It all started on Saturday afternoon, when Vag was walking past Adams House, rejoicing at the belated arrival of spring weather. From a C-entry room the radio blared forth the progress of the Boston city series, and a horn-rimmed passer-by, recently emerged from the Grolier Book Shop, remarked in disgust, "don't tell me that nonsense is starting again!" Vag smiled contentedly, reflecting for perhaps the thousandth time that Cambridge was one of the few places in America where such sentiments were commonplace.

As for Vag himself, no amount of general education had ever dimmed his appreciation for a seat in the bleachers, or an esoteric discussion on the relative merits of Honus Wagner and Marty Marion. He had passed the stage of collecting picture cards and autographed baseballs, when his yearly trip to Yankee Stadium had assumed the proportions of a pilgrimage to Mecca, but increased sophistication and the price of a grandstand seat had served only to pitch his interest on a slightly more detached plane.

Once in the dining hall, Vag's momentary Plympton Street apprehensions were allayed. Above the chatter about Chem A, exam schedules, and the end of the Wellesley spring vacation, could be heard the magic words Durocher, MacPhail and Williams. Even Cambridge was a part of America. Hastily digesting his chipped beef on toast, Vag raced into the House courtyard, scooped up an imaginary ground ball, and made a perfect throw to first base. He made a mental note to cut his Tuesday lab, and maybe his 10 o'clock class as well. After all, it was opening day.