Football.
Why there should be such excitement about a game of football I have
never been able to find out. When all is said and done you can hardly
see the players. They are bunched together most of the time. They stand
bent over, looking for all the world as though they were about to play
leapfrog.
Then some under-sized little shrimp of a fellow begins to yell 4-11-44,
7-28-7-11, and all manner of numbers; he grows fearfully excited over
the stupidity of his team; they evidently don't understand the signals.
In a perfect frenzy of passion and despair he raises his voice and
almost weeps. Sometimes he says things that are not in the polite letter
writer; not the things that a gentle youth would send in a letter to
his best girl, but the rest of the team don't seem to mind it at all.
The other side is doing the same. They have also a man whose special
mission in life seems to be howling with all his might while madly
springing up and down.
Again they form and await the whistle of the umpire. Every man acts as
though the eyes of the entire sporting world were upon him.
Gee! If they can only get the start; what they won't do to the other
side! The whistle blows, one yard gained after a terrific struggle; form
again, more numbers yelled in a voice hoarse from much shouting, then
they are off again! A splendid kick causing the ball to form a perfect
curve as it sails through the air, one great big chap fairly springs up
several feet to catch it as it comes down; he runs, and his side, when
the whistle blows, have gained five yards. I stand idly watching them,
wishing that the game was more familiar to me. It must be a good game,
after all is said and done, or people would not go wild about it.
The first half is over. Now the umpire is quite a busy man. Let us trust
he has taken out a traveling life insurance policy, for he certainly
needs it as he wanders up and down. Each side is filing its protests. If
he is to believe them they have each been guilty of everything but
piracy on the high seas.
Several boys have been knocked out for a minute. They are being attended
to by the surgeon and staff--a liberal sprinkling of water besides
massage sets them up again quite eager to join the fray.
The coach calls his crowd around him, scolds some, praises others, warns
all to go carefully. The little chap, whose special mission in life
seems to be to cuss and yell numbers as fast as he can get them out, is
on hand; watches his opportunity to remind them that when he says
8-7-6-5-4 he does not mean 93-2-15; begs them, for sweet love's sake, to
go in and win.
The referee blows the whistle. Both sides form. They toss up for the
first choice, and off they go.
In spite of one's desire to sit quietly and let them chew each other up
like a pack of Kilkenny cats, until nothing but the tails are left, you
find yourself yelling, jumping, running along with the rest of the
crowd.
"A goal! a goal!" they shriek, and all because one boy has thrown the
ball over. Phew! what excitement! what joy for the winners! sympathy
for the losers! a happy blending of praise and blame!
No matter where you go it is just as bad; that is, in any
English-speaking country.
This fall I saw, while in Lincoln, England, a tremendous crowd coming
out of the railroad station. They were pushing and jostling each other.
Some were packed six deep in cabs, riding in butchers' carts, on
bicycles, on tricycles. I had almost said icicles, because they were
going any way so long as they got there. My curiosity at last got the
best of me, and I stopped a good-natured looking man. "My friend," I
said, "what are you all in such a hurry for? Is there a hanging going
on, or has England declared herself a Republic?"
He looked at me with a pitiful smile, as though to pity my ignorance.
"No, Madam," he said, "it is a game of football, and they kick off at
2.30," and off he ran.
On this particular day the Reds won, to the everlasting sorrow of the
Blues.
Boys are nice chaps, anyhow. Just as soon as the game is over there is
not one bit of hard feeling between victor and vanquished. They shake
hands, say better luck next time and are ready for the next game.
If we could carry that spirit with us out into the world, what a lot of
good it would do us, as well as the other poor soul who has lost in the
game of life. At least let us try and give the other chap a fair show, a
run for his money, so to say. Then if we do come out ahead it won't
matter so much. A kind word, a loving thought, means a lot to the chap
who has lost, while to us it affords some satisfaction to have won
modestly, not to fly on the top of the fence, flap our wings and crow
like the victorious cock.
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