Poster Fight and Bowlfight. From the 1914 Class Record, pp. 143-147.
You may talk of Battle Royals,
And of war and Mexic' broils.
Of wooden legs and field of Battle Haze
But you'd have seen some slaughter
Unsurpassed on Land or Water
When 'Fourteen fought in underclassmen days.
Bones bent to cracking and flesh was crushed in the first blind charge Nineteen Fourteen made in the Poster Fight of four years ago. You remember that night, breathless with the heat of mid-September, with the moon almost full. We gathered in the Bi-Gardens, some four hundred strong, under the guidance of a handful of Juniors, and diverted ourselves with capturing a few stray Sophomores. Then we invented a yell, a blood-congealing roar born at a moment when combat filled the air.
At ten-forty the call to battle came. We started down Hamilton Walk, four abreast--a long line of white, shirtless backs, some of which bore the marks of recent hazing. In the lead were big huskies who were destined to bear the brunt of the fray; behind came the featherweights, who hoped to help by pushing. Through all the ranks ran a shiver of clenched anticipation.
Rounding the corner by the Houston Club thousands awaited our appearance. The terraces were covered with spectators, while every point of vantage was taken. By College Hall our startled eyes beheld a howling mob of second year men, piled deep against their poster, which had been glued to the door, given two coats of shellac and finally greased. It seem to the wily Sophs that nothing short of a paint scraper would ever tear a hole in that document. Blissfully ignorant of the poster's condition, with minds dazed by the continued yelling and blood pulsing high, we gathered opposite. At the crack of the pistol we sprang forward, raced across the open space at top speed and struck tile opposing line with terrific force. There was a violent stop, then a surge from behind. The featherweights were getting in their work. The Sophs grunted, Freshmen groaned and the whole mass buckled, lifting the centre men clear off their feet.
Then we loosened up a little and started in to demolish the serried ranks of the greased poster guardians. The only way to handle them was to get them by the belts, and drag them out by main strength. When you had succeeded in getting a man out you sat on him and attempted to blunt his facial angle by rubbing it against the gravel walk. In a twinkling the ground was littered with panting bodies, while more thudded down heavily every instant.
In the middle of the mass of squirmjog, wrenching strugglers, Sophomores and Freshmen were inextricably mixed. Ribs ached and straining lungs pulled in slow, deep gasps. Above a thin gray steam arose from the sweating hides. Here and there a face turned upward, ghostly and agonized in the moonlight. Most were drawn with fatigue and pain. At twenty minutes after eleven a truce was called, and the tired cohorts drew off. In five minutes we charged again. Light men were thrown up who started to crawl over the heads of the crowd toward the coveted door. The dust, ground fine beneath pounding feet, rose in clouds. Refreshed by the respite, both sides battled fiercely. Slowly the Sophs thinned. Nearer and nearer we crept. Eager hands clutched madly. The steps were reached, and dozens touched the slippery surface of the poster. it drew near twelve. Viciously the fight went oil. Then in a shout that cut keen through the throbbing air victory was announced for the Fresh. A corner had been scratched off the poster. And that is how Nineteen Fourteen started its career.
Stiff and sore, we woke up next morning to find still more work to do. Inspired by our first Chapel service, we withdrew to the Houston Club, and rushed the door in Somewhat under ten seconds. That was too easy To divest the Sophomore president, Coryell, of his trousers in the second half was another matter. Never did a Soph. president evince more anxiety to retain his nether garments than did Coryell, and lie was successful to a degree that his fellow classmen were not. So the morning's proceedings were declared a draw by the marshals.
The Bowl Fight came December 1st on Franklin Field. "Lou" Young was our Bowl Alan, and lie was rushed across the Sophomore line triumphantly in the first period. That was the time "Bill" Dougherty, our president, spent most of his Thanksgiving week in seclusion at Harrisburg, whilst ]us classmates searched the waters of Chesapeake Bay for a large yacht on which "Bill" was supposed to be held Captive. And "Bill" didn't get to the Fight either. The second half was wickedly fought, but on the count we were outnumbered twenty-six to fifteen hands on the bowl.
As Sophomores we were too blasé, and while resting on our laurels the Fresh whaled us in the short space of twenty minutes. The rout continued through the next day, when we lost both halves of the Campus Fight in short order. "Bill" had to go home, blushing front head to foot, beneath a borrowed raincoat, sans shirt, sans shoes, sans everything.
On October 27th the Fresh planned to put up their early morning poster, but the secret leaked, and Nineteen Fourteen was there When the poster stickers arrived. The paste pail figtired largely in the collision that followed, but we stuck better than the Fresh did, and the tide of battle turned in our favor.
This success heartened us for the Push Ball Fight, in which we were outnumbered. During the first period the ball touched the ground just twice, so determined were we to drive the big sphere over the opposite goal line. But the Fresh held well, and the half ended with the ball on the 55-yard line. Next half we rushed hard, and drove the ball to the 25-vard line, where the Fresh rallied. Like a tidal wave they surged back, the ball tossing on the tempestuous crest, but on the 50-yard line it went out of bounds. Fifteen minutes more fighting brought no results, and we called it a draw and went limping home, satisfied with having held such a horde to an even break.
The last conflict Nineteen Fourteen figured in was staged December 13th. The date hoodooed us. Neither class president was missing when the row started. We failed to get "Don" Lippincott before lie crossed the goal line; and then we lined up for the twenty-minute session. There was a titanic struggle, in mud and water six inches deep, and while injuries were few partial drowning was frequent. Down near the bowl the scant air was filled with groans and yelps of pain. But the day was inauspicious for Nineteen Fourteen. When the period was over, and the pile of tangled bodies reduced to the minimum, thirty first year fists clutched the wooden rim, and alas! there were but twenty-eight grimy, tired Sophomore paws on the edge of the big bowl.
So we started in with victory, and ended fighting madly against overwhelming odds. No one ever thought a Nineteen Fourteen scrap easy, and if sometimes we were defeated it wasn't our fault. Hats off to the winners, and honor to all those who fought their best, win or lose!