Football Days Part 6

How wonderfully well McBride, the Yale captain, kicked that day! What a power he was on defence! I saw him do some wonderful work. It was after one of his long punts, which, with the wind in his favor, went about seventy yards, that Princeton caught the ball on the ten-yard line.

Wheeler dropped back to kick. The Yale line men were on their toes ready to break through and block the kick. The Yale stand was cheering them on. Stillman was the first man through. It seemed as if he were off-side. Wheeler delayed his kick, expecting that an off-side penalty would be given. When he did kick, it was too late, the ball was blocked and McBride fell on it behind the goal line, scoring a touchdown for Yale, and making the score 6 to 5 in favor of Princeton.

Believe me, the Yale spirit was running high. The men were playing like demons. Here was a team that was considered a defeated team before the game. Here were eleven men who had risen to the occasion and who were slowly, but surely, getting the best of the argument.

Gloom hung heavy over the Princeton stand. Defeat seemed inevitable. Of eleven players who started in the game on the Princeton side, eight had been incapacitated by injuries of one kind or another. Doc Hillebrand, the ever-reliable, All-American tackle, had been compelled to leave the game with a broken collar-bone just before McBride made his touchdown.

I remember well the play in which he was injured and I have resurrected a photograph that was snapped of the game at the moment that he was lying on the ground, knocked out.

[Ill.u.s.tration: HILLEBRAND'S LAST CHARGE]

b.u.mmie Booth, who had stood the strain of the contest wonderfully well, and had played a grand game against Hale, gave way to Horace Bannard, brother of Bill Bannard, the famous Princeton halfback of '98.

It was no wonder that Princeton was downcast when McBride scored the touchdown and the goal was about to be kicked.

Just then I saw a man in football togs come out from the side lines wearing a blue visor cap. He was to kick for the goal. It was an unusual spectacle on a football field. I rushed up to the referee, Ed Wrightington of Harvard, and called his attention to the man with the cap. I asked if that man was in the game.

"Why," he replied with a broad smile, "you ought to know him. He is the man you have been playing against all along, Gordon Brown. He only ran into the side lines to get a cap to shade his eyes."

I am frank to say that it was one on me, but the chagrin wore off when Brown missed the goal, which would have tied the final score, and robbed Princeton of the ultimate victory.

The tide of battle turned toward Yale. Al Sharpe kicked a goal from the field, from the forty-five yard line. It was a wonderful achievement.

It is true that circ.u.mstances later subst.i.tuted Arthur Poe for him as the hero of the game, but those who witnessed Sharpe's performance will never forget it. The laurels that he won by it were s.n.a.t.c.hed from him by Poe only in the last half-minute of play. The score was changed by Sharpe's goal from 6 to 5 in our favor to 10 to 6. Yale leading.

The half was over. The score was 10 to 6 against Princeton. Every Princeton player felt that there was still a real opportunity to win out. We were all optimistic. This optimism was increased by the appeals made to the men in the dressing room by the coaches. It was not long before the team was back on the field more determined than ever to carry the Yale ball back to Princeton.

The last half of this game is everlastingly impressed upon my memory.

Every man that played for Princeton, although eight of them were subst.i.tutes, played like a veteran. I shall ever treasure the memory of the loyal support that those men gave me as captain, and their response to my appeal to stand together and play not only for Princeton but for the injured men on the side-lines whose places they had taken.

The Yale team had also heard some words of football wisdom in their dressing room. Previous encounters with Princeton had taught them that the Tiger could also rally. They came on the field prepared to fight harder than ever. McBride and Brown were exhorting their men to do their utmost.

Princeton was out-rus.h.i.+ng Yale but not out-kicking them. Yale knew that as well as we did.

It was a Yale fumble that gave us the chance we were waiting for. Bill Roper, who had taken Lew Palmer's place at left end, had his eyes open.

He fell on the ball. Through his vigilance, Princeton got the chance to score. Now was our chance.

Time was pa.s.sing quickly. We all knew that something extraordinary would have to be done to win the day. It remained for Arthur Poe to crystallize this idea into action. It seemed an inspiration.

"We've got to kick," he said to me, "and I would like to try a goal from the field. We haven't got much time."

n.o.body appreciated the situation more than I did. I knew we would have to take a chance and there was no one I would have selected for the job quicker than Arthur Poe. How we needed a touchdown or a goal from the field!

Poe, Pell and myself were the three members of the original team left.

How the subst.i.tutes rallied with us and gave the perfect defence that made Poe's feat possible is a matter of history. As I looked around from my position to see that the defensive formation was right, I recall how small Arthur Poe looked there in the fullback position. Here was a man doing something we had never rehea.r.s.ed as a team. But safe and sure the pa.s.s went from Horace Bannard and as Biffy Lea remarked after the game, "when Arthur kicked the ball, it seemed to stay up in the air about twenty minutes."

Some people have said that I turned a somersault and landed on my ear, and collapsed. Anyhow, it all came our way at the end, the ball sailed over the cross bar. The score then was 11 to 10, and the Princeton stand let out a roar of triumph that could be heard way down in New Jersey.

There were but thirty-six seconds left for play. Yale made a splendid supreme effort to score further. But it was futile.

Crowds had left the field before Poe made his great goal kick. They had accepted a Yale victory as inevitable. Some say that bets were paid on the strength of this conviction. The Yale _News_, which went to press five minutes before the game ended, got out an edition stating that Yale had won. They had to change that story.

During the seconds preceding Poe's kick for a goal I had a queer obsession. It was a serious matter to me then. I can recall it now with amus.e.m.e.nt. "Big" was a prefix not of my own selection. I had never appreciated its justification, however, until that moment.

Horace Bannard was playing center. I had my left hand clasped under the elastic in his trouser leg, ready to form a barrier against the Yale forwards. Brown, Hale and McBride tried to break through to block the kick. I thought of a million things but most of all I was afraid of a blocked kick. To be frank, I was afraid I would block it--that Poe couldn't clear me, that he would kick the ball into me.

[Ill.u.s.tration: AL SHARPE'S GOAL]

I crouched as low as I could, and the more I worried the larger I seemed to be and I feared greatly for what might occur behind me. It seemed as if I were swelling up. But finally, as I realized that the ball had gone over me and was on its way to the goal, I breathed a sigh of relief and said,

"Thank G.o.d, it cleared!"

How eager we were to get that ball, the hard-earned prize, which now rests in the Princeton gymnasium, a companion ball to the one of the 1898 victory. Yes, it had all been accomplished, and we were happy. New Haven looked different to us. It was many years since Princeton had sent Yale down to defeat on Yale Field.

Victory made us forget the sadness of former defeats. It was a joyous crowd that rode back to the private cars. Varsity players and subst.i.tutes shared alike in the joy, which was unrestrained. We soon had our clothes changed, and were on our way to New York for the banquet and celebration of our victory.

Arthur Poe was the lion of the hour. No finer fellow ever received more just tribute.

It would take a separate volume to describe the incidents of that trip from New Haven to New York. Before it had ended we realized if we never had realized it before how sweet was victory, and how worth while the striving that brought it to us.

Suffice it to say that that Yale football was the most popular "pa.s.senger" on the train. Over and over we played the game and a million caresses were lavished upon the trophy.

This may seem an excess of sentiment to some, but those who have played football understand me. Looking back through the retrospect of seventeen years, I realize that I did not fully understand then the meaning of those happy moments. I now appreciate that it was simply the deep satisfaction that comes from having made good--the sense of real accomplishment.

Enthusiastic Princeton men were waiting for us at the Grand Central Station. They escorted us to the Murray Hill Hotel, and the wonderful banquet that awaited us. The spirit of the occasion will be understood by football players and enthusiasts who have enjoyed similar experiences.

The members of the team just sat and listened to speeches by the alumni and coaches. It all seemed too good to be true. When the gathering broke up, the players became members of different groups, who continued their celebration in the various ways provided by the hospitality of the great city.

[Ill.u.s.tration: TOUCHING THE MATCH TO VICTORY]

Hillebrand and I ended the night together. When we awoke in the morning, the Yale football was there between our pillows, the bandaged shoulder and collar-bone of Hillebrand nestling close to it.

Then came the home-going of the team to Princeton, and the huge bonfire that the whole university turned out to build. Some nearby wood yard was looking the next day for thirty-six cords of wood that had served as the foundation for the victorious blaze. It was learned afterward that the owner of the cord-wood had backed the team--so he had no regrets.

The team was driven up in buses from the station. It was a proud privilege to light the bonfire. Every man on the team had to make a speech and then we had a banquet at the Princeton Inn. Later in the year the team was banqueted by the alumni organizations around the country.

Every man had a peck of souvenirs--gold matchsafes, footb.a.l.l.s, and other things. Nothing was too good for the victors. Well, well, "To the victors belong the spoils." That is the verdict of history.

CHAPTER VI

HEROES OF THE PAST

THE EARLY DAYS

We treasure the memory of the good men who have gone before. This is true of the world's history, a nation's history, that of a state, and of a great university. Most true is it of the memory of men of heroic mold.

As schoolboys, our imaginations were fired by the records of the brilliant achievements of a Perry, a Decatur or a Paul Jones; and, as we grow older, we look back to those heroes of our boyhood days, and our hearts beat fast again as we recall their daring deeds and pay them tribute anew for the stout hearts, the splendid fighting stamina, and the unswerving integrity that made them great men in history.