Rev. Fr. Francis J. Finn - That Football Game: And What Came of It (with Supplemental Reading: Confession: Its Fruitful Practice) [Illustrated]

To the spectators it seemed as though Harry Archer were carrying the
opposing eleven on his back. He shook off one, then another.

Copyright 1893 by Benziger Brothers, Inc., New York.

Retypeset and published in 2003 by TAN Books, a Division of Saint Benedict Press, LLC.

ISBN 978-0-89555-713-1

Library of Congress Control No.: 2001-132399

Cover illustration 2002 by Phyllis Pollema-Cahill. Cover illustration rendered expressly for this book and used by arrangement with Wilkinson Studios, Chicago.

Cover design by Peter Massari, Rockford, Illinois.

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

TAN Books
Charlotte, North Carolina
www.TANBooks.com
2003

I regard as the greatest of all games, principally for the reason that it schools a boy to almost heroic self-restraint both on and off the field.

a young gentlemens game. It is quite feasible, at times, to play a game of baseball with rough characters; but in football, you must play only with gentlemenotherwise the game becomes a slugging match and a question as to which is the better or worse set of rowdies.

CONTENTS

Chapter I

A LITTLE OF POETRY, A LITTLE OF MATHEMATICS, WITH THE PROSPECT OF A GREAT DEAL ABOUT FOOTBALL

M R. GEORGE KEENAN, Professor of Poetry Class, having heard the recitation in Rhetoric and given a new lesson and an English theme for the following day, took up a bundle of papers from his desk.

There was a slight stir in the class indicative of awakening interest. Mr. Keenan had the gift of arousing enthusiasm in regard to English writing, and, in consequence, his scholars were ever ready to listen with eager interest to his comments on their attempts, whether in verse or in prose.

I have examined this set of verses, began the professor, with much interest and pleasure. Out of eighteen exercises, twelve are very creditable. For imagination, Claude Lightfoots is far the best, while for finish of versification, Dan Dockerys is admirable. I shall read these presently and also three or four othersSteins, Pearsons, ORourkes, and Desmonds. But business before pleasure. I have here a set of verses which, while they would not be particularly discreditable to a student in Humanities, are not all that one expects from a member of Poetry class. Here we expect something more than verse and rhymes, which are merely the dry bones of poetry; every English exercise given you in this class, unless it is expressly stated otherwise, is supposed to have some touch of passion, in the rhetorical sense of that word. Now listen to this:

A POEM ON NIGHT

The sun has slowly gone to rest Behind the mountains in the west. It gets a good deal darker now, The bird stops singing on the bough; The stars come out and at us peep, And little children go to sleep, And chickens, too, go off to roost.

By the way, interpolated Mr. Keenan, are we to infer that children go to roost, too?

And watchdogs from their chains are loosed, The stars come out, the moon shines, too, Although a cloud hides it from view. The crickets chirp, the bullfrog croaks, And many a man goes off and smokes.

The reading was here interrupted by an outbreak of laughs and giggles. Mr. Keenan held up his hand.

Here, now, he said, you have an example of how not to write poetry. The boy who composed this never for one moment during the composition of his doggerel placed before his imagination one concrete picture of night. He simply took nights in general and looked at them piecemeal. Hence, there is no order, no unity, no choice of details, nothing that would give an idea to the listener of any particular night from the beginning of Spring to the end of Autumn. The composers imagination is as dry as a stick. I dare say he hasnt read three good books during the entire vacation just passed. Anyone reading these verses can see that in writing them he was most unusual calm.

Just as this point a hand went up. It was Harry Archers.

Well, Harry? said Mr. Keenan, returning a smile for the grin on the students face.

I wasnt most unusual calm, sir, when I wrote those verses.

Ah, you have told on yourself, Harry, said Mr. Keenan, as several of the boys turned their merry eyes on Archer with new interest.

Oh, they all know the way I write from last year, sir; and it doesnt matter, anyhow. But so far from being most unusual calm, I was almost tearing my hair out after I got to the seventh line in one hour, and stuck there for almost another, trying to get a rhyme for roost. By the time I loosed those dogs on the scene, I was so mad that I could have done something desperate.

Mr. Keenan laughed.

Why, Harry, your own confession shows that you need not despair. Put your passion into your verse instead of pulling at your hair, and then who knows but you will turn out a poet.

Mr. Keenan was about to read Claude Lightfoots verse on the same subject when the door of the classroom opened and Father Hogan, vice president of the college [academy], entered, followed by a young gentleman of sixteen.

The newcomer was attired in the extreme of fashionhis suit was of the lightest color, his trousers, below the knees, were of the widest; his hair was very long, parted in the middle, and plastered down on either side of the parting so as to allow only a small triangular portion of his forehead to be seen. For the rest, he was stout, cherry-cheeked, pretty and, aside from the evidence of scented handkerchief and many jewels, decidedly effeminate. The newcomer was smiling recognition to nearly everybody in the room. He kissed his hand to Claude Lightfoot.

Mr. Keenan, said the vice president, I bring you a new member for your classWillie Hardy, who for the past two years has been attending classes as a boarder at St. Maures College [Academy].

You are welcome, said Mr. Keenan, taking the boys hand in his.

Willie Hardy advanced his right foot, drew back his left, and bowed so low that the professor was able to trace the parting of his hair as far as the nape of his neck, where, for obvious reasons, it ended.

It is not necessary, Mr. Keenan, proceeded the vice president, for me to introduce Willie Hardy to the students of this class. Willie has told me that he was with them in Second Academic, and I am sure they all remember him very well.

I know I do, said Claude Lightfoot, with the sunny smile which he had carried undimmed up and on through the lower classes; whereat all the listeners, morally speaking, broke into a roar of laughter.

Mr. Keenan and the vice president were puzzled by this outburst of merriment. They were both unacquainted with Willie Hardy personally, and, luckily for that smiling youth, knew nothing of his record at Milwaukee College [Academy]; and, as Willie joined in with the laughing quite heartily, they were not moved to inquire further into the matter.

The vice president withdrew; Willie was assigned a seat next to Claude Lightfoot, and Mr. Keenan was about to resume class work when the bell rang for the end of class.

By the way, said Mr. Keenan, dont forget about the meeting in the gymnasium of the members of the football team.

Then he said prayers with the class and dismissed them. As Willie Hardy was going out, he motioned him to remain.

Next page