167: The Golden Age of Sports: Horse Racing, Boxing, Basketball, Football, & Jim Thorpe
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It's a cold December day, likely the 20th, 1891.

We're at the International YMCA Training School in Springfield, Massachusetts, where James Naismith is wrapping up another gym class. Another disappointing gym class, that is. James feels a deep sense of failure as the last of his unenthusiastic students file out of the gym. Yeah, let me fill you in on the situation as our despondent instructor climbs the stairs to his office.

For nearly two weeks, James, or Jim, as the 30-year-old Canadian-born physical ed instructor with the handsome walrus mustaches known, has been experimenting with different games in his gym class. Working under the direction of the department's superintendent, Dr. Luther Golick, Jim's been trying to make this dead of winter in New England and thus indoor only men's training class enjoyable.

But so far, all the mustachioed instructor has managed to do is confirm that these young but growing men, these athletes, have zero interest in playing children's games. And Jim's feeling the pressure. He has to answer for this class at the end of the week. The mere thought of failure stirs Jim's blood, or as he'll later recall, quote, all the stubbornness of my Scotch ancestry was aroused, close quote. Stepping into his office, Jim hears the muffled sounds of his students in the locker room below him.

They're joking around. They're towel snapping. Clearly, they're having a better time goofing off in there than they did in class. That's exactly the kind of spirit Jim wants to bring out of them as they train. And the sound of the students' jocular, frivolous horseplay gives the downcast, yet indefatigable instructor a second wind. Jim sits at his desk, pulls out paper and pen, and gets to dreaming up a game. A sport.

Now, we don't know exactly how much inventing happens over the next few hours versus how much has already occurred. It's true that Jim has been studying the psychology of play under Dr. Luther Golick, and the young phys-ed teacher's already existing ideas are precisely why he was entrusted with this class. But according to Jim's later account, the magic happens now as he sits at his desk philosophizing on other sports like soccer and especially football or American rugby as it's also known.

He soon comes to some important realizations, like realizing that team sports always use a ball, that sports are simpler, easier to learn, and don't need equipment if the ball is big, and that tackling isn't necessary if the players are prohibited from running when holding the ball. That one's important to Jim. He doesn't want his students crashing into the gymnasium's hard floor.

But whether a weeks-long process or the result of a single day's brilliance, things click as Jim figures out how to avoid tackling this afternoon. With an excited snap of his fingers, he exclaims to himself, "I've got it!" and proceeds to toil into the night, refining his thinking. It's now the next morning. Jim sits in his office, staring at two balls side by side on the floor. One is a soccer ball, the other a football. Which should he use for his new experimental sport?

Then it hits him. If he wants to keep the players from running with the ball, then he shouldn't use the one shaped to be more easily carried. He grabs the soccer ball. With the ball in hand, Jim is walking down the hall as the building supervisor, Mr. Stebbins, happens by. Jim stops him and asks, "Do you have two boxes about 18 inches square?" Mr. Stebbins thinks, then replies,

No, I haven't any boxes, but I'll tell you what I do have. I have two old peach baskets down in the storage room, if they will do you any good. Jim thinks that's perfect. Now armed with two peach baskets, he tracks down a hammer, some nails, and though not mentioned in his account, he must assume a ladder, and attaches the baskets about 10 feet above the ground on each side of the 65-foot-long gymnasium. He nails them into a railing running on a balcony above it.

Each peach basket will serve as a goal and require the students to lob the ball in an arc, an idea inspired by a rock tossing game from his Canadian childhood called Duck on a Rock. Finally, Jim brings all of his brainstorming and inspiration together and scratches out 13 rules on a pad of paper. The department secretary, Miss Lyons, types them up. Jim feels ready and as 11:30 approaches, it's time to see if his indoor sport will accomplish what seems to be the impossible.

holding his students' interest. Back in the gymnasium, Frank Mahan is the first student to arrive. The football-playing North Carolinian pulls a lot of weight in the eyes of the other students. Looking at the typed-up rules tacked to the wall, he exclaims, "Huh, another new game!" Jim's heart drops. Frank sounds negative. But the phys-ed teacher puts on a strong face and welcomes the other students. The 18 students are soon divided into two teams of nine.

Jim then tosses the ball into the air at center court and it's an immediate success. The students love it. While William Chase is the only one who manages to score, the ball flies toward the peach baskets over and over and the students have a blast. In the days ahead, other teachers blow their whole lunch time just watching the men's class play. The women's class starts playing during their allotted training time too. And when students go home for Christmas, they spread this game at their local YMCAs.

Back from the break, that same influential student that made Jim Naismith's heart drop, Frank Mahan, suggests to the inventive phys ed teacher that he name the sport after himself, Naismith ball. Jim laughs. He says that would kill the game. So, the Southern student makes another suggestion. Why not call it basketball? Thinking aloud, Jim answers, "We have a basket and a ball, and it seems to me that would be a good name for it."

Welcome to History That Doesn't Suck. I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and I'd like to tell you a story. If ever there was a sport invented rather than evolved, it's basketball. Yet, even then, other changes will come, like allowing players to move while dribbling the ball.

Entering the 20th century, the sport quickly becomes popular with men and women, while professional basketball gets a start in the form of barnstorming, that is, touring. But even when professional basketball leagues come along, culminating in 1949 as the National Basketball Association, or NBA, one particularly gifted barnstorming team of black players will continue to play on its own terms well into the next century, the Harlem Globetrotters.

While that's as much as we'll say about basketball for the time being, today, as you may have guessed from that opening, we will build on our last episode's tale of early baseball by exploring other sports that are much beloved by early 20th century Americans. We could go a lot of different directions here, and it pains me to leave out some of my own personal favorites, but we'll focus on the biggest and most iconic.

To do so, we'll start with a little background by dipping into the early 19th century to experience the first sport to really hold a national event, horse racing. We'll then step into the often illegal ring and follow John L. Sullivan, aka Boston Strongboy, as he lives through the transition from bare-knuckled to gloved boxing. It's a striking change, but you know who strikes harder than that?

Jack Johnson, and we have ringside tickets to watch the Black Texan duke it out with James J. Jeffries and his true opponent, Jim Crow, in Reno, Nevada. But as Jack fights his bouts, we'll find that college boys are more or less fighting as well, as they play a really rough-and-tumble version of football. That is, soccer, but mixed with rugby.

As this new sport of American rugby, or American football as it's also known, evolves, things turn so deadly, President Theodore Roosevelt will have to intervene. The sport must reform or be banished.

Finally, in an episode filled with so many different sports, it only makes sense to follow the career of the one American athlete from this era gifted enough to do any of them and excel. I am, of course, referring to the baseball, football, track and field, and so many other sports walking and talking legend, a Native American from the Sac and Fox Nation, Jim Thorpe. We'll find that Jim holds his head high despite taking many hard blows.

the hardest of which come off the field. So, whether you wear cleats, gloves, a helmet, or swing-bear knuckles, let's get on with our pentathlon of an episode. And we start by heading off to the 19th century races. Rewind. It's May 27th, 1823.

We're in the state of New York, on Long Island, where 60,000 spectators, men and women, Northerners, including Alexander Hamilton's killer, the former Vice President Aaron Burr, and Southerners, including the Lankees Senator and presidential candidate, Andrew Jackson, are packing themselves tightly around the Union Courses oval racetrack. Everyone here is excited because today promises to be the most anticipated horse race in memory.

the North's highly esteemed steed, Eclipse, versus the pride of the South, a cult called Sir Henry. And indeed, sectional pride is very much on the line, as is money. Steep bets have been made. Without a question, fortunes will be made and lost today. Meanwhile, the contest itself, a best out of three four-lap heats, promises quite the cash prize, $20,000.

It's now just past one o'clock. The jockeys on this first heat won't be named in the newspaper coverage to come, but they've mounted their respective horses, Eclipse and Henry, and are in position. Each awaits the tap of a drum to signal the start. And they're off! The predominantly northern crowd cheers wildly for Eclipse. Ah, but the southerner seems to have the better of him. As one lap gives way to the next, Henry holds the lead. But cheering subsides as this reality sets in.

Charging toward the finish line on the fourth and final lap, Henry does indeed win the heat by half a length. That is half the length of his body. A true upset. More bets are made. Some are offering three to one odds that Eclipse will lose the next heat too, but few are taking that bet. Especially as a new jockey mounts the horse. It's Purdy! Northern faith is restored at the sight of this legendary jockey. I can hardly wait for the second heat.

And once again, they're off. The crowd watches with bated breath as these two magnificent steeds fly down the track. Henry has the lead on the first lap. He keeps it on the second, but about halfway through the third, Hurdy steers Eclipse toward the inside of the track, cutting in front of his southern foe. And as he does, the crowd goes wild. Eclipse wins by two lengths, meaning we'll need one more heat to determine the winner.

Purdy rides Eclipse hard right out of the gate. He's got the lead, but this time Henry has an impressive jock too, a rider named Taylor. And yet, it's not enough. Eclipse holds the lead the entire time, coming around the track on the fourth lap to win by three lengths. Money changes hands between the ruined and the newly made as Northern fans bask in their glory. Exciting, wasn't it?

The race that we just watched is known as the Great Match Race of 1823, and its draw of spectators from across the states, north and south, arguably makes it the first major national sporting event for the young United States.

Nor is it surprising that such national events are starting to happen now in the 1820s. It's about this time that the slow but steady march of improved roads and connectivity between the states is making travel for simple entertainment purposes feasible, or at least feasible for the wealthy. And of course, it's no surprise that the arguably first such national sporting event was a horse race. It is the early 19th century United States' favorite sport.

Indeed, this great match race is starting quite the tradition. More north-south horse races will follow, particularly in the 1840s. And even as other sports emerge, it's not like Americans will lose interest in horse racing. The Kentucky Derby is a testament to that. The first will be held in 1875 and will keep going strong right into the 21st century.

But keeping our focus on the 1823 great match race, we have to wonder, is the sectional rivalry too much? The National Advocate certainly thinks so. Its coverage complains that, quote, these contests of North against South lay the foundation of sectional jealousies and create a spirit of rivalry when there should be union, close quote. Maybe, but then again, rivalry is at the heart of sports.

Call me crazy, but it is my professional opinion that this horse race did not contribute to the Civil War. It did, however, contribute to the rise of sports journalism as newspapers provide the most minute details of the day to their eager readers. Yes, sports journalism is budding in the early to mid-19th century. Some publications are founded or redefine themselves as sports outlets, like the National Police Gazette.

A nearly dead publication first focused on reporting police blotter, the National Police Gazette keeps the name but pivots to become the premier sports magazine by 1876. It covers everything, baseball, tennis, but especially boxing. And no name sells more copies of the Gazette in the nation's taverns, where all too often illegal boxing takes place, than that of the Boston strong boy, the great John L. Sullivan.

Born in 1858 to Irish immigrant parents making their way in Boston, John L., as he's known, has no desire to follow in the footsteps of his overworked and underpaid laborer father. And while the young Irish American appreciates the education that he received as a child from the city's excellent public schools, he knows that academics isn't the life for him, nor is the priesthood, much to his parents' disappointment. Plumbing is out too, especially after a dust-up with his supervising journeyman.

But in 1878, the baseball-playing, currently tin-smithing Bostonian finds his life's calling while at a variety show in the Dudley Street Opera House. From the stage, tough guy Jack Scannell calls out to John L., asking him to spar in a gloved exhibition match. Now, the muscle-bound Bostonian doesn't want to fight, but he never turns down a challenge. So, John L. climbs on stage, and when Jack lands a first blow, it truly sets John L. off.

The Bostonian answers with a punch that sends Jack tumbling, falling either into the piano or orchestra pit. Either way, John L. sees the way forward. Looks like he's a fighter. Yet, notwithstanding boxing's long history in America, prize fighting—that is, boxing for money and at this stage often with bare fists, in accordance with the 1838 London Prize Ring rules—is essentially choosing a life of crime.

As we learned when Thomas Alva Edison got slapped with a fine for arranging and filming a prize fight in episode 162, boxing for money is largely illegal in the late 19th century. That is indeed the case in John L's home state of Massachusetts, particularly since the recent ruling in Commonwealth v. Kohlberg. Not that this stops John L, or the Boston Strongboy, as this Bostonian with a buzz cut, well-waxed mustache, and muscular build is coming to be known.

On December 9th, 1880, the Boston strong boy uses the Cincinnati Enquirer to issue a public challenge to America's de facto heavyweight champion, Patty Ryan. His letter to the editor reads, "I will be prepared to fight any man breathing for the championship of the world. This challenge is especially directed to Patty Ryan. Respectfully yours, John L. Sullivan." Patty shoots him down at first, telling the Bostonian to go and get a reputation.

Well, John L. does just that over the next year, leading Patty to reconsider. New Orleans authorities chase them out of the Big Easy, but the two brawlers reconvene in front of the Barnes Hotel in Mississippi City, Mississippi, on February 7th, 1882. The Boston strong boy wins the match in a mere 11 minutes. Patty afterward declares, "'When Sullivan struck me, I thought that the telegraph pole had been shoved against me anyways.'"

Now arguably America's heavyweight champion, John L. takes on British champion Charlie Mitchell at Madison Square Garden the next year, 1883. This is a gloved match using the Marquess of Queensberry rules and legal because it's a quote-unquote exhibition. When the bell rings, 202-pound John L. rushes out and knocks Charlie to the ground.

In the second round, the Boston Strongboy punches him over the ropes and out of the ring. By the third, Charlie is so pummeled that the police can hardly keep pretending this is an exhibition. They end the match. Traveling by train, John L. Barnstorms, or tours across the nation. He's making a lot of money, but spending it too.

especially on booze. Newspapers report on his oft-made declaration in various bars. My name is John L. Sullivan, and I can lick any son of a bitch in the world. And it looks like he's right. No one can dethrone the champ, though it should be said that John L. does refuse to fight black men. The Gazette is happy to print all it can about the star, from his marriage troubles to his generous giving to boys and elderly women.

But be it good or bad, Americans of every class can't get enough of the celebrity that signs his own name in the air. The Boston Strongboy cements his reputation as America's working class hero in 1889 when he once again secures his title as the heavyweight champion by defeating the National Police Gazette's challenger, Jake Kilrain. They battle it out in a bare-knuckled, 75-round fight held outside amid the 106-degree heat of Richburg, Mississippi.

But every champion faces a final challenger. And for John L, that occurs three years later on September 7th, 1892. In what is arguably the biggest sporting event of the 19th century, the 34-year-old Boston Strongboy meets 26-year-old gentleman Jim Corbett in a gloved match before an audience of some 20,000 at the New Orleans Olympic Club.

Yes, the same Jim Corbett whom we met back in episode 162 when he performed for Thomas Alva Edison's Kinetoscope. That moment in film history is still down the road at the moment. But on this night, Jim makes history in another way by putting John L. down.

When the bloodied Bostonian finally rises after the referee has called it in the 21st round, this last of the bare-knuckle champs shouts through the blood streaming down his face to the attentive yet silent crowd, "All I have to say is that I came to the ring once too often, and if I had to get licked, I'm glad it was by an American. I remain yours truly, John L. Sullivan."

John L. is, without a doubt, the greatest boxing sensation of the late 19th century, but he's soon followed by an early 20th century successor, Jack Johnson. Born and raised in Texas, Jack Johnson, or the Galveston Giant, as the just over six-foot heavyweight is known, is an absolute powerhouse and not one to let the era's Jim Crow segregation dictate his life.

Jack is known for dating and marrying white women. Across his life, there will be many. And the black champion boxer isn't afraid to fight matches against white boxers. Indeed, Jack credits the Jewish Polish descent boxer, Joe Chinsky, for teaching him a great deal about how to handle himself in the ring. And in December 1908, the Galveston Giant takes down heavyweight Tommy Burns.

Yes, Jack is a gifted fighter, and his penchant for flashing his wealth and success makes Jim Crow supporting white Americans seethe. And that brings us to 1910, the year in which racially prejudiced Americans look to the powerful former heavyweight champ James J. Jeffries, also known as Big Jim or Big Jeff, to knock the Galveston Giant off his figurative pedestal by literally knocking him out in the ring.

In fact, famed author Jack London has petitioned James to come out of retirement to do so, urging him to "remove that golden smile from Jack Johnson's face. Jeff, it's up to you. The white man must be rescued." Meanwhile, others are calling James, and again I quote, "the great white hope." But true to form, Jack Johnson won't let any of it get the better of him. He's game for this fight.

It's 2 o'clock on a hot, sweltering Independence Day, the 4th of July, 1910. We're in Reno, Nevada, where 18,000 people are packed into a 17,000 capacity arena. To say nothing of the 2,000 more standing above the nosebleeds, those gathered outside, or the crowds in New York at Times Square, ready to listen as the San Francisco Chronicle details everything in real time, conveyed via the telegraph and a megaphone.

Anyhow, here in the arena, chairs squeak as everyone gets settled and the announcer steps into the ring. One announcer waxes eloquent on "The one free state in the union!" Oh, that line does get a cheer. He of course means Nevada, the only US state or territory where boxing is perfectly legal. With things running behind schedule, the restless crowd roars to life when, at 2:30 PM, the powerfully built and square-jawed 37-year-old James J. Jeffries enters.

It took a lot to get the shy, former champ away from his alfalfa farm and back into the ring, but here he is, and fully aware of the racial weight placed on this fight. And it's not long after this that the Galveston giant, Jack Johnson, enters as well. Dressed in blue trunks with an American flag belt, the clean-shaven 32-year-old fighter flashes his famous golden smile to the crowd as some shout at the champ, "Now you'll get it, you black coward!" Whoa.

And with that, it's time for what the people are calling the fight of the century. Eschewing the traditional handshake, the bell rings and the fight is on. Energized by the crowd's shouts, Big Jeff is the first to the middle, but right away he's forced to lock up Jack's arms or face a barrage of jabs and uppercuts. Shouts come from the audience. Come on, Mr. Jeff, do something, man. This is for the championship.

Big Jim, or Big Jeff, manages to land a hit and draw first blood. But that's his last victorious moment. Jack gets to work wearing the retired champ thin. Looking at the blood streaming across Jim's face, Jack taunts him, asking, How do you feel, Jim? How do you like them? Jim answers in kind, They don't hurt. Jack needs no encouragement. He replies, I'll give you some more of them now.

In the 15th round, Jack decides to end it, punishing Jim until he's on the ropes and barely able to stand. And that's it. Jack's won. Refusing to lift Jack's arm, the ref simply taps the large and powerful black boxer's shoulder as the cameras abruptly cut, and bloody and beaten Jim is led out of the ring. It's over. Jack Johnson is still the World Heavyweight Champion.

Jack gets the cheers he deserves, including congratulations from John L. Sullivan, who ends his report for the New York Times, writing, quote, "scarcely ever has there been a championship contest that was so one-sided," close quote. Likewise, Big Jim is gracious in defeat, saying, quote, "the colored fellow beat me fair and square," close quote. But around the country, the victory leads to racial violence. Some states banned showing the film of the fight.

Calls for racial segregation in sports only increases. Meanwhile, others suggest banning prize fighting. Even the strenuous life supporting and boxing former president, Theodore Roosevelt, is open to this. Yet, if anything, boxing goes the other way on that last one. In 1920, New York legalizes prize fighting and other states soon follow.

As for Jack himself, boxing historian Paul Beston sums up his legacy well in comparing the champ to two other figures we've met in the fight for civil rights, Booker T. Washington and Dr. W.E.B. Du Bois. According to Beston, Jack, quote, "...saw no reason to defer to white sensibilities. Yet the idea of a life spent in political engagement for the progress of others held no appeal for him."

Du Bois and Washington agreed that a black man in the public eye had broader responsibilities to the race. Johnson didn't think so. Close quote. Nevertheless, Jack inspired many with his Jim Crow defiance. Following his death in a car wreck on June 10th, 1946, sports writer John Lardner writes, quote, Jack Johnson died crossing the white line for the last time. Close quote.

But alas, we can't stick around and follow Jack or the newly legalized sport of boxing. We need to follow another growing sport. Is it soccer? Is it rugby? Or something else entirely? Let's find out. But we'll have to start by backing up a few decades. Rewind.

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This episode is brought to you by Honda. When you test drive the new Prologue EV, there's a lot that could impress you about it. There's the class-leading passenger space, the clean, thoughtful design, and the intuitive technology. But out of everything, what you'll really love most is that it's a Honda. Visit Honda.com slash EV to see offers. Unlike the clean-cut tale of basketball's straight-up invention, there are a few serious contenders for the moment when the game we in the United States call football comes into existence.

That's because football isn't an invention as much as the result of an evolutionary process. It's the eventual outcome of 19th century colleges and universities playing an ever-changing, ball-chasing sport against each other, with the students continuously merging and altering their various and different rules. Okay, let's take this from the top. We might say it starts with the original football, the sport that most countries will continue to call football, but we in the states will eventually call soccer.

And since this is a U.S. history podcast, I'll stick with those American names. To those listening outside the states, I trust you understand. While Great Britain codifies the rules of likewise evolving soccer in 1863, students in the U.S. do the most American thing they can as the British make these rules. They revolt and make their own. But the changes are relatively small at first.

So, does that make a November 6, 1869 soccer match between the College of New Jersey and Rutgers using tinkered-with London Football Association rules the first game of American football? Well, even though the players on each 25-man team are essentially playing soccer in which you can bat the ball down with your hands, this 6-4 victory for Rutgers is held by many to be just that.

Or does football start to be a thing in 1873 as Princeton, Yale, and Rutgers, looking to organize and codify their shared game, found the Intercollegiate Football Association? But another potential first is still another match that happens only a year later, in May 1874, when Montreal's McGill University plays Harvard. The two institutions have wildly different games.

First, they play Harvard's "Boston Game," a soccer-esque sport in which you still dribble the round ball but can also pick it up or catch it. And then they play an altogether different game under the All-Canada Rugby Rule Code. Ah, the Harvard boys like the Canadiens' harder-hitting game. The Crimson crowd runs with it, and when they try to get Yale to play the following year, 1875, the Yalies agree. Though they do want to make modifications.

Fair enough. The two schools face each other with concessionary rules, that is, a mix of rugby and soccer elements filled with various concessions to the other's preferences. And yet, things get even more real in 1876, when eight representatives from four universities—Princeton, Yale, Harvard, and Columbia—meet at the Massasoit House in Springfield, Massachusetts.

This Massasoit convention better codifies this evolving, increasingly rugby-esque soccer sport that these schools are now so regularly playing against one another. Hmm. Might we say that with this convention, college football has been born then? Well, it's another legitimate argument. But then again, we haven't yet seen the innovations of Yale freshman Walter Camp.

Walter falls head over heels for this evolving sport, and sometimes he falls like that in the game. His mind is on the pigskin probably more than his medical studies. He even holds the ball as he studies. Well, Walter Camp, who's now Yale's team captain, argues for some changes to make games more strategy-based. He suggests capping teams at 11 players on the field.

He's also to credit for completing the shift from rugby's scrummage, in which both teams fight for control of the ball, to football's scrimmage, in which one team simply starts with possession. Ah, but this change necessitates another. To keep things interesting, a team must move a certain distance in four tries, or "downs," otherwise lose possession. Yeah, that's starting to sound pretty familiar.

To quote yet another football pioneer, John Heisman, "What Washington was to his country, Walter Camp was to football, the friend, the founder, and the father." So if it didn't exist before Walter, football certainly does by the time this Yaley is done with it. But while Walter is forging the game that will soon bring Hank Williams Jr. to ask every Sunday if we're ready for some football, the upstart sport is facing controversies, particularly in 1905.

That year, this increasingly rough and violent game results in over 150 significant injuries, among which is the president's son, Ted Roosevelt. Worse yet, that year also sees at least 18 deaths on the gridiron. Good grief, what are these students doing? Henry Beach Needham writes a muckraking article exposing not just the violence of football, but the corruption in the college sport.

Basically, he is to football as Ida Tarbell is to John D. Rockefeller's Standard Oil. And as the public reads, outcry for an end to this barbarism is intense. Some want to see football abolished altogether. But there's one progressive era reformer who believes the game can be saved with a little reform: President Theodore Roosevelt.

Oh, Teddy. Yes, the old rough rider himself, the Colonel, the future Bull Moose, TR is, as we know from the Progressive Era episodes, president at this time. He knows this violence can't stand. He doesn't want to see brutality any more than the next person. Yet, even with his son's injuries, this football-loving Harvard man does believe that the sport, played right, helps build character and toughness, qualities that Americans need.

But can he find a way to keep both the sport and the students alive? To excise the "mucker play" as he calls the brutality in a letter to his son, Kermit? Let's find out. It's about 1:30 in the afternoon, October 9th, 1905. Half a dozen men are seated in the White House dining room, where they'll soon be having lunch. They're the coach and alumni rep from three fine universities.

We have Princeton's John B. Fine and Arthur T. Hillbrand, Harvard's Dr. D.H. Nichols, and the university's new 26-year-old football coach, W.T. Bill Reed. Side note, Bill's $7,000 annual salary exceeds that of the university's professors. And Yale's John Owsley is accompanied by his university's most illustrious football alum, the father of football itself, Walter Camp.

They're here for President Theodore Roosevelt's "football summit." Yes, after resolving one of the nation's worst ever coal mining disputes, and more recently assisting to end the Russo-Japanese War, TR is out to resolve another dare I say crisis: saving football. Suddenly he appears. The bespectacled, mustachioed, rough-riding, colonel turned president. Theodore Roosevelt.

Accompanied by Secretary of State Elihu Root and likely flashing his famous toothy grin, TR takes a seat next to his bald on top and mustachioed friend, Walter Camp. Let's note that TR really appreciates Walter's book, Football Facts and Figures, which shows that despite this peak year of violence, football is in fact safer than the currently charged feelings in the nation would have you believe. Anyhow, TR opens the conversation as the men dig into their lunch. He tells them,

TR goes on to cite examples of what he calls brutality in the game, such as the quote from the Needham muckraking article, where a Princeton player told a Harvard player,

We're coached to pick out the most dangerous man on the opposing side and put him out in the first five minutes of the game. Ah, but none of TR's illustrious guests are dying to take responsibility for such things at their given institutions. Princeton and Yale deny knowing anything about this. Even Walter isn't forthcoming. According to Harvard's Bill Reed, the Yaley is making, quote, "...considerable talk, but is very slippery and will not allow himself to be pinned down to anything."

But this is TR. If he could sort out the 1902 coal strike and help hash a treaty between the Japanese and the Russians, then he can handle football coaches. He shifts from talking blame to talking action. Declaring that he deplores college football's current state of affairs, TR asks the men if, "There was not some way in which the feeling between the colleges could be improved and the training of the players made more effective in the right way."

The coaches discuss new rules, like allowing a forward pass which would spread the game out and keep tackles from turning into death-causing piles of human bodies. They also consider requiring 10 yards of movement for the first down, rather than the current five. Eventually, T.R. stands and tells the men he must attend to other business, but he instructs them to make a statement about what they're going to do to fix football.

They do as they're told. The coaches pledge that their universities will, quote, "...carry out in letter and in spirit the rules of the game of football relating to roughness, holding, and foul play." Close quote. Okay, that's actually a rather meaningless pledge. And TR's a smart man. He surely sees that. If he didn't then, he does after next month's Harvard-Yale game, in which Yale's James Quill prevents a fair catch by punching Francis Burr in the face.

The Yale-y breaks the Harvard man's nose. And worse, despite being a member of Walter Camp's rules committee, the ref doesn't call a foul. Descending even deeper into the depths of football violence that same day, the game between Union College and NYU results in sophomore Harold Moore taking a hit in the head during a tackle. He falls unconscious and never wakes up, dying of a cerebral hemorrhage. Harold's death is, however, the turning point. The wake-up call for football that the president has been urging.

With NYU Chancellor Henry McCracken leading the way, a conference of 13 schools meets that December to vote on whether to abolish or reform football. They pick reform by a thin margin, and as the month goes on, they institute new rules, including that life-saving innovation, the forward pass. Walter Camp hates all of this, but the Yale-y father of football is feeling the pressure from Teddy Roosevelt and from Harvard.

It works, and moving forward, the newly dubbed Intercollegiate Athletic Association of the United States will watch over things, though you and I will later know this organization by another name, the National Collegiate Athletic Association, or NCAA. So, did Theodore Roosevelt save football? Or was he just along for the ride?

You'll find opinions all over the map on this point, but according to Harvard's Bill Reed, TR speaking softly while carrying a big stick in the midst of this football crisis was significant. To quote him, "You ask me whether President Theodore Roosevelt helped save the game? I can tell you that he did." So football will live on, and soon it will welcome a legendary player.

A player who, in fact, will transcend the line between sports to become the world's greatest athlete. I am of course referring to the one and only Jim Thorpe.

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Football, baseball, basketball, you name it, James Francis Thorpe, or Wathahook to use his native name, which best translates as light after lightning, plays it and dominates it. But before we see him in action in the 20th century, let's get a little childhood background.

Likely born on May 22nd, 1887, Jim and his fraternal twin brother Charlie began life on the Sac and Fox Reservation in the Indian Territory or future Oklahoma. At the age of six, the young twins of both Sac and Fox as well as Potawatomi descent were sent to the Sac and Fox Agency School. This boarding school was modeled off of the Carlisle Indian School that we encountered back in Episode 89.

This means that the school's goal was to quote unquote "civilize" Native children like Jim and Charlie by forcing them to speak English and forsake Native ways of living. Or as Carlisle School founder Richard Pratt put it, quote, "Kill the Indian in him and save the man." Close quote. Naturally jovial, Jim struggled in this oppressive environment. Already displaying his natural athleticism at nine years of age, little Jim would run away, sometimes running all the way back to his 18 mile distant home.

Tolerating school only got worse for him when his dear twin brother died of pneumonia in 1897. Jim ran home again, but his austere father, Hiram Thorpe, wouldn't have it. He told Jim, "I'm going to send you so far away, you'll never find your way back." He sent Jim to the Haskell Institute in Lawrence, Kansas, where the youth enjoyed his first real taste of sports. But misery seemed to follow Jim. His mother soon died in childbirth.

Returning home, he went to the local public school but clashed constantly with his abusive father. Finally, in 1904, the growing teen's athleticism opened the door for him to go to the nation's flagship Indian school. Yes, the Carlisle Boarding School in southern Pennsylvania. Sports and education gained away from his father. It all sounded good to Jim. He left. And now, as we return to the early 20th century, is when Jim's burgeoning athletic abilities truly begin to shine.

For instance, one day while passing the varsity track, Jim sees high jumpers training and asks if he can try. Wearing overalls and borrowed shoes, he flies over the 5-foot 9-inch bar on his first try. The school's coach, Glenn S. "Pop" Warner, calls Jim to his office. Arriving, the young Sac and Fox native asks, "You want to see me, coach? Have I done anything wrong?" The dark-haired, handsome coach answers dryly,

"Son, you've only broken the school record in the high jump. That's all." "With humble confidence," Jim replies. "Pop, I didn't think that was very high. I think I can do better in a track suit." And do better he can. He excels at track, and as they play under the new NCAA rules for football, Jim is a key part of the 1907 Carlisle team that coach Pop Warner calls a "perfect football machine."

Then there's baseball and basketball. Oh, and he even wins a waltz contest. During the summers of 1909 and 1910, the still-a-student plays minor league baseball. Returning to Carlisle in 1911, he crushes it on the gridiron, even making it onto Walter Camp's All-American team. But 1912 is truly Jim's year, and the magic starts as he heads to Sweden for track and field glory on the American Olympic team.

Jim wins two gold medals, one for the pentathlon, the other for the decathlon. And it's in presenting the young, square-jawed, handsome Native American with his medals that King Gustav V of Sweden tells him, "You, sir, are the greatest athlete in the world." Film of the event shows Jim replying with a simple thank you as he smiles from ear to ear, bows, and a European band plays Stars and Stripes Forever.

Jim's on top of the world. And yet, there's more glory to come as he returns to the States and his boarding school football team. It's a late, chilly, and windy Saturday afternoon, November 9th, 1912, and 3,000 fans, including the father of football, Walter Camp, are seated excitedly chatting and trying to stay warm in the stands at West Point Academy in New York. They're anxiously awaiting the start of today's game, Army v. the Carlisle Indian School.

While it's true that West Point lost the last time these two played in 1905, the fans are sure that, even though Carlisle is undefeated so far this season, today the cadets will have their revenge. Yet, at this same moment, Pop Warner is giving his native players quite the pep talk. "These men playing against you today are soldiers. You are Indians. Tonight we will know whether or not you are warriors." Sounds like both sides have high expectations. Let's see how it goes.

The two teams charge energetically out onto the gridiron. We have the coin toss and Carlisle wins. They'll receive. Army's team captain, Leland Dever, kicks it off. The ball sails through the air. Carlisle's team captain, Jim Thorpe, is on the move. He catches it. Oh, he fumbles but recovers, reaching Carlisle's 28-yard line before being down. Running a series of trick plays, Carlisle moves the ball down the field but fails to capitalize on their gains.

The ball turns over. West Point's Jeffrey Keyes scores a touchdown, but Army misses the extra point. Carlisle center Joseph Burgey answers with a touchdown. Then Jim Thorpe kicks for the point after. The ball sails through the uprights and the first half ends with a score of 7-6. Minutes into the second half, a hard tackle leaves Jim lying on the field. The ref goes to enforce the two-minute time limit, but as he does, Army's captain Leland Dever stops him.

Nels Bell's Mr. Referee. We don't stand on technicalities at West Point. Give him all the time he wants. A true kindness. And exactly the sort of thing a competitive athlete like Jim never wants. The towering 200-pound second Fox man rises only more determined to beat Army. From there, it's Carlisle's game. Jim runs a 45-yard touchdown. To quote the New York Times, the cadets are "tissue paper before the Indians."

In the end, Carlisle mops the floor with Army, winning 27-6. So many legends will be spun out of this game. In some tellings, Jim ran the length of the field for a touchdown. And did Carlisle's Alec Arcasa crush future World War II general and U.S. President Dwight D. Eisenhower? Or did Jim do so? And were there actual hard feelings?

Well, according to the general-turned-president's decades-later recollections, there was good sportsmanship all around. He'll later state that Jim dodged a tackle, leading him as a young cadet to collide with a teammate. And yet, I was not hurt at all in the Carlisle game. As a matter of fact, I was thoroughly enjoying the challenge that Jim was presenting. He dominated all of the action. In fact, Dwight even walks back to the locker room with Jim after the game, having an enjoyable chat.

Meanwhile, Army Captain Leland Dever has nothing but praise for Jim as he speaks to reporters right after the game. To quote him, Yes, 1912 is a great year for Jim.

until the Worcester Telegram out of Massachusetts brings his world grinding to a halt, that is. Remember Jim's gold medals? Well, after months of research, reporter Roy Johnson writes in January 1913 that Jim should never have been allowed to compete. See, the Olympics at this time is strictly an amateur competition. And Mr. Johnson argues that Jim's barely paid brief summers in 1909 and 1910 playing semi-pro baseball disqualified him.

Jim had no idea. Nor did he even try to hide that he played semi-pro ball, unlike other athletes who play under assumed names. In other words, Jim was honest about everything. Coach Pop Warner writes an apology letter for Jim. It says he was unaware of the amateurs only rule and leans into racist stereotypes about Native Americans by writing, "I was simply an Indian schoolboy and did not know about such things."

As the scandal grows, so does worldwide support for Jim to keep his medals.

But in the end, the Olympic Committee decides that, even though Jim barely made enough money playing ball to cover his food, even though he gold medaled in events that had nothing to do with baseball, and even though the committee itself requires any objections to player qualifications be made within 30 days of the Games, this august body decides to break that last rule and revoke Jim's medals.

While Jim takes this insulting blow with grace, and the medals will be reinstated, that won't happen until 1983, 30 years after Jim's death. More opportunities come Jim's way. Between 1913 and the end of the decade, he plays professional baseball and football. Jim makes the Canton, Ohio Bulldogs the unofficial world champions of football, with 28 wins, two ties, and two losses between 1915 and 1919.

Given his fame, the American Professional Football Association names Jim as their first president in 1920. Of course, we know that organization by its later name, the National Football League or NFL. And although Jim will play more football than anything else in the 1920s, I would be remiss if I didn't mention that he also plays some professional basketball. Because why not? Oh, and other sports he enjoys and excels at include lacrosse, swimming, and hockey.

I wish I could say Jim's rather extraordinary, yet tragedy-filled life ends on a high note, but I can't. Divorced twice and married thrice, the father of eight struggles with alcoholism and finding steady work once sports ceases to be an option. He dies in near poverty in 1953. Yet, even though Jim didn't get a fairy tale ending, one thing remains incontestable: the King of Sweden was right.

Jim Thorpe wasn't only a great Native American athlete or a great American athlete. He was even more. Jim was the greatest athlete in the world. But as Jim comes to his end, so does this episode. It's time to wrap up. If there's one thing we've seen in this and the last episode, it's that the United States of the early 20th century has an incredible sports legacy.

That comes in the form of great athletes competing in long-established, world-known sports, like boxing champions John L. Sullivan and Jack Johnson, and in the form of creating entirely new sports, be that a calculated creation like Jim Naismith's basketball or a slower evolution, as was the case for baseball and football. But the 1920s are a particularly special breakout period for these sports and their all-stars.

For Jim Thorpe, the great Bambino, and many others whom we didn't get to meet, such as tennis player Bill Tilden, the first lady of golf Glenna Colette Vare, or surfing's Duke Kahanamoku. Beyond their own great athleticism, the reason for much of that breakout is the decade's new technology.

Film reels play their part, but more than anything, it's the radio that gets the credit as it brings the excitement of the World Series, boxing matches, horse races, and more into the homes of millions of average Americans.

And be it Jack Dempsey fighting for more than 100,000 spectators and seven-digit winnings. Or Notre Dame football coach Newt Rockne possibly bending truths to inspire his dispirited fighting Irish to get out there and beat Army. If not for themselves, then for that gifted former Notre Dame player cut down in his prime by pneumonia a few years ago, George Gipp. You know, the Gipper.

The 1920s are filled with plenty of newsworthy wins, stories, and pure legends to circulate across the airwaves, on the silver screen, or in good old-fashioned print. But as much as Americans of the 1920s loved their sports, their illicit booze, and otherwise roaring through this decade, the good times are about to end. Panic, depression, a black day on Wall Street. Yes, as we head into October of 1929,

Halloween won't be the only thing scaring the United States. History That Doesn't Suck is created and hosted by me, Greg Jackson. Episode researched and written by Greg Jackson and always hopeful Broncos fan, Wilkie.

Production by Airship. Sound design by Molly Bach. Theme music composed by Greg Jackson. Arrangement and additional composition by Lindsey Graham of Airship. For bibliography of all primary and secondary sources consulted in writing this episode, visit HTVSPodcast.com.

David Rifkin, Denke, Durante Spencer.

Donald Moore Donna Marie Jeffcoat Ellen Stewart Bernie Lowe George Sherwood Gurwith Griffin Henry Brunges Jake Gilbreth James G. Bledsoe Janie McCreary Jeff Marks Jennifer Moods Jennifer Magnolia Jeremy Wells Jessica Poppock Joe Dobis John Frugaldugel John Boovey John Keller John Oliveros John Radlavich John Schaefer John Sheff Jordan Corbett Joshua Steiner Justin M. Spriggs Justin May Kristen Pratt Karen Bartholomew Cassie Conecco Kim R. Kyle Decker

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