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Robert Cantwell
November 30, 1964
The annual Sports Illustrated Silver Anniversary Awards go to 25 college football players of the class of 1940 who achieved distinguished careers through
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November 30, 1964

An Era Shaped By War

The annual Sports Illustrated Silver Anniversary Awards go to 25 college football players of the class of 1940 who achieved distinguished careers through

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To the spectators in the stands Frank Ivy was a helmeted and formidable All-America end, but to his teammates he was a balding boy and so they called him "Pop." After college he played with the Chicago Cardinals, fought in Europe as an infantryman, rejoined the Cardinals (in his last season they were champions of the NFL) and then went into coaching. As an assistant under Bud Wilkinson at Oklahoma, he helped develop four All-America ends. Moving to the Canadian Football League, he made three-time champions out of the Edmonton Eskimos, and then spent four years as head coach of the Cardinals. In 1962 he went to the Houston Oilers in the American Football League. The Oilers won the Eastern Division title his first year but were 6-8 last season, a record that cost Ivy his job. Now a scout for the New York Giants, he is living in Norman, Okla. and is happy to be there. "I enjoyed coaching," he says. "But there were a lot of headaches that went with it. Even if you won, you didn't have time to think about it. You had to get ready for the next game."

The capacity for labor of Edwin B. Krause showed early. At college he carried a full academic load, won six varsity letters (in football as an end and in basketball as a center), worked in a copper mill, tutored English and held a janitorial job. He managed, meanwhile, to make Phi Beta Kappa, and at graduation received one trophy for being the outstanding senior scholar and another for being the outstanding all-round student. He did not slow down later. From a start pushing a handcart and operating a machine in a Cleveland auto-part supply house, Krause persevered to become president of Madison Industries in Pawtucket, R.I., which makes metal-cutting tools, and the director, as well, of three other companies. His community services include directorships in nearly a dozen organizations.

Some acts of heroism are active, some passive. Halfback Robert McCormack's most memorable football moment was not a vicious tackle or a twisting run but a fair catch. Playing safety for Swarthmore, he waited under a Johns Hopkins punt, lifted his arm in the fair-catch signal, caught the ball and then, to his utter dismay, was slammed to the ground by an overenthusiastic Johns Hopkins end—one who was sporting a vividly remembered mustache. Johns Hopkins drew a 15-yard penalty and Swarthmore scored the only TD, to win its biggest game of an undefeated season. That over, it was left for the Germans to shape his career. In two years at an El Paso hospital he worked on 2,000 cases involving hand injuries, most of them caused by German mines. He became not only a distinguished plastic surgeon, but a specialist in hand surgery. Now chief plastic surgeon at Strong Memorial Hospital in Rochester, N.Y., he is also a professor at the University of Rochester School of Medicine and president of the American Society for Surgery of the Hand.

"We were playing Minnesota," recalls former Guard Harold Method. "I hadn't done much of anything, and near the end of the game there I was, flat on my back, when Minnesota fumbled on its own six-yard line. The ball rolled right into my arms. We scored and won the game. But recovering the fumble was pure luck." Luck or no, lying down on the job helped Method get selected for the College All-Star team that played the Green Bay Packers in Soldier Field (the All-Stars lost 45-28). At Northwestern he combined football with a premedical course. Now a general surgeon specializing in diseases of the pancreas, he is staff president of Passavant Memorial Hospital in Chicago, assistant professor of surgery at the Northwestern medical school and a private practitioner on the city's North Side. A doctor who advises his patients to stay in shape, he does so himself. He weighed 195 as a Northwestern guard and weighs 190 today.

A 195-pound tackle for three years at Purdue, Richard Potter had no athletic scholarship and "played football for the fun and challenge of it." He has always been willing to assume risks. For 10 years the associate dean of the school of engineering and architecture at Kansas State, he recently took a hefty pay cut and left a West Coast space laboratory to become director of the University of Louisville Institute of Industrial Research. The Institute is a nonprofit organization that primarily works on engineering problems taken to it by manufacturers. Potter sets two objectives for the Institute: "We want to help educate some of the best engineers of the future and we want to prove that an industrial research organization can be successful without a preponderance of government support."

Joe Shell loves to fly airplanes, is a conservative Republican and has a clean-cut jaw that would break brass knuckles. If that sounds like a description of Barry Goldwater, it figures. The two men have been friends for 20 years. Himself a candidate for governor of California in 1962 (he lost in a primary to Richard Nixon), Shell worked this year as the state's finance chairman for the Goldwater presidential campaign and ran interference for the GOP just as resolutely as he did when he was captain and a valuable blocking back for the undefeated USC team that shut out Tennessee 14-0 in the 1940 Rose Bowl game. After serving as a Navy pilot in World War II, he sold "everything we owned ["we" being a wife and three children], including the house and car" to buy California oil leases. His first well hit. He and a partner eventually brought in 42 more, and Shell is now executive vice-president of the West American Oil Company. Back in the oil business full time as of November 3, Joe Shell is still confident about his own political future and is not discounting the possibility that he might run for governor again in 1966.

A 5-foot-7 170-pounder, Seymour Shwiller played a stout game of running guard at William & Mary, where, on his best afternoon, he made life so miserable for a much vaunted and much larger Richmond lineman that the latter failed to receive expected all-conference honors. Shwiller's own honors turned out to be scholastic—Phi Beta Kappa. Drafted, he earned an Army Air Corps commission and flew B-17 bombers. After the war he became a nuclear weapons expert for the Air Force, and in 1950 he received a special citation for a study on defense against nuclear attack. He is now a military assistant to the general manager of the Atomic Energy Commission.

The football moment Albert Simpson best remembers was when a hard-pressed Muhlenberg back suddenly threw him a lateral in a game against St. Lawrence. "I didn't want the ball," says Simpson, who played every line position during his varsity career, "so I threw it to a fellow even farther back. He was tackled for a tremendous loss." Simpson has hardly made a backward move since. During the war he developed an invaluable radio proximity fuse, later invented a superaccurate time-measurement standard for the Navy and has since patented numerous other devices. In 1951 he started his own firm—Lehigh Valley Electronics—in a basement, and has seen it expand into a major plant near Allentown, Pa. One of the most respected men in the area, Simpson is active, but quietly active, in civic affairs. "The things he gets involved in benefit everyone but himself," says an Allentown businessman. "He's a big wheel around here, though he doesn't hold a lot of titles to prove it."

A close friend says Harold Van Every is "the kind of man who, if you called for help, wouldn't say, 'What's the trouble?' He would say, 'Where are you? I'm coming.' " An all-conference halfback, Van Every played two years with the Green Bay Packers, then flew B-17s until he crashed over Germany, suffering a back injury that still causes him pain. A remarkably successful insurance salesman who avoids high-pressure tactics, he lives in Minneapolis, where one of his major outside interests for the past 17 years has been the Big Brother Organization. He credits his Minnesota coach, Bernie Bierman, with teaching him a philosophy of success. "He made us do things we didn't want to in practice," says Van Every, "and later made us see how they paid dividends. The common denominator of success is making a habit of doing what unsuccessful men don't like to do." A man of deep ideals and religious conviction, he has said: "If you help your brother's boat across the river, you'll get across too."

Playing end for the California Institute of Technology—then 600 students strong and granting no athletic scholarships—Don Walter recalls that "the scores against us escalated so fast we were lucky to have so many mathematicians in uniform." Surviving his athletic debacle, he earned a Master of Science degree in aeronautics, and is now vice-president and a member of the board of the Marquardt Corporation, a company that develops and produces such sophisticated hardware as ramjet engines, electronic trainer simulator systems and attitude-control rocket systems. His description of himself: "ambitious."

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