33-30, and Morton Kicks

The hush fell down across the Bowl like a velvet drapery shutting off some wildly modernistic painting. It was a deathly hush as the ball shot back from center to McCall who was kneeling on the ground. McCall caught it deftly and set it on end and Morton kicked. The kick soared upwards and onward toward the Yale goal post. It had height, and there was that fleeting second of doubt. Then a white-shirted official raised both hands over his head in signal of a goal. 33-33!

There is no starting or finishing point in the description of this game. There can be no cold analysis of the whys and the wherefores of a scoring spree like this, but rather the collection of star backs and interferers as a whole. It was a game where reasoning gave way to emotion and veteran writers in the press box, men who have been covering games for years, threw hats and pounded tables like schoolboys.

The idea of the affair being changed from one of quiet resignation to a pandemonium of incongruity was enough to shake even the most hard boiled from their professional inscrutability.

All the things written around Albie Booth were resuscitated in this Yale. It was his flying feet and jerky hips that furnished the Yale motif for one dazzling period which in subsequent events was not enough. It was enough for any football team in the country except Dartmouth on that day.

The fame of Wild Bill McCall will rest upon this one performance, just as the inspired five minutes of A 1 Marsters' career were written as a valedictory in the Bowl. Anything else is an anti-climax and dull and drab in comparison.