OUR GOOD OLD TRAINERS

There are not many football enthusiasts who analyze the factors that bring victory. Many of us do not appreciate the importance attached to the trainer, or realize the great part that he plays, until we are out of college. We know that the men who bore the brunt of the battle have received their full share of glory—the players and coaches.

But there arises in the midst of our athletic world men who trained, men who safeguarded the players. Trainers have been associated with football since the early eighties, and a careful trainer's eye should ever be on the lookout wherever football is played. Players, coaches and trainers go hand in hand in football.

Every one of these men that I have known has had a strong personality. Each one, however, differed somewhat from the others. There is a great affection on the part of the players for the man who cares for their athletic welfare. These men are often more than mere trainers. Their personalities have carried them farther than the dressing room. Their interest in the boys has continued after they left college. Their influence has been a lasting one, morally, as well as physically.

On account of their association, the trainers keep pace with the men about them; not limiting their interest to athletics. They are always found entertaining at the athletic banquets, and their personalities count for much on the campus. They are all but boys grown up, with well known athletic records behind them. In the hospital, or in the quietness of a college room, or on trips, the trainer is a friend and adviser.

Go and talk to the trainer of the football team if you want to get an unbiased opinion of the team's work or of the value of the individual coaches. Some of our trainers know much about the game of football—the technical side—and their advice is valuable.

Every trainer longs to handle good material, but more power to the trainer who goes ahead with what he's got and makes the best out of it without a murmur. In our recollections we know of teams that were reported to be going stale—"over-trained"—"a team of cripples"—who slumped—could not stand the test—were easily winded—could not endure.

They were nightmares to the trainer. Soon you read in the daily press indications that a change of trainer is about to take place in such a college.

Then we turn to another page of our recollections where we read:

"The team is fit to play the game of their lives." "Only eleven men were used in to-day's game." "Great tribute to the trainer." "Men could have played all day"—"no time taken out"—"not a man injured"—"pink of condition." Usually all this spells victory.

Jack McMasters was the first trainer that I met. "Scottie," as every one affectionately called him, never asked a man to work for him any harder than he would work himself. In a former chapter you have read how Jack and I put in some hard work together.

I recall a trip to Boston, where Princeton was to play Harvard. Most of the Princeton team had retired for the night. About ten o'clock Arthur Poe came down into the corridor of the Vendome Hotel and told "Scottie" that Bill Church and Johnny Baird were upstairs taking a cold shower.

Jack was furious, and without stopping for the elevator hustled upstairs two steps at a time only to find both of these players sound asleep in bed. Needless to say that Arthur Poe kept out of sight until Jack retired for the night. A trainer's life is not all pleasure.

Once after the train had started from Princeton this same devilish Arthur Poe, as Jack would call him, rushed up forward to where Jack was sitting in the train and said:

"Jack, I don't see Bummie Booth anywhere on the train. I guess he must have been left behind."

With much haste and worry Jack made a hurried search of the entire train to find Booth sitting in the last seat in the rear car with a broad grin on his face.

Jack's training experience was a very broad one. He trained many victorious teams at Harvard after he left Princeton and was finally trainer at Annapolis. A pronounced decoration that adorns "Scottie" is a much admired bunch of gold footballs and baseballs, which he wears suspended from his watch chain—in fact, so many, that he has had to have his chain reinforced. If you could but sit down with Jack and admire this prized collection and listen to some of his prized achievements—humorous stories of the men he has trained and some of the victories which these trophies designate you would agree with me that no two covers could hold them.

But we must leave Jack for the present at home with his family in Sandy Hook Cottage, Drummore by Stranraer, Scotland, in the best of health, happy in his recollection of a service well rendered and appreciated by every one who knew him.

Jim Robinson

There was something about Jim Robinson that made the men who knew him in his training days refer to him as "Dear Old Jim," and although he no longer cries out from the side lines "trot up, men," a favorite expression of his when he wanted to keep the men stirring about, there still lives within all of us who knew him a keen appreciation of his service and loyalty to the different colleges where he trained.

He began training at Princeton in 1883 and he finished his work there. How fine was the tribute that was paid him on the day of his funeral! Dolly Dillon, captain of the 1906 team, and his loyal team mates, all of whom had been carefully attended by Jim Robinson on the football field that fall, acted as pallbearers. There was also a host of old athletes and friends from all over the country who came to pay their last tribute to this great sportsman and trainer.

Mike Murphy and Jim Robinson were always contesting trainers. At Princeton that day with the team gathered around, Murphy related some interesting and touching experiences of Jim's career.

Jim's family still lives at Princeton, and on one of my recent visits there, I called upon Mrs. Robinson. We talked of Jim, and I saw again the loving cups and trophies that Jim had shown me years before.

Jim Robinson trained many of the heroes of the old days, Hector Cowan being one of them. In later years he idolized the playing of that great football hero, John DeWitt, who appreciated all that Jim did to make his team the winner. The spirit of Jim Robinson was comforting as well as humorous. No mention of Jim would be complete without his dialect.

He was an Englishman and abused his h's in a way that was a delight to the team. Ross McClave tells of fun at the training table one day when he asked Jim how to spell "saloon." Jim, smiling broadly and knowing he was to amuse these fellows as he had the men in days gone by, said: "Hess—Hay—Hell—two Hoes—and—a Hen."

Few men got more work out of a team than did Jim Robinson. There was always a time for play and a time for work with Jim.

Mike Murphy

Mike Murphy was the dean of trainers.

Bob Torrey, one of the most remarkable center-rushes that Pennsylvania ever had, is perhaps one of the greatest admirers of Mike Murphy during his latter years. Torrey can tell it better than I can.

"Murphy's sense of system was wonderful; he was a keen observer and had a remarkable memory; he seemed to do very little in the way of bookkeeping, but his mind was carefully pigeon-holed and was a perfect card index.

"He could have thirty men on the field at once and carry on conversations with visitors and graduates; issue orders to workmen and never lose sight of a single one of his men. He was popular wherever he went. His fame was not only known here, but abroad. His charm of manner and his cheerful courage will be remembered by all who knew him, but only those who knew him well realize what an influence he had on the boys with whom he worked, and how high were his ideals of manhood. The amount of good done by Mike Murphy in steering boys into the right track can never be estimated."

Prep' School boys athletically inclined followed Murphy. Many a man went to college in order to get Murphy's training. He was an athletic magnet.

"The Old Mike"

The town of Natick, Mass., boasts of Mike Murphy's early days. Wonderful athletic traditions centered there. His early days were eventful for his athletic success, as he won all kinds of professional prizes for short distance running. Boyhood friends of Mike Murphy tell of the comradeship among Mike Murphy, Keene Fitzpatrick, Pooch and Piper Donovan—all Natick boys. They give glowing accounts of the "truck team" consisting of this clever quartet, each of whom were "ten-second" men in the sprinting game.

If that great event which was run off at the Marlboro Fair and Cattle Show could be witnessed to-day, thousands of admirers would love to see in action those trainers, see them as the Natick Hose truck defeated the Westboro team that day, and sent the Westboro contingent home with shattered hopes and empty pocketbooks.

"In connection with Army-Navy games," writes Crolius of Dartmouth, "I'll never forget Mike Murphy's wonderful ability to read men's condition by their 'mental attitude.' He was nearly infallible in his diagnosis."

Once we questioned Mike. He said, "Go get last year's money back, you're going to lick them!" And true to his uncanny understanding he was right. Was it any wonder that men gave Murphy the credit due him?

Mike Murphy had a strong influence over the players. He was their ever-present friend. He could talk to a man, and his personality could reach farther than any of the coaches. The teams that Murphy talked to between the halves, both at Yale and Pennsylvania, were always inspired. Mike Murphy always gave a man something of himself.

It is interesting to read what a fellow trainer, Keene Fitzpatrick, has to say of Mike:

"Mike first started to train at Yale. Then he went to the Detroit Athletic Club in Detroit; then he came back to Yale; then he went to the University of Pennsylvania; then back to Yale again, and finally back to the University of Penn', where he died.

"We were always great friends and got together every summer; we used to go up to a little country town, Westboro, on a farm; had a little room in a farmhouse outside of the town of Natick, and there we used to get together every year (Mike and Fitz') and share our opinions, and compare and give each other the benefit of our discoveries of the season's work.

"Murphy was one of the greatest sprinters this world ever had. They called him 'stucky' because he had so much grit and determination. The year after Mike died the Intercollegiate was held at Cambridge. All the trainers got together and a lot of flowers were sent out to Mike's grave in Hopkinton, Massachusetts."

A CHAT WITH POOCH DONOVAN

Pooch Donovan's success at Harvard goes hand in hand with that of Haughton.

In the great success of Harvard's Varsity, year after year, the fine hand of the trainer has been noticeable. Harvard's teams have stood the test wonderfully well, and all the honors that go with victory have been heaped upon Pooch Donovan's head.

Every man on the Harvard squad knows that Donovan can get as much work out of his players as it is possible for any human being to get out of them. Pooch Donovan served at Yale in 1888, 1889 and 1890, when Mike Murphy was trainer there. He and Donovan used to have long talks together and they were ever comparing notes on the training of varsity teams. Pooch Donovan owes much to Mike Murphy, and the latter was Pooch's loyal supporter.

"What made Mike Murphy a sturdy man, was that he was such a hard loser—he could not stand to lose," says Donovan.

"You know the thing that keeps me young is working shoulder to shoulder with these young fellows." This to me, in the dressing-room, where we have no time for anything but cold truths. "It was the same thing that kept Mike Murphy going ten years after the doctors said he would soon be all in. That was when he returned to Yale, after he had been at Pennsylvania. There is something about this sort of work that invigorates us and keeps us young. I'm no longer a young man in years, but it is the spirit and inspiration of youth with which this work identifies me that keeps me really young."

When I asked Pooch about Eddie Mahan's great all-around ability, his face lighted up, and I saw immediately that what I had heard was true—that Donovan simply idolized Eddie Mahan. Mahan lives in Natick, Massachusetts, where Donovan also has his home. He has seen Ned Mahan grow to manhood. Mahan had his first football training as a player on the Natick High School team.

"Ned Mahan," said Pooch, "was the best all-around football man I have ever handled. He was easy to handle, eager to do as he was told, and he never caused the trainer any worry. Up to the very last moment he played, he was eager to learn everything he could that would improve his game. He had lots of football ability.

"You know Mahan was a great star at Andover. He kicked wonderfully there and was good in all departments of the game, and he improved a hundred per cent. after he came to Harvard."

Pooch Donovan told me about the first day that Eddie Mahan came out upon the Harvard field. At Cambridge, little is known by the head coach about a freshman's ability. One day Haughton said to Pooch Donovan:

"Where is that Natick friend of yours? Bring him over to the Stadium and let's see him kick."

Donovan got Mahan and Haughton said to Mahan:

"Let's see you kick."

Mahan boosted the ball seventy yards, and Haughton said:

"What kind of a kick is that?"

Mahan thought it was a great kick.

"How do you think any ends can cover that?" said Haughton.

Mahan thereupon kicked a couple more, low ones, but they went about as far.

"Who told you you could kick?" quoth Haughton. "You must kick high enough for your ends to cover the distance."

"Take it easy and don't get excited," Donovan was whispering to Mahan on the side. "Take your time, Ned."

But Mahan continued kicking from bad to worse. Haughton was getting disgusted, and finally remarked:

"Your ends never can cover those punts."

Mahan then kicked one straight up over his head, and the first word ever uttered by him on the Harvard field, was his reply to Haughton:

"I guess almost any end can cover that punt," he said.

Donovan tells me that he used to carry in his pocket a few blank cartridges for starting sprinters. Sitting on a bench with some friends, on Soldiers' Field, one day he reached into his hip pocket for some loose tobacco. Unconsciously he stuffed into the heel of his pipe a blank cartridge that had become mixed with the tobacco. The gun club was practicing within hearing distance of the field. As Donovan lighted his pipe the cartridge went off. He thought he was shot. Leaping to his feet he ran down the field, his friends after him.

"I was surprised at my own physical condition—at my being able to stand so well the shock of being shot," says Donovan in telling the story. "My friends thought also that I was shot. But when I slowed up, still bewildered, and they caught up with me, they were puzzled to see my face covered with powder marks and a broken pipe stem sticking out of my mouth.

"Not until then did any of us realize what had really happened. The cartridge had grazed my nose slightly, but outside of that I was all right. Since then I am very careful what I put in my tobacco."

Eddie is known as "Pooch Donovan's pet." Probably the bluest time that Donovan ever had—in fact, he says it was the bluest—was when Eddie Mahan had an off-day in the Stadium. That was the day when Cornell beat Harvard. Mahan himself says it was the worst day he ever had in his life, and he blames himself.

"It was just as things will come sometimes," Pooch said to me. "Nobody knows why they will come, but come they will once in a while."

"Burr, the great Harvard captain," said Pooch, "was a natural born leader of men. He knew a lot of football and Haughton thought the world of him. Burr went along finely until the last week of the season. Then, in falling on the ball, he bruised his shoulder, and would not allow himself to go into the Yale game. It was really this display of good judgment on his part that enabled Harvard to win.

"Too often a team has been handicapped by the playing of a crippled veteran. As a matter of fact, the worst kind of a substitute is often better than a crippled player. The fact that the great captain, Burr, stood on the side lines while his team was playing, urged his team mates on to greater efforts.

"In this same game the opposite side of this question was demonstrated. Bobbie Burch, the Yale captain, who had been injured the week before the game, was put in the game. His injury handicapped the Yale team considerably."

Pooch Donovan has been eight years at Harvard. He has five gold footballs, which he prizes and wears on his watch chain. During the eight years there have been five victories over Yale, two ties and one defeat. Pooch has been a football player himself and the experience has made him a better trainer.

In 1895 he played on Temple's team of the Duquesne Athletic Club. He was trainer and halfback, and was very fond of the game. Later on he played in Cleveland against the Chicago Athletic Club, on whose team played Heffelfinger, Sport Donnelly, and other famous knights of the gridiron.

"In the morning we did everything we could to make the stay of the visiting team pleasant," says Donovan, regarding those days, "but in the afternoon it was different, and in the midst of the game a fellow couldn't help wondering how men could be so nice to each other in the morning and so rough in the afternoon."

Pooch Donovan cannot say enough in favor of Doctor E.H. Nichols, the doctor for the Harvard team. Pooch's judgment is endorsed by many a Harvard man that I have talked to.

Keene Fitzpatrick

When Biffy Lea was coaching at the University of Michigan in 1901, it was my opportunity and privilege to see something of Western football. I was at Ann Arbor assisting Lea the last week before Michigan played Chicago. Michigan was defeated. That night at a banquet given to the Michigan team, there arose a man to respond to a toast.

His words were cheering to the men and roused them out of the gloom of despair and defeat to a strong hope for the coming year. That man was Keene Fitzpatrick. I had heard much about him, but now that I really had come to meet him I realized what a magnetic man he was.

He knew men and how to get the best out of them. Fitzpatrick went from Michigan to Yale, from Yale back to Michigan, and then to Princeton, where Princeton men hope he will always stay.

Michigan admirers were loath to lose Fitzpatrick and their tribute to him on leaving was as follows:

"The University of Michigan combination was broken yesterday when Keene Fitzpatrick announced that he had accepted Princeton's offer, to take effect in the fall of 1910. He was trainer for Michigan for 15 years. For five years Fitz' has been sought by every large university in the East.

"What was Michigan's loss, was Princeton's gain. He made men better, not alone physically, but morally. His work has been uplifting along all lines of university activities. In character and example he is as great and untiring as in his teaching and precept. The final and definite knowledge of his determination to leave Michigan is a severe blow to the students all of whom know and appreciate his work. Next to President Angell, no man of the University of Michigan, in the last ten years, has exerted a more wholesome influence upon the students than has Keene Fitzpatrick. His work brought him in close touch with the students and his influence over them for good has been wonderful. He is a man of ideals and clean life."

"To 'Fitz,' as the boys called him, as much as to the great coach Yost is due Michigan's fine record in football. His place will be hard to fill. Fitz has aided morally in placing athletics on a high plane and in cultivating a fine spirit of sportsmanship. He was elected an honorary member of the class of 1913 at Princeton. The Secretary of the class wrote him a letter in which he said: 'The senior class deeply appreciates your successful efforts, and in behalf of the University takes this opportunity of expressing its indebtedness to you for the valuable results which you have accomplished.'"

Yost had a high opinion of Fitzpatrick.

"Fitz and I worked together for nine years," writes Yost. "We were like brothers during that association at Michigan. There is no one person who contributed so much to the University of Michigan as this great trainer. His wonderful personality, his expert assistance and that great optimism of his stood out as his leading qualifications. My association with him is one of the pleasantest recollections of my life. He put the men in shape, trained them and developed them. They were 'usable' all the time. He is a trainer who has his men in the finest mental condition possible. I don't think there was ever a trainer who kept men more fit, physically and mentally, than Keene Fitzpatrick."

There were in Michigan two players, brothers, who were far apart in skill. Keene says one was of varsity calibre, but wanted his brother, too, to make the Eleven. "Once," says Keene, "when we were going on a trip, John, who was a better player, said, 'I will not go if Joe cannot go,' so in order to get John, we had to take Joe."

Fitzpatrick tells of an odd experience in football. "In 1901 Michigan went out to Southern California and played Leland Stanford University at Pasadena, January 1. When the Michigan team left Ann Arbor for California in December, it was 12° below zero and when they played on New Year's it was 80° at 3 p.m."

Stanford was supposed to have a big advantage due to the climate. Michigan won by a score of 49 to 0. Michigan used but eleven men in the game, and it was their first scrimmage since Thanksgiving Day. A funny thing happened en route to Pasadena.

"Every time the train stopped," said Keene, "we hustled the men out to give them practice running through signals and passing the ball. Everything went well until we arrived in Ogden, Utah. We hustled the men out as usual for a work-out, and in less than two minutes the men were all in, lying down on the ground, gasping for breath. We could not understand what was wrong, until some one came along and reminded us that we were in a very high altitude and that it affected people who were not accustomed to it. We all felt better when we received that information."

Michael J. Sweeney

There are few trainers in our prep. schools who can match the record of Mike Sweeney. He has been an important part of the Hill School's athletics for years. Many of the traditions of this school are grouped, in fact, about his personality. Hill School boys are loud in their praises of Sweeney's achievements. He always had a strong hold on the students there. He has given many a boy words of encouragement that have helped him on in the school, and this same boy has come back to him in after life to get words of advice.

Many colleges tried to sever his connection with Hill School. I know that at one time Princeton was very anxious to get Sweeney's services. He was happy at Hill School, however, and decided to stay. It was there at Hill School that Sweeney turned out some star athletes. Perhaps one of the most prominent was Tom Shevlin. Sweeney saw great possibilities in Shevlin. He taught him the fundamentals that made Shevlin one of the greatest ends that ever played at Yale. He typified Sweeney's ideal football player. Shevlin never lost an opportunity to express appreciation of what Sweeney had done for him.

Tom gave all credit for his athletic ability to Mike Sweeney of Hill and Mike Murphy of Yale. His last desire for Yale athletics was to bring Sweeney to Yale and have him installed, not as a direct coach or trainer of any team, but more as a general athletic director, connected with the faculty, to advise and help in all branches of college sport.

Tom Shevlin idolized Sweeney. Those who were at the banquet of the 1905 team at Cambridge will recall the tribute that Shevlin then paid to him. He declared that he regarded Sweeney as "the world's greatest brain on all forms of athletics."

Whenever Mike Sweeney puts his heart into his work he is one of the most completely absorbed men I know.

Sweeney possesses an uncanny insight into the workings of the games and individuals. Oftentimes as he sits on the side lines he can foretell an accident coming to a player.

Mike was sitting on the Yale side lines one day, and remarked to Ed Wylie, a former Hill School player—a Yale substitute at that time:

"They ought to take Smith out of the game; he shows signs of weakening. You'd better go tell the trainer to do it."

But before Wylie could get to the trainer, several plays had been run off and the man who had played too long received an injury, and was done for. Sweeney's predictions generally ring true.

It is rather remarkable, and especially fortunate that a prep. school should have such an efficient athletic director. For thirteen years Sweeney acted in that capacity and coached all the teams. He taught other men to teach football.

Jack Moakley

Had any one gone to Ithaca in the hope of obtaining the services of Jack Moakley, the Cornell trainer, he would have found this popular trainer's friends rising up and showing him the way to the station, because there never has been a human being who could sever the relations between Jack Moakley and Cornell.

The record he has made with his track teams alone entitles him to a high place, if not the highest place, on the trainer's roll of honor. To tell of his achievements would fill an entire chapter, but as we are confining ourselves to football, his work in this department of Cornell sports stands on a par with any football trainer.

Jack Moakley takes his work very seriously and no man works any harder on the Cornell squad than does their trainer. Costello, a Cornell captain of years ago, relates the following incident:

"Jack Moakley had a man on his squad who had a great habit of digging up unusual fads, generally in the matter of diet. At this particular time he had decided to live solely on grape nuts. As he was one of the best men on the team, Jack did not burden himself with trouble over this fad, although at several times Moakley told him that he might improve if he would eat some real food. However, when this man started a grape nut campaign among the younger members of the squad he aroused Jack's ire and upon his arrival at the field house he wiped the black board clean of all instructions and in letters a foot high wrote:

The resultant kidding finally made the old beefsteak popular with our friend.

Johnny Mack

It would not seem natural if one failed to see Johnny Mack on the side lines where Yale is playing. In eleven years at New Haven Yale teams were never criticised on account of their condition. The physical condition of the Yale team has always been left entirely in Johnny Mack's hands, and the hard contests that they went through in the season of 1915 were enough to worry any trainer. Johnny Mack was always optimistic.

There is much humor in Johnny Mack. It is amusing to hear Johnny tell of the experience that he and Pooch Donovan had in a Paris restaurant, and I'm sure you can all imagine the rest. Johnny said they got along pretty well with their French until they ordered potatoes and the waiters brought in a peck of peas.

It is a difficult task for a trainer to tell whether a player is fully conscious of all that is going on in a game. Sometimes a hard tackle or a blow on the head will upset a man. Johnny Mack tells a story that illustrates this fact:

"There was a quarterback working in the game one day. I thought he was going wrong. I said to the coach: 'I think something has happened to our quarterback.' He told me to go out and look him over. I went out and called the captain to one side after I had permission from the Referee. I asked him if he thought the quarterback was going right. He replied that he thought he was, but called out some signals to him to see if he knew them. The quarter answered the captain's questions after a fashion and the captain was satisfied, but, just the same, he didn't look good to me. I asked the captain to let me give him a signal; one we never used, and one the captain did not even know.

"Said I, 'What's this one—48-16-32-12?'

"'That's me through the right end,' he said.

"'Not on your life, old man,' said I, 'that's you and me to the side lines!'

"I remember one fall," says Johnny, "when we were very shy on big material at Yale. The coaches told me to take a walk about the campus and hunt up some big fellows who might possibly come out for football. While going along the Commons at noon, the first fellow I met was a big, fine looking man, a 210 pounder at least, with big, broad shoulders. I stopped him and asked if he had ever played football.

"'Yes,' he said, 'I played a little at school. I'll come out next week.' I told him not to bother about next week, but to come out that afternoon—that I'd meet him at the gym' at one o'clock and have some clothes for him. He came at one o'clock and I told one of the rubbers to have some clothes ready. When I came back at 1:30 and looked around I couldn't recognize him. 'Where in the world is my big fellow?' I said to Jim the rubber.

"'Your big fellow? Why, he just passed you,' said Jim.

"'No,' said I, 'that can't be the man; that must be some consumptive.'

"'Just the same, that's your big fellow in his football suit,' said Jim. 'The biggest part of him is hanging up in there on a nail.'

"Some tailors, these fellows have nowadays."

Johnny Mack further tells of an amusing incident in Foster Sanford's coaching.

"At early practice in New Haven Sanford was working the linemen," says Johnny. "He picked a green, husky looking boy out of the line of candidates and was soon playing against him. He didn't know who Sandy was, and believe me, Sandy was handling him pretty rough to see what he was made of. The first thing you know the fellow was talking to himself and, when Sandy was careless, suddenly shot over a stiff one on Sandy's face and yelled:

"'I'm going to have you know that no man's going to push me around this field.'

"Sandy was happy as could be. He patted the chap on the back and roared, 'Good stuff; you're all right. You're the kind of a man I want. We can use men like you!'

"But Foster Sanford was not the only old-timer who could take the young ones' hard knocks," says Johnny. "I've seen Heffelfinger come back to Yale Field after being out of college twenty years and play with the scrubs for fifty-five minutes without a layoff! I never saw a man with such endurance.

"Ted Coy was a big, good-natured fellow. He was never known to take time out in a game in the four years he played football. In his senior year he didn't play until the West Point game. While West Point was putting it all over us, Coy was on the side lines, frantically running up and down. But we had strict instructions from the doctor not to play him, no matter what happened.

"Suddenly Coy said: 'Johnny, let me in. I'm not going to have my team licked by this crowd.' And in he jumped.

"I saw him call Philbin up alongside of him and the first thing I knew I saw Philbin and Coy running up the field like a couple of deer. In just three plays they took the ball from our own 5-yard line to a touchdown. After that there was a different spirit in the team. Coy was an inspiration to his players."

"One more story," says Johnny.

"There were two boys at New Haven. Their first names were Jack, and both were substitutes on the scrub. About the middle of the second half in the Harvard game, the coach told me to go and warm up Jack. One of the Jacks jumped up, while the other Jack sank back on the bench with surprise and sorrow on his face. Seeing that a mistake had been made, I said, 'Not you, but you, Jack,' and pointed to the other. As the right Jack jumped up, the cloudy face turned to sunshine, as only a football player can imagine, and the sunny smile of the first Jack turned to deepest gloom, an affecting sight I shall never forget."

"Huggins of Brown"

I know of no college trainer who seems to get more pleasure out of his work than Huggins of Brown. There are numerous incidents that are recorded in this book that have been the experiences of this good-natured trainer.

A trainer's life is not always a merry one. Many things occur that tend to worry him, but he gets a lot of fun out of it just the same. Huggins says:

"Some few years ago Brown had a big lineman on its team who had never been to New York, where we went that year to meet Carlisle. The players put in quite a bit of time jollying him and having all sorts of fun at his expense. We stopped at one of the big hotels, and the rooms were on the seventh and eighth floors. In the rooms were the rope fire escapes, common in those days, knotted every foot or so. The big lineman asked what it was for, and the other fellows told him, but added that this room was the only one so equipped and that he must look sharp that none of the others helped themselves to it for their protection against fire.

"That night, as usual, I was making my rounds after the fellows had gone to bed. Coming into this player's room I saw that he was asleep, but that there appeared to be some strange, unusual lump in the bed. I immediately woke him to find out what it was. Much to my amusement, I discovered that he had wound about fifteen feet of the rope around his body and I had an awful job trying to assure him that the boys had been fooling him. Nothing that I could say, however, would convince him, and I left him to resume his slumbers with the rope still wrapped tightly about his body."

Huggins not only believes that Brown University is a good place to train, but he thinks it is a good place to send his boy. He has a son who is a freshman at Brown as I write. Huggins went to Brown in the fall of 1896, as trainer. Here is another good Huggins story:

"Sprackling, our All-American quarterback of a few years ago, always had his nerve with him and, however tight the place, generally managed to get out with a whole skin. But I recall one occasion when the wind was taken out of his sails; he was at a loss what to say or how to act. We were talking over prospects on the steps in front of the Brown Union one morning just before college opened, the fall that he was captain, when a young chap came up and said:

"'Are you Sprackling, Captain of the Team?'

"'That's me,' replied Sprack.

"'Well, I'm coming out for quarterback,' the young man declared, 'and I expect to make it. I can run the 100 in ten-one and the 220 in evens and I'm a good quarterback. I'm going to beat you out of your job.'

"Sprack, for once in his life, was flustered to death. When several of the boys who were nearby and had heard the conversation, began to laugh, he grew red in the face and quickly got up and walked away without a word. But before I could recover myself, the promising candidate had disappeared."

Harry Tuthill, specialist in knees and ankles, was the first trainer West Point ever had. When he turned up at the Academy he was none too sure that a football was made of leather and blown up.

He got his job at the Point through the bandaging of Ty Cobb's ankle. An Army coach saw him do it and said:

"Harry, if you can do that, the way you do it, come to West Point and do it for us."

Tuthill was none too welcome to the authorities other than the football men. In the eyes of the superintendent every cadet was fit to do anything that might be required of him.

"You've got to make good with the Supe," said the coaches.

So Harry went out and watched the dress parade and the ensuing double time review. After the battalion was dismissed, Tuthill was introduced to the Superintendent.

"Well, Mr. Tuthill," said the Superintendent, "I'm glad to meet you, but I really do not see what we need of a trainer."

Harry shifted his feet and gathering courage blurted out:

"Run those boys around again and then ask them to whistle."

There are many other trainers who deserve mention in this chapter, men who are earnestly and loyally giving up their lives to the training of the young men in our different colleges, but space will not permit to take up any more of these interesting characters. Their tribute must be a silent one, not only from myself but from the undergraduates and graduates of the colleges to which they belong and upon whose shoulders are heaped year after year honors which are due them.

FIRST DOCTOR IN CHARGE OF ANY TEAM

Doctor W.M. Conant, Harvard '79, says:

"I believe I was the first doctor associated with the Harvard team, and so far as I know, the first doctor who was in charge of any team at any college. At Harvard this custom has been kept up. I was requested by Arthur Cumnock, who had been beaten the previous year by Yale, to come out and help him win a game. This I consented to do provided I had absolute control of the medical end of the team, which consisted not only of taking care of the men who were injured, but also of their diet. This has since been taken up by the trainer.

"The late George Stewart and the late George Adams were the coaches in charge that year, and my recollections of some of the difficulties that arose because of new methods are very enjoyable—even at this late day. So far as I know this was the first season men were played in the same position opposite one another. In other words, there was an attempt to form a second eleven—which is now a well recognized condition.

"I had a house built under the grandstand where every man from our team was stripped, rubbed dry and put into a new suit of clothes, also given a certain amount of hot drink as seemed necessary. This was a thing which had never been done before, and in my opinion had a large influence in deciding the game in Harvard's favor; as the men went out upon the field in the second half almost as fresh as when they started the first half.

"I remember that I had not seen a victory over Yale since I was graduated from college in 1879. Some of the suggestions that I made about the time men should be played were laughed at. The standpoint I took was that a man should not be allowed by the coach to play until he was deemed fit. The physician in charge was also a matter of serious discussion. Many of these points are now so well established that to the present generation it is hardly possible to make them realize that from 1890 to 1895 it was necessary to make a fight to establish certain well-known methods.

"What would the present football man think of being played for one and one-half hours whether he was in shape or not? The present football man does not appreciate what some of the older college graduates went through in order to bring about the present reasonable methods adopted in handling the game."