The Yale Game: Soc Sci 2 and Irish Whiskey

"...representing two conflicting groups, each rationalizing in the Weberian sense," I scratched on a yellow legal pad, my nail-bitten fingers grapsping the last of eight sharpened Ticonderoga No. 2 pencils. "Jesus," I said to myself, "how the hell did I get in such a prison?"

You see, it was 2 a.m. on November 22; I had written only four pages of a long overdue 10-page Soc Sci 2 paper; my first Harvard hourly (a 'D' in Nat Sci 17) had been returned two days before; and the farthest Id been from my stuffy Hollis room since September 12 was Harvard Stadium, except for a trip to Anthony's Pier 4 and a couple of jaunts to Hurlbut.

All was not bleak, however, for I was to leave for the Harvard-Yale game five hours later. At the top of the page, in bold black letters, I wrote "T-H-E G-A-M-E" and got to work on page five.

Four and a half hours, several cups of coffee and a completed paper later, I felt the way one usually feels after an all-nighter. Your eyes feel like bricks and it seems as if you're walking on air--polluted, foggy air at that.

Throwing a sweater, a toothbrush, a Nat Sci textbook and a pint of Jameson's Irish Whiskey into a duffel bag, I headed out the door under the cloud of that typical all-nighter feeling. It was not to be a typical day, though, as I relaized upon stepping out into the grey early morning air.

Standing on the Hollis South steps--the only soul in the Yard at the time--was a creature with a boyish face and short-cropped hair, clad in a crimson jersey with the Harvard insignia on it, baggy tan pants, white socks and tattered grey shoes.

"The ghost of one of Alonzo Stagg's old foes?" I wondered, somewhat startled. I slapped myself on the side of the head. It was only Dave Mankin, who lived down the hall.

As quick as you can say James P. Kubacki, I had my camera and football out and was snapping away as Dave hammed it up in front of the ancient brick dorm (to the amusement of the New Haven-bound freshmen who had begun to straggle by fairly regularly).

Out of film, I hopped into Rich McPerson's banged-up '69 Chevy and downed two beers as we headed for I-95. Somewhere in the vicinity of Foxboro, I dozed off in the backseat. Nothing seemed even faintly like a prison anymore.

I awoke around noon outside a place called "Fuzzy's Luncheonette" in a rundown section of New Haven. We were lost and late for our touch football game. One of the guys bounded out Fuzzy's scratched-up glass door and into the front seat. "Straight ahead," he said. "Two miles."

At a stop light a few blocks ahead, a middle-aged woman in the car next to us rolled down her window. "Could you tell me where the Yale Bowl is, please?" she asked.

"Straight ahead!" I replied, smiling and pointing confidently. We pulled away quickly as the light turned green.