Between the innocence of boyhood and the dignity of man, we find a sturdy creature called the football player. Football players come in assorted weights, heights, jersey colors, and numbers, but all football players have the same creed: to play every period of every game to the best of their ability.

Football players are found everywhere — underneath, on top of, running around, jumping over, passing by, twisting from or diving through the enemy. Teammates rib them, officials penalize them, students cheer them, kid brothers idolize them and mothers worry about them. A football player is Courage in cleats, Hope in a helmet, Pride in pads, and the best of young manhood in moleskins.

When your team is behind, a football player is incompetent, careless, indecisive, lazy, uncoordinated, and stupid. Just when your team threatens to turn the tide of the battle, he misses a block, fumbles the ball, drops a pass, jumps offside, runs the wrong way or completely forgets his assignment.

A football player is a composite — he eats like Notre Dame, sleeps like NotreDame, but, more often than not, plays like Grand Canyon High. To an opponent publicity man, he has the speed of a gazelle, the strength of an ox, the size of an elephant, the cunningness of a fox, the agility of an adagio dancer, the quickness of a cat, and the ability of Red Grange, Glen Davis, Bronco Nagurski, and Jim Thorpe combined.

To his own coach he has, for press purposes, the stability of mush, the fleetness of a snail, the mentality of a mule, is held together by adhesive tape, bailing wire, and sponge rubber and has about as much chance of playing on Saturday as would his own grandfather.

To an alumnus a football player is someone who will never kick as well, run as far, block as viciously, tackle as hard, fight as fiercely, give as little ground, score as many points or generate nearly the same amount of spirit as did those particular players of his own yesteryear.

A football player likes game films, trips away from home, practice sessions without pads, hot showers, long runs, whirlpool baths, recovered fumbles, points after touchdowns and the quiet satisfaction which comes from being part of a perfectly executed play. He is not much for wind sprints, sitting on the bench, rainy days, afterimage compliments, ankle wraps, scouting reports or calisthenics.

No one else looks forward so much to September or so little to December. Nobody gets so much pleasure out of knocking down, hauling out or just plain bringing down the enemy. Nobody else can cram into one mind assignments for an end run, an off-tackle slant, a jump pass, a quarterback sneak, a dive play, punt protection, kick-off returns, a buck lateral, goal line stands or a spinner cycle designed to result in a touchdown every time it is tried.

A football player is a wonderful creature — you can criticize him, but you can’t discourage him. You can defeat his team, but you can’t make him quit. You can get him out of a game, but you can’t get him out of football. Might as well admit it — be you alumnus, coach or fan — he is your personal representative on the field, your symbol of fair and hard play. He may not be an All-American, but he is an example of the American way. He is judged, not for his race, nor for his religion, nor his social standing, or not for his finances, but by the democratic yardstick of how well he blocks, tackles and sacrifices individual glory for the overall success of his teams.

He is a hard-working, untiring, determined kid doing the very best he can for his school or college. And when you come out of a stadium, grousing and feeling upset that your team has lost, he can make you mighty ashamed with just two sincere words — “We tried!”

Charles Loftus, 1951

Yale University

Director of Sports Information