Football Days.
by William H. Edwards.
VITA LAMPADA
There"s a breathless hush in the Close to-night-- Ten to make and the match to win-- A b.u.mping pitch and a blinding light, An hour to play and the last man in.
And it"s not for the sake of a ribboned-coat Or the selfish hope of a season"s fame, But his captain"s hand on his shoulder smote, "Play up! play up! and play the game!"
The sand of the desert is sodden red-- Red with the wreck of a square that broke, The gatling jammed and the Colonel dead And the Regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed its banks, And England"s far, and honor a name-- But the voice of a school boy rallies the ranks, "Play up! play up! and play the game!"
This is the word that year by year While in her place the school is set Every one of the sons must hear, And none that hears it dares forget.
Thus they all with a joyful mind-- Bear their life like a torch in flame-- And failing, fling to the host behind, "Play up! play up! and play the game!"
GREETING
I value more highly than any other athletic gift I have ever received, the Princeton football championship banner that hangs on my wall. It was given to me by a friend who sent three boys to Princeton. It is a duplicate of the one that hangs in the trophy room of the gymnasium there.
How often have I gazed longingly at the names of my loyal team-mates inscribed upon it. Many times have I run over in my mind the part that each one played on the memorable occasion when that banner was won.
Memories cl.u.s.ter about that token that are dear and sacred to me.
I see before me not only the faces of my team, but the faces of men of other years and other universities who have contributed so much to the great game of football. I recall the preparatory school days and the part that football played in our school and college careers. Again I see the athletic fields and the dressing rooms. I hear the earnest pleading of the coaches.
I see the teams run out upon the field and hear the cheering throng. The coin is tossed in the air. The shrill blast of the referee"s whistle signals the game to start. The ball is kicked off, and the contest is on.
The thousands of spectators watch breathlessly. For the time the whole world is forgotten, except for the issue being fought out there before them.
But we are not dressed in football suits nowadays. We are on the side lines. We have a different part to play. Years have compelled a change.
In spirit, however, we are still "in the game."
It is to share these memories with all true lovers of football and to pay a tribute to the heroes of the gridiron who are no longer with us that I have undertaken this volume. Let us together retrace the days in which we lived: days of preparation, days of victory, and days of defeat. Let us also look into the faces of some of the football heroes of years ago, and recall the achievements that made them famous. And let us recall, too, the men of the years just past who have so n.o.bly upheld the traditions of the American game of football, and helped to place it on its present high plane.
William H. Edwards.
[Ill.u.s.tration: MY CORNER
"Fond memory sheds the light of other days around me."]
PROLOGUE
They say that no man ever made a successful football player who was lacking in any quality of imagination. If this be true, and time and again has it been proved, then there is no more fitting dedication to a book dealing with the gridiron heroes of the past than to a man like Johnny Poe. For football is the abandon of body and mind to the obsession of the spirit that knows no obstacle, counts no danger and for the time being is dull and callous to physical pain or exhaustion. It is a something that makes one see visions as Johnny saw them!
There is no sport in the world that brings out unselfishness as does this great gridiron game of ours. Every fall, second and scrub teams throughout the country sacrifice themselves only to let others enter the promised land of victory. It is a strange thing but one almost never hears any real football player criticise another"s making the team, either his own or an All America. Although the player in this sport appreciates the loyal support of the thousands on the stands, every man realizes that his checks on the Bank of Cheers can never be cashed unless there is a deposit of hard work and practice. Perhaps all this in an indistinct and indefinite way explains why football players, the country over, understand each other and that when the game is attacked for any reason they stand shoulder to shoulder in defence of what they know down in the bottom of their hearts has such an influence on character building. And there is no one better fitted to tell the story of this and of the gridiron heroes than Big Bill Edwards, known not only as a player but far and wide as one of the best officials that ever handled the game. "A square deal and no roughing" was his motto, and every one realized it and accepted every decision unquestioningly. His a.s.sociation with players in so many angles has given him a particular insight into the sport and has enabled him to tell this story as no one else could.
And what names to conjure with! The whistle blows and a shadowy host springs into action before one"s misty eyes--Alex Moffat, the star of kickers, Hector Cowan, Heffelfinger, Gordon Brown, Ma Newell, Truxton Hare, Gla.s.s, Neil Snow and Shevlin, giants of linemen. But I must stop before I trespa.s.s upon what Bill Edwards will do better. Here"s to them all--forty years of heroes!
Walter Camp.
[Ill.u.s.tration: WALTER CAMP
Yale"s Captain, "78-"79.]
FOOTBALL DAYS
CHAPTER I
PREP. SCHOOL DAYS
To every man there comes a moment that marks the turning point of his career. For me it was a certain Sat.u.r.day morning in the autumn of 1891.
As I look back upon it, across the years, I feel something of the same thrill that stirred my boyish blood that day and opened a door through which I looked into a new world.
I had just come to the city, a country boy, from my home in Lisle, N. Y., to attend the Horace Mann School. As I walked across Madison Square, I glanced toward the old Fifth Avenue Hotel, where my eyes fell upon the scene depicted in the accompanying picture. Almost before I was aware of it my curiosity led me to mingle with the crowd surging in and out of the hotel, and I learned by questioning the bystanders that it was the headquarters of the Yale team, which that afternoon was to play Princeton at the Polo Grounds. The players were about to leave the hotel for the field, and I hurried inside to catch a glimpse of them.
The air was charged with enthusiasm, and I soon caught the infection--although it was all new to me then--of the vital power of college spirit which later so completely dominated my life. I recall with vividness how I lingered and waited for something to happen. Men were standing in groups, and all eyes were centered upon the heroes of the team. Every one was talking football. Some of the names heard then have never been forgotten by me. There was the giant Heffelfinger whom every one seemed anxious to meet. I was told that he was the crack Yale guard. I looked at him, and, then and there, I joined the hero worshippers.
I also remember Lee McClung, the Yale captain, who seemed to realize the responsibilities that rested upon his shoulders. There was an air of restraint upon him. In later years he became Treasurer of the United States and his signature was upon the country"s currency. My most vivid recollection of him will be, however, as he stood there that day in the corridor of the famous old hotel, on the day of a great football conflict with Princeton. Then Sanford was pointed out to me, the Yale center-rush. I recall his eagerness to get out to the "bus" and to be on his way to the field. When the starting signal was given by the captain, Sanford"s huge form was in the front rank of the crowd that poured out upon the sidewalk.
The whole scene was intensely thrilling to me, and I did not leave until the last player had entered the "bus" and it drove off. Crowds of Yale men and spectators gave the players cheer after cheer as they rolled away. The flags with which the "bus" was decorated waved in the breeze, and I watched them with indescribable fascination until they were out of sight. The noise made by the Yale students I learned afterwards was college cheering, and college cheers once heard by a boy are never forgotten.
Many in that throng were going to the game. I could not go, but the scene that I had just witnessed gave me an inspiration. It stirred something within me, and down deep in my soul there was born a desire to go to college.
I made my way directly to the Y. M. C. A. gymnasium, then at the corner of Fourth Avenue and Twenty-third Street. Athletics had for me a greater attraction than ever before, and from that day I applied myself with increased enthusiasm to the work of the gymnasium.
The following autumn I entered St. John"s Military Academy at Manlius, N. Y., a short distance from my old home. I was only seventeen years of age and weighed 217 pounds.
Former Adjutant General William Verbeck--then Colonel Verbeck--was Head Master. Before I was fairly settled in my room, the Colonel had drafted me as a candidate for the football team. I wanted to try for the team, and was as eager to make it as he evidently was to have me make it. But I did not have any football togs, and the supply at the school did not contain any large enough.
So I had to have some built for me. The day they arrived, much to my disappointment, I found the trousers were made of white canvas. Their newness was appalling and I pictured myself in them with feelings of dismay. I robbed them of their whiteness that night by mopping up a lot of mud with them behind the gymnasium. When they had dried--by morning--they looked like a pair of real football trousers.
George Redington of Yale was our football coach. He was full of contagious fire. Redington seemed interested in me and gave me much individual coaching. Colonel Verbeck matched him in love of the game. He not only believed in athletics, but he played at end on the second team, and it was pretty difficult for the boys to get the best of him. They made an unusual effort to put the Colonel out of the plays, but, try as hard as they might, he generally came out on top. The result was a decided increase in the spirit of the game.
We had one of the best preparatory school teams in that locality, but owing to our distance from the larger preparatory schools, we were forced to play Syracuse, Hobart, Hamilton, Rochester, Colgate, and Cazenovia Seminary--all of whom we defeated. We also played against the Syracuse Athletic a.s.sociation, whose team was composed of professional athletes as well as former college players. Bert Hanson, who had been a great center at Yale, was one of this team.