the end of the first five minutes. Jim Rodgers
had blocked Johnnie Baird's punt and Bass, the alert end-rush, had
pounced on the ball and was over for a touchdown in a moment. Great
groans went up from the Princeton grandstand. Could it be that this
great acknowledged champion team of Princeton was conceited,
over-trained and about to be defeated? Certainly not, for there arose
such a demonstration of team spirit and play as one seldom sees. On the
next kick-off Johnnie Baird caught the ball, and when he was about to be
tackled--in fact, was lying on the ground--he passed the ball to Fred
Smith, that great all-round Princeton athlete, who made the most
spectacular run of the day. Who will ever forget the wonderful line
plunging of Ad Kelly, the brilliant end running of Bill Bannard and the
great part all the other men of the team contributed towards Princeton's
success, and the score grew and grew by touchdown after touchdown, until
some one recalled that in this game, the team would say, "Well, we won't
give any signals; we'll just try a play through Captain Murphy." Maybe
this was the play that put Murphy out of the game. He played against
Bill Church, and that was enough exercise for any one man to encounter
in one afternoon. As Fred Murphy left the field everyone realized that
it was only his poor physical condition that caused him to give up the
game. Yale men recall, with great pride, how the year before Murphy had
put it all over Bill Church. During that game, however, Church's
physical condition was not what it should have been, and these two giant
tackles never had a chance to play against each other when they were
both in prime condition. Both these men were All American calibre.

Johnny Baird, Ad Kelly, Bannard, all made touchdowns and the two
successful freshmen who had made the team, Hillebrand and Wheeler, both
registered touchdowns against Yale. As the Yale team left the field,
they felt the sting of defeat, but there were men who were to have
revenge at New Haven the next year against Princeton, among whom were
Chadwick, Rodgers and Chamberlain. They were eager enough to get back at
us and the next year they surely did. But this was our year for victory
and celebration, and laurels were bestowed upon the victors. Garry
Cochran and his loyal team-mates were the lions of the day and hour.




CHAPTER III

ELBOW TO ELBOW


"I wonder where my shoes are?" "Who's got my trousers on?" "I wonder if
the tailor mended my jersey?" "What has become of my head-gear?" "I
wonder if the cobbler has put new cleats on my shoes?" "Somebody must
have my stockings on--these are too small." "What has become of my ankle
brace--can't seem to find it anywhere? I just laid it down here a minute
ago. I think that freshman pinched my sweater."

All of which is directed to no one in particular, and the Trainer, who
sits far off in a corner, blowing up a football for the afternoon
practice, smiles as the players are fishing for their clothes. Just then
the Captain, who has dressed earlier than the rest, and has had two or
three of the players out on the field for kicking practice, breaks in
upon the scene with the remark:

"Don't you fellows all know you're late? You ought to be dressed long
before this." Then follows the big scramble and soon everybody is out on
the field.

The Trainer is busy keeping his eye open for any man who is being
handled too strenuously in the practice. Quick starts are practiced,
individual training is indulged in. Kicking and receiving punts play
an important part in the preliminary work.

[Illustration: HOUSE IN DISORDER]

At Williams one afternoon, Fred Daly, former Yale Captain and coach at
Williams, in trying forward passes instructed his ends to catch them at
every angle and height. One man continually fumbled his attempt, just as
he thought he had it sure. He was a new man to Daly, and the latter
called out to him:

"What is your name?" Back came the reply, which almost broke up the
football practice for the day: "_Ketchum_ is my name."

Falling on the ball is one of the fundamentals in football. It is the
ground work that every player must learn. Frank Hinkey, that great Yale
Captain and player, was an artist in performing this fundamental.
Playing so wonderfully well the end-rush position, his alertness in
falling on the ball often meant much distance for Yale. He had wonderful
judgment in deciding whether to fall on the ball or pick it up.

One of the most important things in football is knowing how to tackle
properly. Some men take to it naturally and others only learn after
hard, strenuous practice.

In the old days men were taught to tackle by what is known as "live
tackling." I recall especially that earnest coach, Johnny Poe, whose
main object in football coaching was to see that the men tackled hard
and sure.

Poe, without any padding on at all, would let the men dive into him
running at full speed, and the men would throw him in a way that seemed
as though it would maim him for life. Some of the men weighed a hundred
pounds more than he did, but he would get up and, with a smile, say:

"Come on men, hit me harder; knock me out next time."

After the first two weeks of the season, Johnny Poe was a complete mass
of black and blue marks; and yet how wonderful and how self sacrificing
he was in his eagerness to make the Princeton players good tacklers.

But there are few men like Johnny Poe, who are willing to sacrifice
their own bodies for the instruction of others; and the next best
method, and one which does not injure the players so much, is tackling
the "dummy."

As we look at this picture of Howard Henry of Princeton tackling the
"dummy," we all remember when we were back in the game trying our very
best to put our shoulder into our opponent's knees and "hit him hard,
throw him, and hold him." Henry always got his man.

But the thrill of the game is not in tackling the dummy. The joy comes
in a game, when a man is coming through the line, or making a long run,
and you throw yourself at his knees, and get your tackle; then up and
ready for another.

I recall an experience I had at Princeton one year. When I went to
the Club House to get my uniform, which I wanted to wear in coaching, I
asked Keene Fitzpatrick, the Trainer, where my suit was. He said:

[Illustration: HIT YOUR MAN LOW]

"It's hanging outside."

I went outside of the dressing room but could see no suit anywhere. He
came out wearing a broad smile.

"No," he said, "it isn't out here, it's out there hanging in the air. We
made a dummy out of it."

And there before me I saw my old uniform stuffed with sawdust. I looked
at myself--in suspense.

After the men have been given the other preliminary work they are taken
to the charging board. The one shown here is used at Yale. It teaches
the men quick starting and the use of their hands. It trains them to
keep their eyes on the ball and impresses them with the fact that if
they start before the ball is put in play, a penalty will follow. A fast
charging line has its great value, and every coach is keen to have the
forwards move fast to clear the way.

Then after the individual coaching is over, the team runs through
signals, and the practice is on. Before very long the head coach
announces that practice is over, and the trainer yells:

"Everybody in on the jump," and you soon find yourself back in the
dressing room.

It does not take you long to get your clothes off and ready for the
bath. How well some of you will recall that after a hard practice you
were content to sit and rest awhile on the bench in the dressing-room.
It may be that, in removing your clothes, you favored an injured knee,
looked at a sprained ankle, or helped some fellow off with his jersey.

What is finer, after a hard day's practice, than to stand beneath a warm
shower and gradually let the water grow cold? Everything is lovely until
some rascal in the bunch throws a cold sponge on you and slaps you
across the back, or turns the cold water on, when you only want hot.

Then comes the dry-off and the rub-down, which seems to soothe all your
bruises. This picture of Pete Balliet standing on the end of a bench,
while Jack McMasters massages an injured knee may recall to many a
football player the day when the trainer was his best friend. From his
wonderful physique it is easy to believe that Balliet must have been the
great center-rush whom the heroes of years ago tell about.

Harry Brown, that great Princeton end-rush, is on the other end of the
bench, being taken care of by Bill Buss, a jovial old colored attendant,
who was for so many years a rubber at Princeton.

I know men who never enthuse over football, but just play from a sense
of college loyalty, and a fear of censure should they not play; who are
sorry that they were ever big or showed any football ability. College
sentiment will not allow a football man to remain idle.

[Illustration: REPAIRS]

I knew a man in college, who, on his way to the football field, said:

"Oh, how I hate to drag my body down to the Varsity field to-day to have
it battered and bruised!"

One does not always enthuse over the hard drudgery of practice. Those
that witness only the final games of the year, little realize the
gruesome task of preparedness. Every football player will acknowledge
that some day he has had these thoughts himself.

But suddenly the day comes when this discouraged player sees a light.
Perhaps he has developed a hidden power, or it may be that he has broken
through and made a clean tackle behind the line; perhaps he has made a
good run and received a compliment from the coach. It may be that his
side partner has given him a word of encouragement, which may have
instilled into him a new spirit, and, as a result, he has turned out to
be a real football player. He then forgets all the bruises and all the
hard knocks.

How true it is that in one play, or in a practice game, or in a contest
against an opposing college, a player has found himself. Do you players
of football remember the day you made the team, the day your chance came
and you took advantage of it? At such a time a player shows great
possibilities. He is told by the captain to report at the training house
for the Varsity signals. Who that has experienced the thrill of that
moment can ever forget it?

He earns his seat at the Varsity table. He is now on the Varsity squad.
He goes on, determined to play a better game, and realizes he must hold
his place at the training table by hard, conscientious work.

One is not unmindful of the traditions that are centered about the board
where so many heroes of the past have sat. You have a keen realization
of the fact that you are filling the seat of men who have gone before
you, and that you must make good, as they made good. Their spirit lives.

The training table is a great school for team spirit. To have a
successful team, any coach will tell you, there must be a brotherly
feeling among the members of the team. The men must chum together on and
off the field. Team work on the field is made much easier if there is
team work off the field.

I never hear the expression "team mates" used but I recall a certain
Princeton team, the captain of which was endowed with a wonderful power
of leadership. There was nothing the men would not do for him. Every man
on the team regarded him as a big brother. Yet there was one man on the
squad who seemed inclined to be alone. He had little to say, and when
his work was over on the field he always went silently away to his room.
He did not mingle with the other players in the club house after dinner,
and there did not seem to be much warmth in him.

Garry Cochran, the captain, took some of us into his confidence, and we
made it our business to draw this fellow out of his shell. It was not
long before we found that he was an entirely different sort of a person
from what he had seemed to be.

In a short time, the fellow who was unconsciously retarding good
fellowship among the members of the team was no longer a silent negative
individual, but was soon urging us on in a get-together spirit.

It will be impossible to relate all the good times had at a college
training table. I think that every football man will agree with me that
we now have a great deal of sympathy for the trainer, whereas in the old
days we roasted him when it seemed that dinner would never be ready.

How the hungry mob awaited the signal!

"The flag is down," as old Jim Robinson would say, and Arthur Poe would
yell:

"Fellows, the hash is ready."

Then the hungry crowd would scramble in for the big event of the day.
There awaited them all the delicacies of a trainer's menu; the food that
made touchdowns. If the service was slow, the good-natured trainer was
all at fault, and he too joined in the spirit of their criticism. If
the steak was especially tender, they would say it was tough. There was
much juggling of the portions distributed. Fred Daly recalls the first
week that he and Johnnie Kilpatrick were at the Yale training table. Kil
called for some chocolate, and Johnnie Mack, the trainer, yelled back:

"What do you think this is, anyway, a hospital?"

That started something for awhile in the way of jollying. Daly recalls
another incident, that happened often at Yale one year. It is about Bill
Goebel, who certainly could put the food away. After disposing of about
twelve plates of ice cream, which he had begged, borrowed or stolen, he
called one of the innocent waiters over to him and asked in a gentle
voice: "Say, George, what is the dessert for to-night?"

Then there comes the good-natured "joshing" of the fellow who has made a
fine play during the practice, or in the game of the day. One or two of
the fun makers rush around, put their hands on him and hold him tight
for fear he will not be able to contain himself on account of his
success of the day. This sort of jollification makes the fellow who has
made a bad play forget what he might have done, and he too becomes
buoyant amidst the good fellowship about him.

We all realize what a modest individual the trainer is. If in a
reminiscent mood to change the subject from football to himself, he
tells his "ever-on-to-him" admirers some of his achievements in the old
days there is immediately evidence of preparedness among the players, as
the following salute is given--with fists beating on the table in
unison--

[Illustration: THE OLD FAITHFULS]

"One, two, three! _Oh, what a gosh darn lie!_"

But deep in every man's heart, is the keen realization of the trainer's
value, and his eager effort for their success. His athletic achievements
and his record are well known, and appreciated by all. He is the pulse
of the team.

The scrub team at Princeton during my last year was captained by Pop
Jones, who was a martyr to the game. He was thoroughly reliable, and the
spirit he instilled into his team mates helped to make our year a
successful one. This picture will recall the long roll of silent heroes
in the game, whose joy seemed to be in giving; men who worked their
hearts out to see the Varsity improve; men who never got the great
rewards that come to the Varsity players, but received only the thrill
of doing something constructive. Their reward is in the victories of
others, for every man knows that it is a great scrub that makes a great
varsity. If, as you gaze at this picture of the scrub team, it stirs
your memory of the fellows who used to play against you, and, if, in
your heart you pay them a silent tribute, you will be giving them only
their just due. To the uncrowned heroes, who found no fame, the men
whose hearts were strong, but whose ambitions for a place on the Varsity
were never realized, we take off our hats.

The fiercest knocks that John DeWitt's team ever had at Princeton were
in practice against the scrub. It was in this year, on the last day of
practice, that the undergraduates marched in a body down the field,
singing and cheering, led by a band of music. Preliminary practice being
over, the scrub team retired to the Varsity field house, to await the
signal for the exhibition practice to be given on the Varsity field
before the undergraduates. A surprise had been promised.

While the Varsity team was awaiting the arrival of the scrub team, it
was officially announced that the Yale team would soon arrive upon the
field, and shortly after this, the scrub team appeared with white "Y's"
sewed on the front of their jerseys. The scrub players took the Yale
players' names, just as they were to play against Princeton on the
coming Saturday. There was much fun and enthusiasm, when the assumed
Hogan would be asked to gain through Cooney, or Bloomer would make a
run, and the make-believe Foster Rockwell would urge the pseudo Yale
team on to victory.

John DeWitt had more than one encounter that afternoon with Captain
Rafferty of Yale. After the practice ended all the players gathered
around the dummy, which had been very helpful in tackling practice.
This had been saturated with kerosene awaiting the final event of the
day. John DeWitt touched it off with a match, and the white "Y" which
illuminated the chest of the dummy was soon enveloped in flames. A
college tradition had been lived up to again, and when the team returned
victorious from New Haven that year, John DeWitt and his loyal team
mates never forgot those men and the events that helped to make victory
possible.




CHAPTER IV

MISTAKES IN THE GAME


Many a football player who reads this book will admit that there arises
in all of us a keen desire to go back into the game. It is not so much a
desire just to play in the game for the mere sake of playing as to
remedy the mistakes we all know we made in the past.

In our football recollections, the defeats we have experienced stand out
the most vividly. Sometimes they live on as nightmares through the
years. As we review the old days we realize that we did not always give
our best. If we could but go back and correct our faults many a defeat
might be turned into a victory.

We reflect that if we had trained a little harder, if we had been more
sincere in our work, paid better attention to the advice given us by the
men who knew, if we had mastered our positions better, it would have
been a different story on many occasions when defeat was our portion.

But that is now all behind us. The games are over. The scores will
always stand. Others have taken our places. We have had our day and
opportunity. In the words of Longfellow,

"The world belongs to those who come the last."

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