The following article was written for the Crimson by Hermann D. Black, a graduate student from Sydney, Australia.

Twice in the last fortnight I found myself in mortal danger. This is the story. I am an Australian. In my country I have played four types of football. Naturally enough I wanted to see the American variety, so I hied me to the Stadium to see the Harvard squad romp over Amherst and Brown.

On both occasions a gentleman relieves me of $1.10. I work out the equivalent of this in Australian pounds and inwardly groan. However, I'm inside and creep into my seat. A band (nothing like it in Australia) plays the same piece of music about eight times and then leaves the field to sun-dry folk who exhort the audience to cheer.

I lift my voice up for Harvard and find to my horror that I am surrounded by Amherstians. Last Saturday I thought to profit by my error. I entered through a different gate, selected a very different seat position. This time I confidently inform my neighbors that Harvard is my hope, whereupon said neighbors commence to bellow out: "B-R-O-W-N." I felt a long ways from home. If ever, dear reader, you witness a football match in Australia, don't "barrack" (cheer) for Balmain among the Newtonites. You may never see the Statue of Liberty again.

But to proceed. I've been asked what I think of American football. Well, I'll be frank. When I saw about 40 hunched and helmeted figures charge out on the field my first instinct was to fly. They all looked like an Australian desperado named Ned Kelly. This gentleman was a bush ranger (first cousin to a gangster), who, in the last century, acquired a coat of chain mail, made himself a helmet out of a kerosene tin, and terrified the Australian bush by daring feats of robbery and violence.

At this stage you may want to interject a series of questions.

It might proceed like this:

You: "Would you like to play our game?"

Me: "Well, I hae me douts."

You: "Why?"

Me: "Our conception of football is different. It is less a series of plans worked out in short continuous clashes; it is more continuous. If a man is tackled, the game proceeds at once. The team doesn't get into a "huddle"; the ball is played immediately on pain of a penalty."

You: "Do you think our game is hard?"

Me: "Yes, I do. Your casualty list seems high. But no game in which you couldn't be hurt was ever worth playing. In Australian football you can't substitute, and if a man is hurt badly, you may have to play without him."

You: "Have you been able to follow the moves?"

Me: "Yes, and the cunning of the men who pretend to have the ball but who haven't appeals to me. In Australia, we call that trick "selling your opponent a dummy."

You: "Anything else?"

Me: "Well, I've said enough; but, in pure Australian slang I'll sum up by saying, 'the studies stoushed Amherst, chased the Bruins up a gum tree, and showed that they had the dinkum oil by playing dinki-di football.' Translating this into the King's English (or--in this country of alphabetical politics--into FDR English) this means that the Harvard squad won two victories by playing good football. Now for the Army.