Lary Bloom photos
Some of the fans were actually paying attention to first downs and quarterback sacks.
If you missed Saturday’s shindig at the Yale Bowl on an afternoon of near perfect football weather, you avoided a crowd of about 40,000 there to see the Harvards and Sons of Eli take the field for the 137th time.
So did we, unintentionally.
I mistakenly thought it would be possible, given that we had paid two months in advance for reserved seats and parking, to arrive near kick off, no problem.
It soon seemed to us, however, that every car and SUV lately manufactured in Detroit, Sweden, Italy, Germany, Japan, Korea, and Tennessee were ahead of us on the way to the west side of New Haven, all of them trying to turn left at one traffic light.
Mother Nature substitutes beautifully for the first half.
Though the first quarter had slipped by already, we’d had the advantage of inspecting some impressive fall flora in the fields near the old Bowl as we waited for the light to change again and again and again. Apparently, nature does very well without fretting over the Ivy League standings.
We asked two traffic directors for the route to Parking Lot D.
The first said, “One left and three rights,” which 25 minutes later brought us back to where we started.
The second said, “Three lefts,” which, it turned out, was an excellent plan, because 50 minutes later, after the bumper-to-bumper sojourn into West Haven and back, we reached a spot in Parking Lot D at 1:46 p.m., nearly two hours after the game began.
“Look,” Suzanne reminded me, “the only part of this game that really matters is the last five minutes.”
I didn’t know it at the moment, but her gridiron wisdom would be confirmed.
At about this time, she received a text from a friend who has been on the faculty of both schools involved in the day’s fracas. It said, “Go Harvard, or Yale.”
It wouldn’t be The Game without certain traditions.
I had been a stranger to The Game, though I had been to the Bowl many times. And I was surprised to see so many frolickers who may have had little intention of actually watching the matchup, rather more fixed on shouting hearty “hallos” to old classmates and tailgating with a variety of libations. Yale mufflers and sweaters, some looking like they had been hand knit and a few, perhaps, hand-me-down raccoon coats, were easy to spot, although some Harvard crimson letter sweaters were also worn with pride.
Once inside Bowl grounds, Suzanne and I were reminded of the enormity of a sports arena first built in 1914 and renovated nearly a century later, though not quite to the point that we didn’t need to bring pillows (thanks, Suzanne) to put down on hard benches of Section C, Row 11, Seats 13, and 14, with a striking view of the northern 25-yard line.
The third quarter was about to begin. We noticed the Stars and Stripes was waving proudly and seemed to even to flutter with the beat of the recording of the Village People’s “Y.M.C.A.” Our flag was sharp and crisp in the blue sky all afternoon.
At the beginning of the third quarter, the scoreboard to our left was indicating that Harvard led by three points. This was much less of a disappointment to me than missing the performances by the two marching bands, which I suspected had prepared something topical and satirical for the occasion.
But I should at this point offer a thought or two about the actual action on the field, even though many around us where talking of other things, such as the stock market, international affairs, the shocking news out of Wisconsin of the Kyle Rittenhouse trial.
As far as I could tell, number 12 for our side, the quarterback, found himself in a state of duress, as if he had no offensive line to protect him. On the Harvard side, they wore amusing yellow pants.
But that’s enough expert commentary for the moment. The time already being past 2 p.m., we were very hungry.
So I went out to see if, on request, I could find a kielbasa for Suzanne, and perhaps a nice kale sandwich for myself, considering I am in the last classes of cardiac rehab and I don’t want to get a stink eye from the nutritionist.
When I arrived at the main refreshment stand, there were long lines. Long, unmoving lines. It was as if each customer, once reaching the Promised Land of the counter, in addition to receiving refreshment, had reserved 50 minutes of psychiatric counseling.
But here’s where my fortunes took a turn.
The two young women behind me, chatty and clearly very bright, were exchanging ideas on how, perhaps, to find a way to interpret exactly why there was no line movement. We got to talking, of course. I learned they were third-year law students. One of them, a researcher extraordinaire, had done menu reconnaissance and reported that, alas, no kielbasa or kale were available.
In our time waiting, they asked me questions about myself. Which is odd in a Yale setting. In such a place, the usual conversation among strangers involves an impressive gushing of self-reference without once uttering, “Tell me something about yourself” These young women were actually interested in learning about other people.
Perhaps I should have guessed, then, the revelation that came next.
They informed me that they couldn’t comfortably reveal, given the circumstances, exactly where they go to law school.
But—hint, hint—it’s not in New Haven. They had arrived on a charted bus from Cambridge.
These two bright, compassionate young people were aware at this point that my desire to fetch some whatever food was available and get back to portal 17 outweighed my wish to stand in line until the spring thaw. So, one of them said, “Tell us what you’d like, and we’ll bring it to you.”
“What?” I thought. Isn’t this a twist — two daughters of John Harvard demonstrating mercy to a Yale adjunct professor?
I took out my wallet to give her some cash, but they refused to take it.
One explained that, after she saw the message on my hat, “Vietnam Veteran,” she concluded, “It’s the least we can do for you, as you’ve done so much for us.”
She took a photo of my seat location, and said, “We’ll do our best.”
I told Suzanne this remarkable story when I returned and saw on the scoreboard that each team had scored a touchdown, and that the Harvards were still three points up. So I hadn’t missed anything.
Number 12 for our side was still getting harassed to the point of Geneva Convention violations when he tried to pass. And number 19, the QB for the foul side, wasn’t faring much better.
This concludes the part of the tale meant to dispense definitive color commentary. Except that, evading his pursuers, number 12 heaved a long pass down the left sideline to a fleet fellow in blue who caught the ball and ran to the end zone.
Our side was ahead with only a few minutes to go.
“Bulldogs, bulldogs, bow wow wow!” as Cole Porter wrote in his fight song.
At this point, the two Harvard law students arrived at Row 11 looking for us. They had food. Once again I pulled out my wallet to send a $20 bill down the row, but they shook their heads, and passed two hot dogs and a large bottle of Coke, the original kind, which I last drank probably in 1986.
It tasted great. And so, too, the hot dogs, which we had read recently in The New York Times would take 36 minutes off of each of our lives. Worth it.
The football gods must have noticed this act of Harvard charity, as they rewarded the Crimson with a last-minute touchdown, and therefore the Game.
As we exited the bowl, we saw not a single tear shed in the departing crowd. It was as if people had barely noticed.
“Lost?” “Really?” “Was there a game?”
We found our car in Parking Lot D, and drove out. Amazingly, it seemed as if every car driven in from Korea or Japan or Sweden or Italy had already departed for foreign shores. The ride home across town to East Rock was swell, and we congratulated ourselves on a sparkling, if not entirely winning, adventure.