LETTERS
…the Magazine’s constant air of self-congratulation…

NO GOLDEN GLOVE FOR US
After reading Bob Greenebaum’s letter (December/03) pointing out the correct year in which Chicago withdrew from Big Ten football competition (after the 1939 season), I found a few other errors in the biographies of the Chicago Athletics Hall of Fame inductees (October/03).

Edward “Ted” Haydon’s service as track coach did not end in 1975. He was coaching men’s track & field up until his death in spring 1985. I am sure this omission was noticed by many of my fellow trackmen of this era who felt privileged to run for Ted. Don’t forget he also coached the cross-country team for many years.

Second, I point out that pitcher Roy K. Henshaw could not have helped the Cubs against the Detroit Tigers in the 1933 World Series. The two teams met in the 1935 Series, not 1933.

Gary D. Levenson, AB’86
New York

In “First Round Picks” (October/03), detailing the inaugural class of the Chicago Athletics Hall of Fame, you state that Ted Haydon was the head track coach from 1950 to 1975. His last year of coaching was 1985, the year of his death. I was a member of the 1984–85 team.

Thanks for the great memories.

Butch Anton, SB’88
Lansdale, Pennsylvania

I was interested in Bob Greenebaum’s corrective letter (December/03) and wish to add to it inasmuch as I was accepted to the football “squad” in summer 1937, fully two years after the presumed 1935 close date. Recruited by a squad member, I appeared before the coach and was asked about my prior experience. I answered truthfully that the only contact between me and the Lindbloom High School squad had been my appointment as Division Room ticket sales representative.

What year was I at the University? Again I responded truthfully: senior. After the next question, with either a firm and unshakable belief in miracles or the urgent need for warm bodies to pour into U of C uniforms, the coach said, “Suit ’im up,” and the die was cast.
At 169 pounds, I was the third lightest member of the squad. The two lighter were also shorter. In the season’s first game I was in the predictable position of bench warmer. At half-time, spread out on the wrestling mats with half an orange to suck on, we were given a Knute Rockne type of inspirational talk by the coach. When he was out of earshot, the silence was broken by the fellow who had recruited me: “Have you ever heard such tortured English?” That’s all I remember.

When faced with the twin appeal of serving under Kwang Sup Yum, AM’23, PhD’30, the head librarian who had a cadre of sublibrarians whose main duties were the checking in and checking out of books, or attempting to reverse the undistinguished career of the Maroon football team (a task for which I was even less equipped), I dropped out of football.

It was Walter Eckersall (who, besides being a star athlete, had more than a bit of prescience) and Robert Maynard Hutchins (with a more recent database) who saw the cursive (original meaning before it was appropriated by the Palmer Method) handwriting on the wall. When the latter withdrew the University of Chicago football team from competition in the Big Ten, he knew what he was doing. He made the judgment that Big Ten competition was not for the likes of Chicago, then or in the foreseeable future.

In what respect did I make my mark on the football summer squad in 1937? It was through the loudly voiced comment by the trainer/masseur while working on my thigh: “This guy has the biggest charley-horses I’ve ever seen!”

Ralph K. Meister, SB’38, PhD’51
Aurora, Illinois

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