 This is Jimmy Powers, ready to bring you another story from the tumult and the shouting. Once again, this is yours truly, Jimmy Powers. From his first exposure to football as a Vanderbilt University undergraduate in 1899, Granny Rice never lost touch with the collegiate game. As the Grantland-Rice byline began to emerge around 1910, Granny's impact on the game was constructive. Later in the golden twenties, the Grantland-Rice All-America teams received national attention, in fact, right up to and through his last All-American team in 1953. Granny's All-American selections were about as official as you can get. Well, Granny knew the players and you can bet he knew their coaches. From Walter Camp, father of football at Yale, right on through the moderns of today, such as armies Earl Blake and Oklahoma's Bud Wilkinson, Granny knew them all. So with a warm salute to the every young spirit of Grantland-Rice, I take up his narrative in First Person. Percy Houghton, Harvard's famous coach from 1908 to 1916, was one of the best in football's long history. It was Houghton who first developed the hidden ball perfectly. He worked his team to the limit in this deception, where everyone had to be an actor. He developed the mouse trap fully. I asked him before one Yale game if he could stop Yale's big line. I'm not going to try, he said. I'll let them break through and then cut them down from the side. Harvard won that 1914 game 36 to nothing. Houghton had another odd slant. In contrast to the practice at Yale, he wanted no old stars haunting his practice field. I sat there with him one afternoon before practice as Charlie Brickley and one or two other famous wearers of the Crimson came in. As he left for the field, they started with him. I'll see you fellas back here, Houghton said. There's no room on the practice field. I recall one day before a Harvard, Michigan game when I was standing with Yoast. Houghton spotted some Boston newspaper men at the edge of the field. He had them all chased out of the park. Yoast sighed heavily. Gee, he said. I wish I could get away with that out west. If I did that, they'd run me out of football. As far as Houghton was concerned, one of his most pleasant victories happened the day when he persuaded President Lowell that part of the over-interest in the game was due to the presence of football writers at the daily practice. So he persuaded Harvard's president to have them barred. At times, Houghton was a hard man to work for. One Saturday, Sam Felton, the famous end and star left-footed kicker, booted the ball 60 yards. Houghton jerked him out of the game. I told you to kick 40 yards, Houghton said. The ends can cover at that distance. 40 yards doesn't mean 39 yards or 41 yards. It means 40 yards. When next Saturday's game arrived, he sent Felton out of the stadium to warm up. You might want to show this crowd, you can kick 60 yards again, he said to Sam. I'll tell you about Houghton, TAC Hardwick, one of Harvard's all-time competitors, said to me one day. If he told us to jump off a cliff 100 feet high, all 50 of us thought he'd catch us. And every man would take the jump. He is a hard man, but a great one. He's all iron. It might be mentioned that Houghton was then the most systematic coach in football. He would sit up until 2 a.m. or later each night, developing the next day's work. It was five minutes for this, ten minutes for something else, until his two hours was taken. And there was an extra rule. No Harvard player could walk on the field. He had to be running. He used the touch-bag system during practice. We were all so fresh and keen by Saturday that we wanted to murder somebody, Hardwick said. Harvard teams were never battered up in practice. They were always fresh. The days and nights I spent with Yost, Zupki, Rockney and Pop Warner will never be forgotten. Neither will the many hours I spent with Jock Sutherland, one of the greatest when he had the full control at Pittsburgh. Jock was never quite sold on the forward pass. He was a master at the running game and he didn't like to turn the ball loose in the air. He always had great ball carriers and great blockers. In certain ways, Jock wanted the center to be the best man on his team. The running game, he said, which is, or should be, the better part of football, depends on split-second accuracy and timing from center. If the ball gets to the runner a tenth of a second too soon or too late, the running play may be spoiled. So in looking over my talent, I pick a man for center who is never rattled or hurried or upset by anything. I know that if I was in doubt in picking all-America talent, I was dead sure to get a good center from Pittsburgh when Jock Sutherland ruled the Panthers. Jock's great pit teams rumbled and blasted out their yardage on the single-wing, unbalanced line attack. When Jock had the horses, which was his custom, the golden Panthers attack was something to behold. Broken in spirit by attacks on him by a click of his own fellow alumni who disapproved of his taciturnity, dictatorial methods, and his habit of too much winning, Sutherland left pit in 1938 and turned to the pros. On April 11, 1948, he died following a brain operation. In his passing, I lost a friend, a comrade. The following day, I wrote the following lines in memory of the Scotchman. There's a fog now over Scotland and a mist on Pittsburgh's field. There's no valiant hand to flash the sword or hold the guiding shield. There's a big bra fellow missing from the golden land of fame, for Jock Sutherland has left us and the game is not the same. We hear the roaring chorus and we get the age-old thrill. But when a pal has left us, there's a gap that none can fill. There's a shadow on the thistle and the Panthers growl as low as the bagpipes send their message to the friend we used to know. The laurel fades, the olive dies, the cheers are silent now. No more the chaplet from lost years adorns the master's brow. But here's to Jock through fog and mist beyond the final score as we turn down an empty glass to one we'll see no more. Sutherland in certain ways was something like Gil Dobie of Washington Navy and Cornell. Gil was another master of the running game. He hated passing. Lonnie Stagg illustrated the great difference that has come to football. In 1890, he both coached and played. Chicago was to play Illinois. Stagg was hurt in practice, so Illinois asked him to referee, which he did. Can you imagine Army asking that of Frank Leahy or Ertelatz today if their teams were involved? There was no complaint about Stagg's work as an official. Another thing about Stagg was that he wouldn't allow any rough language by his players. He demanded clean play and clean language. Eddie Kochams at St. Louis University was the first coach to get real mileage from the forward pass in 1906, the year it was made legal. However, Stagg was working with the pass at Chicago and winning games with it a dozen years before Harper and Notre Dame wrecked the Army team with Doray to Rockney. It was a dozen years before Harvard, Yale, and Princeton gave it any attention. Bo McMillan used to cry a lot over his poor little boys. There are too little to play against these giants, he'd tell me. I was sitting with him one day when his players came in to dress. The first man was six feet three and weighed 230 pounds. I looked at Bo. He looked away. The next one was around 235. The third was about 219. Is that one of the poor little fellers? I asked Bo. Bo Grinn but didn't answer. Speaking of colorful coaches, I want to say a word about another friend of mine, Herman Hickman, a lot of coach and today a lot of television character, all 300 pounds of him. I saw Herman play guard for Tennessee and picked him for my All-American team in 1932. I played high on my all-time 11. For years after Earl Blake returned to Army from Dartmouth in 1941, I would usually return from the Pennsylvania Army game at Philadelphia with Blake and the Army team. Once Pete Dolan of the old New York Sun and I found ourselves alone with Hickman, then Army's line coach in the private diner before the call for dinner. Then I asked Hickman about the Navy game two weeks hence. Army had lost Kenna and some ranking players and the Navy game figured to be close. In the midst of the discussion, Hickman suddenly laughed, his 300 pounds almost shaking the car off the tracks and said, Granny, the best way I can put it is this. And he immediately broke into a string of verse delivered with meticulous inflection in a trained, vibrant voice. On and on he went building up to the climax. Though much is taken, much abides. And though we are not that strength which in the old days moved heaven and earth, that which we are, we are. One equal temper of heroic hearts made weak by time and fate, but strong in will to strive to seek, to find and not to yield. Estimate the number of persons in the world who, without a moment of warning or preparation, could deliver letter perfect the last 16 lines of Tennyson's Ulysses. I told that story in my column in newspapers throughout the land. A world of sports that had known Herman Hickman only as a collegiate and professional football player and coach, but has since come to know the poet laureate of the great Smokies for the Phi Beta Kappa and Elocutionists he is. Herman Hickman had had his screen and television test before that audience of two on the Army diner. Well, that's it for today. Now this is Jimmy Powers transcribed wishing you all the best of the bestest.