Football. Why there should be such excitement about a game of football I have never been able to find out. When all is said and done you can hardly see the players. They are bunched together most of the time. They stand bent over, looking for all the world as though they were about to play leapfrog. Then some under-sized little shrimp of a fellow begins to yell 4-11-44, 7-28-7-11, and all manner of numbers; he grows fearfully excited over the stupidity of his team; they evidently don't understand the signals. In a perfect frenzy of passion and despair he raises his voice and almost weeps. Sometimes he says things that are not in the polite letter writer; not Again they form and await the whistle of the umpire. Every man acts as though the eyes of the entire sporting world were upon him. Gee! If they can only get the start; what they won't do to the other side! The whistle blows, one yard gained after a terrific struggle; form again, more numbers yelled in a voice hoarse from much shouting, then they are off again! A splendid kick causing the ball to form a perfect curve as it sails through the air, one great big chap fairly springs up several feet to catch it as it comes down; The first half is over. Now the umpire is quite a busy man. Let us trust he has taken out a traveling life insurance policy, for he certainly needs it as he wanders up and down. Each side is filing its protests. If he is to believe them they have each been guilty of everything but piracy on the high seas. Several boys have been knocked out for a minute. They are being attended to by the surgeon and staff—a liberal sprinkling of water besides massage sets them up again quite eager to join the fray. The coach calls his crowd around him, scolds some, praises others, warns all to go carefully. The little chap, whose special mission in life seems to be to cuss and yell numbers as fast as he can get them out, is on hand; watches his opportunity to remind them that when he says 8-7-6-5-4 he does not mean 93-2-15; begs them, for sweet love's sake, to go in and win. The referee blows the whistle. Both sides form. They toss up for the first choice, and off they go. In spite of one's desire to sit quietly and let them chew each other up like a pack of Kilkenny cats, until nothing but the tails are left, you find yourself yelling, jumping, running along with the rest of the crowd. "A goal! a goal!" they shriek, and all because one boy has thrown the ball over. Phew! what excitement! what No matter where you go it is just as bad; that is, in any English-speaking country. This fall I saw, while in Lincoln, England, a tremendous crowd coming out of the railroad station. They were pushing and jostling each other. Some were packed six deep in cabs, riding in butchers' carts, on bicycles, on tricycles. I had almost said icicles, because they were going any way so long as they got there. My curiosity at last got the best of me, and I stopped a good-natured looking man. "My friend," I said, "what are you all in such a hurry for? Is there a hanging going on, or has England declared herself a Republic?" He looked at me with a pitiful smile, as though to pity my ignorance. "No, Madam," he said, "it is a game of football, and they kick off at 2.30," and off he ran. On this particular day the Reds won, to the everlasting sorrow of the Blues. Boys are nice chaps, anyhow. Just as soon as the game is over there is not one bit of hard feeling between victor and vanquished. They shake hands, say better luck next time and are ready for the next game. If we could carry that spirit with us out into the world, what a lot of good it would do us, as well as the other poor soul who has lost in the game of life. At least let us try and give the other chap a fair show, a run for his money, so to say. Then if we do come out ahead it won't matter so much. A kind word, a loving thought, means a lot to the chap who has lost, while to us it affords Emblem of book on stand A rowing race |