Coming into what was known as “The Game,” both Harvard and Yale were undefeated for the first time since 1931. Legend has it that in 1908, the Harvard coach strangled a bulldog with his bare hands to inspire his team. (It’s not true.) Yale Coach Tad Jones once told his players, without any irony, “Gentlemen, you are about to meet Harvard in a game of football. Never again in your lives will you do anything as important.”
The stadium held 57,750 and tickets to the game were going for hundred of dollars. (Not on StubHub, people. This was a little before the days of the Internet!)
One couldn’t really go to The Game without a date. I’d only been on campus two months. The women I attended classes with lived a mile away and were outnumbered by us guys 4-1. I had no one to ask, but my friend Howie stepped in and fixed me up with a friend of his date.
I don’t remember her name, but I do remember that she was blond, beautiful, and rich. Where did we sit? I remember that, too—we didn’t sit at all. We were lowly freshmen and as such consigned to stand up on the rim of the stadium while the freezing November wind tried to send us into suspended animation.
Things went from bad to worse. First Dowling ran for a touchdown, then he threw to Hill for a second TD. And then another Dowling scoring pass. The second quarter wasn’t half over and Yale had scored 22 points, more than any other team had scored against Harvard in a full 60 minutes.
And the icing on the cake—my discovery that my beautiful date was a first-class spoiled bitch.
Harvard did score before halftime, and the mighty Yale team marched into the locker rooms ahead 22-6.
Harvard received the opening kickoff in the second quarter. Three downs and out. But Yale fumbled the punt and Harvard managed to get the ball into the Yale end zone.
22-13.
Was there hope? No.
At the beginning of the fourth quarter, Dowling marched his team down the field and ran into the end zone himself for his fourth touchdown.
29-13.
Looking across the stadium, I saw hundreds if not thousands of white handkerchiefs waving as the poor-sport Yalies taunted us. Dowling and his minions were unwilling to settle for a thumping. They wanted a humiliation.
Yale started marching down the field. Again. Some fans adjourned at this point for local bars—the Yalies for raucous celebration, the home team supporters to cry in their beer.
Only 14 yards away from a fifth touchdown, the Yale fullback fumbled. So down by 16 with 3:34 remaining, Harvard had the ball.
By this time, Harvard’s backup quarterback, Frank Champi, had taken over. With a third and 18 on the Yale 38, he was sacked, but the ball dribbled out of his arms on the way down and a Harvard lineman—the immortal Fritz Reed—picked up the lonely spheroid and thundered to the Yale 15.
Two more Champi passes and Harvard scored with 42 seconds left in the game. The two point conversion failed. Okay.
So now Harvard would lose, but would not be humiliated. But wait—a flag.
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