"American Football is not only the most extraordinary sport I know, it is a piece of Americana as American as the Empire State Building or a cowboy film and provides a wealthy source for the student of folklore." These words, spoken once by the well-known English author, Graham Greene, are a striking comment on this peoples' "Sport" of the U.S.A.
Every college possessing any self-respect possesses a football team and the stars of each team are highly paid. The American universities profit through this practice alone fifty million dollars in one transitory season. These modern gladiators receive on the basis of their brutal loutish swindling, a scholarship plus a bonus which averages fifty dollars for each game. Indeed, on close examination, no other type of player may be seen on the thousands of professional teams participating in this wild, catch-as-catch-can style of game.
There are, in fact, no Amateur Football Teams, apart from those of boisterous schoolboys. Of the "Footballer", humorist Al Capp says "The head of the football player is only half as great as that of the average man, but this size is quite large enough, for it's all the young man needs to carry a crew cut and helmet."
Athletic fair play cannot be attributed to this game. All is permitted, and the most brutal "footballer" is considered the most courageous sportsman. The supreme slogan of football is "Brawn over Brain". American generals such as "Pestgeneral Ridgway" and "Korea Interventionist Van Fleet" treasure the "footballer" as the best, most ruthless and compliant soldier. The question never arises for these men as to the tendency or purpose of an order. Its cold-blooded quality alone suffices for them to accomplish what ever is wanted.
American football has about as much likeness to European Football as does rowing to sailing. In action, it is played hardly at all with the feet, at best used in order to trip the opponent, or kick him in the shins.
Grim sat the Red Socks in their dressing room. Coach Coldstone paced up and down. His voice threatened them. "Okay boys, the day has come. We must rip the Giants to pieces! These New York Salon Lions think they will crush us. But I know you boys otherwise. Think also upon Jimmy Rubber with his bruised ribs, and SLUG that Pat O'Neil in the jaw and on his nose. Before all else, however, remember Gormee, whom you left out on the playing field with a broken neck."
The door of the dressing room crashed open, and the Red Socks, wearing ferocious expressions, entered the arena to the crowd's applause.
Glowering Colossi
Dazzling white lines shining at five-yard intervals ran across the field. The linesmen and umpires with their striped shirts stood on the margin of the playing field. Another roar of jubilation broke out as the Giants appeared. In only a few seconds, the hour-long battle would start. Four 15-minute periods of desperate struggle lay immediately before the men.
The game started: two rows of massive, helmeted figures squatted opposite each other. Each colossus, his chin pressed against a leather strap, glowered across at the expression of his opponent's wire-protected face. Positioned in this manner, the seven men of each line almost crashed together with their helmets. Calmly the four backs crouched behind them--the three running backs and the Signal Caller (Playmaker).
The whistle sounded; with a wild roar, both teams crashed together. Immediately handing off the egg-shaped ball, the Red Socks' Pat Brown had rammed his head into the wall of humans before him, to make room for his ball carrier. An enraged mass of humanity lay bellowing and screaming on the ground. Tom Bell ran with the ball towards an outside flank but was detected and before he knew what was happening, a Giant hurled him to the ground.
The whistle blew, the referee stepped into action, and with the measuring lines, assessed how far the Red Socks had brought the ball. Four attempts were permitted in which tries they had to carry the ball forward ten yards. If they succeeded in this, they would be allowed four more tries. If, however, they failed, the ball would go over to the enemy team, which could then try its luck.
Both teams set themselves up again. The whistle--Pat Brown again handed the ball to a back, and was ramming his head and shoulders against the human wall, tearing at it with his hands, that he might run through the line; but he was struck a blow on the shins which made him roar out. Pat stumbled, fell, and before he could recover and rise, a Giant jumped with both feet on his chest.
Again the whistle blew. Tom Bell was on the sideline where he had managed to carry the ball. The mob of men disentangled itself, but one remained down--Pat Brown. The umpire cleared the field at this point. Coach Harry Coldstone came out running. Two medical corps people worked over Pat--chest crushed! When Pat had been removed from the playing field, a substitute came into his place. Unlimited substitution is permitted. The chief point is that eleven players must be standing on the field. But one of the Giants limped off the playing field, another wiped blood from his nose, and in the background stood a back, who, astounded, held two dusty teeth in his hand.
A Great Leap
Two further Red Socks were wrecked and now the Giants had possession of the ball. The whistle blew, the ball traveled into the backfield. Tom Bell was himself watching closely and saw Jack Bates escaping while storming the line. Tom Bell with a great leap threw himself astride Jack, dragging the latter to the ground, and butted him with his head. But the Giants had won four-and-a-half yards.
Twice again they sought to run the ball. This time, encircling their opponents, the linemen of the Giants played the ball by throwing a long pass. Bobby Locke, one of their fastest people, ran onwards at full speed--5, 10, 20 yards (each a little smaller than a meter--author's note) and reached the goal-line. An ear-deafening roar filled the stadium as Bobby Locke touched the ball down behind the goal-line. It was six points!
Now, in addition they possessed the opportunity to send the ball over the crossbar between both of the tall goalposts. One man held the ball, its pointed end up. Bobby Locke ran up: BOOM!--jubilation in the stadium--now it was seven points for the Giants. The first fifteen minutes were over.
Big Brother Is Watching
Crippled and sweating, the Red Socks returned to their dressing room. Astonished, they saw on the door in white chalk: "Gormee is with you in spirit." As they entered the room, staring at them from the walls and floor, the white script said "Gormee sees your game!" "Think Upon Gormee!" Noisily, the players collapsed on the benches thinking that these signs were just like Tom Graham, the business manager.
No one asked them what they looked like. Pat Brown already lying in the hospital; Bill Caladon had two broken ribs; Rusty Neill had had to spit out five teeth; and Jimmy Beagle had a dislocated hand.
The manager appeared. "Boys, I have been expecting more from you. I have been dumbfounded by your cowardice. You're not worth the money that You're each paid. You must win! Note that! Think what you owe Gormee. So what do you think about that?"
Bill Jackson sat back in his corner, pulled off his pants and massaged his knee. "Boss," he said, 'I have a wrenched tendon. I just can't bear it any longer. Knew it wasn't much good any more when a little while ago I could barely run on it."
Spinning around, Tom Graham graciously replied "Damn coward, so you'll let a little thing like a wrenched tendon stop you. Well, listen attentively to me --so long as you can run, you will play!"
Coach Harry Coldstone also pressed in here: "Listen Bill, you are a miserable shirker. T'hell with you if you leave the team now!"
The thoroughly battered men painfully picked themselves up, and tramped back onto the playing field. The battle went on and on. It stood 13-7 for the Giants at the end of the second quarter. Once more there were injuries. Bill Jackson was brought to the hospital with a torn tendon. In the closing stages of the last period, it stood 19-14 for the Giants.
Hardly a Red Socks man hadn't yet been injured. Harry Coldstone had only the consolation that a great many Giant players also in this condition had dropped out. The battling players rolled themselves around on the greensward. Diabolic curses, bloodthirsty roars, and fiery cheering poured from the grandstands, and the cheering "corps" directed by whiteclad maidens. All this combined to make an indescribable scene.
Endlessly the armored robots hurled each other to the ground, that they might slam their plated helmets into each other. They tried to dislocate the extremities of their enemies by slugging their opponents in the jaw or put them out of commission by some more devious method. At the same time, the managers sat in the grandstands chewing gum and watching boredly.
"I'm affraid, Harry," Manager Graham told Coach Coldstone, "that you'll have to go into action as a scout next week. Them clowns down there are anemic bums. They've got no meat on their bones. Some way you've got to figure out a way to shanghai some reinforcements. Forget the expense. If we don't manage that, we won't get any decent opponents; that means no spectators either, and our racket is finished. I understand there are a few more bruisers in Wisconsion (sic). You bring them here. The cost plays no part in it."
"OK, Boss." Harry Coldstone got up as the final whistle blew. "Day after tomorrow, I'll be on my way."
Exhausted, and literally annihilated, the players slogged off. The Red Socks had lost. No comforting word accompanied them into their locker-room. Only the cold, contemptuous looks of the manager and the coach. . .
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