LXVI

We started it, we two, and here we are today, playing the game that was once all things to all men and is now nothing to anyone but us. We had Pudge Heffelfinger and Walter Camp, P. D. Haughton and Ned Mahan, and we were Kings together in those days. Today we have four victories between us.

But Harvard and Yale, no longer names to conjure with in football, need not care what people think in New York or Ann Arbor or Palo Alto today. The sixty thousand here in the Bowl won't care, that's for sure; players and coaches too can forget the people outside for two hours this afternoon.

We are no longer the best. This year we are nowhere near the best, as has been made painfully clear in Cambridge as well as New Haven by some good teams and some that are not so good. But whenever we get together the game comes alive: slow men run fast, fast men just plain take off. Harvard-Yale games are never dull, and this one--with both teams emphasizing offense--will be busy enough for all but the masochists.

Harvard and Yale do their share of worrying about the world. Today we can let go. Nothing beyond the rim of the Bowl is worth a plugged nickel just now.