NEW HAVEN, CONN., November 19.
DEAR MOTHER: I can imagine your surprise upon receiving a
letter from this place, when your dutiful son is supposed to be
“grinding” in No. 30 College House, Cambridge. And the truth is
that the dutiful son is surprised himself. Here am I, with some
thirty-five other chaps, making ready for the big football game
with Yale to-morrow. Here is how it happened:
Yesterday morning, Brattle--he’s our captain--came to my room,
routed me out of bed, and told me to report to the coaches for
morning practise. You know, I’ve been trying for substitute
right half-back. Ward, the regular, sprained his knee in the
Dartmouth game, and a few days ago it went lame again. So now
Sills has Ward’s place, and I’m to substitute Sills. And if he
gets laid out--and maybe I ought to hope he won’t--I go in and
play. What do you think of that? Of course Sills may last the
entire game; but they say he has a weak back, only he won’t own
up to it, and may have to give up after the first half. Gates
told me this on the train. Gates is the big center, and weighs
196. He is very kind, and we chummed all the way from Boston.
I didn’t know any of the fellows, except a few by sight--just
enough to nod to, you know.
We left Cambridge in a driving rain, and a big crowd stood out
in it all, and cheered the eleven, and the captain, and the
college, and everything they could think of. Every fellow on
the first and second elevens, and every “sub” was cheered--all
except Mr. Jimpson. They didn’t know of his existence! But
I didn’t feel bad--not very, anyhow. I hope the rest of the
fellows didn’t notice the omission, however. But I made up my
mind that if I get half a show, I’ll make ’em cheer Jimpson,
too. Just let me get on the field. I feel to-night as though
I could go through the whole Yale team. Perhaps if I get out
there, facing a big Yale man, I’ll not feel so strong.
You know, you’ve always thought I was big. Well, to-day I
overheard a fellow asking one of the men, “Who is that little
chap with the red cheeks?” I’m a midget beside most of the
other fellows. If I play to-morrow, I’ll be the lightest man on
the team, with the exception of Turner, our quarter-back, who
weighs 158. I beat him by three pounds.
Such a hubbub as there is in this town to-night! Everybody
seems crazy with excitement. Of course I haven’t the slightest
idea who is going to win, but to look at our fellows, you’d
think they would have things their own way. I haven’t seen
any of the Yale players. We practised on their field for an
hour or so this afternoon, but they didn’t show up. There
was a big crowd of Yale students looking on. Of course every
fellow of us did his very worst; but the spectators didn’t say
anything--just looked wise.
Most of the fellows are terribly nervous to-night. They go
around as though they were looking for something, and would cry
if they didn’t find it soon. And the trainer is the worst of
all. Brattle, the captain, is fine, though. He isn’t any more
nervous than an alligator, and has been sitting _still all the
evening_, talking with a lot of the old graduates about the
game. Once he came in the writing-room, where I’m sitting, and
asked what I was doing. When I told him, he smiled, and said to
tell you that if anything happened he’d look after my _remains_
himself! Maybe he thought I was nervous. But if I am, I’m not
the only one. Gates is writing to his mother, too, at the other
table.
Give my love to Will and Bess. Tell Will to send my old skates
to me. I shall want them. There is fine skating on Fresh Pond,
which, by the way, is a lake.
We’re ordered off to bed. I guess some of us won’t sleep very
well. I’m rather excited myself, but I guess I’m tired enough
to sleep. I’ll write again when I get back to college. With
bushels of love to all,
Yours affectionately,