Charles H. Huggins, of Brown University, better known perhaps, simply as “Huggins of Brown,” recalls a curious case in a game on Andrews Field: 

“Stewart Jarvis, one of the Brown ends, made a flying tackle.  As he did so, he felt something snap in one of his legs.  We carried him off to the field house, making a hasty investigation.  We found nothing more apparent than a bruise.  I bundled him off to college in a cab; gave him a pair of crutches; told him not to go out until our doctor could examine the injury at six o’clock that evening.  When the doctor arrived at his room, Jarvis was not there.  He had gone to the training table for dinner.  The doctor hurried to the Union dining-room, only to find that Jarvis had discarded the crutches and with some of the boys had gone out to Rhodes, then, as now, a popular resort for the students.  Later, we learned that he danced several times.  The next morning an X-ray clearly showed a complete fracture of the tibia.

“How it was possible for a man, with a broken leg, to walk around and dance, as he did, is more than I can fathom.”

What is there in a man’s make-up that leads him to conceal from the trainer an injury that he receives in a game; that makes him stay in the field of play?  Why is it that he disregards himself, and goes on in the game, suffering physical as well as mental tortures, plucky though handicapped?  The playing of such men is extended far beyond the point of their usefulness.  Yes, even into the danger zone.  Such men give everything they have in them while it lasts.  It is not intelligent football, however, and what might be called bravery is foolishness after all.  It is an unwritten law in football that a fresh substitute is far superior to a crippled star.  The keen desire to remain in the game is so firmly fixed in his mind that he is willing to sacrifice himself, and at the same time by concealing his injury from the trainer and coaches he, unconsciously, is sacrificing his team; his power is gone.

One of the greatest exhibitions of grit ever seen in a football game was given by Harry Watson of Williams in a game at Newton Center between Williams and Dartmouth.  He was knocked out about eight times but absolutely refused to leave the field.

Another was furnished by W. H. Lewis, the Amherst captain and center rush, against Williams in his last game at Amherst—­the score was 0-0 on a wet field.  Williams was a big favorite but Lewis played a wonderful game, and was all over the field on the defense.  When the game was over he was carried off, but refused to leave the field until the final whistle.

One of the most thrilling stories of a man who was game, though handicapped, is told by Morris Ely, quarterback for Yale, 1898.

“My most vivid recollection of the Harvard-Yale game of 1898 is that Harvard won by the largest score Yale had ever been beaten by up to that time, 17 to 0.  Next, that the game seemed unusually long.  I believe I proved a good exponent of the theory of being in good condition.  I started the game at 135 pounds, in the best physical condition I have ever enjoyed, and while I managed to accumulate two broken ribs, a broken collar-bone and a sprained shoulder, I was discharged by the doctor in less than three weeks as good as ever.