I recall being out in the country in my younger days and seeing a man,
who had become irrational, near the roadside, where some heavy logs were
piled. This man, who ordinarily was only a man of medium strength, was
picking up one end of a log and tossing it around--a log, which,
ordinarily, would have taken three men to lift. In the bewildering and
exciting problems of football, there are instances similar to this,
where a small man on one team, lined up against a giant in the opposing
rush line, and game though handicapped in weight there comes to him at
such a time a certain added strength, by which he was able to handle
successfully the duty which presented itself to him.

I have found it to be the rule rather than the exception, that the big
man in football did not give me the most trouble; it was the man much
smaller than myself. Other big linemen have found it to be true. Many a
small man has made a big man look ridiculous.

Bill Caldwell, who used to weigh over 200 pounds when he played guard on
the Cornell team some years ago, has this to say:

"I want to pay a tribute to a young man who gave me my worst seventy
minutes on the football field. His name was Payne. He played left guard
for Lehigh. He weighed about 145 pounds; was of slight build and seemed
to have a sort of sickly pallor. I have never seen him since, but I take
this occasion to say this was the greatest little guard I ever met. At
least he was great that day. Payne had been playing back of the line
during part of the season, but was put in at guard against me. I had a
hunch that he was going to bite me in the ankle, when he lined up the
first time, for he bristled up and tore into me like a wild cat. I have
met a goodish few guards in my day, and was accustomed to almost any
form of warfare, but this Payne went around me, like a cooper around a