Egg In Your Beer
The Virginia game still had its repercussions yesterday, especially for those who went south. It all started Monday night when this weary scribe made his helated return upon a scene of near hysteria. Lost was any chance of writing a simple story about the football game. Harassed reporters, most of whom had stayed in Boston, converged from all directions with their own bits of vital news gathered from the usual reliable sources.
Vinco Moravec had died at the Stillman infirmary. Bill Bingham said we played the whole game under protest. Chip Gannon lost his memory and thought he was General Grant. Bill Bingham committed suicide. Dick Harlow and Ox DaGrosa fought a duel with pistols in the Hotel Kenmore and shot each other. Dave Egan had a nightmare. He dreamt there was a group of football teams called the Ivy League. Bill Bingham had a nightmare. He dreamt he didn't have enough nerve to commit suicide. President Dardon of Virginia had a nightmare. He dreamt he saw movies of a football game.
A small voice in the corner mentioned that Wally Flynn and Jack Guidera were playing fullback and a chorus of voices with four days of intersectional indoctrination chorused, "Man, ah reckon you're crazier 'on some of them damn Yankees." The hysteria set in again.
So we plodded along, and yesterday the world began beating its intrepid way to our door. Someone telephoned from Virginia. "Who said anything about buying football players. . . .?" Someone wrote airmail from Virginia. "A Confederate Flag was stolen . . . We have the honor system down here. We don't lock our doors . . . It was a large Confederate Flag . . ." People came calling. "What happened . . .?"
Which brings us to the essence of this column. The question is not how Harvard lost a football game 47 to 0 or how the University of Virginia won a football game 47 to 0, but what the Cavaliers said to each other in the huddle.
The facts are irrefutable. We will present any intelligent undergraduate with a free press pass to the Worcester Poly soccer tilt come November 1 if he can prove we are wrong.
On Friday last we were seeking Charlottesville by automobile. Or more specifically we sought Culpeper, a focal point en route. So we hailed a passing rebel. "Man," he said, toying with his curly locks, "ah reckon you're in the wrong state." Five miles later we came to Culpeper.
On that same Friday eve-at a rather liquid point in the proceedings-we were seeking a domicile, the number of which was rather obscure. Inquiry was made, at a house in the neighborhood, of a Southern gentleman, who looked so at home beneath the lithograph of the Charge of The First Maryland Regiment At The Death Of Ashby, that he obviously lived in this confederate fort. "What number is this house," we asked. "Man," his polite rejoinder echoed, "I reckon I don't rightly know."
On Saturday last we were seeking Scott Stadium, scene of a football game. We halled a provender of football programs (25 confederate pesos by volume). "Man," he said, "ah reckon ah don't rightly know whar 'tis." Over the hill we came upon the Stadium. An usher stood in a grey uniform, "where's section A?" we asked. "Man, ah reckon ah don't rightly know, but you're on a one-way street. How'd you all get in heah?"
"We drove in," we said and did a fast U-turn. He was still scratching his head when he dropped out of sight. Which brings us to the question of why Virginia was penalized three times for delaying the game. Just think of yourself in quarterback McCary's brogans during those huddles. When the boys asked him what the next play was, he couldn't very well come out and commit himself in such an environment of lucid confusion.
You might do well yourself, in fact, to follow the party line the next time your maiden aunt asks you about that homicide Saturday south of the border. Just look dark and reconstructed and say, "Mammy, ah reckon ah don't rightly know."
But don't say anything to Bucky Harrison. He's the unhappiest man in the College today. He travelled over 1,000 miles last weekend to placekick the extra points.