Santa Ana High School - Ariel Yearbook (Santa Ana, CA)

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'r H E A R I E L HIPS 'Ulllcll Zlftct' tbe Game ' Written by Terry E. Stephenson, '98. Previously published in the Stanford Sequoia ' Revised For The Ariel by Mr. Stephenson. This is not the regulation football story. No passionate pair of eyes threw love and inspiration into the field and caused the winner to play a game unparalleled. The hero of this tale cast no side glances from be- neath his leather helmet toward the tiered beauties in hopes of catching sight of a maid who Haunted a cardinal banner and screeched encourage- ment. Andy Morton never played a game of football before the girl he loved--if he ever loved a girl. His father was a doctor and a man of severe ways. He had his ideas of boys and incidentally of football, although he had never seen a game and did not know a goal post from a rooter. But he read the newspapers and he knew. When he sent his big, husky son, Andy, off to college, he said: Now, son, just one word before you go. You and I have always understood each other. We have been good' fellows together, better fel- lows than we have been with other people I fear. I want you to get all there is in Stanford for you to get, everything worth getting, but remem- ber what I say about one thing. You shall not be a fool. Football is not a man's game and I do not want you to have a thing to do with it. I ani a man of my word. I do not want a crippled-up son hanging his feet at my dining table. This the father had said and the son had ventured nothing in reply. Andy was big and a boy, and what boy ever lived a month in Encina when the piano was going, when the stag dances after dinner brought the fellows together, when there was yelling and enthusiasm and everything that makes college life better than the everyday life of a civilian-what boy has lived that month in Encina and did not want to crawl into a suit and do or die for the college? What fellow with strength of body has not felt as if he had been run over by a sheep when from a seat on the bleachers he sees his roommate or an alcove mate on the field playing in the hope that by some unforeseen longed-for chance he may have the making of a football man in him? Andy had a new Stanford pin. The first night he huddled between a couple of fellows trying to sink his bulky frame into insignificance. When he thought no one was looking he un- fastened that pin from his coat and shoved it deep down into his hip pocket. He was only a freshman, but he had the inwards of a Stanford man.

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'r H E A R 1 E L jfiV6 QUITE' 'worth of 'IRCD IDCDDCV' Eggs were forty cents a dozen and Roger Bane's hens were laying as if their very lives depended upon their effortsg as, indeed, they did, for the death sentence of the chicken peddler would claim them when they ceased to pay for their feed. Roger was returning from the egg market with the air of a man whose fortune runs up into six figures. He was alternately hugging him- self and a small package of cayenne pepper with which he hoped to warm up his hens to greater efforts. As he turned into the alley running to the back of his father's barn, where the hens cackled over new laid eggs by day and roosted over them by night, he heard a most heartrending squawk, followed by such a sug- gestion of vocal efforts as never hens and dogs indulged in before. The program which followed was probably not premeditated. At any rate, the other occupants of the barn left off when the hens began, and two darkies with well filled sacks rushed from the rear door, running swiftly in Roger's direction. He did not have time to consult his pocket edition of What Sherlock Holmes Would Do, and besides, he was so over- whelmed with the moment's contemplation of his loss that he never thought of it. He merely whacked his knees together and waited. Then im- pelled by a sense of duty he threw the package of pepper at the foremost darky. The bag burst and the second chicken thief ran into the cloud of fiery dust. Then indeed did pandemonium reign. The more serious occu- pation of stealing chickens was given up in the lighter joy of sneezing. The air was rent with a series of crashing sneezes which are said to ac- count for certain loose boards in the alley fance. But distinct detonations were soon replaced by an uninterrupted How of kerchoooo-oo-oo ! ! ! Win- dows Hew up and heads popped out in time to see a bluecoat rush reck- lessly into the death-dealing cloud, from which he failed to emerge in a reasonable length of time, also the volume of sound was audibly increased. A happy idea at last struck Roger, and he rushed to the corner and turned in the fire-alarm, and soon a stream of water was mingling with the tears of the three victims of five cents' worth of red pepper. WRISTEN Coox, '05 A.

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T H E A R l E L That night he wrote his father a plain, curt letter, not impertinent but straightforward. He said that he intended to play football. 'KI have to play in order to feel right. If you were in my place you would play too, he wrote. He knew what the answer would be. Andy was in his room in Encina when a telegram was brought in. It read: Do not play football. None of it. I mean it? Andy read this to his room mate, Horace Healey, who was a junior in college. That ends it, I suppose, freshman, said Horace. Not by a long jump. I am going to play or quit college, was the response. 'iAre you crazy, freshman? How are you going to get along? It's not Worth the fight. Healey had come to college when there was an exceptionally large number of candidates for the freshman team. He had been dealt out a suit and a pair of shoes that were worn and torn and three sizes too large for him. He had to go against the system for trying out new men then in vogue. For over four weeks Healey went faithfully out to the side lines. He saw the same men called into line each night while he had not the slightest chance to show what there was in him. He saw a fra- ternity brother of the captain shoved in for tackle, a man Healey had out- played in a dozen different prep. school games. Then he turned in his baggy suit and dilapidated football shoes. Since then he had not been very strenuous in urging anyone to do athletics, especially if at a cost. By disposition, anyhow, he was what at college is known as a saur bawlf' Why, hang it, freshman, you don't know what there is in store for you. The old man means what he says and you can't expect to be half the college man you want to be if you have to put in all your time hashing and scrubbing windows. An athlete has a fierce time getting along here anyhow. The prof who yells the loudest the day of the game will soak you the hardest in his exes, and try to find liaws in your work so that he can stick you for an extra grind. Dugan in the engineering department looks like a good fellow, but wait till he gets wind of the fact that you are on the field. There will be special rules that you can't do surveying work any day but Saturdays. You will miss about half the preliminary games, and be lucky if you make the team. Then he will ring up the finale with a Hunk. I'd like to see you on the team. It would help you all through college, but a man cannot do everything. It is too much to risk-this working your way and athletics. A