Vag swivel-hipped his way between the two people sleeping on the study floor, straight-armed the book-case, and let the window shades up with a bang. "This is it," he said. One of the figures on the floor rolled over, mumbled something that Vag could have sworn sounded like Barzilauskus, and opened one eye. Waving at him gaily, Vag slammed the window shut, cutting off the stream of cold morning air, raising a minute cloud of coal dust, and waking the other figure in the process. The Vagabond bounded into the bathroom, applied shaving cream, and, with worn razor blade, briskly began to scrape at his face. "Five hours to game time, and plenty to do," he mused.
He clearly remembered that last big game in the fall of '42. The Eli's had come out with a close, exciting win, and the Bowl, decked out with the usual blondes, bottles, and bulldogs seemed to lack nothing: the football was good, the bands and old grads played their usual parts to perfection. And yet . . . an air, intangible but unmistakable, of something wrong hovered over the stands. Of course, it was the War -- the feeling that this sort of weekend was out of joint with the times, and that it would be a long, long time before the Crimson and the Blue met again. In a way, it seemed then to Vag, that the game marked the end of an era -- a way of looking at life.
But during the War, when talk turned to things to look forward to after the gold buttons were handed out, THE GAME was often mentioned. In it lay the hint of finer things to come -- bigger parties, new dates, and maybe, better seats than he had gotten at New Haven. Vag dried his face and tried to think of all the strangers he had promised to meet at the first postwar Game. He winced when he remembered how his mask of indifference had dropped one day and how he had offered to bet anyone even money -- without asking any points -- that the Cannabis would take the first one.
Well, it was here and it was good. Buttoning up his shirt, Vag glanced into the other room and saw that the two guys were dressed with definitely blue neckties peering out of their jackets. Nodding his head deliberately, he shuffled through the mass of stripes and polka-dots hanging behind his closet door, came up with a knitted crimson affair, and carefully knotted it between button-down collars. "Mustn't forget the other thing either," he said to no one in particular, and reaching tenderly into the towel and sheet drawer, he came up triumphantly with a pint of whiskey. He eased this into the left hand pocket of the coat with the mousy fur collar. "All set," said Vag.
The men in blue ties were ready too, and the three of them went out quickly into the street to find orange juice and coffee and call for three size 12 brunettes. Vag sensed the excitement in the air; the crimson flags were already up along Mt. Auburn Street, cars lined the curbs bumper to bumper, and, for once, no one seemed to be carrying any books. The Vagabond began to whistle, stopped once self-consciously, but with a "what the hell," began again, emitting a slightly flat but very spirited "With Crimson in triumph flashing." Vag was prepared to face the world -- this Saturday, the 23rd of November, 1946.
