Orange Juice

Orenthal James Simpson grew up in a deprived neighborhood outside of San Francisco. His father left his family when he was a toddler. As an under-nourished baby he developed rickets. Amazingly the bent-toed little infant grew into a keen athlete and became a stand-out back at Galileo High School, just blocks from the waterfront. Pac Eight schools quickly became aware of his abilities, but they were also aware of his poor grades.

OJ matriculated at San Francisco Community College in 1965 to play football and work on his academic eligibility. At the end of his first year he qualified for Arizona State and under heavy pressure from Sun Devils coaches nearly headed for Tempe. He even considered Utah State at one point, but in his heart the Bay Area stud knew he wanted to follow local hero Gary Beban (then an all-American quarterback with the Buins) to Los Angeles. The ambitious Simpson set his sights on USC and with much encouragement from John McKay’s staff he spent one more year in San Francisco. When he finally became eligible he had only two years remaining and needed to make an immediate impression.

There was little doubt about OJ's talent. He left San Francisco as the all-time junior college rush leader with 2,552 yards and 54 TDs in just two years. But McKay wanted to know just how much USC could build around him and whether the lithe 6”1’ 202lb back could run between the tackles at the highest level. In one pre-season scrimmage during full contact drills McKay ran Simpson up the middle seven consecutive times. OJ seemed to grow stronger and more assertive with every run, knocking first team defenders onto their backs with apparent ease. The Trojans had their go-to man.

Then as today USC did not shy away from scheduling tough slates. In a 10 game 1967 season with seven conference match-ups and an annual bout with heavyweight Notre Dame already on the docket they also lined up a trip to East Lansing and a home game with Darrel Royal’s Texas Longhorns. Hugh Daugherty’s Michigan State Spartans claimed back-to-back national championships for 1965 and 1966. Texas won three national titles of their own during the 1960s and dominated the Southwest Conference. None of that intimidated OJ, who carried the ball 36 against Sparty and 30 vs. Texas. When asked about his enormous workload the irrepressible back said:

“I feel like I can go all the way every time.”

McKay half-jokingly stated:

“He isn’t in any union. He can carry it as much as we want him to.”

OJ’s collegiate career really took off in South Bend on October 14^th 1967. Notre Dame was coming off a 9-0-1 year with the usual slew of vaunted recruiting classes. In year four of the Parseghian era the Irish were heavily favored to slide into their historic sixth gear. A one-touchdown loss in their second game at Purdue didn’t seem to register with the experts, who still had 2-1 Notre Dame as 14 point favorites at home against the 4-0 Trojans. Although the Irish went into the locker room up 7-0 at halftime, the visitors proved to have the staying power on the day. Terry Hanratty, Notre Dame’s all-American quarterback, threw six interceptions. OJ ran 38 times for 160 yards and accounted for all three USC touchdowns. Every week his huge carry totals testified to his strength, stamina and power. Simpson pounded Notre Dame without mercy and by the end of only his fifth division one football game he had compiled 762 yards. That pace never slackened.

Two weeks later OJ featured in an impressive road win in Seattle against 4-1 Washington, whose only previous loss had come at the hands of mighty Nebraska. Simpson ran 30 times for 235 yards (7.3 ypc) and again accounted for all three USC touchdowns in a 23-6 win.

USC cruised to easy wins vs. Oregon and at Cal before picking up the only regular season loss of OJ’s career on a slippery surface in Corvallis on November 11^th. Behind the composed quarterback play of Steve Peerce the Beavers pulled off an ugly 3-0 win which is still considered the school’s greatest ever upset. Despite the conditions and a rare off day for the team OJ did not disappoint, carrying 31 times for 188 yards.

The loss created some uncertainty heading into the season finale cross-town clash with 7-0-1 UCLA (whose record also bore a single blemish doled out by the impertinent Beavers). The Pac Eight title, a trip to the Rose Bowl and a likely national title shot were in the balance. There was also plenty of Heisman Trophy talk surrounding the Bay Area rivals lining up in opposing backfields. In his first varsity season for the Bruins in 1955 Beban had engineered an unlikely comeback from a ten-point deficit against USC. He manufactured a 20-16 win in the final four minutes against eventual Heisman Trophy winner Mike Garrett. Bruins called him “the Great One”. Trojans were less enthusiastic.

Despite absorbing a string of tough hits Beban led the Bruins to a fourth quarter lead. Only two field goal blocks by 6’8” lineman Bill Hayhoe balanced out three Trojan fumbles inside the red zone and kept USC in the contest. The game had everything. The lead changed four times, scores were level heading into the fourth quarter, and the two Heisman candidates each enjoyed memorable career days. The Great One led UCLA up and down the field, throwing for over 300 yards and two touchdowns. He gave the Bruins a 20-14 lead early in the fourth quarter with a twenty yard pass to end Dave Nuthall (the last of seven catches he made on the day). Crucially, Ukranian born all-American punter Zenon Andrusyshyn missed the PAT. The sole spot on Beban’s performance came on the final play of the first period when he threw a pass into the left flat for Greg Jones that hung in the air just too long. USC’s Pat Cashman jumped the route and ran the ball back 50-yards for the game-tying score.

Critics might look at that mistake as the eventual difference maker (though Beban was playing hurt and could not be expected to do everything). Mathematically, the interception and Simpson’s legendary TD run with ten minutes remaining were of equal value. But football is more than mere numbers. Every seasoned fan knows in his gut when he has witnessed a genuinely momentum shifting moment of personal brilliance. In every meaningful sense, it was OJ’s run and not Beban’s pick that decided the day.

On third and three at his own thirty-six McKay called a pass play. At the line of scrimmage back-up quarterback Toby Page, who was in for Steve Sogge, saw a UCLA linebacker move back in anticipation and called an audible. He handed off to Simpson, who ran off-tackle left for five yards before meeting two Bruins. OJ then found his hidden gear, whirled left and burst into the open field as though it were nothing. His 64 yard touchdown palpably sealed a Trojan victory, despite the ten minutes remaining on the clock.

OJ finished the regular season with 1,415 yards and 11 TDs on 266 carries. He added 128 yards and 2 TDs on 25 carries in the 1968 Rose Bowl, leading the Trojans to 14-3 victory over Indiana [who represented the Big Ten rather than Woody Hayes’ Buckeyes because of the league’s ridiculous prohibition on consecutive bowl appearances].

Simpson’s incredible debut year in division one ball doubtless deserved a Heisman, but Beban also had a strong case. One L.A. Times writer said after the USC-UCLA game:

“They should send the Heisman out here with two straws.”

Beban went 24-5-2 and was a three time all-conference quarterback at UCLA. His 34 career touchdowns and over 1,500 passing yards established school offensive records that stood for 15 years. Having already won a conference title at LA’s less fancied football school in his first year, Beban’s appeal proved too much for Heisman voters.

OJ Simpson did enter his senior year as the stand out tailback with the defending national champions and was the clear Heisman favorite from day one. Repeating his 1967 statistics would make him the sure winner in a cake walk. He surprised no one by doing exactly that.



OJ's game-turning run vs. UCLA, 1967

The Trojans standout single handedly secured an impressive road win in Minneapolis on opening day. He scored four TDs, two coming in the final quarter to rally USC from behind. Simpson racked up 236 yards rushing and 57 yards receiving on six receptions. The 29-20 win came against a squad that had gone 8-2 the previous year. If there had been any question heading into the year who the Heisman favorite was, it had evaporated by the time USC boarded their plane home.

The Trojans came through their next eight games unscathed, despite narrow decisions against Stanford and Oregon State. In the third game of the year, USC’s home opener, an anticipated matchup between OJ and Miami’s 6’8” 210lb future hall of fame linebacker Ted “the Mad Stork” Hendricks fizzled into a rout. USC racked up points just as well as if the U had not even fielded a linebacking corps. A 28-3 win came as much from the passing yards Steve Sogge was able to rack up as Miami focused too much on OJ. Even still, Simpson punched in two short runs for TDs in another hundred yard day.

A record breaking career ended, fittingly enough, with games against USC’s great arch rival Notre Dame and the Big Ten’s perennial power Ohio State. OJ had excelled in every outing for two seasons. Behind his running the Trojans had won a conference title, a Rose Bowl and a national championship. Heading into a home date with the Irish on November 30^th 1968 they were already repeat conference champions and only 120 minutes away from successfully defending their national crown. Ara Parseghian had other ideas.

Behind the passing of Joe Theismann (playing for an injured Terry Hanratty) and an exceptionally well prepared defense, Notre Dame held OJ to just 23 yards on nine carries in the first half and amassed a commanding 21-7 lead with a 234-71 yard edge. OJ’s longest run of the day amounted to a paltry seven yards. With ND keyed in on his every move it fell to Sogge to engineer the come back. He did just that, leading two long scoring drives to salvage a 21-21 tie. Simpson finished with just 55 yards on 21 carries – stunningly human career lows in both total yards and ypc (2.6)

Exactly one year previously Simpson put up his greatest collegiate performance and most memorable single play. He had sealed a dramatic win, clinched a conference championship and placed his Trojans in the driver’s seat for a national crown. That year the man in the opposing backfield had lifted the Heisman Trophy. In 1968 the roles were reversed. Coming off the sole poor performance of his career Simpson won the Trophy at a canter. Even with a 55 yard day vs. Notre Dame OJ racked up a staggering 1,709 yard, 22 TD year on 355 carries. His 2,853 Heisman voting points nearly tripled the total of second place Leroy Keyes of Purdue – a mere 1,103.

After claiming the Downtown Athletics Club’s coveted award Simpson had one last chance to make an impression in the legendry cardinal jersey. Waiting for him in Pasadena would be Woody Hayes’ Buckeyes. Ohio State reflected their prickly and often less-than personable coach. Hayes’ T-formation offenses were long out of style. His teams were physical, gritty, unattractive, predicable, disciplined, and extremely tough. They gave up little on defense and earned wins on offense three brutal, inexorable yards at a time.

In the early going USC seemed to be the team of destiny. OJ was his old self, finding daylight even inside the Trojans' own 20 yard line and tearing off 80 yards for a second quarter TD. But Hayes’ men dug-in. The Buckeye defense tightened and did not allow OJ loose again. Barely a minute into the fourth quarter the tide turned for good when Buckeye defensive end Bill Urbanik sacked Sogge at the USC 21 with the force of a freight train. After Vic Stollemyer recovered the fumble Ohio State quarterback Rex Kern, whose calm and unflashy play carried the day, fired off a 14-yard scramble and a four yard TD pass to halfback Leo Hayden.



OJ's 1969 Rose Bowl TD run

USC still had time to close the gap but on a fourth quarter drive cornerback John Tatum stood OJ up at the three, forcing a field goal where a touchdown would have made the task so much easier.

Along with his sublime 80-yard score Simpson fumbled twice, ran a sloppy route on a swing pass that allowed a Buckeye INT, and overthrew a halfback pass to end Ted Dekraai who was wide open in the endzone. Those mistakes cost dear as the Trojans dropped the game 20-16. Ohio State, not USC became national champions. OJ Simpson’s heart-thumping, jaw-dropping, whirlwind, record breaking collegiate career ended on two low notes – the only two low notes of the entire ride. OJ did add 171 yards and a touchdown to his career totals on the day. But he did not get the one thing he wanted – a second Rose Bowl.

Simpson went on to a pro career that met every expectation. He is unquestionably one of the game’s all-time great runners. The only tarnish on his considerable legacy is the unsolved case of the double murders of his ex-wife Nicole Brown and Ronald Goldman. So much ink has been spilled over this case that it is unnecessary for me to add to the total. The facts are that Simpson was acquitted in a criminal trial in October 1995 but that the case remains open. A civil trial found him guilty of wrongful death in February 1997.

The important question for this blog is whether uncertain but lingering and substantial doubts as to Simpson’s personal life and legal history are relevant to his collegiate legacy on the gridiron. There is a strong case to be made for leaving sporting achievements in a class of their own and not complicating the matter with uninvited elevations of athletes to the level of role models and leaders. Many intelligent and rational people take this line.

For my part, I prefer Joe Paterno’s perspective. When asked if his national champion1982 Nittany Lions were his best team ever he replied that true greatness was a measure of character, which could only be seen off the field. He told the reporter:

“Ask me again in twenty-five years.”

(Sources: Dan Jenkins, USC-ND 1967, Great One vs. OJ, Face-off that wasn’t, Irish tied up OJ, 1969 Rose Bowl; OJ, Wiki; Sports.jrank, OJ; USC-UCLA 1967, SI, Wiki; Hall of Fame, OJ; Heisman.com, Beban, OJ; CFB data warehouse; ESPN, Rites of Autumn)

The fall of 1905 (Presidential intervention part 2)

In the fall of 1905 College football faced a grave crisis that spilled over from decades of unchecked aggression. Ugly hits after plays, targeted attacks on key players and out-of-control body piles created public outcry. A New York Times article on October 15th 1905 stated: “For the last five years there has been more or less agitation for rule changes in football to accomplish the reducing of the liability to injury.” Finally, that fall, a perfect storm of public and political interest coincided with the game’s most violent, and regrettable year ever. The crisis culminated in lasting reform that created the modern game of football and established the lasting structure of the collegiate game.

Public interest in reform did not begin in 1905. During the game’s early decades through the late nineteenth century college football was regulated by the Intercollegiate Football Association’s rules committee, chaired by the venerable Walter Camp. The game’s original powers, the Ivy League establishment, ted the body. By the twentieth century, as the game was expanding both geographically and socially, the elitism of this limited access tarnished the committee’s reputation and effectiveness. Glorified gentlemen’s agreements maintained a universal style and system of play. Individual schools and not the IFA arranged and directed referees. The committee faced criticism from parties who viewed it as exclusionary – such as upstart Western
Walter Camp as a Yale player Conference (Big 10) who lobbied through the late 1890s for their man Amos Stagg to be admitted – as well as those who viewed the game as wantonly violent.

Many University Presidents, Boards of Advisors, and alumni groups feared the game’s disreputable elements rendered it unsustainable. They also looked in dismay on the distracting influence of football in collegiate life, its disproportional popularity, and the corrupting impact of the gate revenues it generated. At most schools game-day takings were handled by the athletic club’s graduate director with little oversight. Money often found its way to players or simply disappeared. The game also lacked any mechanisms for regulating eligibility and amateurism. Players routinely transferred, even during the season. There were no limits on the length of a man’s eligibility. A series of muckraking articles in McClure’s Magazine ran in the summer of 1905 highlighting the problem of creeping professionalism. They caused a public sensation. The author, Henry Needham, highlighted one athlete at Pennsylvania State College who performed well against Ivy League giant Penn on a Saturday and was practicing with the Quakers as a member of their squad by Monday.

Prior to the fall of 1905 reformers were already wondering how to prevent a popular but brutal game from eclipsing and disrupting American education. When the season began young men started suffering brutal and even injuries early and often. Prominent university administrators began seriously considering abolition of the game. It is a commonly rehearsed error that Roosevelt threatened to abolish the game in the absence of reform. He neither wanted that outcome nor possessed such power. In fact, by December several colleges were dropping the game without compulsion. Few administrators actually wanted to see football abolished. Even fewer wanted to leave the rules unchanged. But for every problem there existed dozens of proposed solutions and no adequate regulatory authority existed to enforce any one of them. The rules committee seemed an out-dated, ineffective tool of the eastern establishment.

The most famous and highly publicized injury of 1905 did not lead to a fatality. Robert “Tiny” Maxwell took a vicious beating during the Penn-Swarthmore game at Franklin Field on October 7th. Photos of his bloodied face shocked the nation. Stories that the pictures shocked President Roosevelt into action are certainly apocryphal as he had already organized a meeting with representatives of “the Big bloothree” colleges before the event. But such adverse press did add to public pressure. At 250lb and standing 6’4” tall, Maxwell was a giant among men. He played for two years at Chicago for Amos Stagg before transferring to Swarthmore College outside Philadelphia, where he acquired the sardonic nickname ‘Tiny’. The stand-out guard’s line play led Swarthore to a 7-1 record in 1905. Penn accounted for the only loss by singling out Maxwell for late hits and illegal contact to the face.

Not long after the game Swarthmore President John Swain stated publically that he supported President Roosevelt’s pressure for reform and that: “Swarthmore College stands for clean and manly sport, shorn of all unnecessary roughness. . . . [We] will cooperate with others to secured clean college athletics.”However, the college dropped football in 1908 under pressure from a wealthy alum who demanded the move as a condition of an endowment. Clearly powerful and influential people were sick of football. Had enough colleges agreed the game might have lost critical mass.

At the White House on October 9th Roosevelt entertained Dr. D. H. Nichols and football coach William Reid of Harvard, Arthur Hildebrand and John Fine of Princeton, and Walter Camp and John Owsley of Yale. Alongside Stagg, who was not present, these men made up the IFA rules committee. Roosevelt had no power to enforce any change. He set precedent simply by showing Presidential interest in such a matter. But in 1905 TR was in a unique position to act. The trend-setting President possessed almost limitless political capital. The New York Times summarized his Midas touch by reporting: “After settling the war in the Far East . . . President Roosevelt today took up another question of vital interest to the American people. He started a campaign for reform in football.” The reformist commander-in-chief would earn the Nobel Peace Prize that year, but to many Americans the act of lending his copious political influence to the pressure for regulation and reform in college football deserves more lasting notoriety.

The same day of TR’s meeting with the big three, Howard C. Montgomery died during practice at
Hampton-Sydney College, Virginia. Disgust at such loss of life added to suspicions of football’s disproportionate and educationally disruptive popularity. That same week, faculty members at Columbia expelled football captain Tom Thorpe for allowing his athletic obsession to undermine his grades. A week later a statement in the Harvard Bulletin from an alumni group demanded substantial reform of the game and quoted Dr. William White, a notable surgeon at the University of Pennsylvania, as saying: “the human body is not fitted to endure the game as it is played in American colleges.” In the wake of the Maxwell scandal White and U Penn emerged as leading advocates of reform.

Among the big three Harvard aligned most eagerly with upstart colleges beyond the Ivy League, especially after biased officials blatantly ignored extremely rough play from the Bulldogs in the 1905 Harvard-Yale game. Harvard men were suspicious of Walter Camp’s strangle-hold over the game’s rules. In three decades of college football Harvard had beaten Yale on only 3 occasions. Yale’s nce and on the field and influence in the rules committee seemed more than coincidental.

By 1905 Harvard men were ready to break the solidarity among the game’s established powers.
Reformers looked to create a more open style of play on the field and to more effectively enforce the rules. In November, several weeks before the Yale game, William Reid informed Harvard graduates that sweeping reforms were required to “put a higher premium on skill, make weight and strength of less value, and produce a more scientific and interesting sport.” He also advocated “the rigorous imposition of severe penalties.” Public statements from Roosevelt continued to support those goals. He particularly advocated “simplicity and uniformity in the eligibility rules.”

The month ended on a low note when William Moore, the right halfback of Union College died under a pile of bodies against NYU that required policemen to untangle. On the same day William Carter of Columbia was hospitalized in a game against Pennsylvania with a severe spinal injury. U Penn emerged in the early post-season as the leading voice for reform. A circular letter to all major athletics colleges invited representatives to a meeting in Philadelphia to discuss reform. U Penn officials suggested rules prohibiting players from representing more than one college in their career and the imposition of 25-yard penalties for violent hits. Several days later a public letter from a Professor Hollis at Harvard called for a definition of professionalism and the prohibition on monetary compensation.

The crisis of public confidence had reached fever pitch. A Chicago Tribune survey of university administrators published on November 26th reported Professor Shalter Matthews of the Chicago Divinity School as saying: “Football to-day is a social obsession – a boy-killing, education prostituting, gladiatorial sport. I do not know what should take its place, but the new game should not require the services of a physician.”

President Schurman of Cornell was less pessimistic. He believed that university Presidents possessed the power to reform the game and stated: “All that is needed is action.”

President Wheeler of California, Berkeley summated succinctly: “Football must be made over, or go.”

President Hopkins of Williams College captured perfectly the game’s internal conflict in publically supporting reform but warning that “taking all the struggle and peril out of [football] would just spoil it.”

Hopkins’ view represented the majority. Few favored outright abolition. When change finally came, the process moved quickly with revolutionary consequence. On November 27th Columbia President Francis S. Bangs joined NYU president Henry McCracken in threatening permanent abolition. He condemned the existing rules committee, stating: “I would not trust [them] to reform the game. . . A new committee should be appointed whose members have a direct personal responsibility to a higher authority.”

Columbia administrators perceived such dire immediacy that a committee of faculty announced two days later that the college would drop football. Professor Herbert Lord called the game an “obsession, which has become a hindrance to the great mass of students, and proved itself harmful to academic standing and human life.”

Even in whimsical postcards, vicious face injuries were assumed

Columbia became the first school to publically commit to abolishing the game as it then existed and others seemed to feel equally strongly. Even still, support for the game remained overwhelming. Students at Columbia turned out in droves to publically protest the euthanizing of their team. A New York Times editorial on December 5th stated: “College Presidents who think football too bad for further tolerance are extremely few.” It was in this climate that the FIA rules committee met at the Philadelphia home of George McFadden, the chair of U Penn’s football committee, on December 10th.

The committee debated several possibly rule changes. Walter Camp’s suggested Panacea was to increase the yardage required for fresh downs from five to ten. John Bell of U Penn hoped to weaken the ends of the line of scrimmage to encourage end running and prevent the ly body piles caused in central “mass plays”. He specifically suggested legalizing forward passes completed behind the line of scrimmage. Initially the forward pass was designed to open the field horizontally with back-field passes to the sidelines in order to get runners into the open. Bell had no idea how far his suggestion would eventually go to open play up and over the full hundred yards. More than any other rule change the forward pass defines the difference between American football and the early forms of Rugby from which it grew.

L. M. Dennis of Cornell suggested requiring all offensive players to remain behind the ball prior to kick-off. Stagg advocated 15 and 25 yard penalties for intentional fouls. The committee also considered suggestions for instituting a ‘neutral zone’ to separate the teams at the line. We can hardly imagine the game today without these rules and it is unfortunate that it took so many lives lost to bring them about.

Perhaps the most significant development came the day after the meeting when E. M. Seeley of the YMCA training school offered to host a training program for officials in order to improve standards of rule enforcement. This conceptual seed grew into centralized control over refereeing crews. Today the game would hardly function without conference and NCAA oversight of umpires.

Despite conservations in Philadelphia vocal reformers outside the Ivy League continued to doubt that the establishment could act effectively to save the game and the lives of those who played it. On December 20th, a week before a scheduled conference of athletics colleges in New York, McCracken called the rules committee “high and mighty potentates.” He complained of institutional exclusion and elitism, complaining that committee members were “elected I know not how.”

The 62 delegates who gathered from across the nation at the Murray Hill Hotel on December 28th addressed that very point. The meeting took just nine hours to agree on suggested reforms and elect a new rule committee which more fully represented the changing face of the game. H. L. Williams of Minnesota, J. T. Less of Nebraska, F. H. Curtis of Texas showed a shift both westward and towards public universities.
The meeting established a new body for oversight of both refereeing standards and rules of eligibility. The Inter Collegiate Athletics Association of the United States would change its name in 1910 to the National Collegiate Athletics Association. The body’s first act was to demand unification of the old and new rule committees and threaten independent action if the old guard refused.

On January 12th the two committees met at the Netherland Hotel in New York. William Reid announced at the meeting that the Harvard football committee had instructed him to join the new body unilaterally if necessary. Three days later the Harvard board of overseers announced that the university would drop football until satisfactory new rules were established. The board cut the Crimson’s off-season football camp short and sent the players home. This move had less to do with genuine taste for abolition than it did breaking Yale’s nce of the game. It succeeded spectacularly. Reid became secretary of the amalgamated committee. This position gave him the agenda-setting and editorial powers that Camp had long enjoyed.

A few days later President Hadley of Yale gave his annual alumni dinner address and showed his institution’s lack of enthusiasm for the reforming vandals who were wrestling control of the game from the Connecticut school. He stated: “In the 30 years we have played Rugby football at Yale there has been no , and to the best of my knowledge, no grave case of permanent injury.” He believed the situation required little more than college-level commitment to clean play. Regarding rule changes he only said: “we are happy to leave the work to Mr. Camp.” Obviously most other university presidents felt more strongly.

A week later on January 20th the annual conference of the Western Conference passed a stark and brief resolution declaring: “The game of football, as currently played, is hereby abolished in collegiate and inter-collegiate contests in conference colleges.” The conference adopted rules dramatically reducing the number of games played per year, giving faculty overseers control of gate receipts, and limiting varsity eligibility to three years. From those rules would grow intercollegiate athletics departments and NCAA regulation of eligibility. The conference which would supersede the Ivy League as the game’s power house for the ensuing half-century committed explicitly to new rules.

Only one week later the amalgamate rules committee ratified rule changes that radically changed the game. This proved a water shed. For thirty years college football had revolved around private, east coast schools and been ted by Yale – the game’s first great dynasty. The crisis of 1905 broke the ranks of the Ivy League establishment and introduced a broader influence in the game for rising football powers beyond the eastern private schools. It also created a central body that would enforce a universal version of the game and effectively cut the umbilical chord that still existed between the college game and English Rugby Football.

Officially college football is dated to the 1869 Rutgers-Princeton contest [although that meeting was actually a form of what would become Association Football]. The real birth date of the college game, at which it became truly and definitively American, is December 28th 1905. This was also the first time that upstarts forced an unresponsive establishment to admit them into their old-boys club and share the proverbial pie.

Here’s hoping the powers of misrule that control the BCS cartel face a similar day of destiny very soon.

(Sources: Richard Pagano, Robert Maxwell; New York Times; Chicago Tribune; John Sayle Watterson, College Football)

Theodore Roosevelt and football (presidential interference part 1)

During the 1905 college football season the loosely regulated violent tactics of the era caused eighteen fatalities; that in a day when varsity squads generally numbered below forty and only a hundred or so colleges played. Football evolved slowly from the same roots as both rugby and soccer. In the early days every team used its own variations on the basic rules. By the later nineteenth century college football possessed a rules committee, presided over by the venerable Walter Camp. But the body met only occasionally and had no full-time staff or punitive power. Effectively, it only acted to prohibit the most flagrantly violent abuses [such as the notorious flying wedge formation] long after public outcry necessitated action.

Excessive violence and brutal tactics caused major injuries and damaged the reputation of the game. Even the Harvard-Yale rivalry, the sport’s premier event, suffered as a result of this harmful publicity. University administrations enforced a two-year hiatus after a disgustingly vicious spectacle in 1894. Through the 1905 season, as young men died unnecessarily on a weekly basis, college Presidents grew sympathetic toward public and press appeals for institutions of higher learning to drop football.

Fortunately for posterity President Theodore Roosevelt saw the great value and national importance of college football and acted to save the game. On October 9th, two days after the highly publicized brutal beating of Robert “Tiny” Maxwell in the Penn-Swarthmore game, Roosevelt hosted a meeting at the White House between the Presidents of Yale, Harvard, and Princeton. The public impetus this meeting gave the cause of reform grew in the following months. After the season, rule changes proposed by the University of Pennsylvania led to larger meetings between the representatives of more colleges in New York. In February 1906 colleges replaced the antiquated rule committee with a new body - the Intercollegiate Athletics Association of the United States (renamed the NCAA in 1910).

This move established a regulatory body to enforce the spirit of amateurism, maintain safety, and promote gentlemanly conduct. For all its ills, American college athletics would likely never have achieved such prominent, lasting, cohesive, and structured success without the NCAA. That organization might never have come into being without the leadership and applied political capital of a President who saw a popular and valuable national sport stranded in controversy and crying out for reform.

The larger-than-life President had been a voracious reader from early childhood. As an adult he routinely read three or four books a day, often amazing guests by taking a new book to bed in an evening and citing lengthy passages from memory at breakfast. Roosevelt mastered the art of taxidermy at the age of nine. He published his first book [a guide to bird species of the Adirondacks] as a Harvard sophomore. His second book, The Naval War of 1812, written his senior year, has only been surpassed as an authority on the subject once in over a century. In all, Roosevelt wrote eighteen books. His letters are filled with references to ancient classics such as Plutarch, Herodotus, or the Greek tragedies.

But for all Roosevelt’s prolific genius, biographers invariably trace the turning point in his life to the genesis of his interest in bodily exercise. As a boy Roosevelt was an awkward, skinny asthmatic and often slept propped up on a large pillow to aid his feeble lungs. His father worried that physical weakness would prevent his intellectually vivacious young son from fulfilling his potential. He challenged twelve year old Theodore in an exchange recorded in his mother’s diary:

“Theodore, you have the mind but not the body, and without the body the mind cannot go as far as it should. You must make your body. It is hard drudgery to make one’s body, but I know you will do it.”

Theodore, who worshipped his father, replied with the indomitable resolve that set him apart from his peers his whole life:

“I’ll make my body.”

A life of physical exertion began that moment. The young Roosevelt started to spend his free time lifting weights. He competed against his cousins in every conceivable event. He developed a love of the outdoors. As an undergraduate Roosevelt spent long periods of his university breaks hiking in the wilds of northern Maine with a famed local woodsman named Bill Sewall. The hardy New Englander initially saw in TR “a thin, pale youngster with bad eyes and a weak heart.”

Sewall quickly came to see that Roosevelt’s emotional and spiritual heart was considerable, more than compensating for lack of natural skill. Sewall also praised the great ease with which the young New York Brahmin spoke to the rough, unschooled men of the Maine wilderness.

Gregariousness and natural charm fueled TR’s political success. He maintained an enormous list of personal correspondents, including the French founder of the modern Olympic Games Pierre de Coubertin. One exchange of letters between the two men in 1903 discussed the importance of exercise for public health and education. Roosevelt especially advocated rigorous exercise for boys. He sensitively and wisely condemned the practice of forcing boys into any sports they disliked as harmful to mental development. The purpose was to build up men, not break them down. Nor was the purpose to triumph for the sake of it and make an idol of success at games.

Roosevelt acknowledged to de Coubertin:

“I was never a champion at anything… I have met English officers to whom polo, racing, football and baseball were far more absorbing than their professional duties. In such case athleticism becomes a mere harmful disease.”

Despite such strong reservations, Roosevelt saw physical exercise as the great test of a man, as well as a great leveler. Competition formed and made a man, causing him to face adversity. Roosevelt felt these realities as a boxer at Harvard where he reached the 133lb class championship bout as a junior in 1879. Fighting without his glasses, Roosevelt compensated for poor eyesight with sheer tenacity and desire. Despite facing a much stronger man and receiving a broken nose, Roosevelt willfully refused to concede and went the full distance.

TR did not need the accolades of championships. He believed that physical development served the greater purpose of fitting a man for his real work. He once wrote to his son Theodore Jr., then a junior at Groton Academy:


“In my regiment probably nine-tenths of the men were better horsemen than I was, and probably two-thirds were better shots. But nobody else could command them as I could.”

He wrote these words to affirm his son’s decision to play football, despite a size disadvantage and a recent injury. Roosevelt viewed necessary injuries as positive hardship that would form character. If, on the other hand, football threatened to produce personal bitterness of any form, the president instructed his son to abstain. The central point was to see Ted Jr. master a challenge and not to be mastered:

“I am delighted to have you play football. I believe in rough, manly sports. I do not believe in them if they degenerate to the sole end of ones existence.”

TR never played football but enthusiastically followed Harvard’s fledgling team as an undergraduate in the late 1870s. Later he continued to follow Harvard’s progress, always believing that winning was important, but less so than virtue and character. After team captain, Norman Winslow Cabot followed a tradition of removing the player’s letter ‘H’ from their jerseys after the Yale loss in 1897 Roosevelt wrote to correct the man’s perspective:

“Our men had done well; not quite as well as we had hoped, but still well; and I think it as great a mistake to show undue sensitivity in defeat as it is to be indifferent about it.”

Somehow the snobbish New York society man and socially Progressive democracy advocate in Roosevelt mixed evenly. But with regard to sports, the democrat always shone more brightly. A 1906 letter to fellow Harvardian Owen Wister, who despite growing up in Pennsylvanian heavily romanticized the south in his writing, challenged him firmly:

“I do not know a white man in the south who is a good a man as Booker Washington today. You say you would not like to take orders from a Negro yourself. If you had played football at Harvard anytime in the last fifteen years you would have had to. And you would not have minded in the least, for during that time Lewis has been a field captain and a coach.”

Roosevelt referred to William H. Lewis, the first ever black college football player who made the Walter-Camp All-America list as a Harvard center in 1892. Lewis went on to a remarkable career as a football coach, writer, lawyer and civil rights activist in an era when opportunities for black Americans were severely limited. Roosevelt took pride in the fact that Lewis was a Harvard man. He praised a game that placed men on a level field, demanding mutual respect. Decades ahead of his time, TR perceived the power of inclusion football possessed as a symbol and tool in bringing down destructive racial barriers.

Roosevelt’s profoundly balanced view of athletics celebrated competition and castigated idleness, but he viewed a life of public leadership as far more important. Athletic prowess was to him a means to an end. He used his body always as his father had directed him, to carry his incredible mind. The indomitable combination of TR’s body and mind enjoyed such unceasing success that he learned to expect progress and triumph in every situation. Believing that self-discipline, resolve, and personal virtue could solve any problem he emerged as an ardent reformer. TR never threw babies out with bathwater.

When TR considered football in 1905 he saw a violent and often over-emphasized game. He also saw an integral link to American identity. Its rugged nature and intricate connection to America’s most iconic colleges made football too precious to lose. TR had already worked to restore the Army-Navy rivalry in 1899. The Secretaries of War and Navy had forbidden the academies to play road games after a very public and embarrassing near duel between a Rear-Admiral and a Brigadier-General in 1893. The five year break remains the longest in series history. As Assistant Navy Secretary TR urged Secretary of War Russell Alexander Alger to allow the rivalry to be restored. Thanks significantly to him the annual fixture resumed and quickly became the most vivid symbol of college football’s uniquely American character.

Understandably, Roosevelt felt aggrieved as the spiraling violence of 1905 far surpassed the necessary roughness he approved and led many college administrations to consider dropping football. He feared that a perfectly redeemable national treasure might be lost unnecessarily. TR publically resisted those Presidents who leaned towards the easy option of abolition and praised those with the foresight and courage to approach reform. In the fall of 1906 praised a speech by Yale President Arthur Twinning Hadley which condemned “the growth of luxury in the American colleges.” Hadley’s contention that lives without challenge and adversity produce self-entitled, weak-willed, useless citizens resonated with TR.

In an address to the Harvard student Union in February 1907 he extolled the value of “the athletic spirit” as profoundly formative and “essentially democratic.” Roosevelt warned:

“Our chief interest should not lie in the great champions in sports. On the contrary, our concern should be most of all to widen the base to encourage in every way healthy rivalry which shall give to the largest number of students the chance to partake.”

(One wonders what venomous ire President Roosevelt – a great supporter of the Anti-Trust Act - would have poured upon the exclusionary, anti-democratic practices of the BCS cartel?)

TR warned Harvard students of the potentially dire consequences colleges risked if they dropped football:

“We cannot afford to turn out college men who shrink from physical effort or from a little pain. In any republic courage is a prime necessity for the average citizen if he is to be a good citizen.”

Today the NCAA’s highest honor is the Theodore Roosevelt award, recognizing men and women who compete in college athletics before going on to become nationally recognized leaders in significant non-athletic fields. Past winners include four US Presidents.

Coaches often cite the character forming qualities of football. At times these articles of faith become cliché and can even be used to justify a nexus of greed, obsession, and uncivil conduct that is anything but beneficial. But we cannot surrender our most cherished and outstanding game to those who lack scruples, character, or courage. Regardless of its potential abuses and its penchant for over-emphasis, college football can and should teach good qualities to players and fans alike – loyalty, perseverance, endurance, collective identity, collegiate spirit, educational zeal… These make our game great.

When we see corrupt, cowardly, greedy men who spurn inclusion and shy away from genuine competition hijacking a national treasure we should join President Roosevelt in his unflinching response and cry “Reform!”

(Sources: Wiki, William Lewis; Philly Army-Navy site; Scott McQuilkin and Ron Smith, Flying Wedge, Journal of Sports History; Wiki, TR award; Edmund Morris, Rise of TR; Roosevelt, Strenuous Life; Letters and speeches of TR)

Lightnin' Lou

On November 16th 1940 two undefeated teams met at Fenway Park before a crowd of more than 20,000 expectant observers. Boston College and Georgetown both sat at 9-0 and were ranked 8th and 9th respectively in the AP poll. Grantland Rice and Amos Stagg were among the spectators and both commented on the innovative offenses showcased in the new T-formation. In addition to shifty and dynamic backfields the Jesuit rivals possessed possibly the two strongest lines in the country, including BC’s bruising 250lb All-America center Chet Gladchuck. Jack Haggerty’s Georgetown program was steadily improving and Boston College's head coach Frank Leahy had led the Eagles to their first bowl in his rookie year. Both schools hoped to challenge Notre Dame as the nation’s top Catholic football school.

A thrilling game finished in a 19-18 BC win after the Eagles took an intentional safety on an end-zone punt in the dying minutes, leaving Georgetown insufficient time to reach field goal range. An exciting game shifted in momentum several times. The Hoyas jumped out to a 10-0 first quarter lead before BC posted sixteen unanswered in reply. Huge runs and an unusually large number of downfield passing plays allowed a Boston College backfield that was gaining national recognition to shine.

Eagles greats quarterback “Chuckin’ Charlie O’Rourke, and fullback (later head coach) Mike Holovak led the lineup, but many felt the Eagles’ best player in Leahy’s squads was a little 5’7” halfback named Lou Montgomery. With time expiring in the second quarter and BC on the Hoyas' twenty-two Leahy outmaneuvered Haggerty and seized momentum with a trick play. O’Rourke threw a backfield lateral to Montgomery, as BC often did to get their runner into open space, but the halfback rolled out to his right, drawing defenders up, and threw a touchdown pass to tight end Woronicz. Despite a fourth quarter Georgetown surge, that touchown effectively gave the Eagles control of the game's momentum.

BC’s official roster did not list “Lightnin’ Lou” as a starter, despite his significant playing time in three varsity seasons from 1938 to 1940. The 160lb slashing back was a famed open field runner and drew much attention from scouts of future opponents. He suffered no serious injury problems, always had the right attitude, and never faced a defense that bested him. Despite all that, Montgomery spent several crucial games watching from the sidelines and did not participate in the 1940 Cotton Bowl or 1941 Sugar Bowl. Montgomery lost so much playing time and was never allowed to fulfill his true potential as a college athlete because he was black.

Boston College football stood at a cross roads in the late 1930s. BC had played varsity football since 1893 but had never attained national significance. Before WWI the Ivy League dominated East Coast football and Knute Rockne’s Notre Dame stood without rival or peer above all Catholic colleges. But as the 1920s gave way to the 30s Ivy League schools began to deemphasize football, fearing the sport was eclipsing academic priorities, and Notre Dame suffered declining fortunes during the post-Rockne era. After decades of struggling to earn respect as an Eastern Independent, athletic administrators at BC saw an opportunity to increase the prestige of their institution by succeeding in football.

College President Father William Murphy and graduate director of athletics John Curly hitched the program's fortunes to the young Frank Leahy in 1938. Leahy felt that BC needed to improve the caliber of their opponents if they were to command national attention. Murphy and Curly saw that step as vital to increasing lucrative ticket revenues. Games against St. Anselm, Providence, McDaniel College (MD), New Hampshire and the like carried little weight with wire service pollsters. For BC to gain the attention of bowl selection committees they needed to play inter-sectional games, and especially against teams from areas that hosted bowls. Since trips to the west coast were out of the question in 1940, this meant southern schools.



From 1938 to 1940 series with Florida, Auburn and Tulane put the Eagles on the southern football map and earned Cotton and Sugar Bowl bids. Ticket sales at Fenway Park rocketed, BC claimed a share of the 1940 national title, and Frank Leahy lost only one regular season game in two years. This record lifted him to the top of the candidate list for the head coaching job at his alma mater – Notre Dame.

The change in scheduling philosophy did not work so well for Lou Montgomery. In the 1940s southern schools still retained “Jim Crow” clauses with the NCAA that prohibited black athletes from taking part in any event involving their teams, regardless of venue. BC travelled to New Orleans to face Tulane in September 1939, but all four of the games against Auburn and Florida during his playing career took place in Boston. Lightnin’ Lou sat every minute of every one of those games out. He also suffered a loss of playing time in the preceeding weeks preceding as Leahy tested formations without him in the line up in preparation. The Eagles needed the work as Leahy’s offense clearly lost a step without Montgomery. The team’s only loss in 1939 came against an uninspiring Florida team that went on to finish 5-5-1. BC generated very few yards against the Gators and lost by the pitiful score of 7-0. Boston newspapers howled that Lightnin’ Lou would surely have proved the difference.

When the Eagles headed south for Dallas on December 26th 1939 Montgomery stood on the train car with the team and received personal applause from the large crowd. They knew he would not be going along. Before the train pulled off he stepped off the team car and watched as the Eagles went to face Clemson without him.

BC lost a narrow contest 6-3. Sportswriters noted the strong line play on both sides and the shortage of vertical running yards. O’Rourke’s passing attracted attention as he threw both downfield and laterally. But dropped passes and lack of speed hurt the Eagles. BC penetrated Clemson’s twenty yard line several times but even a first-and-goal with three minutes to play proved useless. The Tigers ground O'Rourke's drive to a halt.

When the team returned to Boston another large crowd met them at the station. Lou Montgomery rejoined his team and as he offered his encouragement and expressed pride in their effort someone shouted that BC would have won had he been allowed to play. He only shook his head with sadness and humility, saying:

“No. No, I don’t think so.”

But privately doubts were stronger. That same day at the train station Leahy commented quietly to his little halfback

“Louis, if they had let us bring you along we wouldn’t have lost.”

Montgomery accepted the praise, replying:

“I’m always going to believe that, coach.”

Leahy never treated Montgomery poorly or expressed any personal racism. He was happy to have black athletes on his team and probably did believe Montgomery would have made the difference in Dallas. He may also have had good reasons for feeling that he could not change the racial climate. But it is certain that the coach did not feel inclined to push the limits of inclusion and make personal, professional or financial sacrifices on behalf of his mistreated player.

A 2002 article in the BC student paper, The Heights, entitled “Ahead of their time,” recounts the history of the university's first black athletes. The article takes a positive tone [as student newspapers probably should] and praises Boston College for having never excluded black athletes. This pride is at least partially valid. Montgomery always said that his teammates treated him well and even initially opposed the idea of benching him for southern racism. But they soon gave way, especially when he urged them not to sacrifice the greater good of the team on his count. But it seems unlikely that he would not have gladly accepted their support had the team stood firm.

A 2005 Boston College M.A. thesis by Kevin Gregg is less optimistic than The Heights. Gregg concludes that the administration sacrificed fundamental Jesuit principles of brotherhood, equality and poverty for money and prestige. Gregg also found that while Boston’s black newspapers launched scathing attacks on the administration’s cowardice and hypocrisy, the city’s white press only seemed to care when the Eagles lost a game because of Lou’s absence.

This sad disparity became quite clear in 1940 when “the team of destiny” put together an 11-0 season and claimed a share of BC football’s only ever national title. After a strong showing in 1939 Leahy was able to strengthen his team. The 1940 Eagles were bigger, stronger and faster. And they could win without Montgomery, thus removing any cause for protest from the Boston Globe.


Lightnin’ Lou missed the team’s coming out voyage to New Orleans in September, when Leahy’s men knocked off southern power Tulane at home. Students at the Auburn Polytechnic Institute greased the rail lines running through their town, forcing BC’s train to stop and receive their applause for beating a hated rival. In the excitement no one really noticed the absence of a 160 lb halfback.

Montgomery did accompany the team to New Orleans for the 1941 Sugar Bowl. While his teammates prepared for their toughest test in Robert Neyland’s Tennessee Volunteers, he played for cash in a black college all-star game. They stayed sixty-miles outside of the city, away from distractions. Montgomery roomed in the heart of the city and took full advantage of the nightlife. But there is no doubt that he would rather have been with the Eagles, going against the Vols as a fully included representative of Boston College.

Lightnin’ Lou had been a Massachusetts all-academic prep star in 1936. He chose to represent his home state at Boston College, even though several other significant schools including UCLA offered him a scholarship. The greatest indicator of Lou’s true feelings during his BC years is that in his later life he openly stated in interviews that he would not make the same choice if given a second chance. This must be the one thing no college football fan ever wants to hear from an alumnus of his beloved program.

It is, of course, impossible to know whether BC could have broken the color line in the Cotton or Sugar Bowl in the early 1940s. What is certain is that Penn State and Wallace Triplett succeeded in desegregating the Dallas game in 1948. The Pitt Panthers and Bobby Greer accomplished the same for New Orleans in 1956. These dates preceded the general integration of southern college football by many years. Neither of these landmarks occurred because people at SMU or Georgia Tech were happy to play against integrated opponents. Indeed, in December 1955 Georgia Governor Marvin Griffin attempted to stop the game from proceeding and pointed in desperation at civil unrest surrounding a month-old bus boycott in nearby Montgomery, Alabama.

SMU accepted Wally Triplett because they and the Cotton Bowl wanted the best available opponent and Penn State had already taken a public stand against the Jim Crow clause. They could either back down or find a lesser foe, sacrificing prestige and revenue. The 1955 Panthers likewise refused to accept a bowl invitation without the inclusion of Greer. Georgia Tech students marched on the state capitol and burned Griffin in effigy not because they wanted general desegregation and loved black people, but because they wanted to see their Yellow Jackets play the best team available.

Perhaps similar resolve from Boston College in 1940 would have achieved such success. Perhaps four bloody years of fighting European fascism were necessary before Americans in the south could stomach such changes, even at the cost of losing a good football game. We will never know. We can only say for certain that the story of Lou Montgomery is not a bright chapter in the history of either college football or Boston College.

(Sources: Kevin Gregg, Tackling Jim Crow – unpublished M.A. thesis, Boston College 2005; Boston Globe, Lou Montgomery; The Heights, Ahead of their time; Reid Oslin, Tales from the BC sideline; Mark Purcell, 1940 BC vs. Georgetown – CFHS newsletter; DMN, 1940 Cotton Bowl; Wiki, 1956 Sugar Bowl)

Fifth down and goal

On November 16th 1940 the Cornell Big Red rolled into Hanover, NH as the homecoming day guest for hated rival Dartmouth. Cornell was undefeated at 6-0 and stood second in the AP poll. Until falling behind eventual national champions Minnesota in that week’s poll Cornell had been ranked first all year. The 1940 Big Red remains the only Ivy League team ever to top the AP standings.

Cornell is hardly a football power today but in 1940 they were a formidable outfit. The legendry Glenn “Pop” Warner had played and coached at Cornell, as had Gilmour “Gloomy Gil” Dobie – a giant of his generation who led the Washington Huskies to a 58-0-3 in his nine seasons as head coach from 1908 to 1916. This is still the NCAA’s longest ever undefeated run. Dobie’s Cornell teams claimed three consecutive national titles from 1921 to 1923. Although subsequent seasons had been less kind, the Big Red were enjoying a return to former glory under the rigorous tutelage of Carl “the Grey Fox” Snavely. An eighteen game unbeaten run stretched back to a narrow two-point road defeat at Syracuse in mid-October 1938. A winning streak of fourteen games beginning on opening day 1939 included a home and home series sweep of Francis Schmidt’s heavily favored Ohio State Buckeyes, the 1939 Big Ten champions. Although the fiscally cautious university administration turned down several bowl invitations in 1938 and 1939 Cornell did claim the Sagarin national title in the latter of those years and entered the 1940 season as a hot favorite in every wire service poll.

Waiting for the bookmaker’s fifteen-to-one favorite were the 3-4 Dartmouth Indians, led by their own rising coaching star, the young Earl “Red” Blaik. Then in his last season at Dartmouth before moving to West Point, Blaik had a win percentage above .700 and had never posted a losing season. [His entire career would total a quarter century with only a single losing year]. Although his team lacked the talent of the high scoring Red, on the day Blaik out foxed the Grey Fox. A bitterly cold contest unfolded on increasingly muddy sod. Snow began falling by the final quarter and neither team managed to move the ball. Snavely ran a progressive offensive system for the time, combining end-around runs with short passes underneath and to the flat [almost a hybrid of what would later become known as the option and west coast offenses]. Blaik quickly saw that the conditions would afford little mobility and dropped the interior of his defensive line back a few steps off the ball. By also bringing his linebackers up he created a crowd of defenders able to react quickly and contain the ball. Dartmouth gave the Big Red short gains on every down, but no more.

Dartmouth passed only once all day. That ball fell incomplete. Neither team gained a first down in the opening fifteen minutes. The teams punted a combined twenty-two times. Cornell had not entered the locker room without the lead in two seasons, but the game remained tied at zero heading into the final period. Finally, with less than five minutes to play, Dartmouth penetrated the Cornell twenty yard line and attempted a field goal on fourth down. Pre-war football being what it was, no player on the entire Dartmouth team had ever been involved in a field goal try. They were universally amazed and ecstatic to see left tackle Bob Kreiger send the ball through the uprights.

In response, a desperate Snavely signaled his men to open up the playbook. With an unbeaten season, possible AP title, and long winning streak at steak Cornell began to throw the ball in defiance of the inhibiting conditions. Starting from a kick return to their own forty-eight it took only two long connections to carry the Big Red to Dartmouth’s six yard line. Facing first and goal with under a minute remaining, a three yard halfback run off left tackle halved the distance. A run off right tackle on second down ate up two more yards. Then, with only seconds remaining, the game entered infamy in Ivy League lore. Fullback Mark Lansberg carried up the middle and fell backwards towards the goal line. Center Frank Finnerman maintains to this day that Lansberg came across the line and landed on top of him in the end zone. The carry would have given Cornell a victory. Instead, referee Red Friesell called the ball down and returned it to the one yard line. Someone in the confused and angry Cornell team attempted to call a timeout, forgetting that the Big Red had none remaining. This error drew a delay of game penalty and moved the ball back to the six. On fourth down, with time expiring and only one chance remaining, quarterback Walter Shaw bootlegged right and threw a jump-pass to the end zone. A Dartmouth defender batted the ball down, apparently sealing the 3-0 win. Inexplicably, Friesell placed the ball on the six yard line rather than the twenty (where the rules of the day dictated Dartmouth should have taken over after a turnover on downs inside the red zone). Friesell signaled fourth down and Cornell ran the same play with a different result. Halfback Bill Murphy brought the ball safely to his chest before the PAT gave Cornell a controversial 7-3 win.

Media uproar began immediately. Reporters wired news across the country of the inexplicable fifth down and Cornell’s eleventh hour victory. Some speculated that Friesell may have thought the five yard penalty cancelled a down. Whatever he thought, the umpire soon changed his mind. After reviewing tape of the game he admitted his error in apologetic telegrams to both schools only hours after the final gun. The following day Cornell President Ezra Day, a Dartmouth graduate, and coach Snavely agreed to concede the game. Informing the team of the decision Day assured the distressed players that Dartmouth honor and decency would surely lead their president to refuse the concession.

Day was wrong. The game became the first in college football history decided off the field. It entered the record books as a 3-0 Dartmouth victory and ended the Cornell winning streak. The following week a crushed Big Red team dropped a second game by two points at Penn. Cornell men still protest that had they retained a morale boosting victory in Hanover their team would surely have triumphed in Philadelphia to finish the season 8-0. Instead, Frank Leahy’s undefeated Boston College headed south as champion of the East to face Tulane in the 1941 Sugar Bowl. 6-2 Cornell ended the year 15th in the AP rankings. No Ivy League team has ever come so close to an AP crown.

Exactly half a century later in 1990, the 3-1-1 Colorado Buffalos headed to Columbia on October 6th for a Big Eight matchup against 2-2 Missouri. Head coach Bill McCartney was in his ninth year in Boulder, where he had put together some startlingly athletic teams. His dynamic option offenses even gave Tom Osbourne’s power running Cornhuskers some things to think about. McCartney had finally broken through the ten-win barrier and flirted with a national title in 1989, going 11-1. Through the first five games of a grueling 1990 schedule the Buffaloes had defeated #12 Washington (the eventual Pac-10 winner and Rothman national champion), #20 Texas (the eventual Southwest Conference champion), and unranked Stanford. They had lost by a single point in Champagne to Illinois (the eventual Big 10 champion), and had tied the #8 Tennessee Volunteers (the eventual SEC champion). Understandably, even with starting quarterback Darian Hagan out injured, Colorado entered Columbia heavy favorites over the unranked Tigers.

The Buffaloes were loaded with talent. McCartney had expanded CU’s recruiting base, taking stud athletes from urban areas of California. Several brought personal problems along with their physical ability. McCartney caught serious media heat for the frequent arrests surrounding his team, but annually increasing win totals largely alleviated domestic discontent. Nine players from the 1990 Buffaloes would be drafted into the NFL, including first round picks in receiver Mike Prichard and linebacker Alfred Williams, and a second round pick in standout running back Eric Bieniemy. Such a deep and dynamic team should have dispatched unfancied Mizzou with ease. But on a hot and dry October day conditions were poor for the Buff’s explosive option attack.

Backup quarterback Charles Johnson recently told Rivals.com that Missouri’s turf was designed to cope with a typically humid and muggy climate. That day the disastrously low-tech 1980s artificial turf was dry and dusty and afforded little purchase. Colorado players slipped on play after play as they attempted to turn up-field for potentially significant gains. Johnson claims the conditions disadvantaged the Buffaloes’ system far more than the vertical passing Tigers. Film of the game obviously shows the difficulty CU players experienced attempting to stay upright. On the play immediately preceding the fateful series of downs, Johnson threw a screen pass to tight end Jon Boman who broke for the end zone. With nothing but daylight between him and the game winning score Boman slipped out of bounds at the three yard line. But whatever the validity of their excuses, Colorado failed to put the game away. A back-and-forth offensive slugging match stood at 31-27 to Mizzou and came down to Colorado first and goal at the three with forty seconds and one timeout remaining.

Hoping to distract the Buffs and help their frantic Tigers save a memorable conference win, Missouri fans roared as Colorado approached the line of scrimmage. Times were not rich for Mizzou. Second year head coach Bob Stull had begun his MU career with a disappointing 2-9 campaign. In five seasons at Missouri Stull would fail to register a single winning record. The Tigers had not enjoyed a season above .500 since Warren Powers’ penultimate campaign in 1983. They would not taste another until 1997. MU students could be forgiven for moving hopefully toward the field in preparation to tear down the goal posts. The prospect of knocking off a ranked rival with an impressive record coming off an 11-1 year was a rare treat.

Desperate for time to select the best possible play, Johnson spiked the ball on first down. Eric Bieniemy plunged up the middle on second. A Mizzou linebacker drove him back just short of the goal line. Johnson called time out. Before entering the huddle he looked at the sideline official, who had forgotten to flip his down marker from 2nd to 3rd. The announcers calling the game noted the mistake but commented that it hardly mattered as the Buffs only had time for two plays at most. Regardless, Johnson and Coach McCartney mistakenly agreed three possible plays. The QB hurriedly passed them on to his team before breaking the huddle. All-American CU center Jay Leeuwenburg attempted to correct his quarterback but with time of the essence Johnson hurried to the ball unaware of the official’s mistake.

On third down Bieniemy ran up the middle again and was stopped under a pile of bodies for no gain. When Johnson finally got his team back at the line of scrimmage only two ticks remained. Believing it to be third down he hurriedly spiked the ball. Mizzou coaches and players on the sideline began moving forward for handshakes. Students cheered and prepared to rush the field. But before they could make their way onto the treacherous turf Johnson returned to the line and ran a fifth and final play. On a quarterback keeper he fell backwards towards the line and may or may not have broken the plane of the goal. Referees signaled touchdown. Time had expired and the Buffs headed for the locker room as a crowd of MU students with shocking mullets surrounded the officials in futile protest. The students tore down the goalposts anyway, perhaps thinking the fifth play had been a mistake and believing that their Tigers would be awarded the win.



Johnson and his teammates confidently told reporters they had only run four plays. Though they genuinely believed that at the time they learned their error soon after arriving back in Boulder and watching tape. Unlike their predecessors at Cornell fifty years before, the CU president and coach did not refuse the win. The Buffaloes did not lose again and finished the season 10-1-1, tied atop the AP ranking with 11-1 Georgia Tech. Colorado claimed its only national title. Neither the AP nor the NCAA listened to howling protests emanating from Columbia.

Twice in college football history fifth down and goal plays have resulted in controversial triumphs as the clock expired in games that directly impacted the national title. Exactly fifty years separates the two games. In that half century college football evolved dramatically. No doubt Ezra Day and Carl Snavely would hardly have recognized the big money circus of the late twentieth century. They certainly would not have sympathized with Colorado’s decision. Which begs the question why the second game turned out so differently? Has modern college football lost its soul? Do Coloradans just lack integrity and honor?

The only certain fact is that there are several unwritten rules governing football that cannot be broken. For example, no one at the Tournament of Roses will ever acknowledge the fact that the Rose Bowl is not actually the national championship game. Five all-American prep running backs will go to USC every year even though it is obvious even to small children that they won’t all get playing time. But the most cast-iron, incontrovertible rule in all of college sports is this:

If it is improbable, unpredictable, disastrous, and can happen to Missouri, it will.

(Sources: Cornell Sun, history of Red football parts I and II; Cornell Bid Red history; Wiki, Gil Dobie; CSTV, Fifth down game; SI, McCartney and CU Buffaloes; Rivals, 5th down an honest mistake; Wiki, Fifth down game; CFB data warehouse; AP poll archive)

The 1956 Heisman Trophy

1956 provided probably the most interesting and controversial Heisman trophy race in college football history. That year more than half-a-dozen players had a legitimate claim and might have taken the prize any other season. This crowded field of worthy candidates virtually guaranteed that any result would leave a bitter taste for some. No single Heisman year more clearly defines the dominating shadow the award casts over college football, both for good and for ill.

In the modern era college football’s premier award has evolved into a media driven runaway-train. Every season begins with one or two clear favorites, decided on publicity power and the record of program he represents as much as individual talent. As of 2008, ten schools have claimed 14 of the last 16 Heisman trophies: Notre Dame, USC, Texas, Oklahoma, Nebraska, Ohio State, Michigan, Miami, Florida and Florida State. These are the schools with the most wins and/or greatest media draw over the last two decades. As Chris Huston will tell you, the Heisman is as much about which school a player represents as it is about the player himself. Things weren’t so different in 1956.

Notre Dame had gone 8-2 in 1955 under second-year head coach Terry Brennan, who despite his youthful age of only 28 reached 17-3 in two seasons. The Domers’ only losses came at the hands of 9-1 Michigan State, then enjoying their golden age under Hugh Dougherty, and on the road at USC. The memorable performances of multi-threat halfback Paul Hornung only added to expectations. As a junior the "Golden Boy" had gone 46 of 103 passing for 743 yards and a 9-10 ratio, in addition to carrying 92 times for 472 (a 5.1 yard average) and 6 TDs. Hornung also kicked 5 PATs and 2 field goals. Heading into the fall of 1956 Hornung had name recognition, impressive stats, played for a winning team expected to improve, and possessed limitless personal appeal. He was boyishly handsome, devilishly cocky and irresistibly talented. But most of all, he played for Notre Dame. Sports writers in the mid-fifties loved the Irish with abandon. So in early September, the Heisman seemed to be Hornung’s to lose.

Hornung competed against probably the largest and most talented crowd of Heisman hopefuls ever. Down in Knoxville, standout Tennessee halfback Johnny Majors led the Vols to an unbeaten regular season on his way to a career total of 2,575 rushing yards. The Vols shocking upset loss to Baylor in the 1957 Sugar Bowl occurred after the voting, in which Majors polled second. Five places behind him, the nation’s leader in total offense, Stanford’s John Brodie, gained only gained enough votes to come in a lowly seventh!

At Oklahoma, the defending national champions and odds-on favorites to repeat, Bud Wilkinson’s amazing winning streak stretched back to September 1953. Halfback Tommy McDonald finished second nationally in touchdowns with 17. His own teammate, OU halfback Clendon Thomas, denied him the national scoring title by a single TD. McDonald finished third in the voting with 973, just ahead of Oklahoma’s All-American center and linebacker Jerry Tubbs. A few of Tubbs’ 724 total votes would easily have made McDonald coach Wilkinson’s second Heisman winner, but Tubbs and McDonald essentially cancelled one another out. No member of the Sooners' 1956 class claimed the Heisman despite having never lost a single collegiate game.

Finishing fifth on the ballot was a senior running back from Syracuse by the name of Jim Brown. The consensus All-American back had carried 128 times in 1955 for 666 yards and 7 TDs. Although these numbers were impressive they proved insufficient to capture the attention of national writers who doubted the credibility of East Coast, Independent football. ‘Cuse could not claim a single championship or bowl win. Their only post-season appearance, the 1953 Cotton Bowl, had resulted in a 61-6 thrashing at the hands of mighty Alabama. If the Irish had pedigree to spare, the Orangemen could hardly buy it. Since taking over as head coach in 1949 Floyd “Ben” Schwartzwalder had only reached a mediocre 35-27-1 in seven seasons -- all while facing opponents the writers viewed with suspicion. Syracuse football had never produced a single household name at any position. In September 1956 the national spotlight rested on the hopeful Irish, the unstoppable winning streak, and the indomitable Tennessee Vols. Few national fans and pundits spared a thought for lowly Syracuse.

Jim Brown forced his way onto the national stage and into Heisman contention in the same way he forced his way into opposition backfields: with a peerless combination of size, brute force, speed, and startling finesse. Brown racked up 986 yards on 158 carries for 13 TDs and a 6.3 yard average. He was also a crushing middle linebacker and, like Hornung, carried most of his team’s place kicking load. At around 230lb Brown was a monster in the age of mostly white-bred one-platoon football. He routinely stiff-armed hopeless tacklers into the turf, but his game cannot rightly be characterized as a mere matter of raw power. Teammates said Brown used only the energy required for the play at hand. He always conserved his strength for the moment of greatest need. Whenever the situation truly demanded a marathon effort, Brown seemed to have an extra gear and would leave tacklers standing.

Somehow the indefatigable Brown also possessed sufficient surplus energy to letter in track and field, basketball and lacrosse. Brown averaged 15 ppg in basketball his sophomore year and 11.5 ppg his junior year. He contributed in multiple track and field events, routinely making the difference between victory and defeat at meets. He lettered four years in lacrosse, topping the national scoring table his senior season and leading Syracuse to a 10-0 record: its first unbeaten campaign since 1922. The most famous incident of Brown’s illustrious collegiate career occured after his football eligibility expired. On a clear May day in 1957 he competed against Colgate in high jump, winning the event before the Orangemen’s final lacrosse fixture against Army. As Brown attempted a change into his pads some teammates, frantically fearing defeat against their arch-rival, found him in the locker room and begged him to contribute in two other events. Brown placed in javelin and discus before leading the lacrosse team to an 8-6 victory with two goals while still wearing his track shorts. The track and field team triumphed by 13, the exact number of points Brown's performances added.

Jim Brown suffered in the Heisman race because he did not play a football game truly in the national spotlight until his final appearance, in the 1957 Cotton Bowl. By that point the trophy had been awarded. Had the Downtown Athletic Club waited until after the bowls (as it still doesn’t but absolutely should), voters would have been impressed as Brown carried Syracuse almost single handedly against a TCU team that ranked as undoubtedly the best opponent the Orangemen faced during his collegiate career.

Led by their own All-American, halfback Jim Swink, the Frogs had dominated the Southwest Conference. TCU’s diversified passing attack proved a handful for the Orangemen. The Horned Frogs scored a touchdown in each quarter, three of them on drives of over 60 yards. Of TCU’s 335 total yards, 202 came on 13 complete team passes of 16. The entire Frog team combined for just 133 rushing yards. Brown made 132 alone in reply. He scored the first three Syracuse touchdowns and ground out much of the yardage on the drive late in the fourth quarter that set up a 27 yard TD pass from Chuck Zimmerman to Jim Ridlon.

On Syracuse's first scoring drive, in the second quarter, Brown kick-started a comeback with a searing run of 24 yards. He added 6, 5, and 18 before a 2 yard plunge across the plane – all coming after he set the drive up with a 30 yard kick return from the end zone. From goal line to goal line Brown accounted for 90 of the 100 yards. The run-focused Orangemen made only 3 of 7 passing for 63 on the day, but one of those completions came on a fullback toss from Brown to Ridlon for 20 yards. Brown also added a kickoff return of 46 yards and attempted all four PATs. His play alone would have earned a hard fought tie had Narcico Mendoza not burst through the line to block his third kick. The two-point conversion did not enter college football until 1958. Given the opportunity Brown would surely have been the odds on favorite to tie the game from three yards inside the final two minutes. As it was, his failed PAT attempt made the difference.

There simply has never been a college athlete like Jim Brown. There never will be again. Yet he finished only fifth in the Heisman voting his senior year. Fifth: for the premier award in the sport at which he excelled more than any other. Surely Brown deserved the Heisman?

In the end Paul Hornung claimed the award – the first player ever to do so without gaining the most first place votes. Hornung polled fewer first place votes than both Johnny Majors and Tommy McDonald. Majors also beat him on second place votes. Brown polled only half of Hornung’s 1,066 total votes, despite gaining only 79 fewer first place votes. Hornung became the only player to claim the Heisman after a losing season. This result still stands out to many as one of the most egregious miscarriages of justice in college football history. Even Notre Dame writers acknowledge that the “Golden Boy” hardly deserved the crown.

Steve Delsohn wrote: “Hornung didn’t deserve it. Not with three touchdown passes and 13 interceptions. And not on a 2-8 team. The Heisman should have gone to Jim Brown. The magnificent Syracuse fullback averaged 6.2 yards a carry, gained 986 yards, and scored 14 touchdowns. But, in 1956, Jim Brown had the wrong color skin.”


In response to such assertions it must firstly be noted that Paul Hornung was an outstanding football player. Voters did not simply look for any old character to palm the trophy off onto because Brown was black. On any ordinary Notre Dame team Hornung would have claimed the Heisman in a cake walk. He starred in football, baseball and basketball at Flaget High School in Louisville, setting statewide records and attracting the persistent attention of Bear Bryant, then head coach at the University of Kentucky. Almost sixty years since he graduated, the Kentucky High School Athletics Association still bestows the annual “Paul Hornung Award” on the state’s outstanding football player.

The “Golden Boy” was an extremely versatile player. In addition to attempting the majority of Notre Dame's passes he was a stand-out defensive back and a considerable rusher, gaining 472 yards on 92 carries as a junior. He also featured as a place kicker and punter. He finished second in Heisman voting as a junior. Ohio State’s Howard “Hop-along” Cassidy claimed the prize with an impressive 964 yards rushing and 15 TDs. Cassidy was a great running back. But Hornung was so much more.

After entering the 1956 season as Heisman favorite Hornung amassed 1,337 yards total offense, second highest in the nation. He added 420 yards rushing and 3 TDs to his passing totals. Many feel that his dire passer ratio of 3 TDs to 13 INTs resulted from the graduation of Notre Dame’s entire 1955 receiving core. Hornung was the sole highlight on a woeful Irish team. In his final collegiate game, a gruelling road test at USC which he played with two sprained thumbs, Hornung accounted for 354 yards total offense, including a 95-yard kick off return for a touchdown. Notre Dame lost.

In the mid-fifties, under the leadership of controversial President Father Theodore Martin Hesburgh, the University of Notre Dame deemphasized football for the only time in its history. Hesburgh sought to reestablish the primacy of the school's academic reputation and did so by very publically reducing football scholarships. Those cut backs began to bite in 1956, leaving the Irish numerically thin and relatively talent starved. Irish fans still argue as to how far Hesburgh’s actions really cost their football team, but head coach Terry Brennan and several former Irish coaches were in no doubt. What is absolutely certain is that 1956 was the historical nadir for Irish football. And in that darkest hour only the star of Paul Hornung shone true to the Notre Dame tradition.

Hornung went on to become a hall-of-fame pro star with the Greenbay Packers. He led the NFL in scoring from 1959 to 1961 and was league MVP consecutively in 1960 and 1961. His 19 points in the 1961 NFL championship game remain the individual record. In 9 seasons as a pro he made 66 of 140 field goals (not a bad record for the era), averaged almost 7 yards per pass attempt, and scored 50 rushing TDS with a 4.2 yards per carry mark.

The legendry Vince Lombardi once gave Notre Dame’s “Golden Boy” the highest possible praise, saying:

“Paul Hornung could do more things than any man who ever played this game.”

No doubt several other players hold manifestly justifiable claims to the 1956 Heisman trophy. But whatever can be said about the controversial award, it is impossible to claim that Paul Hornung was catagorically undeserving.

Race did factor into the 1956 Heisman chase, but not in the sense that many commentators believe. It is hard to conclude that the college football establishment was not prepared for a black Heisman winner when only five years later the same voters granted the award to Ernie Davis, the next 'Cuse running back to wear Brown's jersey number. In fact, the racial barriers that most hurt Brown’s chance of earning college football’s top award lay within his own school.

Brown attended Syracuse at the urging of Kenneth Molloy, a prominent alumnus and personal supporter from his hometown of Manhasset, Long Island. Schwartzwalder did not want Brown on his team and only accepted him under pressure from Molloy. Brown did not even have an athletic scholarship his freshman year. Molloy and other local supporters in Manhasset raised money to pay his school fees - a fact Brown only learned later.

Syracuse had already experimented with one black football player. A talented quarterback named Avatus Stone had endured two seasons of dehumanizing treatment before seeking refuge in the Canadian Football League in 1952. Stone was not allowed to eat or room with white teammates. Coaches punished his mistakes disproportionately and forbade him from fraternizing with Caucasian coeds. When Stone protested and reacted with anger, several times striking out physically at coaches and players, he was labeled a troublemaker.

Initially Schwartzwalder told Molloy that he never wanted another black player on his team. They were “too much trouble.” But Brown toughed it out, used his righteous anger to fuel his performances, and played his way onto the team.

Brown faced the same abuse Stone suffered through. He was isolated, ostracized and struggled to rise up the depth chart despite his eminent talent. He saw little playing time as sophomore, entirely because of bigotted animosity from the coaching staff. On several occassion his mentor and ally Roy Simmons, the Syracuse lacrosse coach, talked Brown into staying in school after he resolved to quit.

Under-utilized on a mediocre team, playing as an Eastern Independent for a coach with an unimpressive track record, Brown’s position entering the 1956 season could hardly have contrasted more starkly with that enjoyed by Paul Hornung. Brown had never played in a bowl. He had not earned national attention as a junior, and he did not play for a fashionable team. The 1955 Orangemen had won only five games to Notre Dame's eight.

Then as now, media relations, program prestige and access to the national TV and radio spotlight decided the Heisman trophy race as much as talent. Ernie Davis won the trophy in 1961 not because the intervening years had wrought a massive racial sea-change in America. They hadn’t. Davis won because Brown’s talent and sheer resolve broke the Syracuse coaches. Schwartzwalder started Davis as a sophomore in 1959. The Orangemen rode his running to an 11-0 season, a Cotton Bowl victory over Texas, and the school’s only national title. By his senior year the eventual Heisman winner was a recognized star on a prominent team with an AP championship in the bank.

The reality of how the Heisman trophy winner is largely selected actually makes Hornung’s triumph an important and satisfying record. Once, if only once, a man on a losing team has earned college football’s highest award for recognition of individual talent. The trophy is supposed to acknowledge the single greatest player in the game. Instead, it has increasingly become an award for the designated leader on the nation’s most successful and fashionable team. It grows more unsatisfying every year.

Were I the sole arbitrator of the annual Heisman race, the 2008 trophy would have gone to Todd Reesing, QB of the 7-5 Kansas Jayhawks. He plays at an unfashionable school but his numbers compare favorably to Sam Bradford, Colt McCoy and Tim Tebow. No player does more with less. Isn’t that what separates individual greats from the herd? And has any player in college football history ever done more with less than Paul Hornung, who in 1956 single-handedly defended the honor and glory of the Notre Dame tradition on the worst Irish team of all time?

When the Downtown Athletic Club of Manhatten first informed John Heisman, one of the great architects and evangelists of the game, of their intent to name an award for the sport’s outstanding player after him, he protested. Heisman did not want to lend his name to anything that singled out one man in a team game. Compare this view of the sport to current media coverage that elevates Tebow so far above the Gators that his image now eclipses an entire university. Heisman no doubt turns in his grave every time an ESPN commentator recounts the tale of Tebow’s tear-jerking postgame press conference following the famous home loss to Ole’ Miss. Just as Heisman warned, the trophy that took his name fails to represent the root of college football's genius. Our sport's premier award has become a mockery and lies in dire need of reform.

Next year, I suggest bestowing it upon the noble and talented leader of a uninspiring sub .500 team.

(Sources: CFB data warehouse; Hornung stats: ESPN Classic on Hornung; Syracuse stats on Brown; Brown’s hoops stats; Mike Freeman, Jim Brown; Steve Delsohn, Talking Irish; SU box score of the Cotton Bowl; http://www.heisman.com/; Vols rush stats; John Devanny, Winners of the Heisman Trophy; Dan Jenkins, Greatest Moments)