The Opening Kickoff Read online

  O’Dea’s kicks allowed the Badgers to control the field position throughout the first half. The Gophers were unable to move the ball effectively, as, digging deeper into his bag of ethnic and generally politically incorrect metaphors, the Sentinel reporter observed that a Minnesota runner on this day “stood about as much chance for his life as a belligerent German at an Irish picnic.”

  The Badgers won the ongoing war of attrition, with O’Dea generally outkicking his counterpart, H. C. Loomis, by about 25 yards. Wisconsin eventually converted this field-position advantage brought on by its superiority in the kicking game into three first-half touchdowns, each worth four points. Those scores combined with three successful two-point goals after the touchdowns gave them an 18–0 lead just before the half ended.

  It was then that O’Dea came through with the kick that may have launched the legend. The Sentinel reporter described it as “the really great spectacular event of the contest.”

  “Thirty-five yards away were the signals of victory, the goal posts. Before him, eleven men, with teeth clenched in determination that he should not do it. Back shot the leathern egg to his arms. Quicker than a wink, he dropped it. As it struck the ground, his right foot struck it clean and square. Away it soared into the air, straight and true between the posts, as if it had been shot by rule and line.” The fantastic boot set off a celebration on the Wisconsin sideline. Unable to contain his joy and amazement, Pat’s brother Andy, who was serving as the team’s trainer, leaped into the air and twirled himself completely around. The goal was good for five points and gave the Badgers a commanding 23–0 halftime advantage.

  The kick was recounted quite differently by Los Angeles Times columnist Dick Hyland fifty-two years later. Hyland’s source for the description was Edward “Dad” Moulton, Minnesota’s trainer that day, who went on to a long and successful career as a track coach at Stanford.

  Moulton’s account, said Hyland, went like this: “Pat started to run the ball wide, got trapped and proceeded to drop-kick the ball over the Gopher goal from 40 yards out on the dead run.”

  But that, according to Moulton, wasn’t even the most noteworthy of O’Dea’s accomplishments on that day. “A moment later, he stood on his own goal line and punted the ball over the Minnesota goal, 110 yards away! Dad Moulton . . . said he dropped the water bucket in amazement when O’Dea got it off.”

  While the record book backs Moulton’s account, as Wisconsin credits O’Dea with a school-record 110-yard punt in the game, there are a couple of problems with this story. First, though highly complimentary of O’Dea’s punting work, the various newspaper accounts carry no mention of the Australian star actually booting the ball the length of the field. Second, the Daily Cardinal had reported earlier in the week that there were special ground rules in effect for the game, as the field at the bandbox of a stadium was only 105 yards long, though this too was not mentioned in the game stories, so it is possible that it had been rectified by game time.

  Regardless of whether or not it actually happened, the 110-yard punt against the Gophers became part of the O’Dea legend, perpetuated by none other than O’Dea himself. When discussing the kick many years later, a reporter joked that there “must have been a hurricane at your back, eh, Pat?” O’Dea replied, “No. There wasn’t enough wind to rustle the maples that day.”

  The second half was a carbon copy of the first, with the Badgers continuing to dominate. Many of the Minnesota fans began to file out dejectedly in the middle of the second half, taunted by a Badgers supporter who yelled, “What are you leaving for? Ain’t this a good enough game?”

  The Badgers walked off the field with a 39–0 win. The 39 points were more than Wisconsin had scored in its seven prior meetings with Minnesota combined, and the newspaper accounts left no doubt who was responsible.

  Under the headline O’Dea’s Great Kick, the Sentinel reported, “Pat O’Dea did it. . . . Tonight the name of O’Dea is on the lips of everybody. He is bigger than any of Pillsbury’s great mills.” O’Dea’s heroics weren’t limited to kicking either, as he also “made the two longest runs of the day” on punt returns, showing that “his legs could do other things than punt.”

  The Chicago Tribune echoed that praise, saying of O’Dea’s punting and kicking, “Nothing prettier has been seen on this field for a long time,” adding, “O’Dea . . . not only kicked well but ran with the ball and tackled in a manner that pleased the watching thousands.”

  While Pat got the bulk of the credit, it was clear that this was a total team effort. “Never in history has a Wisconsin team played with the form displayed to-day. Every man played as though his life depended on it,” the Sentinel raved. “Men who were thought to be weaklings and faint of heart were the foremost in the fray and they did not let up even for a single minute.”

  It was the Badgers’ first-ever win in Minneapolis, and it was particularly sweet given the nature of the rivalry and the fact that the Gophers had won five of the prior seven meetings. After all, “it is an admitted fact that some men continued their university course for no other reason than to get a chance again to line up against Minnesota in a football game.”

  The victory set off a huge celebration amongst the Badger faithful who had made the journey northwest to Minneapolis. The Wisconsin fans gathered at the adjacent West Hotel, where they cheered, shouted, and held a two-hour-long “war dance,” amid the band’s repeated blaring of “Hot Town” and other popular tunes. The players were there, and each received thunderous ovations from the crowd. The party continued long into the night, with the university musicians marching from street to street in downtown Minneapolis, leading the enormous throng of red-clad revelers.

  Back in Madison, many of those who had not made the trip had gathered at Library Hall. Thanks to a long-distance telephone setup, the action was continuously updated from Minneapolis, with announcements of the results of every play being made to the crowd. When the contest was over, an estimated 1,500 Badgers supporters took to the streets in celebration. The procession was led by a band, which provided an incessant, if somewhat less than musical, din. One of the revelers held a large banner decorated on one side with a picture of an enormous leg and the caption Pat’s. The other side bore the inscription Chicago next. 40–0—a warning of sorts for Wisconsin’s upcoming opponent. Residents and shopkeepers joined in the revelry, decorating their homes and stores with signs that read 39 to nit and other references to the Badgers’ dominance. Bonfires, artillery fire, and nonstop shouting and chanting proceeded well into the evening.

  The ride home was equally celebratory for the Badgers. As was typical of the day, the train made stops at virtually every crossroad. Each time it halted, the triumphant Badgers were greeted by excited throngs “waiting to glimpse the kicking kangaroo.” Teammate Walter Alexander remembered that the team had fun with the fans that day, bringing out other players one by one—each of whom was initially greeted by cheers, which quickly turned to boos when it became apparent they weren’t O’Dea.

  The team finally rolled into Madison on Sunday afternoon—their arrival setting off additional jubilation, with more than 2,000 fans in attendance. After much cheering and reveling, the team was hustled onto a waiting bus, presumably to be hauled back to campus, but due to an apparent miscommunication, there were no horses to pull the vehicle. Undaunted, the Wisconsin fans literally took matters into their own hands. Two ropes were attached to the bus, “and in less than a minute the heroes of Saturday’s game were being whirled up the hill by good Wisconsin muscles, accompanied by lusty Wisconsin yells.”

  When the procession finally reached campus, King and O’Dea both briefly thanked the students for their enthusiasm and their contribution to the team’s victory. The satisfied crowd slowly began to drift home. The Badgers, meanwhile, turned their focus back to the gridiron. Another game was just six days away.

  Chapter Ten

  “There’s Murder in T
hat Game”

  On the same late October day that O’Dea and the Badgers vanquished their great rival, the University of Georgia had a showdown of its own scheduled in Atlanta against the University of Virginia. Though Southern football was still not as highly regarded as the Eastern or even the Midwestern game, the anticipation on campus mirrored that which surrounded the more established powers. The Georgia student newspaper, The Red and Black, covered its pages with previews of the game, calling it “without a doubt the greatest athletic event that has ever occurred in the South.” Though the paper acknowledged that the team from Charlottesville was a stronger unit, it refused to back down. “Every man on both teams realizes the fact that there is much at stake,” the student scribe wrote, “and each one will enter the game with a determination to win or die.”

  Virginia dominated the game from the outset, with its strong line repeatedly battering Georgia’s smaller, weaker unit with plays aimed right at the tackles. The men from Charlottesville were running exactly that type of play early in the second half when tragedy struck. Virginia halfback Julien Hill took a handoff and followed his blockers into the line.

  Georgia fullback Richard Vonalbade Gammon rushed forward in an effort to tackle Hill. “Gammon missed his mark,” the Atlanta Journal reported, “and fell heavily on his head, his chin striking the ground first. The two teams tripped and fell on him.” Players from both sides quickly popped back up for the next snap. Gammon didn’t move.

  “Von” Gammon, as his friends knew him, was the archetype of the Southern gentleman. “Von was of such heroic build and nature,” an acquaintance recalled many years later, “that many held it the highest privilege to stand in his presence, that they might do his bidding, or simply be free to admire his noble qualities. He never smoked, drank, cursed or got out of humor.”

  Gammon also excelled at sports. He had grown up in an athletic household in Rome, Georgia, about 65 miles northwest of Atlanta. His family’s two-story wooden home was an epicenter of sorts for kids in the neighborhood. The sprawling property on the banks of the Etowah River doubled as a recreation area: two tennis courts, parallel bars and a punching bag on the back porch, trapeze in the barn, and a locker in the cellar with every imaginable piece of sporting equipment kids could ever want—from skates, to baseballs, to mitts and football equipment.

  Von’s father, J. A. Gammon, was a local clothing merchant and a city councilman. His mother, Rosalind, was a member of the Daughters of the Confederacy. A tall, auburn-haired woman, she delighted in the constant presence of Rome’s youth, often interrupting their play to hand out some freshly prepared sweets.

  In addition to her kindness, Rosalind was known for her determination and strong convictions. Many years later, when a telephone lineman came by to inspect the family’s property for an installation, Mrs. Gammon insisted that he do the job without damaging her favorite tree. After a short discussion, during which the workman implied that it might not be possible, he went on his way to continue his survey. When he reappeared later that day, saw in hand, he found Rosalind sitting under the tree waiting for him . . . wielding a double-barrel shotgun. Not surprisingly, the tree was spared.

  As Gammon lay motionless on the field, many in the crowd immediately jumped to his aid. He was covered in sweaters and blankets and surrounded by a brigade of doctors, who quickly injected opiates to relieve the eighteen-year-old’s obvious pain. Their diagnosis was a grave one. Von had a fractured skull. He lay on the field for nearly an hour, lapsing in and out of consciousness, before an ambulance arrived to take him to a nearby hospital. Gammon lingered for eleven agonizing hours. He died just before 4:00 a.m. on October 31, 1897, with his father at his side.

  Reaction in Georgia was swift and severe. The day after Gammon’s death, his teammates met and decided to disband the University of Georgia football team. That same day, the Georgia Senate proposed a bill that would make organized football games illegal in the state—punishable by fine. The state’s House of Representatives offered up similar legislation just three days later. Within weeks both bills had passed by a combined tally of 122 to 7. They needed only the governor’s signature to become law.

  The statewide press, by and large, supported the measure. The Athens Banner called football “inhuman,” while the Columbus Enquirer wrote that the banishment of the game would be “hailed with delight by thousands in Georgia.” In a banner headline, Gammon’s hometown paper, the Rome Tribune, proclaimed, Football Must Go; Stop The Deadly Game. The Atlanta Journal took a similar stand. In an editorial that ran the day after the bill’s passage in the Senate, the paper concluded that the state had seen enough football “to force the conclusion that it is not a game that should be encouraged.” It continued, “Governor Atkinson will, of course, sign the bill . . . and football matches may be considered a thing of the past.” The article concluded that “Football will never become a great American game.”

  As Atkinson pondered his next move, he met resistance from an unlikely source—Rosalind Gammon. Just two days after her son’s death, she penned a letter to Rome’s representative in the Georgia house, James B. Nevin, urging him to help prevent the game’s banishment, writing, “Grant me the right to request that my boy’s death should not be used to defeat the most cherished object of his life.”

  Moved by Rosalind’s pleas, and genuinely conflicted about the role of government in such a matter, Atkinson vetoed the bill. The measure, Atkinson declared, would go “beyond the proper limits of legislation, ignore the rights of parents, violate a sound legislative policy and oppose a fundamental principle of our government.” Atkinson concluded by saying the game should be reformed rather than banished. The sport resumed at the University of Georgia in the fall of 1898, and Rosalind Gammon went down in history as “The Woman Who Saved Southern Football.” A plaque detailing Gammon’s death and his mother’s pleas to continue the game is displayed prominently in Georgia’s football complex to this day.

  At the time, though, it seemed the stay of execution for the sport might be only temporary. Debates about the future of football raged throughout the 1890s—a difficult decade for the game. Those participating in the more rational disputes essentially fell into two camps. On one side were those who believed the sport was out of control. They cited the conflict with the mission of universities, the disproportionate focus on the game, the fawning media, and, most persuasively, the game’s violence, as a means to further their argument. On the other side, boosters of the game, while generally admitting that it could and should be reformed, argued that the positive impact in areas such as character building and school spirit outweighed the potential drawbacks.

  Much of the resistance came from inside the universities. Harvard, the nation’s oldest and most prestigious college, was a case in point. The Harvard Graduates’ Magazine carried frequent articles criticizing the role of the game in Cambridge. In an 1893 piece entitled “The Abuses of Training,” graduate J. Ralph Finlay outlined a typical schedule for the Harvard eleven, contending that, “in November, the practice takes up nearly the whole day.” Finlay ran through a litany of evils associated with the overemphasis on the game—everything from declining academic performance, to battered and bruised bodies, to a dependence on sleeping medications. His disdainful and moderately ironic conclusion captured the conundrum that surrounded college football in the 1890s and continues to challenge it today: “[W]hen their mental condition was such that study of any kind was useless; when their pale and haggard faces, dull eyes, and languid manner were constantly commiserated by classmates and professors; one might reasonably suppose that these men were having at least a fair amount of football. But it seems they were not, for they did not beat Yale.”

  Though not quite as focused on Harvard’s struggles against its rival, many of the university’s instructors were equally unimpressed with the emphasis placed on the sport. “During the autumn a veritable craze seizes the community on the subject of footb
all,” economics professor Frank William Taussig wrote, “and for weeks the most important question before the public (at least of the seaboard States) seems to be whether eleven youths dressed in red, or in black and yellow, will show themselves more expert in rushing a football than eleven other youths dressed in blue.”

  Harvard president William Eliot never missed an opportunity to criticize football, observing in his President’s Report of 1895 that the game “grows worse and worse as regards foul and violent play, and the number and gravity of the injuries which the players suffer,” while pointing out “the ever present liability to death on the field.” In Eliot’s mind, there was plenty of blame to go around for the game’s evils, as he pointed a finger at virtually everyone associated with the sport, excepting, interestingly enough, the players themselves. “They are swayed by a tyrannical public opinion—partly ignorant and partly barbarous—to the formation of which graduates and undergraduates fathers, mothers, and sisters, leaders of society, and the veriest gamblers and rowdies all contribute.”

  But it wasn’t just the ivory-tower academics who found football appalling. After witnessing a particularly brutal Harvard–Yale match in the 1890s, boxing champ John L. Sullivan boarded a train for New York City. In the washroom, he encountered noted football official Paul Dashiell, who asked the prizefighter what he had thought of the match. Sullivan lowered his voice to a whisper before observing, “There’s murder in that game.”

  Many at Harvard agreed. After the bloody debacle against Yale in Springfield in 1894 that ultimately led to a brief cancellation of the series between the two schools, the Cambridge university took up the broader question of football’s future. In February of 1895, the faculty voted by a margin of 24 to 12 to ask the committee on athletics to ban the game.