MEN WHO COACHED

The picture on the opposite page will recall to mind many a serious moment in the career of men who coached; when something had gone wrong; when some player had not come up to expectation; when a combination of poor judgment and ill luck was threatening to throw away the results of a season's work. Such scenes are never photographed, but they are preserved no less indelibly in the minds of all who have played this rÔle.

Where is the old football player, who, gazing at this picture, will not be carried back to those days that will never come again; hours when you listened perhaps guiltily to the stinging words of the coach; moments when spurred on by the thunder and lightning of his wrath you could hardly wait to get out upon the field to grapple with your opponents. At such times, all that was worth while seemed to surge up within you, fiercely demanding a chance, while if you were a coach you yearned to get into the game, only to realize as the team trotted out on the field that yours was no longer a playing part. All you could expect henceforth would be to walk nervously up and down the side line with chills and thrills alternating along your spine.

There were no coaches in the old days. Football history relates that in the beginning fellows who wanted fun and exercise would chip in and buy a leather cover for a beef bladder. It was necessary to have a supply of these bladders on hand, for stout kicks frequently burst them.

In those days the ball was tossed up in the air and all hands rushed for it. There was no organization then, very few rules, and the football players developed themselves.

To-day the old-time player stands on the side lines and hears the coach yelling:

"Play hard! Fall on the ball! Tackle low! Start quick! Charge hard and fast!"

As far as the fundamentals go, the game seems to him much the same, but when he begins to recollect he sees how far it has really progressed. He recalls how the football coach became a reality and how a teacher of football appeared upon the gridiron.

Better coaching systems were installed as football progressed. Rules were expanded, trainers crept in, intercollegiate games were scheduled and competition and keen rivalry developed everywhere. In fact, the desire to win has become so firmly established in the minds of college men that we now have a finished product in our great American game of football—wonderfully attractive, but very expensive.

Competition has grown to such an extent that our coaching systems of to-day resemble, in a way, the plans for national preparedness—costly, but apparently necessary. All this means that the American football man, like the American captain of industry, or the American pioneer in any field of activity, is never content to stand still. His motto is, "Ever Onward."

It is not always the star player that makes the greatest coach. The mediocre man is quite likely to have absorbed as much football teaching ability as the star; and when his opportunity comes to coach, he sometimes gets more out of the men than the man with the big reputation.

Personality counts in coaching. In addition to a coach's keen sense of football, there must be a strong personality around which the players may rally. All this inspires confidence.

It is a joy for a coach to work with good material—the real foundation of success. The rules of to-day, however, give what, under old standards, was the weaker team a much broader opportunity for victory over physically larger and stronger opponents.

But there are days nevertheless when every coach gets discouraged; times when there is no response from the men he is coaching—when their slowness of mind and body seem to justify the despair of Charlie Daly who said to his team:

"You fellows are made of crockery from the neck down and ivory from the neck up."

Football is fickle. To-day you may be a hero. After the last game you may be carried off on the shoulders of enthusiastic admirers and dined and wined by hosts of friends; but across the field there is a grim faced coach who may already be scheming out a play for next year which will snatch you back from the "Hall of Fame" and make your friends describe you sadly as a "back-number."

Haughton arrived at Harvard at the psychological moment. Harvard had passed through many distressing years playing for the football supremacy. He found something to build upon, because, although the game at Cambridge was in the doldrums, there had been keen and capable coaching in the past.

Prominent among those who have worked hard for Harvard and whose work has been more than welcome, are Arthur Cumnock, that brilliant end rush, George Stewart, Doctor William A. Brooks, a former Harvard captain, Lewis, Upton, John Cranston, Deland, Hallowell, Thatcher, Forbes, Waters, Newell, Dibblee, Bill Reid, Mike Farley, Josh Crane, Charlie Daly, Pot Graves, Leo Leary, and others well versed in the game of football.

Haughton had had some experience not only in coaching at Cambridge but coaching at Cornell, and the Harvard football authorities realized that of all the Harvard graduates Haughton would probably be the best man to turn the tide in Harvard football.

Percy, who played tackle on a winning Crimson eleven, and Sam Felton will be well remembered as the fastest punters of their day.

The first Harvard team coached by Haughton defeated Yale. It was in 1908 when Haughton used a spectacular method, when he rushed Vic Kennard into the Crimson backfield after Ver Wiebe had brought the ball up the field where Haughton's craft sent Vic Kennard in to make the winning three points and Kennard himself will tell the story of that game. The next year Percy Haughton's team could not defeat the great Ted Coy, who kicked two goals from the field.

The performance of the Harvard 1908 team was the more remarkable because Burr, who was the captain and the great punter at that time, had been injured and the team was without his services. How well I remember him on the side lines keenly following the play, but brilliant in his self-denial.

There have been times when victories did not come to Harvard with the regularity that they have under the Haughton rÉgime, but the scales go up and down year by year, game by game, and from defeats we learn much.

Let us read what this premier coach says upon reflection:

"Surely the game of football brings out the best there is in one. Aside from the mental and physical exercise, the game develops that inestimable quality of doing one's best under pressure. What better training for the game of life than the acid test of a championship game. Such a test comes not alone to the player but to the coach as well.

"What truer and finer friends can one have than those whom we have met through the medium of football! And finally as the years tend to narrow this precious list, through death, what greater privilege than to associate with the fellow whose muscles are lithe and whose mind is clean. Such a man was Francis H. Burr, captain of the Harvard team in 1908. Words fail me to express my sincere regard for that gallant leader. His spirit still lives at Cambridge; his type we miss.

"I am proud of the men who worked shoulder to shoulder in bringing about Harvard victories. The list is a long one. I shall always cherish the hearty co-operation of these men who gave their best for Harvard."

It was Al Sharpe, that great Cornell coach, who, in the fall of 1915 found it possible to break through the Harvard line of victories, and hanging on the walls in the trophy room at Cornell University is a much prized souvenir of Cornell's visit to Cambridge. That was the only defeat on the Harvard schedule. But sometimes defeats have to come to insure victory, and perhaps in that defeat by Cornell lay the reason for the overwhelming score against Yale.

Slowly, but surely, Al Sharpe has won his way into the front ranks of football coaches. Working steadfastly year after year he has built up and established a system that has set Cornell's football machinery upon a firm foundation.

Glenn Warner

Glenn Warner has contributed a great deal to football, both as a player and coach.

Warner was one of the greatest linemen that ever played on the Cornell team. After leaving college he began his coaching career in 1895 at the University of Georgia. His success there was remarkable. It attracted so much attention that he was called back to Cornell in 1897 and 1898. In 1899 Warner moved again and began his historic work at the Carlisle Indian School, turning out a team year after year that gave the big colleges a close battle and sometimes beat them.

There never was a team that attracted so much attention as the Carlisle Indians. They were popular everywhere and drew large crowds, not only on account of their being Redmen, but on account of their adaptability to the game. Warner, as their coach, wrought wonders with them, and really all the colleges at one time or another had their scalps taken by the Indians. They were the champion travelers of the game. Their games were generally all away from home, and yet the long trips did not seem to hamper them in their play. They got enjoyment out of traveling.

Going from Princeton to New York one Friday night some years ago, I was told by the conductor that the Carlisle football team was in the last car. I went back and talked with Warner. The Indian team were amusing themselves in one end of the car, and thus passing the time away by entering into a game they were accustomed to play on trips. One of the Carlisle players would stand in the center of the aisle and some fifteen or so men would group about him, in and about and on top of the seats. This central figure would bend over and close his eyes. Then some one from the crowd would reach over and spank the crouching Indian a terrific blow, hastily drawing back his hand. Then the Indian who had received the blow would straighten up and try, by the expression of guilt on the face of the one who had delivered the blow, to find his man. Their faces were a study, yet nearly every time the right man was detected.

Who is there in football who will ever forget the Indian team, their red blankets and all that was typical of them; the yells that the crowds gave as the Indians appeared. They seemed always to be fit. They were full of spirit and anxious to clash with their opponents.

I recall an incident in a Princeton-Carlisle game, when the game was being fiercely waged. Miller, the great Indian halfback, had scored a touchdown, after a long run. It was not long after this that a Princeton player was injured. Maybe the play was being slowed up a little. Anyway, time was taken out. One of the Indians seemed to sense the situation. The Princeton players were lying on the ground while the Carlisle men were prancing about eager to resume the fray, when one of the Indians remarked:

"White man play for wind. Indian play football."

In 1915 Warner went to the University of Pittsburgh. Here he has already begun to duplicate former successes. Cruikshank, Peck, and Wagner are three of Pittsburgh's many stars. Probably the greatest football player that Warner ever developed at the Carlisle Indian School was Jim Thorpe, whose picture appears on the opposite page. Unhappy the end, and not infrequently the back, who had to face this versatile player. Thorpe was a raider.

Billy Bull

Billy Bull of Yale is one of the old heroes who has kept in very close touch with the game. He has been a valuable coach at Yale and the Elis' kicking game is left entirely in his hands. He is an enthusiastic believer in the game. Immediately after leaving New Haven in 1889 he started to coach and since that time he has not missed a year. Years ago he inaugurated a routine system of coaching for the various styles of kicks. "My object," he said recently, "has been to turn out consistent rather than wonderful kickers. As a player I was early impressed with the value of kicking, not only in a general way but also in a particular way, such as the punt in an offensive way. For more than twenty-five years I have talked it up. For a long time I talked it to deaf ears, especially at Yale. I talked it when I coached at West Point for ten years and was generally set down as a harmless crank on the subject, but I have lived to see the time when every one agrees on the great value of this offensive kick.

"When I entered Yale I was an absolute greenhorn, but the greenhorn had a chance then, for he was able to play in actual scrimmage every day; now the squads are so big that opportunities for playing the game for long daily periods are entirely wanting.

"To-day it is a case of a heap big talk, a coach for every position, more talk, lots of system, blackboard exercises and mighty little actual play.

"I have often wondered if things were not being overdone as far as coaching goes in the preparatory schools at the present time. The superabundance of coaches and the demand for victory combine to force the boy.

"If there is any forcing to do, the college is the place for it, when the boy is older and better able to stand the strain. In recent years I have seen not a few brokendown boys enter college. Boys are coming to college now who needs must be told everything, and if there is not a large body of coaches about to tell them, they mutiny. They seem to forget, or not to know, that most is up to the man himself.

"When a boy comes to college with the idea that all that is necessary is for him to be told, constantly told how to do this and that, and he will deliver in the last ditch, I cannot help thinking that something is wrong.

"I have in mind right now a player in the line, who came to college after four years of school football. Ever since his entry he has complained that no one has told him anything. Now this particular player spends ten months of each year loafing, and expects in his two months of football to do a man's job in a big game.

"No amount of blackboard and other talk is going to make a player do a man's job and whip his opponent. No man can play a tackle job properly if he does not realize the kind of a proposition he is up against twelve months in the year and act accordingly. He has got to do his own thinking, and see to it himself that he has the necessary strength and toughness, to play the game, as one must to win."

Sanford the Unique

George Foster Sanford is unique in football. He made splendid teams when he coached at Columbia, while his subsequent record with the Rutgers Eleven attracted wide attention.

In the Columbia Alumni News of October, 1915, Albert W. Putnam, a former player, reviews seven years of Morningside football, and pays the following tribute to Foster Sanford:

"Sanford coached the teams of 1899, 1900 and 1901. He coached them ably, conscientiously and thoroughly, and in my opinion was the best football coach in the country."

"During my three years' experience as coach at Columbia," says Sanford, "we beat all the big teams except Harvard. I was fortunate enough to develop such men as Weekes, Morley, Wright, and Berrien, players whose records will always stand high in the Hall of Football Fame at Columbia. I was particularly well satisfied with the work I got out of Slocovitch, a former Yale player, whom the Yale coaches had never seemed to handle properly. I did not allow him to play over one day a week. This was because I had discovered that he was very heavily muscled; that if he played continuously he would become muscle bound. My treatment proved to fit the case exactly and Slocovitch became a star end for Columbia. We defeated Yale the first year; the next year at New Haven the contest was a strenuous one, and the game attracted unusual attention. It was in my own home town, and I had to stand for a lot of good natured kidding, but those who were there will remember how scared the Yale coaches got during the last part of the game, when Columbia made terrific advances. How Columbia's team fought Gordon Brown's Eleven almost to a standstill that day is something that the Yale coaches of that time will long remember."

An old Yale player, Bob Loree, whose father is a Trustee of Rutgers, induced Sanford to lend the college his assistance. Apparently this connection was an unmixed blessing. "Mr. L.F. Loree, Bob's father," says Sandy, "has frankly admitted that in his opinion Sanford's gift to the college (for he works without remuneration) has brought a spirit and a betterment of conditions which is worth fully as much as donations of thousands of dollars.

"From the first day I went there," continues Sandy, "I started to build up football for Rutgers and to rely on Rutgers men for my assistants. It was there that I met the best football man I ever coached, John T. Toohey. This remarkable tackle weighed 220 pounds. The life he led and the example he set will always have a lasting influence upon Rutgers men. For sad to relate, Toohey was killed in the railroad yards at Oneonta, where he was yard master. Toohey was a great leader, possessing a wonderful personality, and winning the immediate respect of every one who knew him."

Twenty-five years have passed since I saw Sanford that morning in the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Since then I have followed his football career with enthusiasm. Boyhood heroes live long in mind. He is what might be called a major surgeon in football, for it is a matter of record that he has been called back to Yale, not when the patient was merely sick, but in a serious condition. Usually the operation has been performed with such skill that the patient has rallied with disconcerting suddenness.

Talking to the Yale teams between the halves, giving instructions, which have turned dubious prospects into flaming victories, is a service which Sanford has rendered Yale more than once. Victory, as it happens, is the principal characteristic of Sanford's work. Long is the list of players whom Sanford has developed.

"In my coaching experience," Sandy tells us, "I doubt if I ever coached a man where my hard work counted for more at Yale than the case of Charlie Chadwick in 1897. For many years there has been a saying that a one man defense is as good as an eleven men defense, providing you can get one man who can do it.

"Of course this never worked out literally, but the case of Charlie Chadwick is probably the best explanation of its value. Besides being overdeveloped, he was temperamental. At times he would show great form and at other times his playing was hopeless. This year I was asked to come to New Haven and began coaching the linemen. Chadwick looked good to me, in spite of much criticism that was made by the coaches. In their opinion they thought he was not to be relied upon, so I decided to stake my reputation, and began in my own way, feeling sure that I could get results, in preparing him for the Harvard and Princeton games.

"I started out purposely annoying Chadwick in every possible way, going with him wherever he went. I went with him to his room evenings and did not leave until he had become so bored that he fell asleep, or that he got mad and told me to get out. I planned it that Chadwick approach the coaches whenever he saw them together and say: 'I wish you would let me play on this team. If you will I will play the game of my life. I will play like hell.' After he had made this speech two or three times, they were very positive that he was more than temperamental. I kept steadily at my plan, however, and felt sure it would work out.

"The line was finally turned over to me and I had opportunity to slip Chadwick in for two or three plays at left guard. He played like a demon; he was literally a one man defense, but he received no credit. I immediately removed him from the game and criticised him severely and told him to follow up the play and in case I needed him he would be handy. I realized what a great player he was proving to be, and my great problem then was how I was to convince the coaches that Chadwick should start the game. I tried it out a few times, but saw it was useless trying to convince them, so I decided to concentrate on Jim Rodgers, the Captain. Jim consented. My plan was to tell no one except Marshall, the man whose place Chadwick was to take. The lineup was called out in the dressing room before the game. Chadwick's name was not included. I had arranged with Julian Curtis, who was in close touch with the cheer leaders, that when I gave the signal, the Yale crowd would be instructed to stand and yell nothing but 'Chadwick, Chadwick, Chadwick.' The Yale team ran out upon the field. I stayed behind with Chadwick and came in through the gate holding him by the arm. Before going on the side lines I stopped him and said: 'Look here, Chadwick. It doesn't look as though you're going to play, but if I put you in that lineup how will you play?' Like a shot from a cannon he roared: 'I'll play like hell.'

"You could have heard him a mile. 'Well then, give me your sweater and warm up,' I said, and as I gave the signal to Julian Curtis, he passed the word on to the cheer leaders and the sight of Chadwick running up and down those side lines will never be forgotten. It is estimated that he leaped five yards at a stride, and with the students cheering, 'Chadwick, Chadwick, Chadwick,' he was sent out into the lineup—and the rest, well, you'd better ask the men who played on the Harvard team that day. It was a stream of men going on and off the field and they were headed for right guard position on the Harvard side. Harvard could not beat Chadwick, so the game ended in a tie."

Jim Rodgers, captain of that team, also has something to say of Chadwick.

"In the Harvard-Yale game," Rodgers writes, "Charlie Chadwick played the game of his life. He used up about six men who played against him that day, but he never could put out Bill Edwards the day we played Princeton. I played against Chadwick on the Scrub, and the first charge he made against me I went clean back to fullback. It was just as though an automobile had hit me. I played against Heffelfinger and a lot of them. I could hold those fellows. Gee! but I was sore. I said to myself, you won't do that again, and the next time I was set back just as far.

"One feature of this Yale-Princeton game impressed me tremendously, that of Bill Edwards' stand, against what I considered a superman, Charles Chadwick. Before the game I had confidently expected Big Bill to resign after about five minutes' play, knowing, as I did, how Chadwick was going. In this, however, Edwards was a great disappointment, as he stuck the game out and was stronger at the end, than at the start or half way through. Had he weakened at all, Ad Kelly's great offensive work would have been doomed to failure. Edwards finished up the game against Chadwick with a face that resembled a raw beefsteak. To my mind he was the worst punished man I have ever seen. He stood by his guns to the finish, and ever since then my hat has been off to him."

One of the most interesting characters in Southern football is W.R. Tichenor, a thorough enthusiast in the game and known wherever there is a football in the South. His father was president of the Alabama Polytechnic. He was a fine player and weighed about 120 pounds. He is the emergency football man of the South. Whenever there is a football dispute Tichenor settles it. Whenever a coach is taken sick, Tichenor is called upon to take his place. Whenever an emergency official is needed, Tich comes to the rescue. He tells the following story:

"Every boy who has been to Auburn in the last twenty years knows Bob Frazier. Many of them, however, may not recognize that name, as he has been called Bob 'Sponsor' for so long that few of them know his real name. Bob is as black as the inside of a coal mine and has rubbed and worked for the various teams at Auburn 'since the memory of man runneth not to the contrary.'

"Just after the Christmas holidays one year in the middle nineties, Bob, with the view of making a touch, called at Bill Williams' room one night.

"After asking Bill if he had had a good Christmas, 'Sponsor' remarked: 'You know, Mr. Williams, us Auburn niggers went down and played dem Tuskegee niggers a game of football during Christmas.'

"'Who did you have on the team, Bob?' inquired Bill.

"'Oh—we had a lot of dese niggers roun' town yere. They was me, an' Crooksie, an' Homer, an' Bear, an' Cockeye, an' a lot of dese yer town niggers.'

"'How did you come out?' asked Bill.

"'Oh, dem Tuskegee niggers give us a good lickin'.'

"'What position did you play?'

"'Me?' said Bob, 'I was de cap'en. I played all roun'. I played center. Den I played quarterback. Den I played halfback.'

"'What system of signals did you use and who called them?' was Bill's next inquiry.

"'Ain't I tole you, Mr. Williams, I was de cap'en. I called the signals. Dem niggers of mine couldn't learn no signals, so we jus' played lack we had some. I'd give some numbers to fool the Tuskegee niggers. But dem numbers didn't mean nothin'. I'd say, "two, four, six, eight, ten—tek dat ball, Homer, an' go roun' the end." Dat's de only sort of signals dem niggers could learn and sometimes dey missed dem. Dat's de reason we got beat and dem Tuskegee niggers got all my money. Mr. Williams, I'm jus' as nickless as a ha'nt. Can't you lem' me two bits til' Sadday night, please suh? Honest to God, I'll pay you back den, shore.'"

Listening to Yost

"Hurry Up" Yost is one of the most interesting and enthusiastic football coaches in the country. The title of "Hurry Up" has been given him on account of the "pep" he puts into his men and the speed at which they work. Whether in a restaurant or a crowded street, hotel lobby or on a railroad train, Yost will proceed to demonstrate this or that play and carefully explain many of the things well worth while in football. He is always in deadly earnest. Out of the football season, during business hours, he is ever ready to talk the game. Yost's football experience as a player began at the University of West Virginia, where he played tackle. Lafayette beat them that year 6 to 0. Shortly after this Yost entered Lafayette. His early experience in football there was under the famous football expert and writer, Parke Davis.

Yost and Rinehart wear a broad smile as they tell of the way Parke Davis used to entertain teams off the field. He always kept them in the finest of humor. Parke Davis, they say, is a born entertainer, and many an evening in the club house did he keep their minds off football by a wonderful demonstration of sleight-of-hand with the cards.

"If Parke Davis had taken his coat off and stuck to coaching he would have been one of the greatest leaders in that line in the country to-day," says Yost. "He was more or a less a bug on football. You know that to be good in anything one must be crazy about it. Davis was certainly a bug on football and so am I. Everybody knows that.

"I shall never forget Davis after Lafayette had beaten Cornell 6 to 0, in 1895, at Ithaca. That night in the course of the celebration Parke uncovered everything he had in the way of entertainment and gave an exhibition of his famous dance, so aptly named the 'dance du venture,' by that enthusiastic Lafayette alumnus, John Clarke.

"I have been at Michigan fifteen seasons. My 1901 team is perhaps the most remarkable in the history of football in many ways. It scored 550 points to opponents' nothing, and journeyed 3500 miles. We played Stanford on New Year's day, using no substitutes. On this great team were Neil Snow, and the remarkable quarterback Boss Weeks. Willie Heston, who was playing his first year at Michigan, was another star on this team. A picture of Michigan's great team appears on the opposite page.

"Boss Weeks' two teams scored more than 1200 points. If that team had been in front of the Chinese Wall and got the signal to go, not a man would have hesitated. Every man that played under Boss Weeks idolized him, and when word was brought to the university that he had died, every Michigan man felt that its university had lost one of its greatest men.

"I am perhaps more of a boy's man to-day than I ever was. There is a great satisfaction in feeling that you have an influence in the lives of the men under you. Coaching is a sacred job. There's no question about it.

"There is a wonderful athletic spirit at Michigan, and when we have mass meetings in the Hill Auditorium 6000 men turn out. At such a time one feels the great power behind an athletic team. Some of the great Michigan football players within my recollection were Jimmy Baird, Jack McLain, Neil Snow, Boss Weeks, Tom Hammond, Willie Heston, Herrnstein, grand old Germany Schultz, Benbrook, Stan Wells, Dan McGugin, Dave Allerdice, Hugh White and others I might mention on down to John Maulbetsch."

Reggie Brown is probably one of the most famous of the Harvard coaches. His work in Harvard football is to find out what the other teams are doing. He is on hand at Yale Field every Saturday when the Yale team plays. He is unique in his scouting work, in that he carries his findings in his head. His memory is his mental note book.

In talking with Harvard men I have found that the general impression is that the work of this coach is one of Harvard's biggest assets.

Jimmy Knox of Harvard is one of Haughton's most valued scouts. Every fall Princeton is his haven of scouting. He does it most successfully and in a truly sportsmanlike way.

One day en route to Princeton I met Knox on the train and sat with him as far as Princeton Junction. When we arrived at Princeton, a friend of mine called me aside and said:

"Who is that loyal Princeton man who seems never to miss a game?"

"He is not a Princeton man," I replied. "He is Knox the Harvard scout. He will be with Haughton to-morrow at Cambridge with his dope book."

"From questions asked me I am quite sure that there is an utter misconception of the work of the scouts for the big league teams," says Jimmy. "I have frequently been asked how I get in to see the practice of our opponents, how I manage to get their signals, how I anticipate what they are going to do, what is the value of scouting anyway. From five years' experience, I can say that I have never seen our opponents except in public games. I have never unconsciously noted a signal even for a kick, much less made a deliberate attempt to learn the opponents' signals or code. What little I know of their ultimate plans is merely by applying common sense to their problem, based on the material and methods which they command. As to the value of scouting, volumes might be written, but suffice it to say that it is the principal means of standardizing the game. If the big teams of the country played throughout the season in seclusion, the final games would be a hodge-podge of varying systems which would curtail the interest of the spectator and all but block the development of the game.

"The reports of the scouts give the various coaching corps a fixed objective so that the various teams come to their final game with what might be considered a uniform examination to pass. The result is a steady, logical development of the game from the inside and the maximum interest for the spectator. It is unfortunate that the public has misconstrued scouting to mean spying, for there is nothing underhanded in the scouting department of football as any big team coach will testify."

Knox tells of an interesting experience of his Freshman year.

"I never hear the question debated as to whether character is born in a man or developed as time goes on," says he, "without recalling my first meeting with Marshall Newell, probably the best loved man that ever graduated from Harvard. In the middle '90's it was considered beneath the dignity of a former Varsity player to coach any but Varsity candidates. Marshall Newell was an exception. Without solicitation he came over to the Freshman field many times and gave us youngsters the benefit of his advice. On his first trip he went into the lineup and gave us an example of how the game could be played by a master. When the practice was over, Ma Newell came up to me and said: 'I guess I was a little rough, my boy, but I just wanted to test your grit. You had better come over to the Varsity field to-morrow with two or three of the other fellows that I am going to speak to. I'll watch you and help you after you get there.' And he did. He was loved because he was big enough to disregard convention, to sympathize with the less proficient and to make an inferior feel as if he were on a plane of equality. The highest type of manhood was born with Marshall Newell and developed through every hour of a too short life.

"Only those who played football in the old days and have carefully followed it since appreciate the difference in the two types of game. I frequently wonder if the old type of game did not develop more in a man than the modern. As a freshman I was playing halfback on the second Varsity one afternoon when a sudden blow knocked me unconscious while the play was at one end of the field. When I regained consciousness the play was at the other end of the field, not a soul was near me or thinking of me. I had hardly got within ear-shot of the scrimmage when I heard Lewis, one of the Varsity coaches, call out, 'Come on, get in here, they can't kill fellows like you.' I went into the scrimmage and played the rest of the afternoon. It was a simple incident, but I learned two lessons of life from it: first, you can expect mighty little sympathy when you are down; second, you are not out if you will only go back and stick to it."

Dartmouth holds a unique position in college football. There are many men who were responsible for Dartmouth's success, men who have stood by year after year and worked out the football policy there.

It is my experience that Dartmouth men universally call Ed Hall the father of Dartmouth football. He has served faithfully on the Rules Committee as well as an official in the game.

Myron E. Witham, that great player and captain of the Dartmouth team which was victorious over Harvard the day that Harvard opened the Stadium, says: "If one goes back to Hanover and visits the trophy room he will see hanging there the winning football which Dartmouth men glory over as they recall that wonderful victory over Harvard. Ed Hall is the man who is often called upon to speak to the men between the halves. His talks have a telling effect. Hall's name is traditional at our college."

There are many football enthusiasts who recall that wonderful backfield that Dartmouth had, McCornack, Eckstrom, McAndrews and Crolius. These men got away wonderfully fast and hit the line like one man. They played every game without a substitute for two years.

Fred Crolius, who takes great delight in recalling the old days, has the following to say about one who coached:

"One man, whose influence more than any other one thing, succeeded in laying a foundation for Dartmouth's wonderful results, but whose name is seldom mentioned in that connection is Doctor Wurtenberg, who was brought up in the early Yale football school. He had the keenest sense of fundamental football and the greatest intensity of spirit in transmitting his hard earned knowledge. Four critical years he worked with us filling every one with his enthusiasm and those four years Dartmouth football gained such headway that nothing could stop its growth."

Enough space cannot be given to pay proper tribute to Walter McCornack, Dartmouth '97.

Myron Witham relates a humorous incident that happened in practice when McCornack was coach at Dartmouth. "Mac's serious and exacting demeanor on the practice field occasionally relaxed to enjoy a humorous situation. He chose to give a personal demonstration of my position and duty as quarterback in a particular formation around the end. He took my place and giving the proper signal, the team or rather ten-elevenths of the team went through with the play, leaving Mac behind standing in his tracks. Mac naturally was at a loss to locate the quarter, during the execution of the play and madly yelled, 'Where in the devil is that quarterback?' But immediately joined with the squad in the joke upon himself."

McCornack coached Dartmouth in the falls of 1901 and 1902. He brought the team up from nothing to a two years' defeat of Brown and two years' scoring on Harvard. The game with Harvard in the fall of 1902 resulted in a score of 16 to 6, Dartmouth out-rushing Harvard at least 3 to 1.

McCornack then resigned, but left a wealth of material and a scientific game at Dartmouth, which was as good as any in the country. This was the beginning of Dartmouth's success in modern football, and for it McCornack has been named the father of modern football at Dartmouth.

The greatest compliment ever paid McCornack, in so far as athletics were concerned, was by President William Jewett Tucker of Dartmouth, who told an alumnus of the institution:

"The discipline that McCornack maintained on the football field at Dartmouth was to the advantage of the general discipline of the institution."

For ten years after McCornack had stopped coaching at Dartmouth, the captain of the Dartmouth team would wear his sweater in a Harvard game as an emblem to go by. The sweater is now worn out, and no one knows where it is.

If Eddie Holt's record at Princeton told of nothing else than the making of a great guard, this would be enough to establish Holt's ability as a guard coach. Eddie and Sam Craig played alongside of each other in the Yale defeat of '97. Holt says:

"The story of the making of Sam Craig is the old story of the stone the builders rejected, which is now the head stone of the corner. Sam never forgot the '97 defeat and I never have myself. After this game Sam gave up football, although he was eligible to play. Two years later, after Princeton had been defeated by Cornell, something had to be done to strengthen the Princeton line. Sam Craig was at the Seminary. I remembered him," said Holt, "and went over to his room and told him that he was needed. I shall never forget how his face lit up as he felt there was an opportunity to serve Princeton and a chance to play on a winning team; a chance to come back. He responded to my hurry call, eager to make good. Coaching him was the finest thing I ever did in football. Good old Sam, I can see him now, standing on the side lines telling me that he guessed he was no good. You can never imagine how happy I was to see him improve day by day after I had taken a hold of him. The great game he played against Yale in '99 will always be one of my happiest recollections in football. My joy was supreme; the joy that comes to a coach as he sees his man make good—Sam sure did."

It is very doubtful whether the inside story of Harvard's victory over Yale in 1908 has ever been told. Those who remember this game know that the way for victory was paved by Ver Wiebe and Vic Kennard. Harry Kersburg, a Harvard coach, writes of that incident:

"The summer of 1907 and 1908, Kennard worked for several hours each day perfecting his kicking. This fact was known to only one of the coaches. In 1906 and 1907, Kennard played as a substitute but was most unfortunate in being smashed up in nearly every game in which he played. On account of this record, he was given little or no attention at the beginning of the 1908 season, even though the one coach who had great confidence in Kennard's ability as a kicker rooted hard for him at every coaches' meeting. About the middle of the season, Dave Campbell came on from the West and with the one lone coach became interested in Kennard. On the day of the Springfield Training School game, most of the Harvard coaches went down to New Haven, leaving the team in charge of Campbell and Kennard's other rooter. The psychological moment had arrived. Just as soon as the Harvard team had rolled up a tidy little score, Kennard was sent into the game and instructions were given to the quarterback that he was to signal for a drop kick every time the Harvard team was within forty yards of the opponent's goal—no matter what the angle might be. The game ended with Kennard having kicked four goals from the field out of six tries. Nearly all of them were kicked from an average distance of thirty yards and at very difficult angles. At the next coaches' meeting serious consideration was given to what Kennard had done and from that time on he came into his own.

"Now for Rex Ver Wiebe. For two years he had plugged away at a line position on the second team. In his senior year he was advanced to the Varsity squad. With all his hard work it seemed impossible for him to develop into anything but a mediocre lineman. The line coaches, with much regret, had about given up all hope. One afternoon, two weeks before the Yale game, one of the line coaches was standing on the side lines talking with Pooch Donovan about Ver Wiebe. Pooch said little, but kept a close watch on Ver Wiebe for the next two or three days. At the end of that time he came out with the statement that if Ver Wiebe could be taught how to start, he would rapidly develop into one of the best halfbacks on the squad. Pooch's advice was followed and in the Yale game, Ver Wiebe's rushes outside tackle were one of the features of the game and were directly responsible for the ball being brought down the field to such a position that it was possible to substitute Kennard, who kicked a goal from the field and won the first victory for Harvard against Yale in many years.

"It is a strange coincidence that the first of Harvard's string of victories against Yale was won by two men who a few weeks before the game were in the so-called football discard."

No greater honor can be accorded a football man than the invitation to come back to his Alma Mater and take charge of the football situation. Such a man has been selected after he has served efficiently at other institutions, for it takes long experience to become a great coach and there are very few men who have given up all their time to consecutive coaching.

Successful coaches, as a rule, are men who have a genius for it, and whose strong personalities bring out the natural ability of the men under them. Successful football is the result of a good system, plus good material.

Of the men who coach to-day, the experience of John H. Rush, popularly known as Speedy Rush, stands out as unique. Rush never played football, for he preferred track athletics, but he understood the theory of the game. At the University School in Cleveland where Rush taught for many years, he took charge of the football team, and although coaching mere boys, his results were marvelous, and in 1915, when the Princeton coaching system was in a slough of despond, it was decided to give Rush an opportunity to show what he could do at Princeton.

Rush makes no boasts. He is a silent worker, and football people at large were unanimous in their praise of his work at Princeton in the fall of 1915. Whatever the future holds in store for this coach, Princeton men at least are sure that an efficient policy has been established which will be followed out year after year, and that the loyal support of the Alumni is behind Rush.

There was never a time in Yale's history when so much general discussion and care entered into the selection of its football coach as in 1915. From the long list of Yale football graduates the honor was bestowed upon Tad Jones, a man whose remarkable playing record at Yale is well known. Football records tell of his wonderful runs. His personality enables him to get close to the men, and he was wonderfully successful at Exeter, coaching his old school. Tad Jones represents one of the highest types of college athletes.

In 1915 when the college authorities decided Columbia might re-enter the football arena, after a lapse of ten years, it was a wonderful victory for the loyal Columbia football supporters. A most thorough and exhaustive search was then made for the proper man to teach Columbia the new football. The man who won the Committee's unanimous vote was Thomas N. Metcalf, who played football at Oberlin, Ohio. Metcalf earned recognition in his first year. He realized that Columbia's re-entrance into football must be gradual, and his schedule was arranged accordingly. He developed Miller, a quarterback who stood on a par with the best quarterbacks in 1915. Columbia had great confidence in Metcalf, and the pick of the old men, notably Tom Thorp, one of the gamest players any team ever had, volunteered their aid.

One of the most prominent football coaches which Pennsylvania boasts of to-day, is Bob Folwell. Always a brilliant player, full of spirit and endowed with a great power of leadership, he was a huge success as a coach at Lafayette. His team beat Princeton. At Washington and Jefferson, he beat Yale twice. His ability as a coach was watched carefully not only by the graduates of Penn, but by the football world as a whole.

In 1916 this hard-working, energetic up-to-date coach assumed control of the football situation on Franklin Field.