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Ever since the halcyon days of Percy Houghton, Harvard men have anticipated the football season with all the spicy zest of an Italian soldier about to be sterilized by his dusky foes. Indeed, a football team which leaves its scalp, shirt, and reputation on Soldiers Field has become part of the fine old Harvard tradition. For years, the only brilliant thing about the team has been its golden pants.
Last year, the H. A. A. tossed timeworn tradition into the Charles and brought to Dillon Field House a non-graduate coach whose only claims were that facts that he was a sporting gentleman whose teams produced victories in almost monotonous succession. While hoary graduates tore their scanty locks in anguish, Coach Harlow arrived in Cambridge and reorganized the entire football administration.
Since the first days of fall practice, critical news hawks and sporting experts have marveled at the novel efficiency introduced into coaching organization. Instead of thirty-seven old coaches teaching forty-three systems, they have seen a single man directing the entire regime.
Coach Harlow has had more worries than Dr. Dafoe at the celebrated accouchement. However, he has met every problem with mature calm and today he will lead forth to Soldiers Field a football club which merits the unstinted support of all Harvard men.
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