It was a game full of intense rivalry.  The desire to win was carrying the men beyond the bounds of an ordinarily spirited contest, and the Umpire’s job proved a most severe task.  It was in this game that either four or five men were disqualified.

I continued several years after this in the capacity of Umpire.  One unfortunate experience as Umpire came as a result of a penalty inflicted upon Wauseka, an Indian player who had tackled too vigorously a Penn’ player who was out of bounds.  Much wrangling ensued and a policeman was called upon the field.  It was the quickest way to keep the game from getting out of hand.

Washington and Jefferson played the Indians at Pittsburgh some years ago.  I acted as Umpire.  The game was played in a driving rain storm and a muddier field I never saw.  The players, as well as the officials, were covered with mud.  In fact my sweater was saturated, the players having used it as a sort of towel to dry their hands.  A kicked ball had been fumbled on the goal line and there was a battle royal on the part of the players to get the coveted ball.  I dived into the scramble of wriggling, mud-covered players to detect the man who might have the ball.  The stockings and jerseys of the players were so covered with mud that you could not tell them apart.  As I was forcing my way down into the mass of players I heard a man shouting for dear life:  “I’m an Indian!  I’m an Indian!  It’s my ball!”

When I finally got hold of the fellow with the ball I could not for the life of me tell whether he was an Indian or not.  However, I held up the decision until some one got a bucket and sponge and the player’s face was mopped off, whereupon I saw that he was an Indian all right.  He had scored a touchdown for his team.

An official in the game is subject to all sorts of criticisms and abuse.  Sometimes they are humorous and others have a sting which is not readily forgotten.

I admit, on account of my size, there were times in a game when I would get in a player’s way; sometimes in the spectators’ way.  During a Yale-Harvard game, in which I was acting as an official, the play came close to the side line, and I had taken my position directly between the players and the spectators, when some kind friend from the bleachers yelled out: 

“Get off the field, how do you expect us to see the game?”

I shall never forget one poor little fellow who had recovered a fumbled ball, while on top of him was a wriggling mass of players trying to get the ball.  As I slowly, but surely, forced my way down through the pile of players I finally landed on top of him.  I shall never forget how he grunted and yelled, “Six or seven of you fellows get off of me.”

It was in the same game that some man from the bleachers called out as I was running up the field:  “Here comes the Beef Trust.”