As the calendar turned to December, the 1908 college football season had concluded, and the nation's sports editors were publishing their views on the national championship.
Harvard finished the season with a perfect 10–0–0 record. While the University of Pennsylvania boasted more wins with an 11–0–1 record, that single tie against Lafayette marred their otherwise stellar run. Harvard, however, won all their games with total dominance. Every victory was secured with at least a 24-point margin, and in nine out of ten games, the Crimson defense achieved a total shutout. Only Brown University managed to scratch the scoreboard with a lone safety, yielding a meager two points against Harvard's season total of 405.
Adding to the complexity of the national picture was the Louisiana State University (LSU) Tigers. LSU had blazed through the South with a perfect 10–0–0 record of their own, finishing their season with a dominant win over Arkansas. They had outscored their opponents significantly, racking up 442 points while allowing only 11, laying their own claim to the title of the best in the land. Meanwhile, the University of Pennsylvania had put up 215 points, anchored by a defense that allowed only 22 points across their twelve matches.
The debate for the National Champion was the fiercest in years. Without a formal playoff, the title was decided in the columns of reputable newspapers. The New York Tribune and The Boston Globe definitively named Harvard as the National Champions, citing their massive point differential. Conversely, the Philadelphia Inquirer stood by the University of Pennsylvania, arguing their eleven wins were more significant than Harvard's ten.
In an interesting turn, the Philadelphia Inquirer belonged to Kingston Publishing. The acquisition was driven by a specific branding logic: all Kingston newspapers carry the "Inquirer" title to maintain a consistent national brand, and the Philadelphia paper fit the portfolio perfectly. Still, it chose Pennsylvania instead of Harvard. Consequently, some other Kingston-owned papers even recognized LSU as a legitimate co-champion.
Individual honors, however, were not up for debate. When Walter Camp released his legendary All-American list, Michael Kingston was the unanimous First-Team Quarterback. Camp noted that Michael was the most dominant player of the season. His ability to manipulate the field with the forward pass while remaining a premier scoring threat on the run made him the prototype for a new era of football.
Michael Kingston's numbers were unprecedented, fundamentally changing the perception of the quarterback position. In an era where the quarterback was primarily a signal-caller who handed the ball off or acted as an extra blocker, Michael introduced the world to the true "dual-threat" leader. His 1908 statistical breakdown consisted of 623 rushing yards with 14 touchdowns and 531 passing yards with 11 touchdowns. He also served as a part-time kicker, successfully converting 7 field goals.
The 623 rushing yards were particularly staggering to contemporary observers. At a time when quarterbacks rarely crossed the line of scrimmage and offenses relied on the heavy, grinding power of fullbacks, a quarterback accumulating such yardage was nearly unheard of. It required a level of speed, durability, and open-field vision that redefined the role from a stationary director to a primary offensive weapon. By dismantling defenses both through the air and on the ground, Michael became a force that no team in the country was yet equipped to stop.
Another sensational player of the era was Jim Thorpe of Carlisle. Thorpe was an exceptional halfback and the team's primary playmaker whose talent was so undeniable that he was a lock for the All-American First Team.
In total, four Harvard players made the All-American consensus teams. While Michael was the only First-Teamer, the inclusion of three others served as a testament to the squad that had allowed only two points all year, cementing the 1908 Crimson as one of the greatest defensive units in history.
With the season over and his legacy in the record books, Michael turned his eyes toward his other projects. The film canisters from the Yale game were being developed in the Kingston Labs, where the optical soundtrack was being tested and re-tested using the newly developed triodes.
Michael said to his team as they are working on the film. "In three weeks, the people will hear the roar of the crowd for themselves in theaters from here to San Francisco."
He had conquered the field. Now, it was time to conquer the screen.
*********
December 13, 1908
Inside the Kingston Labs, the atmosphere was thick with the sharp scent of ozone and the sweet, cloying aroma of film cement. The team was in the final, grueling stages of production; the premiere was barely a week away. Technicians worked in flickering light, pulling double shifts to synchronize the optical soundtracks for hundreds of reels destined for a national release.
The celebratory hum of the laboratory was shattered by a sharp, rhythmic rapping at the heavy, reinforced entrance. Michael looked up from a strip of celluloid, his eyes narrowing. The heavy bolt was drawn back, and a Kingston security guard stepped into the light.
"What is it, Miller?" Michael asked, his voice steady but impatient.
"A courier at the gate, sir," the guard replied, holding out a heavy, wax-sealed envelope. "From the city. He said it was urgent and required an immediate signature."
Michael took the envelope. It bore the unmistakable, cold crest of the Motion Picture Patents Company (MPPC)—the infamous "Edison Trust." As he broke the seal and scanned the documents, his brows furrowed. It was a declaration of total war.
The notice claimed that Michael's "Talking Pictures" infringed upon dozens of foundational patents, specifically targeting the intermittent camera movements and the projection optics. This was a calculated strike; while Michael had secured a specific license from Biograph to use their cameras, the other members of the Trust—Edison, Vitagraph, and Selig—had moved to block him. They argued that the Biograph license did not cover "synchronized sound" modifications or the broad projection rights required for a national release.
"They are trying to bury us before we even open," Eugene Lauste said, his hands trembling as he gripped the legal papers. "To them, we are just 'outlaws' trespassing on a private kingdom."
The scientists turned their frustration toward the man in West Orange. Lee de Forest let out a bitter laugh. "Edison? The man is a professional idea-stealer. He hasn't had a truly original thought since the seventies that wasn't polished by someone else's labor."
John Ambrose Fleming nodded in grim agreement. "It's common knowledge in the circles of true science. He sits in his lab while his 'Muckers' do the actual inventing. Then he slaps his name on the patent and calls himself a wizard."
Thomas Edison referred to his team of assistants and researchers at his West Orange and Menlo Park laboratories as "Muckers." The term was derived from "mucking out" a stable—implying they were the ones doing the grueling, dirty work of trial-and-error experimentation. While these men were often brilliant engineers and scientists, Edison famously took the lion's share of the credit and the patents for their collective labor.
Michael leaned against a drafting table, watching a strip of film dance through a light box. He admired Edison's ability to apply mass production to innovation, but he had a profound objection to the man hogging the entire credit.
Unlike Edison, who treated his "Muckers" as interchangeable cogs—men to be used until their brilliance was drained—Michael treated Fleming, de Forest, and Lauste as partners. In Michael's lab, there were no nameless laborers; there were only pioneers who shared in the vision and the rewards. He provided the capital, but he ensured they kept their dignity and their names on the patents.
Michael walked to the wall-mounted telephone and cranked the handle. "Get me Jeremiah Kennedy at American Mutoscope and Biograph," he commanded.
After a tense silence, a weary voice answered. "Michael? I assume you received the notice."
"I did, Jeremiah," Michael said, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. "We have a signed agreement. Biograph cameras, Biograph processing. Now the Trust is threatening federal deputies at my door. Are you standing by our contract, or are you folding?"
"The Trust is a collective, Michael," Kennedy sighed, the exhaustion palpable even through the static of the line. "Edison is in a state of absolute panic. He's seen the technical briefs on your sound-on-film, and he knows it makes his silent reels look like primitive relics. He's been pacing the boardrooms in West Orange, screaming for blood because he knows he can't compete with science. I'm just one man against a board of directors that is terrified of being left behind in the dark."
"Tell your partners they are going to regret this very much—more than they can possibly imagine." Michael replied coldly. "I'm not a small independent you can bully to surrender."
He slammed the phone down.
"How can we possibly fight this, Michael?" Harold Arnold asked as Michael hung up. "They have the courts in their pockets. They'll tie us up in litigation for a decade."
Michael stood up straight, a faint, predatory smile playing on his lips. "Let me take care of the law. I will show them that the Kingston name isn't one they can simply erase with a cease-and-desist order, as they have done to so many small independents."
Michael turned to leave the room.
"The premiere stays on schedule," Michael called back over his shoulder as he walked toward his office. "Get back to the reels. I'm going to turn their 'monopoly' into a graveyard."