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.