Coaching at Harvard: The Narrow Viewpoint

Crimson Apothegmatist Topples Cherished Idols of Ivy Football


Twice or three times a year, the CRIMSON allows its erstwhile cartoonist, Harvard's most impoverished graduate, to speak out. While the validity of his conclusions is open to doubt, his courage must be admired. It is interesting to note that he did no research for his little epic, and bases his facts entirely on hearsay. Mr. Royce does not drink. Not much, that is. Well, not a great deal. Mr. Royce was raised on an apple farm, but ran away from home when he was a boy. He served two years in the Army and five years at Harvard, and has not worked since he graduated. Nor, for that matter, did he before.


They had had a bad year at H.U.,

Losing six games while winning but two;

"Lloyd Jordan may be"

Said the powers that be--

"Peachy keen, but at Harvard he's through."


The reason they had to impeach

Was some cracks that he made in a speech;

But the reason they fed

To the papers instead

Was his disinclination to "teach."


"Sock it to 'em," said Lloyd with a cheer;

But he wasn't a mere sloganeer.

When he rattled alumni

They called it calumny,

And ushered him out on his ear.


Harvard's mentor should constantly hope

To please names like Cabot and Swope;

When he fails to so cater

The old alma mater

Discovers the end of his rope.


The powers that be may be smart,

In urging that Jordan depart;

But where they fall down

Is in telling the town

That the horse is in back of the cart.


The Ivy League's principles clash

With its yen to be making a splash;

While we're better by far,

Our athletic plants are

Fundamentally lacking in cash.


Sometimes coaches think football is meant

To spare them from life in a tent.

When a back thunders by

They exultantly cry:

"Thunder on, mastodon--pay the rent!"


But the players are so altruistic--

Their reasons for playing seem mystic:

They don't play for pay,

But the joy of the fray,

And because they're somewhat masochistic.


Notwithstanding our urge to excel,

We must, if belatedly, dwell

On a smarter approach

To a warier coach

And a football team able to spell.


The coach of our choice must possess

Deep concern for alumni distress--

And a manner replete

With a very complete

Inability not to say "Yes."


Harvard's mentor must center his toil

Upon bringing his team to a boil;

All his locker room stories

Most tell of the glories

Of playing according to Hoyle.


Good sportsmanship, fair play and heart:

Our saintliness sets us apart;

"Fair Harvard," they say.

But if he's in the way,

Bark his shin, gouge his eye and depart.


Harvard's football coach can't misbehave

Without putting one foot in the grave;

Although out on the field

Every player is steeled

To behave like an Indian brave.


When indulging the late season surge

Of excuses for singing a dirge,

Harvard's coach must beware

Of polluting the air,

Lest his dirge tend to merge with a purge.


Fairest Harvard, thy coach can't be wrong,

When thy sons to thy jubilee throng;

If our gridders should fail

To prevail against Yale,

Then he won't coach for Harvard for long.


When our voices cry out once again,

Of the triumph of "Ten Thousand Men,"

A coach we may lack,

But we'll surely be back

In the Ivy League--not the Big Ten.