realms of literature and drama into the field of sports. The recent
"battle of the century" eventually simmered down into the minds of many
as a struggle between the forces of reaction and revolution. It was
known before the fight that Carpentier would wear a flowered silk
bathrobe into the ring, while Dempsey would be clad in an old red
sweater. How could symbolism be more perfect? Anybody who believed that
Carpentier's right would be good enough to win, was immediately set down
as a profiteer in munitions who would undoubtedly welcome the outbreak
of another war. Likewise it was unsafe to express the opinion that
Dempsey's infighting might be too much for the Frenchman, lest one be
identified with the little willful group of pacifists who impeded the
progress of the war. Eventually, the startling revelation was made by
the reporter of a morning newspaper that he had seen Carpentier smelling
a rose. After that, any belief in the invader's prowess laid whoever
expressed it open to the charge, not only of aristocracy, but of
degeneracy as well. After Dempsey's blows wore down his opponent and
defeated him, it was generally felt by his supporters that the
eight-hour day was safe, and that the open shop would never be generally
accepted in America.
The only encouraging feature in the increasingly sharp feeling of class
consciousness among critics is a growing frankness. Reviewers are
willing to admit now that they think so and so's novel is an indifferent
piece of work because he speaks ill of conscription and they believe in
it. A year or so ago they would have pretended that they did not like it
because the author split some infinitives.
One of the frankest writing men we ever met is the editor of a Socialist
newspaper. "Whenever there's a big strike," he explained to me, "I
always tell the man who goes out on the story, 'Never see a striker hit
a scab. Always see the scab hit the striker.'"
"You see," he went on, "there are seven or eight other newspapers in
town who will see it just the other way and I've got to keep the balance
straight."
There used to be a practice somewhat similar to this among baseball
umpires. Whenever the man behind the plate felt that he had called a
bad ball a strike, he would bide his time until the next good one came
over and that he would call a ball. The practice was known as "evening
up" and it is no longer considered efficient workmanship. That is, not
among umpires. The radical editor was not in the least abashed when I
quoted to him the remark of a man who said that he always read his paper
with great interest because he invariably found the editorial opinions
in the news and the news on the editorial page. "That's just what I'm
trying to do," he exclaimed delightedly. "I'm not trying to give the
people the news. I'm trying to make new Socialists every day."
It is to be feared that even those writers who have the opportunity to
be more deliberate than the journalists have been struck with the idea
that by words they can shape the world a little closer to the heart's
desire. Throughout the war we were told so constantly that battles could
be decided and ships built and wars decided by the force of propaganda,
that every man with a portable typewriter in his suitcase began to think
of it as a baton. There was a day when a novelist was satisfied if he
could capture a little slice of life and get it between the covers of
his book. Now everybody writes to shake the world. The smell of
propaganda is unmistakable.
With literature in its present state of mind critics cannot be expected
to watch and wait for the great American novel or the great American
play. Instead they look for the book which made the tariff possible, or
the play which ended the steel strike.
XXXIII
NO 'RAHS FOR RAY
Richard Le Gallienne was lamenting, once, that he probably would never
be able to write a best-seller like Hall Caine or Marie Corelli. "It's
no use," he said. "You can't fake it. Bad writing is a gift."
So is college spirit. That is why almost all the plays and motion
pictures about football games and hazing and such like are so fearfully
unconvincing. Nobody who is hired for money can possibly make the same
joyful ass of himself as a collegian under strictly amateur momentum.
Expense has not been spared, nor pains, in the building of "Two Minutes
To Go," with the delightful Charlie Ray, but it just isn't real. Films
may be faithful enough in depicting such trifling emotions as hate and
passion and mother-love, but the feeling which animates the freshman
when Yale has the ball on the three-yard line is something a little too
searing and sacred for the camera's eye.
One of the difficulties of catching any of this spirit for play or for
picture is that there is no logical reason for its existence. Logic
won't touch it. The director and his entire staff would all have to be
inspired to be able to make a college picture actually glow. There is
not that much inspiration in all Hollywood.
The partisanship of the big football games has always been to me one of
the most mystifying features in American life. It is all the more
mystifying from the fact that it grips me acutely twice a year when
Harvard plays Princeton, and again when we play Yale. I find no
difficulty in being neutral about Bates of Middlebury. It did not even
worry me much when Georgia scored a touchdown. The encounters with Yale
and Princeton are not games but ordeals. Of course, there is no sense to
it. A victory for Harvard or a defeat makes no striking difference in
the course of my life. My job goes on just the same and the servants
will stay, and there will be a furnace and food even if the Crimson is
defeated by many touchdowns.
I never played on a Harvard eleven, nor even had a relative on any of
the teams. There was a second cousin on the scrub, but he was before my
time, and it cannot be that all my interest has been drummed up by his
career. I don't know the coaches nor the players. Yale and Princeton
have not wronged me. In fact, I once sold an article to a Yale man who
is now conducting a magazine in New York. Naturally it was on a neutral
subject, which happened to be the question of whether mothers were any
more skillful than fathers in handling children. Orange and black are
beautiful colors and "Old Nassau" is a stirring tune. Woodrow Wilson
meant well at Paris, and Big Bill Edwards was as pleasant-spoken a
collector of income taxes as I ever expect to meet.
Yet all this is forgotten when the teams run out on to the gridiron. I
find myself yelling "Block that kick! Block that kick! Block that kick!"
or "Touchdown! Touchdown!" as if my heart would break. It is pretty
lucky that the old devil who bought Faust's soul has never come along
and tempted me in the middle of a football game. He could drive a good
bargain cheap. There have been times when for nothing more than a five
yard gain through the center of the line he could have had not only my
soul, but a third mortgage on the house. If he played me right he might
even get that recipe for making near beer closer.
The strangest part of all this is that the emotions described are not
exceptional. A number of sane persons have assured me that they feel
just the same about the big games. One of my best friends in college was
always known to us as "the brother of the man who dropped the punt." The
man who actually committed that dire deed was not even mentioned. I
remember, also, a Harvard captain whose team lost and who horrified the
entire university by remarking at the team dinner a few weeks later that
he was always going to look back on the season with pleasure because he
thought that he and the rest of the players had had good fun, even
though they had lost to Yale. Naturally he was never allowed to return
to Cambridge after his graduation. His unfortunate remark came a few
years before the passage of the sedition law, but there was a militant
public opinion in the college fully capable of taking care of such
cases.
Feeling, then, as I do, that there is no such poignant ordeal possible
to man as sitting through a tight Harvard-Yale game, any screen story
of football seems not only piffling but sacrilegious. In the Charlie Ray
picture, the two contending teams were Stanley and Baker. There were
views of the rival cheering sections and closer ones of Charlie Ray
running the length of the gridiron for a touchdown. This feat was made
somewhat easy for him by the fact that all the extra people engaged for
the picture seemed to have been instructed to slap him lightly above the
knee with the little finger of the right hand and then fall upon their
faces so that he might step over them.
It was not this palpable artificiality which was the most potent factor
in bringing me into an extreme state of calm. A long Harvard run made
possible by the entire Yale team's being struck by lightning would seem
to me thoroughly satisfactory. The trouble with "Two Minutes To Go" was
that I never forgot for a moment that Charlie Ray was a motion picture
star instead of a halfback. Of course, you might object that I should
properly have the same feeling when seeing Ray in pictures where he is
engaged in altercations with holdup men and other scoundrels. That is
different. In such situations the stratagems of the films are amply
convincing, but in football nobody can possibly play the villain so
effectively as a Yaleman. We have often wondered how one university
could possibly corner the entire supply of treacherous and beetle-browed
humanity.
The foemen lined up against Charlie Ray didn't begin to be fierce
enough. Nor did the rival groups of rooters serve any better to convince
me of their authenticity. It was quite evident that they were swayed by
no emotion other than that of a willingness to obey the orders of the
director. Football is too warm and passionate a thing to be reduced to
the flat dimensions of the screen. Battle, murder, sudden death and many
other things are done amply well in films. Football is different. Though
it injure the heart, increase the blood pressure and shorten life, only
the reality will do.
XXXIV
"ATABOY!"
Thomas Burke has a cultivated taste for low life and he records his
delight in Limehouse so vividly that it is impossible to doubt his
sincerity. In his volume of essays called "Out and About London," he
spreads his enthusiasm over the entire "seven hundred square miles of
London, in which adventure is shyly lurking for those who will seek her
out."
In the spreading there is at least ground for suspicion that here and
there authentic enthusiasm has worn a bit thin. It is no more than a
suspicion, for Burke is a skillful writer who can set an emotion to
galloping without showing the whip. Only when he comes to describe a
baseball game is the American reader prepared to assert roundly that
Burke is merely parading an enthusiasm which he does not feel. We could
not escape the impression that the English author felt that a baseball
game was the most primitive thing America had to offer and that he was
in duty bound to enthuse over this exhibition of human nature in the
raw.
We have seen many Englishmen at baseball games. We have even attempted
to explain to a few visitors the fine points of the game, why John
McGraw spoke in so menacing a manner to the umpire or why Hughie
Jennings ate grass and shouted "Ee-Yah!" at the batter. Invariably the
Englishman has said that it was all very strange and all very
delightful. Never have we believed him. The very essence of nationality
lies in the fact that the other fellow's pastime invariably seems a
ridiculous affair. One may accept the cookery, the politics and the
religion of a foreign nation years before he will take an alien game to
his heart. We doubt whether it would be possible to teach an American to
say "Well played" in less than a couple of generations.
Burke has no fears. Not only does he describe the game in a general way,
but he plunges boldly ahead in an effort to record American slang. The
title of the essay is well enough. Burke calls it "Atta-boy!" This is,
of course, authentic American slang. It meets all the requirements,
being in common use, having a definite meaning and affording a short cut
to the expression of this meaning. We can not quite accept the spelling.
There is, perhaps, room for controversy here. When the American army
first came to France the word attracted a good deal of attention and
some French philologists undertook to follow it to the source. One of
them quickly discovered that he was dealing not with a word but a
contracted phrase. We are of the opinion that thereafter he went astray,
for he declared that "Ataboy" was a contraction of "At her boy," and he
offered the freely translated substitute "Au travail garcon."
It will be observed that Mr. Burke has given his attaboy a "t" too many.
"That's the boy" is the source of the word. Perhaps it would be more
accurately spelled if written "'at 'a boy." The single "a" is a neutral
vowel which has come to take the place of the missing "the." The same
process has occurred in the popular phrases "'ataswingin'" and
"'ataworkin'." These, however, have a lesser standing. "Ataboy" is
almost official. One of the American army trains which ran regularly
from Paris to Chaumont began as the Atterbury special, being named after
the general in charge of railroads. In a week it had become the Ataboy
special, and so it remained even in official orders.
Some of the slang which Burke records as being observed at the game is
palpably inaccurate. Thus he reports hearing a rooter shout, "Take orf
that pitcher!" It is safe to assume that what the rooter actually said
was, "Ta-ake 'im out!"
Again Burke writes, "An everlasting chorus, with reference to the
scoring board, chanted like an anthem--'Go-ing up! Go-ing up! Go-ing
up!'"
Now, as a matter of fact, the "go-ing up!" did not refer to the scoring
board, but to the pitcher who must have been manifesting signs of losing
control. The shouts of baseball crowds are so closely standardized that
we think we have a right to view with a certain distrust such unfamiliar
snatches of slang as "He's pitching over a plate in heaven," or "Gimme
some barb' wire. I wanter knit a sweater for the barnacle on second,"
and also, "Hey, catcher, quit the diamond, and lemme l'il brother teach
you." It is impossible for us to reconcile "lemme l'il brother" and
"quit the diamond."
It must be said in justice to Burke that it is entirely possible that
he did hear some of the outlandish phrases which he has jotted down.
Among the dough-boys gathered for the game there may have been some
former college professor who had devoted the afternoon to convincing his
comrades that he was no highbrow, but a typical American. Such a theory
would account for "quit the diamond."
XXXV
HOW TO WIN MONEY AT THE RACES----
Perseverance, courage, acumen, unceasing vigilance, hard work and
application are all required of the man who would win money at the
races. He should also have some capital in easily marketable securities.
During his preliminary days at the university, the man who would win
money on the races should specialize in science. It will be quite
impossible for him in his later career to tell whether his selection was
beaten by a nose or a head, unless he is absolutely familiar with the
bone structure of the horse (Equidoe), (Ungulate), (E. caballus). In
freshman zoology he will learn that, at the highest, the teeth number
forty-four, and that the horse as a domestic animal dates from
prehistoric times. This will serve to explain to him the character of
the entries in some of the selling races.
Geology will make it possible for him to distinguish between
"track--slow" and "track--muddy." The romance languages need not be
avoided. French will enable the student to ask the price on Trompe La
Morte without recourse to the subterfuge of "What are you laying on the
top one?" In spite of the amount of science required, the young man
will find that he has small need of mathematics. A working knowledge of
subtraction will suffice.
As has been well said in many a commencement address, college is not the
end but merely the beginning of education. The graduate should begin his
intensive preparation not later than twelve hours before going to the
track. He will find that the first edition of _The Morning Telegraph_ is
out by midnight. Hindoo's selections are generally on page eight. I have
never known the identity of Hindoo, but there is internal evidence
pointing toward President Harding. At any rate, Hindoo is a man who has
mastered the pre-election style of the President. His good will to all
horses, black, brown and bay, is boundless.
In studying Mr. Hindoo's advice concerning the first race at Belmont
Park last week, I found, "Captain Alcock--Last race seems to give him
the edge." If I had gone no further, my mind might have been easy, but
in chancing to look down the column I noted, "Servitor--Well suited
under the conditions"; "Pen Rose--Plainly the one that is to be feared";
"Bellsolar--May be heard from if up to her last race." On such minute
examination the edge of Captain Alcock seemed to grow more blunt.
"Neddam," I discovered, "will bear watching," and "Hobey Baker may
furnish the surprise." To a man of scientific training such conflicting
testimony is disturbing. What for instance would the world have thought
of the scholarship of Aristotle if, after declaring that the earth was
spherical, he had added that it might be well to have a good place
bet--at two to one--on its being flat.
As happens all too often in the swing away from science, mere emotion
was allowed to rush in unimpeded. Turning to a publication called _The
Daily Running Horse_, I found the section dealing with the first race to
be run at Belmont Park and read, "Captain Alcock is a nice horse right
now." That settled it. All too seldom in this world does one find an
individual who has the edge and still refrains from slashing about with
it and cutting people. Captain Alcock was represented to us as "nice" in
spite of the fact that he was "in with a second rate lot," as _The Daily
Running Horse_ went on to state. Later it seemed to us that the boast
was in bad taste, but this factor, which we recognized immediately after
the running of the first race as groundless condescension, appeared at
the time a rather fetching sort of democracy. Captain Alcock was willing
to associate with second raters and didn't even mind admitting it.
The price was eleven to ten, and after we made our bet the bookmaker
revised his figures down to nine to ten. There was a thrill in having
been a party to "hammering down the price." Soon we were to wish that
Captain Alcock had been much less nice. Away from the barrier he went on
his journey of a mile with a lead of two lengths. Next it was four and
then five. His heels threw dust upon the second raters. Around the turn
came Captain Alcock flaunting his edge in every stride. As they
straightened out into the stretch the man behind us remarked, "Captain
Alcock will win in a common canter."
The Captain was content to do no such thing. Although in with second
raters he remained a nice horse and he was willing to do nothing common
even for the sake of victory. He began to ease up in order to become
companionable with the field. Evidently he had felt unduly conspicuous
so far in front. Winning in a common canter was not cricket to his mind.
He wanted to make a race of it while there was still time. And as the
speed and the lead of Captain Alcock abated, down the stretch from far
in the rear dashed the black mare Bellsolar. Suddenly I remembered the
ominous words of Hindoo, "May be heard from if up to her last race."
Evidently Bellsolar was up. Captain Alcock was carrying the business of
being nice much too far. Before he could do anything about it, Bellsolar
was at his shoulders. She did not stop for greeting, but dashed past and
won before the genial Captain could begin sprinting again.
As a matter of fact, it was not until the next day that I appreciated
just how much wisdom had been contained in _The Daily Running Horse_,
advice which I had neglected. Turning back to the first race I found,
"Advised play--None, too tough." If the tipster had only kept up that
pace throughout the afternoon all his followers would be winners at the
track.
XXXVI
ONE TOUCH OF SLAPSTICK
The Duchess in _Clair de Lune_ implored her gentleman friend to speak to
her roughly, using hedge and highroad talk. Theatrical managers have now
come to realize that many of us who may never hope to be duchesses are
still swayed by this back to the soil movement. The humor of musical
comedy grows more robust as the season wanes. It is broader, thicker
and, to my mind, funnier. Comedy, like Antaeus, must keep at least a
tiptoe on the earth. When the spirit of fun begins to sicken it is time
that he should be hit severely with a bladder. Having been knocked down,
he will rise refreshed.
All of which is preliminary to the expression of the opinion that Jim
Barton, now playing at the Century, is the funniest clown who has
appeared in New York this season. Mr. Barton was discovered in a
burlesque show by some astute theatrical scout several seasons ago.
Burlesque was several rungs higher in the ladder than his starting
point, for his career included appearances in carnivals and the little
shows which ply up and down some of the rivers, giving nightly
performances on their boat whenever there is a cluster of light big
enough to indicate a village. Jim Barton has been trained, therefore,
in capturing the interest and attention of primitive and
unsophisticated theatergoers. This training has encouraged him in zest
and violence. It has impressed upon him the conception that the
fundamental appeal to all sorts of people and all sorts of intelligences
is rhythm. "When in doubt, dance" is his motto.
Primarily he developed his dancing as something which should make people
laugh. It was, and is, full of stunts and grotesque movements and
surprising turns. But it has not remained just funny. Consciously or
unconsciously he knows, just as Charlie Chaplin knows, that funny things
must be savored with something else to capture interest completely. And
when you watch the antics of Barton and laugh there comes unexpectedly,
every now and then, a sudden tightening of the emotions as you realize
that some particular pose or movement is not funny at all, but a
gorgeously beautiful picture. For instance, when Barton begins his
skating dance the first reaction is one of amusement. There is a
recognizable burlesque of the traditional stunts of the man on ice, but
that is lost presently in the further realization that the thing is
amazingly skillful and graceful. Again he follows a Spanish dancer with
castanets and seems to depend upon nothing more than the easy laugh
accorded to the imitator, but as he goes on it isn't just a burlesque.
He has captured the whole spirit and rhythm of the dance.
There is, perhaps, something of hypocrisy and swank in taking the
performance of Barton and seeming to imply, "Of course I like this man
because I see all sorts of things in his work that his old burlesque
audiences never recognized." It is dishonest, too, because as a matter
of fact I like exactly the same things which won his audiences in the
old Columbia circuit. I have never been able to steel myself against the
moment in which the comedian steps up behind the stout lady and slaps
her resoundingly between the shoulder blades. Jim Barton is particularly
good because he hits louder and harder than any other comedian I ever
saw. But even for this liking a defense is possible. The influx of
burlesque methods ought to have a thoroughly cleansing influence in
American musical comedy. More refined entertainment has often been
unpleasantly salacious, not because it was daring but because it was
cowardly. Familiar stories of the smoking car and the barroom have been
brought into Broadway theaters often enough, but in disguised form. They
have minced into the theater. The appeal created by this form of humor
has been never to the honest laugh but to the smirk. If I were a censor
I think I would allow a performer to say or do almost anything in the
theater if only he did it frankly and openly. The blue pencil ought to
be used only against furtive things. You may not like smut, but it is
never half so objectionable as shamefacedness. The best tonic I can
think of for the hangdog school of musical comedy to which we have fast
been drifting is the immediate importation to Broadway of fifty
comedians exactly like Jim Barton. Of course, the only trouble is that
the scouts would probably turn up with the report that there was not
even one.