SCENE ONE. Have your tickets out. Please hold your own tickets. Up to your left. No, this is section 10. You'll have to go to the entrance your ticket calls for. What's that? Double M. Q coming. Z coming. Up to your left, please. Don't block the aisle. Keep moving, please. Fourth and fifth seats in. Up in the colonnade, please. . . . The afternoon had scarcely begun, but his throat was raw and dry already. Too many cigarettes and those sawdust sandwiches were responsible for that. Hell of a thing anyhow--having to usher on the Dartmouth side. Showing those belligerent guys to their seats. Almost afraid to yell for Harvard. Having to listen to them cheer when any decent person would moan, and vice versa. Standing silent while their queer, savage Wahoo swelled and echoed. Well, here come some more of them. . . . Show your tickets. Keep moving, please. . . .

SCENE TWO. All right, young man, we're quite capable of finding our way around this stadium alone. We played here before you were born. Those were the good old days. Back in the days of Horween and Haughton, ch, Ed? We used to smear them all, then. Why, if we had ever dropped three games in a row they'd have run us out of the Gold Coast. But no wonder with guys like us, Ed--we were men. We went through teams, not around and over them. Look at the kids here now. Don't they look young and small? . . . Say, Ed, it's still a great game, though, isn't it? I'll always get a kick out of watching these youngsters tear their hearts out like we used to do. They'll come through all right. . . .

SCENE THREE. Will he get the nickel if he wins the toss, Vag? Why do the players use so much mascara under their eyes when it shows so frightfully? Why do they yell Yoohoo over there? Why doesn't he blow the whistle, Vag? . . . Yes. No. Yes. No. Vag doesn't know. How can he know everything, oh lovely Simmous girl? There is still a mist over his eyes from the Harvard-Dartmouth Ball last night. Or is it his pride in the team? This afternoon he will know. . . .

SCENE FOUR. The hard leather toe meets the oval pigskin an instant after the whistle blows. Standing on the five-yard line, he watches the course of the ball through the air towards him. Swiftly it rises until it seems to be higher than the rim of the stadium behind it up and up in a graceful are. His eyes glue themselves to this careening brown speck. He remains motionless, staring at it in fascination like one hypnotized. . . . This is a game, old boy; it has started now. Forget that hollow stomach feeling. This is a football in the air; your anticipation is over; the future has become the present. This is why your rib felt like it was cracked last week. It's why you sweated and studied and dreamed. It is the dust and monotony of a practice field. It is the soggy, moldy smell of the locker room. And remember, that ball is coming down now. Ahead are eleven men in Green who will try to stop one man, but ten men in Crimson will help that one man. They are your friends. You've seen them a million times--in joy, in pain; as stars, and as goats. Now stop all this talking with yourself, old boy--it's here. . . . He catches the ball. Then--go, go, go--and his legs begin to churn over the greensward. . . .