 Hello there! This is Jimmy Powers coming your way with another story from The Tumult and the Shouting. Hi there! This is Jimmy Powers transcribed with another chapter from Grantland Rice's memorable life story, The Tumult and the Shouting. And so with a warm salute to the every young spirit of Granny Rice, I take up the narrative in first person. As we look them over in the big corral, as the years march by, as they rise and fall, here's to Big Pudge, my pick and my pal, the greatest Roman of them all. I witnessed my first football game in 1892 back in the sports stone age. Pudge Heffelfinger was boyhood's idol. His feats of strength even then were legendary when poets were moved to write such lines as, Linger O. Linger Heffelfinger. The granddaddy of the old blues was unquestionably the most amazing football player I have ever known. Pudge was the only football player in history whose active playing career extended over a 50 year span. Think of it. Football. 50 years. When he was 48 years old, for example, he returned to New Haven to tutor the Yale line and handle the varsity linemen so vigorously in scrimmage that they had to order the old man out of there before he wrecked the team. When he was 54 or thereabouts, Heffelfinger played 58 minutes of an all-star charity game in Columbus, Ohio, mostly between Minnesota and Ohio State graduates, the majority of them just out of college. Even a sprained shoulder couldn't force him off the field. The late Bo McMillan played with Pudge that afternoon and to his dying day attested that the old Yale immortal was the fastest man on the field. He was absolutely unbelievable, McMillan told me. At 54, he came out of the line like a thunderbolt. Heffelfinger played in his last game in Minneapolis at the age of 65 in a pro-charity benefit. To borrow a line from old Bill Shakespeare, cowards die many times before their death. The valiant never taste of death but once. When you looked at Pudge, you almost expected to see in the background the mystic figures of John L. Sullivan, Pop Anson, Snapper Garrison, Harry Varden, Barney Oldfield and other unbelievable of the bygone sports era. Joe Williams, the sports columnist once said that he had heard and read so much about Pudge that until he actually met him, he was certainly old boy never existed. There never will be another Heffelfinger. Old Pudge, Mr. Football. He was the greatest guard of all time, certainly a member of my all-time all-American. A fine old gentleman they still discuss in odd whispers under the elms at Yale. In any football gathering, Pudge gave forth an aura of shining light, a special ageless glory. He was the living symbol of the game, indestructible and forever young. Olsters and youngsters alike worshiped him. Not long before Pudge died in the spring of 1954, he received a fan letter from New York that included the following quotes. I have seen you play on the field many times, it said. I have seen you with two of the opposition hanging on but still you plunged forward. You were indeed a one-man army, signed Bernard M. Baruch. Pudge had much to do with founding the New York Touchdown Club. In October of 1933, he got together with Charlie Pearson, John Heisman, Red Cagle, Alex Smith, and Bill Langford Jr., son of the football rules maker, at the Downtown Athletic Club in Manhattan, and discussed the possibility of forming an organization to aid intercollegiate football. The idea was to bring about a fraternity of those who had scored a touchdown in college, hence the Touchdown Club. From that first meeting spawned what is today one of the most unique football groups in America. Pudge's recollections, like mine, span a lot of football eras. They take us back to the misty canvas-jacketed era, bring roaring across the gridiron in all their glory, the delightful likes of Pa Corbin, Snake Ames, Lonnie Stagg, Gil Dobie, Hurry Up Yost, Newt Rockney, George Gip, Red Grainge, Jim Thorpe, Bronco Nugurski, the Four Horsemen, Ernie Nevers, all of the immortals. And here are a few of those memories. When I think of Midwestern football, my mind flashes back to Bernie Bierman, builder of champions at Minnesota for years. Coach Bierman coached solid teams because he stressed sound fundamentals. I believe, said Bierman, that fundamentals such as blocking, charging, tackling and ball carrying, to mention only a few, are more important than plays themselves. I favor a calm, determined team rather than one keyed up to a hysterical pitch for a game. Bierman laid the foundation of great gopher teams on the theory that his lads could run and could be taught to block. If you like to see our ball carriers trot across the goal line, he told his lineman, you men must clear the way. Our running game pins its faith on sound, crisp blocking and plenty of it. When I think of blocking consciousness, I am reminded of Jimmy Coffes, who played right half back for Stanford 20 years ago. The Indians were up against Southern California in 1935, when one of the plays ended with a Trojan man on the ground, temporarily disabled. Little Jimmy, much concerned, rushed to the injured man and started massaging his leg vigorously. The fallen gladiator responded in time, took to his feet and tried the leg gingerly. He flashed a smile of thanks at Jimmy and trotted back to his position. How come Bobby Grayson accosted Jimmy as the latter jogged back to his place? Gee, Jimmy said, I didn't want to see that pigeon leave the game. He's the easiest guy to block I've ever bumped up against. Bronco Nagersky, Minnesota's 1929 All-American, could play any position to the hilt. They used him at fullback because of his line smashing power, but I think he was even greater at tackle. Nagersky probably had more leg drive than even earning Evers. One Saturday, he exploded across the Indiana goal line with such momentum that he crashed into the concrete wall beyond the end zone. Doc Spears called him to the bench for a rest. How's their line, the Minnesota coach wanted to know. Still somewhat dazed from the crash, Bronco shook his head. We could write tackle, Nagersky said, but that linebacker on the short side is sure built solid. I enjoyed George Trevor's description of his first meeting with Michigan's great coach Fielding Yoast, a close friend of mine. It was Yoast who established Michigan as a national football power back at the turn of the century. As I waited in the ante-room of the Ann Arbor Fieldhouse, which Yoast had himself designed, strange thumping sounds came from the great man's office. Crashes as though a gang of house movers were hard at work. Recall the late football editor of the old New York Sun. Don't worry, his pretty secretary assured me. That's only Mr. Yoast interviewing a newspaper man. I hope you brought your helmet and shoulder pads with you. Nobody escaped unscathed from an interview with Yoast. He believed in personal demonstration and loved to fling the chairs around his office as he illustrated football strategy. When the noise gets real loud, the secretary explained to Trevor, we know he's demonstrating his pet play, old 83. Antiques think of Hurry Up Yoast as the man who built those unforgettable point-a-minute teams at the turn of the century. Boss Weeks was the quarterback, and Willie Heston was the all-American boy. It was a deadly combination. Heston was a stick-out halfback, one of the most amazing runners ever. In 1902, Willie and his Confederates all but demolished Stanford 49-0 in the Rose Bowl. For years, Coach Yoast fretted and yelled because the score was omitted from the Pasadena records. He didn't rest until it was finally added to the archives. Michigan slaughtered Little Buffalo College 128-0 en route to the Rose Bowl at 1902 season. In the third quarter, Yoast discovered a battered Buffalo player huddled among the Michigan subs on the bench. What are you doing here, son? He asked, you're on the wrong side. No, I'm not, the boy said. I've been in there for 40 minutes and I can't take it anymore. I'm on the right side now. I never saw a man who loved and lived football more. I once saw Yoast block traffic in the middle of the street while he diagrammed a new play with a piece of chalk for Bottle Thompson, the Michigan fullback. From the fiery Yoast to urbane Fritz Kreisler is a cycle in Michigan football. Both dramatize themselves while building all-conquering teams. Kreisler's spinner cycle offense was really something to see. It demanded expert execution, matchless timing, and flawless faking. Such an accomplished attack could not be taught to run-of-the-mill kids, but then Fritz didn't have ordinary material he had the best his bird dogs could find. Ironically, Kreisler will be remembered longest at Princeton. He coached the unbeatable Tiger teams of 1933 and 35 before moving to Ann Arbor for the games he lost. Yale upset Princeton's of 34 and 36, and Fritz will never forget it. Perhaps Kreisler talked himself out of the 1934 contest, which the great Larry Kelly won on a pass from Jerry Roscoe. Fritz got so emotional during his pre-game pep talk in the locker room that the Tigers walked onto the field quivering in every muscle. Fellas cried, Kreisler, you have 60 minutes for redemption and a lifetime for regret. The Princeton players were so worked up that they fumbled seven times in the first quarter. I hope the Rose Bowl has handles on it, just as Larry Kelly. The 11 Yale's who started that day were still in there at the finish. Not one substitute was used. Well, that wraps it up for this time. So until we meet again to take up another chapter of the Grantland Rice Life story, the tumult and the shouting, this is Jimmy Powers transcribed saying, So long.