Oregon daily emerald., November 21, 1947, Page 2, Image 2

Oregon Emerald
ALL-AMERICAN 1946-47
The Oregon Daily Emerald, official publication of the University of Oregon, published
daily dunng the college year except Sundays, Mondays, and final examination periods.
Entered as second-class matter at the postoffice, Eugene, Ore.
Member of the Associated Collegiate Press
BOB FRAZIER, Editor BOB CHAPMAN, Business Manager
The Hayward Legend
The gaunt figure of a man will be honored by the University
of Oregon Saturday. Real heroes are few and far between on
the American sporting scene, but Colonel Bill Hayward defi
nitely belongs in the category. The day belongs to Bill.
A simple slogan—“Win for Bill”—will be transformed into
the living, breathing, battle cry by which the Oregon Webfoots
will muster their forces to defeat Oregon State. No tribute
would mean more to him.
Bill Hayward came to the University of Oregon in 1904.
Its history is Hayward’s history. He is the figure by whom the
University is best known throughout the nation and the world.
His feats as Oregon track coach are not writ in sand but
carved on the indellible edifice of sports history. His name has
inspired a legend, one that will live as long as noble deeds
and unselfish devotion are a part of the University of Oregon.
It is unnecessary to delve into Hayward’s record. When one
thinks of Hayward, flashbacks of champions parade in re
view. One sees the flashing spikes of Mack Robinson, the per
fect symphony, in rhythm that was Les Steers soaring over a
crossbar, the combination of form and skill that was Boyd
Brown heaving a javelin.
But these are the pictures that will tacie, cum, ana oe 101
gotten with the passing of time. The man that taught the
champions, encouraged them, inspired them to their athletic
conquests, never will cease to live in the memory of countless
generations of Oregon students.
When one thinks of Bill Hayward one recalls his kindness,
the mirth on his lips, the firm handshake, the sense of humor,
the calm eye as he noted flaws in his performers no other could
detect, his devotion to his friends.
The tales the oldtimers tell about Bill Hayward are count
less. But the memory most of us know Bill Hayward by was
occasioned last spring. It was the day of Bill s last track meet,
and his harriers were competing aga'inst Bill’s most bitter
rival, Oregon State. His team was given an even chance, but
it won by a huge margin. But that isn’t important.
There was only a fair-sized crowd in the stands that day,
but it numbered many of Bill’s friends who came to see his
last meet. Near the end of the afternoon’s events a simple an
nouncement blared over the loudspeaker: "Ladies and gentle
men, after 44 years at the University of Oregon this is Colonel
Bill Hayward’s last meet as track coach. Let’s give him a
hand.” ' ; H
The crowd rose in unison and applauded for five minutes.
There was a tear in the Colonel’s eye as he doffed his hat in
acknowledgement. There were tears in the eyes of the old
timers as they bid their respects.
Bill Hayward today lies on a sick bed at his home on the
McKenzie river. It is not known whether he will he able to
attend the events in his honor—the fish fry at Gerlinger, the
march by the Order of O, and the football game on the field
that is named in his honor.
But Bill’s friends—and there are legions of them through
out this state and nation—will be here to pay their respects.
And those that can’t come will stop, we are sure, for just a
moment—and remember.
It is no secret that Bill’s biggest desire in life was to beat
Oregon State, not only in track, but anything else. If men
are inspired by legend, if there arc forces that can make men
perform deeds they could not otherwise accomplish, if tra
dition and sentiment can triumph, the Oregon Webfoots Sa
turday will “Win for Bill.”
And if they should lose, an event within the realm of pos
sibility, that defeat will be accepted as both Bill’s triumphs
and defeats—by high ideals of sportsmanship and an abiding
respect for one’s fellow man.
That is the Hayward legend! —H.G.
Matrimony Recognized
Things are looking up for the student who would take
his spouse to the big game next Saturday. Saturday's Emerald
carried the welcome news that the athletic department had
no objection to wives who were not students sitting in the
student section, so long as they had general admission tickets.
The only other objection could come from the Order ot' the O,
which organization is enforcing the ancient "No Piggin" trad
ition at Oregon games.
Roger Wiley, no-piggin chairman of the Order, has now
announced that that group doesn’t care either. It’s up to the
vet and his wife, and to the unscrupulous student who might
try to smuggle in a casual date.
Friendship — A Short Short Story
By LARRY LAU
The phone’s mad jangle clattered through
through the house frankly, noisily—demand
ing.He made a soft noise of wonderment, then
a harsher sound of annoyance and swung his
feet out from under the covers. His slippers
flopped and thudded against the bare floor as
he padded grimly through the hall and into
the dining room where the phone stood trem
bling impatiently.
"Hello . . hello,” he barked.
"Hank?” a voice queried, “this is Sam. I
just had to phone somebody. You're my best
friend. . I’m half-crazy. . . I had to ph. . .”
Hank's eyes became alert and puzzled.
“Whoa! slow down Sam. Tell me nice and
slow like just what’s happened.”
The voice exploded hysterically. "It's Rita
—she’s gone! First I get this letter signed ‘A
Friend’ saying she’s being unfaithful, and
now she’s gone. Didn't leave a note or any
thing. . just gone.”
“Calm down Sam,” Hank growled, “you’re
not well enough to get this excited. She'll be
back. Maybe she’s sore about something. . .
did you show her the letter.”
“Yes—yes,” the voice babbled, “I didn’t
accuse her. I just laughed and told her I
thought someone was playing a joke on us. ’
“Well—cool off a little.” Hank soothed,
“she wouldn’t leave you. She loves you Sam.”
"No she doesn’t,” the voice broke in, “she’d
leave me all right. All those months I was
laid up in bed I kept yapping at her, ‘Rita
this’ and ‘Rita that’. . .oh, she’s feci up I tell
you.” Muffled sobs rang dully, hollowly, over
the phone. “I’ve got a gun Hank. . . I’m going
to shoot myself. I can’t stand it without Rita
... I need her!”
“Sam, for God’s sake don’t talk such non
sense !” The white of Hank’s knuckles where
lie -gripped the phone gleamed softly in the
darkness. A rivulet of sweat ran hesitantly
down the side of his face. . .“Sam,” he plead
ed, "listen to me. She'll be back. . . I know
she'll be back. Now if you've got a gun put it
away before you get hurt.”
“No Hank, she's gone for good. . .1 can
sense it. I don't even know where she is. . if
I only knew. . ” The voice murmered to a
stop. Hank heard an ominous, spine-chilling
click. . .
“Sam !” he whispered hoarsely, “don’t be
a fool!”
The voice mumbled brokenly. Hank could
only catch fragments of what Sam was saying
. . Hear that Hank? . . hear that noise . . in a
minute . . . I’ll be gone . . . then I won’t care
where she is .. ”
Say something—anything, he thought,
keep him talking . . my God!. . .“Sam, wait
. . . wait a second. I know where Rita is . . are
you listening? . . . Sam Rita is here with me .
.she’s here Sam! . . are you ...”
“That was a nice gesture Hank,” the voice
broke in quietly, “but I know yoiubetter than
that ... so long!”
The roar of the explosion almost ripped the •
phone from Hank's hands. He stared at it
dumbly, ground his teath tightly together >
and closed his eyes, as if to blot out a bad
dream . . . “Oh no Sam!. . . ”
He sat slumped in a chair in front of the
phone, stunned. Through a haze he heard a
soft, sleepy voice call to him, “Anything the
matteFvdarling ?” |
He ran his hands, tugging through his hair.
Get a grip on yourself, Hank old boy, he told
himself. He got up and wralked slowly back
down the hall.
“No . . nothing,"he said woodenly,“nothing
at all Rita.”
To The Barricades
While the modern-type Cold War wages its diplomatic way
on the international front, the local battle between the Uni
versity of Oregon and Oregon State college is being waged
on the fine, old-fashioned free-for-all lines.
All-night watches, suggested by Dean of Men Vergil Fog
dall, have been ably manned by stalwart Oregon men armed
with lead pipes, clubs, and fast cars. During the wee quiet
hours of the night bass voices are heard to thunder, “Hey, you
guys Aggies?” and the injured retort, “Hell, no!” Meanwhile,
coeds securely locked up for the night hang from their win
dows breathing, “My hero!” There's something gallant, noble,
and King Artlnirish about the nightly dramas of the past
week.
Then comes the dawn of morning and S o-c!ock classes. But
young Galahad fails to show; he doesn’t make it to his 9
o’clock either. When he finally pokes into the Side for black
coffee, large circles bag under his eyes, and he bemoans the
mid-term he had to cut because he has had to save the cam
pus from being carried away brick by brick for the past three
nights.
Obviously, there is something wrong with the picture. It's
not right to ask students to stand watch half the night and ex
pect them to attend or be prepared for classes. But there is
another answer. We heard rumors that Scabbard and Blade of
fered to enforce a state of martial law.This would not only be
more efficient but so much more modern. Armed sentries
would patrol the campus with the muffled roll of drums in
the background; snipers could be placed in the lap of the Pio
neer Mother and under the beard of the Pioneer Father. May
be an old tank could be resurrected from someplace (we hear
there are quite a few hanging out at the corner of Thirteenth
and Kincaid.) The plan has no end of possibilities.
The cowardly Beavers would naturally be terrified by this
show of strength and retreat in disorder, and, as an added at
traction, the coeds would have the joy of going uniform-mad
al lover again. M.E.T.
The ancient Chinese ued to ripen hard pears by putting
them in a closed room with burning incense. Ethylene gas in
the incense smoke caused the ripening, and today that gas is
used to de-green fruits.
Country children go to school an average of 168 davs a year
while city students attend sessions an average of 182 days a
year.
Two and one-half per cent of Nebraska births are illegiti
mate.
Of Rats
And Rex
By REX GUNN.
Barbara and I were having our
usual 11 p.m. snack when the u
mousetrap went off on the back
porch. She went pale and drew
back, but I arose, undaunted, in
a way that would have made my
mother proud—and Went to the
back porch.
The mouse was quite dead.
There was no pulse in his tail
and he didn’t wiggle when I,
poked him.
Being in the middle of my
snack I didn’t relish handling the
creature, so I left him there,
thinking I would go about dis
posing of him the next morning.
I would have too, but the next
morning—no mouse. Corpse, trap,
and all were gone.
Barbara is panic-stricken. She
won’t go near the back porch.
The baby, who is now big enough
to hold his own in a fight with a
medium sized mouse, faces an un
known menace.
What got my mouse ?
Probably a rat. Well, we’ve
looked all over the premises and
there are no signs of rat. If such,
he must have been a transient. t
A transient rat—why, certain
ly; why didn’t I think of it be
fore. This mouse must have been
a mesmerized Beaver.
There is a hole in the floor just
about large enough to admit a
beaver or a rat, provided he
would crawl on his belly for some
30 feet before reaching the hole.
(I have heard that this is no trick
at all for^either rodent).
Come to think of it, I could al
most swear that there was a daub
of orange paint on the mouse's *'
paw.
And the motivation? Clear as
a cat’s whisker. The cheese in the
trap was lemon yellow. T ”
Come Saturday.