The Day I Got Chewed Out By Red Blaik

Col. Earl "Red" Blaik, the Dartmouth coach who whipped Yale and buried the Jinx, devoted friend of Ernest Martin Hopkins '01, inspiring leader who demanded the best from his athletes, died last May. He was 92 years old. The obituary writers remember him as the man who led an unmatched West Point squad for 18 seasons, from 1941 to 1958. But I remember him best for a single field goal that I committed. I kicked it, I'll admit, but it's mostly Harry Gates's fault.

One crisp fall day of our sophomore year in 1936, we were playing Vermont. It was the third quarter, with the score 37 to 0 in our favor. Red Blaik emptied the bench to keep the score in hand, giving us scrubs a chance to prove our mettle. Linebacker Harry "Heavenly" Gates '39 was no scrub, but he was ordered to call signals. Blaik gathered us around him before we entered the fray. He put it to us simply: "No more scoring!"

It being our first varsity game, we were out to show we had the right stuff. Our tackles were jarring. We ran the ball with abandon. Every play netted five or six yards. In no time we were on Vermont's 2 5-yard line. First down. Going into the huddle, Harry was perplexed: "What are we gonna do? Mr. Blaik said no more scoring."

Answers came aplenty: Jump off- sides. Fumble. Throw incomplete passes. Call time, and ask Mr. Blaik. Then Harry shouted, "No, I got it— Rodger, you kick a field goal!"

Among Harry's many fine attributes was a keen imagination, laced with a sense of humor. For we were 25 yards away, with ten more yards into the end zone, and Harry set the ball down for me on the 35-yard stripe—a monu- mental 45-yard challenge. And at somewhat of an angle, to boot.

The instant my toe connected, I knew it was my kick of all kicks. The ball sailed well over the uprights, dead center. Harry was flabbergasted. I was elated. Coach Blaik was not.

Substitutes raced out for both of us. The coach was waiting on the sideline. "I told you—no more scoring," he greeted us with vehemence.

"Golly Mr. Blaik," Harry sputtered, "we neither one of us thought we'd make it!"

"So let that be a lesson to you," replied Blaik. "Never underestimate your own ability, or that of the other fellow, either." And he turned his back on us and walked away.

Harry and I shrugged our shoulders, torn by triumph, disaster, and disbelief. Col. Blaik was all business on the football field, tolerating no nonsense. However, with the perspective of 50 years, I now see the masterful stroke of whimsy in his manipulation of the entire scene.

Or, the accidental field goal.

Rodger S. Harrison '39 lives in Chestertown, Maryland.