The Games Behind The Game

Ah, the pungent smell of booze in the crisp autumn air, the sounds of old alums fawning over themselves and the sight of busloads of Harvard admissions rejects can only mean one thing. That’s right, it’s once again time for The Game—the annual event so nice they capitalized it twice.

And make no mistake that it is just that—an “event.” It’s hardly about what happens between the lines in the 119th playing of the football game. Rigorous academic research suggests that the actual game itself stopped being important circa 1923, back in the good ol’ days of dinky leather helmets worn by guys named Poindexter Q. Wilmington IV, Esq.

In modern times, some of us tailgate (read: binge drink) for so long that we’re not aware that a football game is even being played. In this altered state, some may even blissfully forget that they go to school in New Haven, only to sadden appreciably upon sobering up.

It’s safe to say that The Game isn’t about the game. The Harvard-Yale “Game” is about much more than bulky, sweaty Ivy Leaguers hurling themselves at each other for 60 minutes on a Saturday afternoon in November. It’s about sulky, petty Ivy Leaguers hurling insults at each other for the rest of their lives, though most frequently on a particular Saturday afternoon in November.

That’s right, insults. Bragging rights. Self-serving salvos of taunts and teases. The game behind The Game is all about those haughty moments of faux-school spirit that conduce so easily to chants of “safety school” and “(insert the opposing school here) sucks.”

And I’ll freely admit that I’m just as guilty as the next person. There’s nothing I enjoy more than feigning superiority and sarcastically thumbing my nose at our Connecticut counterparts.

Except, of course, for playing two-hand touch, drinking way too much and watching my team win, with those twins. After all, as Dean of the College Harry R. Lewis ’68 reasoned in leaving us kegless in Cambridge, those evil Coors Light executives have thoroughly warped our fragile little minds. But that’s another story altogether.

Back to the matter at hand: I’m guessing that for most of us, memories of Harvard-Yale consist largely of the pomp and circumstance that surrounds the game. We tend to remember things like who had the best tailgate setup, rather than which team had the better offense. We’re more likely to remember specific T-shirt designs—like that classic John Harvard-Bulldog fellatio masterpiece—than the jersey numbers of key players.

And what’s funny in a sad way is that this tendency stretches on, in various manifestations and to different degrees, long after we’ve left our respective Ivy cocoons. In the “real world” (quotes intended), it’s probably not uncommon to find a more subdued, yet still pointed culture of good-natured ribbing and “har har” humor along these same lines.

Though I’m almost sure the aforementioned T-shirts are only worn by us undergrads. Then again, you never know.

When it comes right down to it, though, it’s almost silly to insist upon a rivalry between Harvard and Yale. First of all, on an athletic level, neither football team inspires much in the way of fan support, often failing to provide on-the-field fireworks in the short term and consistent program success in the long term. Secondly, from an academic standpoint, both schools are roughly comparable with regards to the quality of faculty and students, as well as prestige and national respect.

So, why are we so insistent on perpetuating a rivalry that has no real basis in athletic or academic fact?

Well, because it’s entertaining on some level. And, more importantly, because we really have no one else to talk to.

When it comes to the humor of haughty arrogance that fits Harvard so well, it’s only funny when Yale is the subject. I mean, seriously, making fun of any other opponent—be it Lehigh or even a fellow Ivy like Cornell—in the same manner as we make fun of Yale would be akin to boxing with a one-armed man. There’s just something inherently unfair and pointless to it.

So, we circle this date on our calendar as the day on which we can reveal our conceited confidence and get a perverse kick out of it. Yale is our only other true partner in the Ivy ivory tower (Princeton is disqualified because, well, that’s also a different story) and we relish the annual opportunity to push Yalies around. Calling Yale a “safety school” is funny in a deeply ironic and moronic way, and for some reason, we just can’t get enough.

And I’m sure the Yalies probably feel the same way. Though they enjoy the brief feeling of equality that this weekend entails—which, unfortunately, stems in part from Yale’s recent successes in the football game—they must know, deep down, that it’s all but an illusion that we Harvard types are benevolent enough to sustain for mutual amusement.

Because, in the end, we know a fundamental truth that gives us an advantage in playing the game behind The Game.

Yale sucks. And so do all Yalies.

Let The Game begin...

—Staff writer Daniel E. Fernandez can be reached at dfernand@fas.harvard.edu.