Coming now to more recent times, the coaching was turned over to H. M.
Nelly, a.s.sisted by Joseph W. Beacham, fresh from chasing the little brown brother in the Philippines. Beacham had made a great reputation at Cornell, and there was evidence that he had kept up with the game at least in the matter of strategic possibilities, even while in the tangled jungle of Luzon. He brought with him even more than that--an uncanny ability to see through the machinery of the team and pick out its human qualities, upon which he never neglected to play. There have been few coaches closer to his men than Joe.
Whenever I talk football with Joe Beacham he never forgets to mention Vaughn Cooper, to whom he gives a large share of the credit for the good work of his elevens. Cooper was of the quiet type, whose specialty was defense. These two made a great team.
It was in this period that West Point saw the development of one of its greatest field generals. There was nothing impressive in the physical appearance of little H. L. Hyatt. A reasonably good man, ball in hand, his greatest value lay in his head work. As the West Point trainer said one day: "I"ve got him all bandaged up like a leg in a puttee, but from the neck up he"s a piece of ice." The charts of games in which Hyatt ran the team are set before the squad each year as examples, not merely of perfect generalship, but of the proper time to violate that generalship and make it go, a distinction shared by Prichard, who followed in his footsteps with added touches of his own.
One cannot mention Prichard"s name without thinking at once of Merillat, who, with Prichard, formed one of the finest forward pa.s.sing combinations the game has seen. Both at Franklin Field and at the Polo Grounds this pair brought woe to the Navy.
These stars had able a.s.sistance in the persons of McEwan, one of the greatest centers the game has seen and who was chosen to lead the team in 1916, Weyand, Neyland and O"Hare, among the forwards, and the brilliant and st.u.r.dy Oliphant in the backfield, the man whose slashing play against the Navy in 1915 will never be forgotten. Oliphant was of a most unusual type. Even when he was doing the heaviest damage to the Navy Corps the midshipmen could not but admire his wonderful work.
What the Hustlers are to Annapolis the Cullom Hall team is to West Point. It is made up of the leftovers from the first squad and subst.i.tutes. One would travel far afield in search of a team with more spirit and greater pep in action, whether playing in outside games, or as their coach would put it, "showing up" the first Eleven. Not infrequently a player of the highest caliber is developed in this squad and taken to the first eleven.
The Cullom Hall squad, whose eleven generally manages to clean up some of the strongest school teams of the Hudson Valley, draws not a little of its spirit, I think, from the late Lieutenant E. M. Zell, better known at the Academy as "Jobey." It was a treat to see the Cullom Hall team marching down the field against the first Eleven with the roly-poly figure of Jobey in the thick of every scrimmage, coaching at the top of his lungs, even when bowled over by the interference of his own pupils.
Since his time the squad has been turned over to Lieutenants Sellack and Crawford, who have kept alive the traditions and the playing spirit of this unique organization.
Their reward for the bruising, hard work, with hardly a shadow of the hope of getting their letter, comes in seeing the great game itself.
Like the college scrub teams the hardest rooters for the Varsity are to be found in their ranks.
Now for the game itself. Always hard fought, always well fought, there is perhaps no clash of all the year that so wakes the interest of the general public, that vast throng which, without college affiliations, is nevertheless hungry for the right of allegiance somewhere, somehow.
While the Service Elevens are superbly supported by the men who have been through the exacting mill at West Point and Annapolis--their sweethearts and wives, not to mention sisters, cousins, uncles and aunts--they are urged on to battle by that great impartial public which believes that in a sense these two teams belong to it. It is not uncommon to find men who have had no connection with either academy in hot argument as to the relative merits of the teams.
Once in the stands some apparently trifling thing begets a partisanship that this cla.s.s of spectator is wont to wonder at after it is all over.
Whether in Philadelphia in the earlier history of these contests on neutral ground, or in New York, Army and Navy Day has become by tacit consent the nearest thing to a real gridiron holiday. For the civilian who has been starved for thrilling action and the chance to cheer through the autumn days, the jam at the hotels used as headquarters by the followers of the two elevens satisfies a yearning that he has. .h.i.therto been unable to define. There too, is found a host of old-time college football men and coaches who hold reunion and sometimes even bury hatchets. Making his way through the crowds and jogging elbows with the heroes of a sport that he understands only as organized combat he becomes obsessed with the spirit of the two fighting inst.i.tutions.
Once in possession of the coveted ticket he hies himself to the field as early as possible, if he is wise, in order to enjoy the preliminaries which are unlike those at any other game. Soon his heart beats faster, attuned to the sound of tramping feet without the gates. The measured cadence swells, draws nearer, and the thousands rise as one, when first the long gray column and then the solid ranks of blue swing out upon the field. The precision of the thing, the realization that order and system can go so far as to hold in check to the last moment the enthusiasms of these youngsters thrills him to the core. Then suddenly gray ranks and blue alike break for the stands, there to cut loose such a volume of now orderly, now merely frenzied noise as never before smote his ears.
It is inspiration and it is novelty. The time, the place and the men that wake the loyalty dormant in every man which, sad to say, so seldom has a chance of expression.
Around the field are ranged diplomat, dignitary of whatsoever rank, both native and foreign. In common with those who came to see, as well as to be seen--and who does not boast of having been to the Army-Navy game--they rise uncovered as the only official non-partisan of football history enters the gates--the President of the United States. Throughout one half of the game he lends his support to one Academy and in the intermission makes triumphal progress across the field, welcomed on his arrival by a din of shouting surpa.s.sing all previous effort, there to support their side.
[Ill.u.s.tration: CADETS AND MIDDIES ENTERING THE FIELD]
It is perhaps one of those blessed hours in the life of a man upon whom the white light so pitilessly beats, when he can indulge in the popular sport, to him so long denied, of being merely human.
Men, methods, moods pa.s.s on. The years roll by, taking toll of every one of us from highest to lowest. Yet, whether we are absorbed in the game of games, or whether we look upon it as so many needs must merely as a spectacle, the Army-Navy game will remain a milestone never to be uprooted. I have spoken elsewhere and at length of football traditions.
The Army-Navy game is not merely a football tradition but an American inst.i.tution. It is for all the people every time.
May this great game go on forever, serene in its power to bring out the best that is in us, and when the Great Bugler sounds the silver-sweet call of taps for all too many, there will still be those who in their turn will answer the call of reveille to carry on the traditions of the great day that was ours.
CHAPTER XIII
HARD LUCK IN THE GAME
It is as true in football, as it is in life, that we have no use for a quitter. The man who shirks in time of need--indeed there is no part in this chapter or in this book for such a man. Football was never made for him. He is soon discovered and relegated to the side line. He is hounded throughout his college career, and afterwards he is known as a man who was yellow. As Garry Cochran used to say:
"If I find any man on my football squad showing a white feather, I"ll have him hounded out of college."
Football is a game for the man who has nerve, and when put to the test, under severe handicap, proves his sterling worth.
A man has to be game in spirit. A man has to give every inch there is in him. Optimism should surround him. There is much to be gained by hearty co-operation of spirit. There is much in the thought that you believe your team is going to win; that the opposing team cannot beat you; that if your opponent wins, it is going to be over your dead body. This sort of spirit is contagious, and generally pa.s.ses from one to the other, until you have a wonderful team spirit, and eleven men are found fighting like demons for victory. Such a spirit generally means a victory, and so gets its reward. There must be no dissenting spirit. If there is such a spirit discernible, it should be weeded out immediately.
Some years ago the Princeton players were going to the field house to dress for the Harvard game. The captain and two of the players were walking ahead of the rest of the members of the team. The game was under discussion, when the captain overheard one of the players behind him remark:
"I believe Harvard will win to-day."
Shocked by this remark, the captain, who was one of those thoroughbreds who never saw anything but victory ahead, full of hope and confidence in his team, turned and discovered that the remark came from one of his regular players. Addressing him, he said:
"Well! If you feel that way about it, you need not even put on your suit. I have a subst.i.tute, who is game to the core. He will take your place."
It is true that teams have been ruined where the men lack the great quality of optimism in football. When a man gets in a tight place, when the odds are all against him, there comes to him an amazing superhuman strength, which enables him to work out wonders. At such a time men have been known to do what seemed almost impossible.
I recall being out in the country in my younger days and seeing a man, who had become irrational, near the roadside, where some heavy logs were piled. This man, who ordinarily was only a man of medium strength, was picking up one end of a log and tossing it around--a log, which, ordinarily, would have taken three men to lift. In the bewildering and exciting problems of football, there are instances similar to this, where a small man on one team, lined up against a giant in the opposing rush line, and game though handicapped in weight there comes to him at such a time a certain added strength, by which he was able to handle successfully the duty which presented itself to him.
I have found it to be the rule rather than the exception, that the big man in football did not give me the most trouble; it was the man much smaller than myself. Other big linemen have found it to be true. Many a small man has made a big man look ridiculous.
Bill Caldwell, who used to weigh over 200 pounds when he played guard on the Cornell team some years ago, has this to say:
"I want to pay a tribute to a young man who gave me my worst seventy minutes on the football field. His name was Payne. He played left guard for Lehigh. He weighed about 145 pounds; was of slight build and seemed to have a sort of sickly pallor. I have never seen him since, but I take this occasion to say this was the greatest little guard I ever met. At least he was great that day. Payne had been playing back of the line during part of the season, but was put in at guard against me. I had a hunch that he was going to bite me in the ankle, when he lined up the first time, for he bristled up and tore into me like a wild cat. I have met a goodish few guards in my day, and was accustomed to almost any form of warfare, but this Payne went around me, like a cooper around a barrel, and broke through the line and downed the runners in their tracks. On plunges straight at him, he went to the mat and grabbed every leg in sight and hung on for dear life. He darted through between my legs; would vault over me; what he did to me was a shame. He was not rough, but was just the opposite. I never laid a hand on him all the afternoon. He would make a world beater in the game as it is played to-day."
Whenever Brown University men get together and speak of their wonderful quarterbacks, the names of Sprackling and Crowther are always mentioned.
Both of these men were All-American quarterbacks. Crowther filled the position after Sprackling graduated. He weighed only 134 pounds, but he gave everything he had in him--game, though handicapped in weight. In the Harvard game of that year, about the middle of the second half, Haughton sent word over to Robinson, the Brown coach, that he ought to take the little fellow out; that he was too small to play football, and was in danger of being seriously injured. Crowther, however, was like an India-rubber ball and not once during the season had he received any sort of injury. Robby told Crowther what Haughton had suggested, and smiling, the latter said:
"Tell him not to worry about me; better look out for himself."
On the next play Crowther took the ball and went around Harvard"s end for forty yards, scoring a touchdown. After he had kicked the goal, the little fellow came over to the side line, and said to Robby:
"Send word over to Haughton and ask him how he likes that. Ask him if he thinks I"m all in? Perhaps he would like to have me quit now."
In the Yale game that year Crowther was tackled by Pendleton, one of the big Yale guards. It so happened that Pendleton was injured several times when he tackled Crowther and time had to be taken out. Finally the big fellow was obliged to quit, and as he was led off the field, Crowther hurried over to him, reaching up, placed his hands on his shoulder and said:
"Sorry, old man! I didn"t mean to hurt you." Pendleton, who weighed well over 200 pounds, looked down upon the little fellow, but said never a word.
It is most unpleasant to play in a game where a man is injured. Yet still more distressing when you realize that you yourself injured another player, especially one of your own team mates.
In the Brown game of 1898, at Providence, Bosey Reiter, Princeton"s star halfback, made a flying tackle of a Brown runner. The latter was struggling hard, trying his best to get away from Reiter. At this moment I was coming along and threw myself upon the Brown man to prevent his advancing further. In the mixup my weight struck Bosey and fractured his collar-bone. It was a severe loss to the team, and only one who has had a similar experience can appreciate my feelings, as well as the team"s, on the journey back to Princeton.
We were to play Yale the following Sat.u.r.day at Princeton. I knew Reiter"s injury was so serious that he could not possibly play in that game.
The following Sat.u.r.day, as that great football warrior lay in his bed at the infirmary, the whistle blew for the start of the Yale game. We all realized Reiter was not there: not even on the side lines, and Arthur Poe said, at the start of the game:
"Play for Bosey Reiter. He can"t play for himself to-day."
This spurred us on to better team work and to victory. The attendants at the hospital told us later that they never had had such a lively patient. He kept things stirring from start to finish of the gridiron battle. As the reports of the game were brought to him, he joined in the thrill of the play.