Football is a team game, played in memorable fashion by powerful units, each of which is likely to have an awesome "nom de guerre"—the Black Knights, the Fighting Irish, the Chinese Bandits, the Trojans. It is a scientific game, replete "with T formations and I formations, split ends and lonesome ends, red-dogging and mousetrapping. But, above all, as these scenes of Syracuse in action so clearly show, it is a personal game; as individual as a prizefight, as tough as close combat without bayonets. A passer, the lampblack beneath his eyes making a painted caricature of his face, sees his target and throws before rushing linemen can brush aside a blocker and hit their target—him. Huge arms envelop a runner, bruising his chest, slamming him to a halt. Frequently, as he hits the ground, he gets a personal message: "Don't try through here again, Mac. It's rough." But he will try, and the passer will pass again, and every man on the bench will-watch each move and wait for the moment when he is involved—personally.
Pass leaves fingertips of a quarterback from Ben Schwartzwalder's championship Syracuse team
Driving on goal, grimacing back rips against unyielding dike of beefy arms
Wrapped in unblinking calm, taciturn Coach Schwartzwalder sits on bench