Hardwick has this to tell of the days when he coached Annapolis: "One afternoon at Annapolis, the Varsity were playing a practice game and were not playing to form, or better, possibly, they were not playing as the coaches had reason to hope. There was an indifference in their play and a lack of snap and drive in their work that roused Head Coach Ingram's fighting blood. Incidentally, Ingram is a fighter from his feet up, every inch, as broad-minded as he is broad-shouldered, and a keen student of football. The constant letting up of play, and the lack of fight, annoyed him more and more. At last, a Varsity player sat down and called for water. Immediately, the cry was taken up by his team mates. This was more than Ingram could stand. Out he dashed from the side lines, right into the group of players, shaking his fist and shrieking: "'Water! Water! What you need is fire, not water!'" Fred Crolius tells a good story about Foster Sanford when he was coaching at West Point. One of the most interesting institutions to coach is West Point. Even in football field practice the same military spirit is in control, most of the coaches being officers. Only when a unique character like Sandy appears is the monotony shattered. Sandy is often humorous in his most serious moments. One afternoon not many weeks before the Navy game Sandy, as Crolius tells it, was paying particular attention to Moss, a guard whom Sanford tried to teach to play low. Moss was very tall and had never appreciated the necessity of bending his knees and straightening his back. Sanford disgusted with Moss as he saw him standing nearly erect in a scrimmage, and Sandy's voice would ring out, "Stop the play, Lieutenant Smith. Give Mr. Moss a side line badge. Moss, if you want to watch this game, put on a badge, then everybody will know you've got a right to watch it." In the silence of the parade ground those few words sounded like a trumpet for a cavalry charge, but Sandy accomplished his purpose and made a guard of Moss. The day Princeton played Yale at New Haven in 1899, I had a brother on each side of the field; one was Princeton Class, 1895, and the other was an undergraduate at Yale, Class of 1901. My brother, Dick, told me that his friends at Yale would joke him as to whether he would root for Yale or Princeton on November 25th of that year. I did not worry, for I had an idea. A friend of his told me the following story a week after the game: