Remember: One Game Does Not A Program Make

Sitting in his office one September day after a morning workout with the team, an instruction session with his quarterbacks, a quick lunch and before afternoon sessions with coaches and players to be followed by night sessions with the said groups, Harvard Coach Joe Restic offered his wise predictions on who would finish atop the Ivy League come November 21.

The coach leaned back in his chair, clasped his wiry, veiny hands together in a knot-lock and looked down at a few sheets of white paper. Then, as he looked up across the table, the first words out of the coach's mouth were, "Yale..."

He went on to talk about Princeton and Dartmouth. About Cornell's possible resurgence as an Ivy power. About how "unpredictable" the Ivy League is. (If I had a dime for how many times that's said, I could run for President.)

But let the record show that on that cool, damp day in September, sitting behind his wide, wooden desk in his cozy Dillon office, Restic's first word was "Yale"--a team which had as much chance of winning the Ivy title as Bill Clinton has of finishing a marathon.

Nine weeks before the contest, and all Restic can think about is The Game. Capital "T," capital "G," The Game.

Harvard-Yale--for all the glory and none of the marbles--has little real practical significance. But the reason we eulogize it, go to it, wear T-shirts about it and, yes, write stupid columns celebrating it is that we finally have a nonacademic tradition that other schools care about.

In fact, the obsession has grown to the point that it's the only thing we care about.

Sure, Restic's pre-season analysis included dreams of "an undefeated season" and "an outright Ivy title," but Harvard fans and even the coaches knew the truth. Dreams can't come true. At least not with Harvard football.

Instead, every game this season--as with every game last season the year before that and the year before that--fostered the same type of bitterness and frustration that it always has. Would'ves, could'ves and should'ves, as some writer describes it every year.

I have my own beautiful memories of these might-have-beens.

Of quarterback Adam Lazarre-White '91's decision to scramble for a 20--plus yard loss in the final moments against Cornell in 1990, pushing the Crimson (which was inside the 10 yard line) out of touchdown, field goal and victory range.

Of the flubbed Scott Johnson '91 kick against league-champion Dartmouth in 1991, leading to an Ivy-title-hunt-crippling 31-31 tie.

Of this year's failed defensive stand against Lafayette in the final two-minutes, turning a Mike Giardi-engineered dream comeback into an ignominious 31-29 loss.

The list is as deep as Carm Cozza's receding hairline. (In fact, he's bald.)

We've come to conclude, as a community inuredto the desperation of being Harvard football fans,that there's only one thing that can make up forall the painful mistakes this team seems to makeup for over the years: beating a group of 45 guysfrom New Haven, as hapless and desperate forvictory as our own ill-fated Crimson.

No need for bitterness. Just a reality check.

Look around yourself at the game today.

You'll see players who have cut their hair intoall sorts of odd patterns with a glazed, somewhatdemented look in their eyes.

You'll see clean-cut men and women in theirpreppy outfits who haven't been to The Stadium ina year, talking about its weird concrete seating.

You'll see octogenarians clad in the black woolvarsity sweaters, reminiscing about Harvard's near14-12 upset of Michigan in 1929.

They've all gathered for one reason: to save alittle face.

And you can bet, win or lose, that come nextSeptember, Restic (in his 23rd year at the helm)will give the same advice--to "watch out forYale."

How else can you survive a season?

Jay K. Varma is a Crimson staff writer. Hethinks he's written his last Harvard footballstory ever.

We've come to conclude, as a community inuredto the desperation of being Harvard football fans,that there's only one thing that can make up forall the painful mistakes this team seems to makeup for over the years: beating a group of 45 guysfrom New Haven, as hapless and desperate forvictory as our own ill-fated Crimson.

No need for bitterness. Just a reality check.

Look around yourself at the game today.

You'll see players who have cut their hair intoall sorts of odd patterns with a glazed, somewhatdemented look in their eyes.

You'll see clean-cut men and women in theirpreppy outfits who haven't been to The Stadium ina year, talking about its weird concrete seating.

You'll see octogenarians clad in the black woolvarsity sweaters, reminiscing about Harvard's near14-12 upset of Michigan in 1929.

They've all gathered for one reason: to save alittle face.

And you can bet, win or lose, that come nextSeptember, Restic (in his 23rd year at the helm)will give the same advice--to "watch out forYale."

How else can you survive a season?

Jay K. Varma is a Crimson staff writer. Hethinks he's written his last Harvard footballstory ever.