The game was to be called at 2.30. An hour before that time Don and Wayne—Dave having taken up with a St. Eustace acquaintance for the while—started across the bridge to the far side of the river, where, hidden almost from sight, the rival academy nestled amid its trees. The field was already bright with blue banners when the boys arrived and the St. Eustace band was busily at work.
“What I don’t understand,” said Wayne, “is why we don’t have to pay any admission.”
“That,” answered Don, “is because Hillton, when she signed the athletic agreement with St. Eustace six years ago, made it one of her terms that no charge should be made for admission to any of the athletic events between the two schools. Instead, a number of invitation cards are printed. The home school gets two thirds of them for distribution and the visiting school the balance. Of course, it puts the cost of keeping up the eleven and the nine and the other teams on the fellows and the grads, but they seem willing enough to meet it. And, besides, as I know from personal experience, it makes the captains and coaches think more about economy; and we don’t very often travel in parlor cars nor put up at the swellest hotels, but we’ve managed to turn out a winning eleven two years out of every three for a long time.”
“But other schools charge admission,” objected Wayne.
“I know. St. Eustace does for every game except this one. But the idea is ‘Wheels’s.’ He thinks that playing football or baseball for the gate receipts smacks of professionalism; ‘sport for sport’s sake,’ says ‘Wheels.’ And I think he’s right. Look at the big colleges; some of them make from ten to fifteen thousand dollars as their share of an important game.”
“But why shouldn’t they?” asked Wayne.
“Because they’re not professionals; they’re college fellows—the players, I mean—and have no business going around country like a lot of—of—circus folk, showing off for money. And, besides, it’s bound to hurt college sport after awhile. If a captain of a big team knows that by having a winning eleven he can secure a game with another big college, and get eight or ten thousand dollars, why, in lots of cases it’s going to make that captain careless about little things. He isn’t going to inquire too closely into the standing of the fellows that make up the team; he’s going to excuse a lot of laxity as regards training; and he’s going to overlook lots of dirty playing, and all that hurts the college in the end. No, I think ‘Wheels’ is right; and so does Remsen and lots of the old fellows.”
“But, look here,” argued Wayne. “When a team makes eight, or ten, or fifteen thousand dollars, you know, that money doesn’t go to the players, does it?”
“Gracious, no!” exclaimed Don. “It’s generally turned into the general athletic fund, and helps meet the expenses of the crews and other teams that don’t pay their way. But don’t you see that it’s a big feather in a fellow’s cap if he can say that he made fifteen thousand dollars for the athletic association! And the oftener a college team makes a big pot of money the richer the association gets, and the first thing you know it’s sending its football and baseball teams around the country in a private car, with a small army of rubbers and coaches and a cook who prepares all the meals, just as though they were one of those foreign opera companies! It’s all wrong, Wayne. It isn’t good, honest sport; it’s—it’s tommyrot—that’s what it is!”
“Well, maybe it is,” answered the other boy thoughtfully. “Anyhow, I shan’t kick, you know; it’s saved me a dollar, I dare say.”