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The Vagabond

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

There are times when the Vagabond cannot write for everyone. This is one such occasion, for tomorrow brings the biggest single athletic event of every Harvard scholastic year--the Yale game. Vag would like to speak now to some of the men on the team--particularly to those who will enter their last gridiron battle tomorrow--the footballers of the Class of 1939. So pardon him, please. . . .

When Bobby was elected Captain last year, Vag wondered a bit. He was so little-looking. Ends are supposed to be big and rangy, and Bobby wasn't. When he used to come into Williams' lectures on money and banking last year, Vag used to size him up and speculate a lot. How could this little fellow expect to turn the Cornell, Army, and Dartmouth backs in on end sweeps? How could he expect to grab passes from taller defense men? Vag still can't figure out how he does it, but he does, and it makes him feel warm inside to watch Bobby play. . . .

Vag is an old friend of Hacker's. In fact, Hacker calls Vag "the Duke" for reasons which Vag will not go into now. He first heard of Hacker when their mutual tutor in their sophomore year wondered where that guy Wilson was. There was a rumor to the effect that he played football. He was a jolly easy-going fellow, and Vag, as he watched the games that fall, never could quite understand how he could change so suddenly into a ferocious blocker and tackler on the field. He knows now. Three years of watching Hacker in the blocking slot have shown him that Hacker really loves the game. Coupled with ability, that explains a lot. . . .

Then there's Austie, who didn't get much out of Lake's course when he sat next to Vag, but who can really concentrate his interest when it comes to calling the plays. There's Frank, who, like Austie, is a real triple threat man every moment he is on the field. There's rollicking Ben, who learned many lessons in patience and persistence while waiting for Vern to graduate. There's burly Mike, whose fierce competition with Ben made both of them better men. There's big Ken, who looks so docile and lumbering but about whom enemy linemen have nightmares weeks before the Harvard. . . . There' little Nick, who had to wait for Russ and Chuck, and who seems to delight in his opponents' weight advantage. There's solemn Dave, who has the damndest luck with black eyes. There's colorful Tim, who like Hacker has found new joy in tackling. There's the steady Chief, with the barrel-house voice and the sure toe. There's Don and Win, a set of ends who have justified the confidence placed in them. There's Bob B., slim, reserved, quiet, who can carry the mail while Torbie gets his wind. And there's Chink, who gives Tim a rest at center, but allows the team no let-down. . . .

There's the rest of the team, too--Torbie and Tom and Joe and Bill and a score of others who are vital cogs and who will continue to shine on next year's eleven. Behind the spotlight glare, there're the coaches, the managers, the scrubs, the trainers. . . .

And head over all this aggregation that is Harvard football--Dick. . . .

Neither wild horses nor galloping consumption nor a hurricane could keep Vag from the Yale Bowl tomorrow afternoon. He must be there to see the final football bow of these Seniors who, with their capable Junior and Sophomore compatriots, will go "all out" for Dick--and for the rest of us who are Harvard.

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