Coward in the Game

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It all happened in the famous, fabulous college football season in the fall of nineteen forty-six... the year that had the old boys dreaming up memories of nineteen-nineteen and nineteen-twenty, when, as in forty-six, a big bunch of hard-bronzed men hit the gridirons all over the country and hung up records for all to see. Maybe a kid who hasn’t done very much living can get pretty impressed with the idea of diving low into a flock of cleats coming around left end. I don’t know about that. I do know that a joe who has wormed his way under a bunch of small arms fire isn’t going to do a lot of gasping at the horrors of the so-called “physical contact” sports. And that’s the way it was in forty-six. It’s a year for the books.

As soon as I got out of the service, I tried to get into any college or university with a decent journalism course. I only had one year to go, plus a lot of experience on army sheets. They sent me their regrets. At last a little eastern outfit called Chemung University in the small city of Chemung, New York, wrote me that they might have room in the fall term. I looked them up and their journalism course rated fair. It had to do. Naturally the name of Chemung University wasn’t as well known before the fall of forty-six as it is now.

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