Jr. nor his brother Paul, 55, athletic director at the University of the
Pacific, smokes or drinks. Their sister Ruth, now Mrs. J. Alton Lauren of
Chicago, is not so convinced that these things are evil. She enjoys a cocktail,
and admits, too, that she never particularly cared to play tennis, her father's
favorite pastime. "I was the girl in the family," she says, "and I
had to suffer for it. I could never have white shoes and they always had to be
square-toed. For my health. Low heels, very plain. Once I frizzed up my hair in
front, and my father cut it off. He was very strict. But he loved us. I'm
positive of that."
Stella, who caught his eye "playing men's basketball in her bloomers"
as a Chicago coed, lives alone now in the modest, cream-colored frame house on
West Euclid Ave. in Stockton. They rented the house 29 years ago because Stagg
didn't think he'd live long enough to buy it. ( The Associated Press first wrote
his obituary in 1933.) Stella Stagg cares for herself, but at 87 is no longer
able to attend her husband. She keeps busy with Stagg's correspondence and
rummages among the bookcases and orange crates that brim with trophies,
plaques, portraits and old baseballs.
jealous of his attention to football, Stella Stagg learned to diagram plays and
to scout opponents, and to make his utilitarian meals palatable for the family.
Once he showed her a new play he was going to spring on a COP opponent. She
quickly worked out a defense for it. "That'll stop your play," she
said. Stagg scratched his white head, puzzling. He padded off to the kitchen
for a glass of water. Finally he returned. "He had a gleam in his eye and
an eraser in his hand," says Mrs. Stagg. " 'You can't stop it now,' he
said with triumph, and erased one of my players. 'You were using 12 men.'
There is no
swimming pool in the Stagg backyard, no big car in front. For all his success,
Stagg lived without frills. "Money," he said, "is damnation,"
and he never had much. The Giants offered him $4,200 to play baseball in 1888;
he refused because there were saloons in big-league ball parks. He once passed
up a $300 speaking engagement because it meant missing a practice. His salary
never exceeded $8,500, yet he contributed annually to the Yale fund, made a
$3,000 cash donation to the College of the Pacific to purchase a 21-acre tract
adjoining the stadium and donated $1,000 for chimes to the University of
Chicago, stipulating that the alma mater be played at 10:05 each night as a
signal for football players to get to bed.
The only real
money he ever made was by cashing in on a 100,000-to-3 long shot: two life-term
insurance policies, for $690 and $10,000, that reached maturity in 1958. He was
once offered $300,000 for the movie rights to his life story. It was to star
Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn, who bore marked resemblances to the
Staggs. When he turned it down, his sons were aghast. "It's my life,"
said Stagg, "and I don't expect my sons to tell me how to run it. I
wouldn't give the money to you, anyway. I'd give it to the university."
The only tangible
rewards Stagg gave his players were sweaters and letters. Stagg abhorred
recruiting of any sort and was never told—or perhaps did not want to be
told—that there were players on scholarship at COP. He said that recruiting
breeds dishonesty and was not right for a coach whose profession should be
"one of the noblest and most far-reaching in building manhood. No man is
too good to be the athletic coach for youth."
Until he went to
the rest home six months ago, where he will live out his days, Stagg mowed his
lawn with a hand mower. "He mowed that lawn to death," says Stella
Stagg. One day a neighbor advised him that kids had been playing on it daily,
ripping up the turf. "You'll never raise grass that way," he said.
"Sir," answered Stagg, "I'm not raising grass. I'm raising