Many in James Gang Are Coming Home

When one operates in a state in which the whole population runs only about a third that of Los Angeles County, one sits down to think about one’s problem.

“We need speed,” one says. “In Southern California, there is ample speed. USC and UCLA have access to it, but there is more speed in Southern California than both have need for. Would it not be almsgiving on their part to share the excess speed with their neighbors?”

This is how Don James, coach of Washington, goes about collecting material to develop outstanding football teams in his precinct. At season’s end, bowl bids are handed out, and it usually happens Washington is bagging one.

And, of course, this is only the first week in November and already Washington has arranged a visit to the Rose Bowl.

Soon to turn 58, James is a quiet, unpretentious individual, rarely given to discussing his skills, but he is one of the best football coaches in this republic.

He has what is called a good touch. His teaching is sound, but not without a creative flair unexpected of one so superficially plain.

But then it is said that the best comedy is written by those you would never suspect. A Boston baseball writer, famous as a clubhouse wit, used to irritate the late Jimmy Cannon.

We were present the day the gregarious writer, launching one yak after the other, was interrupted by Jimmy, who growled:

“Be funny in the paper.”

The guy didn’t know how.

Don James, you might say, is funny in the paper, putting out a team this year rising dangerously high in the national ratings and, in fact, judged the best by some.

Competing against USC and UCLA for Southern California livestock, supplementing what he captures in Puyallup, Snohomish and Yakima, James allows the problem isn’t easy.

“You have to realize that we aren’t the only outsiders who work California,” he says. “The Big Eight is there heavy. So are the Oregon and Arizona schools, Notre Dame and other independents. We have to move about in search for talent. But Nebraska has the same problem.”

Don is asked, “How do you sell Southern California athletes on Seattle?”

“It is easier to sell them on Seattle than on drab places in the Midwest,” he answers. “There is a livability about Seattle that appeals to people who are used to areas hot and crowded.”

Completing his 16th year at Washington, where he has experienced but one losing season, James hardly has gone unnoticed by owners in pro football.

One such owner we know telephoned Don, establishing clearly that salary was no object if he was interested in shifting to the NFL.

James never sparred with him, testing how far the owner would go. Don answered immediately he preferred to stay at Washington.

“I am just more comfortable with college football,” he says. “I like the environment. I like the players. And while everyone gives thought to money, I am taken care of well enough around here to get along fine.”

James has weekly radio and TV shows to fatten his income and, it is recommended here, that players and their coach receive a winning Rose Bowl share of $64,000 a man.

To get his team ready for the upcoming game in Pasadena, James plans to ship out from Seattle as soon as his scholars finish exams, which could be Dec. 20 “or even a day earlier.”

“Once exams are out of the way, there is nothing to keep us in Seattle,” James explains. “Our training facilities are outdoors, meaning it’s cold and it’s wet. We will settle down in Southern California, train in the sun and have a good time. That’s what bowl games are for.”

Apparently, attitudes on bowl games have changed since Woody Hayes graced the scene. Training for a Rose Bowl one time, Woody employed an armed guard at the field. Many feared a kid would try to sneak under the fence and the guard would shoot him dead.

Woody rejected luxury sedans to drive his players to practice, opting for old buses with hard seats. Social functions were mostly out. Interviews were entirely out.

Crossing the hotel lobby, spotting one of his troops talking to a reporter, Woody stopped in horror. He screamed at the player:

“Tell the son of a bitch about Little Red Riding Hood!”

It was a tale I looked forward to hearing.