“An instance of the psychology of football is to be found in the fall of 1904, when Jim Hogan was captain of the Yale team,” says Morse.  “I had the pleasure of playing back of him on the defensive in almost every game of that year, and I got to depend so much on those bull-like charges of his that I fear that if I had been obliged to play back of some one else my playing would have been of inferior quality.

“Yale had a fine team that year, defeating both Harvard and Princeton with something to spare.  The only eleven that scored on us was West Point, and they beat us.  It is a strange thing that the Cadets always seem to give Yale a close game, as in that year even though beaten by both Harvard and Princeton by safe scores, and even though Yale beat Harvard and Princeton handily, the Army played us to a standstill.

“After the game, as is so often the case when men have played themselves out, there was a good deal of sobbing and a good many real tears were shed.  Every man who has played football will appreciate that there are times when it is a very common matter for even a big husky man to weep.  We were all in the West Point dressing-room when Jim Hogan arose.  He felt what we all took to be a disgrace more keenly than any of us.  There was no shake in his voice, however, or any tears in his eyes when he bellowed at us to stop blubbering.

“’Don’t feel sorry for yourselves.  I hope this thing will hurt us all enough so that we will profit by it.  It isn’t a matter to cry over—­it’s a matter to analyze closely and to take into yourself and to digest, and finally to prevent its happening again.’

“He drove it home as only Jim Hogan could.  At the close Ralph Bloomer jumped to his feet and cried: 

“’Jim, old man, we are with you, and you are right about it, and we will wipe this thing out in a way which will satisfy you and all the rest of the college.’

“The whole team followed him.  Right then and there that aggregation became a Yale football team in the proper sense, and one of the greatest Yale football teams that ever played.  It was the game followed by Jim’s speech that made the eleven men a unit for victory.

“If Jim had been allowed to live a few more years the quality of leadership that he possessed would have made of him a very prominent and powerful man.  His memory is one of the dearest things to all of us who were team mates or friends of his, but I hardly ever think of him without picturing him that particular day in the dressing-room at West Point, when in five minutes he made of eleven men a really great football team.”

Even Eddie Mahan is not immune to the haunting memory of defeat, and perhaps because of the very fact that disaster came into his brilliant gridiron career only once, and then in his senior year, it hit him hard.  The manner of its telling by this great player is sufficient proof of that.  Here is Eddie’s story: