Enter Football

Small boys are rarely in evidence at football games. A few are always present, of course, sandwiched between a pair of bulky persons in coonskins, or throned in the cheering section, where they regard with intent, disdainful faces the puerile behavior of their older brothers. Most of them, however, attend these contests in spirit alone--which partly accounts for their devotion to football. Pigskin heroes can assume mythical proportions for eyes that have never beheld them. James Thorpe, the Indian, was a coppery comet, leaping in seven-league strides over a field of endless goal-lines; the right toe of good Charles Brickley stiffened into an obelisk for the reverence of generations; Eddie Mahan's red sweater, a football flattened against it, flamed across a continent of hushed back yards.

Last week the 1925 football season began. Naturally, those who experienced most deliciously the cold intoxication of watching the first kickoffs of the year twist aloft were certain undersized individuals who had never been within a dozen counties of a college football field. They followed in their fancies the courses of a thousand champions. And of the many geared and wadded juggernauts whose prowess warranted attention, there was one whom the young idea, and indeed the adult, the conservative idea, lifted into eminence beside Thorpe, and throned in glory with Mahan-- Harold ("Red") Grange, halfback of the University of Illinois.

Eel-hipped runagade, no man could hold him; he writhed through seas of grasping moleskin-flints with a twiddle of his buttocks and a flirt of his shinbone. His knee-bolt pumped like an engine piston; his straight arm fell like a Big-Wood tree. Last week, after a summer on ice, he twice manifested himself before his heirophants. First he prepared to take the field against Nebraska, his ancient enemy; secondly he addressed a message to his personal public in the October issue of the American Boy. The message--a three page article on football--was signed with his name: Harold ("Red") Grange.

Even juvenile imaginations must strain if they are to exaggerate the prowess of Grange. Only 23, legend has already begun to barnacle his babyhood. Tales are told of how, 14, he won a job with an ice-company by swinging a 100-pound block of ice to his shoulders--of how, at 4, after seeing some track and field games at a county fair, he erected a pole and crossbar and taught himself to highjump. The first of these is given a good smell of truth by the much-touted fact that Grange keeps himself conditioned through the hot weather delivering ice to the back-doors of Wheaton, Ill.; and who shall say that the second is false? It seems a wan and flickering fable against the actualities.

Grange began to play football on the high school team of Wheaton, Ill. His father, once a lumberjack, had encouraged him to use his body; he was heavy for his age. His first year in high school he played end and excited no particular awe. Next season he developed into an able quarterback, moved the year following to halfback, his regular position. He runs with a long bounding stride far better adapted to open field gains than line-plunging. He is not, as some have declared, an extraordinary sprinter. Though fast, he eludes tacklers rather by the perfect rhythm of his running--the hip-action by which he dodges without losing speed.

In 1922 he entered the University of Illinois, became the brightest star of a brilliant freshman backfield. After his first varsity year he was chosen for Walter Camp's All-American. His combined speed, power, and cleverness in open field work, coaches declared, had not been paralleled in the last decade. Last year, in the first twelve minutes of a game against Michigan, he made four runs of from 45 to 90 yards each. At the kickoff he raced from his goal-line to score a touchdown, a feat which has been accomplished only eleven times in history. During the Michigan game he handled the ball 21 times, gained 355 yards. In the last two years he has taken the ball 244 times, gained 2,424 yards--an average of almost 10 yards per start. This fall he captains Illinois. What wonder, then, that small boys as well as grave, grizzled coaches, have found a new paragon.

In the misguided kindness of a summer day which pushed its way into September like a spectator entering a stadium after the game is over, several Eastern teams, and one or two in the West, began their seasons last Saturday.

Cornell ran riot against a bulky but impotent team from Susquehanna to an 80-0 victory.

With 45,000 people in the stands --a record opening day--the Penn eleven was stimulated to be very fierce against little Ursinus, found Ursinus line-cavities everywhere, made the final score 32-0.

When Hobart kicked off to Syracuse, Captain James Foley received the ball, carried it 90 yards down the field behind strong interference for a touchdown. Before the afternoon was over Foley had made two other runs of 55 yards each. Score, 32-0.

Pittsburgh dedicated its new $2,000,00 stadium with the slaughter of a lamb--Washington and Lee, 28-0.

Minus, this year, the deerlike speed of Walter Koppisch, Columbia "flattened" (as its supporters put it) Haverford, 59-0. Flashing runs by backs Kirchmeyer, Madden, Pease, Norris, offered the spectators whatever thrills they could derive from a contest so one-sided.

No reluctant summer made the weather uncomfortable for Notre Dame's new machine. Rain oiled its cogs, greased its poles. Inevitably, the team that went into action lacked the rhythm of Knute Rockne's 1924 champions, but few predictions of what it may become in the next few weeks could be based on its effortless, slipshod, 41-0 victory over Baylor University of Waco, Tex.

"Oh, Alfred," shrilled waggish lads who quite possibly were not students of Rutgers University, but merely "townies" disguised as college lads. "Oh, Alfred," they piped in delicate falsettos, "don't fool with those big boys!" An inexperienced team from Alfred University (Alfred, N.Y.) replied to these jibes by holding a rugged Rutgers team to 19 points.