Block That Yok!

Although it's not considered normal for football players to catch their own passes or literally be swallowed up by the earth, these and other odd incidents, just as amusing, have actually taken place on American gridirons.

The guy who caught his own pass was Pete Butler of Teachers' College at Greeley, back in 1930. Trailing Colorado College during the closing minutes of play by a 7-0 score, Pete began heaving long desperation passes around the field in an attempt to tie the score. After missing fire on a couple of wild ones, he finally threw the ball far down the field, where members of both squads were waiting for it. The ball bounced crazily from one pair of hands to another, being handled by several players before one of the Teachers finally managed to grab it out of the air and continue over the goal line for the tying touchdown.

That's right: the pass receiver was Pete Butler, who had started down the field after throwing the ball and had caught his own pass to tie up the game.

• • •

In the days when Bronco Nagurski had the rep of being the toughest powerhouse in his league, the Chicago Bears--Bronc's team--met the Green Bay Packers. On punt formation, Red Grange was instructed to hit Cal Hubbard, 260 pound Green Bay tackle, and throw him off balance, with Bronco charging on through to finish the job of protecting the kicker.

Late in the game, Hubbard pleaded with Red for a favor. "I'd like to meet Nagurski head-on just once, to see if he's really as tough as they say he is. You be a good guy and forget your block this time, Red, and I promise not to block the punt."

The arrangement was all right with the Ghost, and on the next punt formation he swept past Hubbard and went down field. There was a loud thud behind Red as two giant bodies collided. Looking back, he saw Bronco not far behind him, and Cal Hubbard was picking himself off the ground behind the line of scrimmage.

After the play was completed, Hubbard hobbled up to the line and said with a pained expression, "Well, Red, that's all I wanted to know. Now go back to your regular blocking assignment."

• • •

Jim Conzelman, of the old Chicago Cardinals, recalls an incident from the days when he was player-coach of the pro team. Conzelman used to make his substitutions by yelling (continued on page 45)Yok (continued from page 21) from the huddle to the bench. Late in one game, he called to an eager rookie, telling him to warm up. The sub immediately began racing up and down along the side lines to limber up.

Shortly afterwards, Conzelman called the rookie onto the field, and he raced up to Referee Jim Durfee to report. As he stood there puffing, Durfee looked him coldly in the eye and asked, "Your name?"

"Phew," was the best the lad could do.

"I beg your pardon?" said Durfee.

The player tried again. "Phew," he sputtered.

Durfee curled his lip. "Mr. Whoever You Are," he said, "you enjoy the distinction of being the only player in history who has had to have a rest before entering a game." Then, turning to the other players, Durfee announced: "Time out for the substitute!"

• • •

After a certain Syracuse halfback had run seventy yards through the Colgate team to score the winning touchdown, Colgate Coach Dick Harlow had a whole weekend to think about the play, and by the time Monday afternoon skull practice had rolled around, he was really incensed. He bitterly lashed each man on the first team, diagnosing their mistakes on the play, and asking them where they'd been. Addressing his quarterback, he said, "You can tackle! Where were you?"

"Right beside you, Coach," he answered. "You took me out on the play before."

• • •

Some of the choicest gridiron stories take place off the field.

For instance, Coach Lynn Waldorf was showing films of the game in which his Northwestern squad had been soundly trounced by Michigan. During the showing, Waldorf said of one scene, "There's our most popular formation."

It was a scene of the Wildcats waiting for the kickoff after Michigan had scored.

• • •

Pigskin psychology has had many shrewd practitioners, but Knute Rockne's own rough-hewn brand was unsurpassed. In the autumn of 1924, early in his career as a coach, Knute had led the Irish down south for a crucial battle with Georgia Tech. At half time the Engineers were leading by a single touchdown that looked as big as all outdoors.

In the Notre Dame dressing room, the squad was sitting around and licking its wounds when Rock entered the room, clutching a crumpled piece of yellow paper in his hand. He stared silently at the players, and they sensed that something important was on that piece of paper. A hush fell over the room, and Knute began to read from the telegram.

It was from Knute's young son, Billy. The wire said he was ill in a South Bend hospital, and he felt certain that a Notre Dame victory today would do him more good than any medical attention. As Rockne finished reading the wire, his voice cracked. He turned and slowly walked from (continued on page 50) Yok(continued from page 45) the locker room.

The second half of that football game was wrapped up in a neat little package and presented to Billy Rockne back in South Bend. An inspired Notre Dame eleven returned to the gridiron and proceeded to tear the daylights out of the Rambling Wreck.

The following day the Irish squad returned to South Bend. Waiting at the station were hundreds of hometown rooters and almost the entire student body. In the forefront was Mrs. Rockne, and by her side Knute's young son, Billy.

The members of the Irish team sent up a happy shout as they saw the kid. It was good, they said, to see Billy so completely recovered. They were happy to have been able to help by beating Georgia Tech.

Mrs. Rockne looked blank. She insisted that Billy hadn't had so much as a cold all year long.

• • •

But not all of Knute's tricks were so elaborate. He knew the value of simplicity. In 1925, Notre Dame was trailing Northwestern at the half by a score of 10-0. The boys were sitting despondently in their dressing room, waiting for Knute to come in with the customary tongue-lashing. While admitting to themselves that they had one coming, they dreaded the moment when Rockne would open up on them.

Time passed, and Knute didn't appear. The suspense was unnerving. Almost the entire rest period had gone by, and they were biting their fingernails down to the elbows when the door finally opened and Knute put his head through.

He stared around the room at the nervous faces. Then backing out again, as though he had made a mistake, he spoke almost apologetically: "Excuse me. I thought this was the dressing room of the Fighting Irish."

Final score: Northwestern, 10; Notre Dame, 13.

• • •

We've saved the most fantastic story for the end. It happened in Sandpoint, Idaho, while the local high-school eleven was entertaining Kellogg high school. Charley Ford, captain of the Kellogg team, was running interference for the ball carrier and clearing a swath through the secondary when he suddenly disappeared, leaving the runner to his own devices. The crowd was puzzled; the team was stunned. How could he have vanished so completely?

In another moment, the mystery had evaporated. The young captain's head slowly and painfully emerged from a five-foot hole which had been covered by boards and sod in order to camouflage a rather embarrassing bald spot in the field.

Ford returned to the game and led Kellogg to victory -- feeling none the worse for his brief excursion into the underworld.

selected from his book of sports stories, "Now I'll Tell One."