"Two Princeton non-cheering section seats for sale--see Vag"--read the notice on the bulletin board. Vag had tacked up the little scraggly sign not without a mild sense of guilt. What, he asked himself, was his reason for cancelling plans for a rollicking post hour-exam weekend? Why was he contriving to miss a Harvard football game for the first time in two seasons?

The answer he gave himself, as he leafed along Boylston Street towards the telegraph office, was not entirely convincing. He recalled that he had vetoed the Princeton game last Saturday afternoon when, in accordance with an old habit, he had started to dedicate his first drink to some aspect to local football, and found himself completely stymied. This was unprecedented. Even in Charlottesville, a last minute inspiration had provided him with a toast to the battle of Gettysburg. But this time there was no such flashing light. So Vag had downed his drink in three gulps, quickly poured another, joined a burbling group in one corner of the room, and sworn off football games. In other words, said Vag to himself he was unusually frank in these conversations, on the theory that they carried no consequences--he was not going to the Princeton game because he had been short of optimism last Saturday.

That's a hell of an attitude, he continued, while paying for the telegram, which pleaded vast quantities of work as an excuse for the cancellation of his weekend date. On the other hand, he answered, if he did not feel like going to a football game, there was no need for him to go. Period. Neither Bill Bingham nor Dick Harlow nor the team would know the difference. Exclamation point, issue closed.

Saturday morning Vag woke up late. As he pondered over whether or not he should buck the odds at Widener in the hope of getting a book, he noticed his two unsold tickets lying on the dresser. As he slow-motioned out of bed, it occurred to him drowsily that for every football game won there was a football game lost. As he combed his hair, he associated this concept with an essay he had read called "Compensation." Compensation or no compensation, he rebutted, dusting out his mailbox, Vag for one, has an insatiable desire for victory and a powerful distaste for defeat.

On his way to the Bick for breakfast, Vag noticed some students in red coats and ties hustling towards Soldiers Field. Well, he would hear the band on the radio, he muttered to himself. Through the Bick's windows Vag watched couple after couple parade by, some with bright banners and pins, most with pockets bulging form refreshment supplies. Let's look at this thing realistically, he said to himself, and a little later Vag was hurrying over the bridge with a strictly intellectual acquaintance from the other side of the Common. What can you expect at the last minute, he philosophized.

Have a hunch there may yet be material for my weekly toast, commenting to himself, when the young lady wondered if Harvard had ever won the pennant. Vag, you talk yourself into the damnedest things, he said, almost aloud, and then, most audibly, he was singing "with Crimson in triumph flashing" and feeling quite at home.