The bare essentials of baseball include a bat, a ball and eighteen men. Everything else is superfluous. But, superfluous or not, a funny bone and a what may be modestly referred to as a certain degree of journalistic acumen do combine to make what would otherwise be merely another baseball game something over which to wax ecstatic, and occasion for dancing in the streets, in short, an Epocin. And when the Epoch is one of an annual series, stretching back into infinity--or thereabouts--the result approaches that which young girls loosely term an experience.

The Lampoon CRIMSON event is one which, if for no other reason is laudable on account of its in time qualities and the moral certainty that--come what may--the victor will be the same. In other athletic contests there is a disturbing element of chance. But today there are no upsets. An Olympian calm pervades Plympton Street, for the conventional huge scarlet margin has been got out, dusted, and is ready for service. The Lampoon with its gracile lethargy and its dogged comic spirit has without cessation offered itself as the goat or the this or whatever constitutes the flors and fauna of defeated parties for so many years that the CRIMSON has come to admire its tenacity and is sincere when it says that if natural laws could be overturned and two victors claim one victory there is no one that it would rather see enjoy what is now unfortunately a solitary set of bays and laurels, than--Lampy.