Vag put the nearly empty beer glass on the table and brought his mind back to the problem. This time he made proper allowance for the slippery patch of beer in the secondary, and the quarter spun through the craftily placed defensive team of dimes and broke into the clear for a long gain. Coin-spinning was a real art, he thought.

Just like football. With speed and elusiveness you can spin through any defensive backfield. Like those Cornell backs--all track stars. He realized, too late, that he should never have allowed his mind to wander onto football. It was not a topic he wanted to think about.

Why did he, Vag, aged 20 years and in full possession of his senses, attend football games? Why did he, Vag, who had told his friends "If we don't beat Columbia, we won't win a game all season," have tickets for the Cornell and Army games in his pocket?

Well, he thought, I do enjoy walking down to the Stadium each Saturday, with the band playing in the distance, and the cries of the banner vendors in the air. And the feeling of uplift when the team scores a touchdown . . .

"What touchdown," a strident voice inside him asked. "You know perfectly well that everybody else is going to score the touchdowns. Think of what this is doing to your ego. Identifying yourself with a losing team is positively disintegrating."

That may be true, but I can hardly give up going to football games, thought Vag. Just imagine studying on Saturday afternoon.

"OK,OK, go to the games if you must," said the strident voice, "but at least cultivate an attitude which will save you from ulcers. Go to the Stadium and drink in the atmosphere if you will, but dispense with this insane partisanship. Don't let your blood get heated by cheering."

But, thought Vag, how can one remain impartial in a football stadium on a brisk fall day? Is it not better to cast logic to the winds and wave the dear old flag and be bloody but unbowed?

The inner antagonist snorted. "Against Cornell, Army, Princeton, etc., and etc., you are going to have a pretty cheerless afternoon waving the dear old flag. How much better to view the game as an exhibition of magnificent skills, in a setting of glorious pageantry. A change of attitude will do wonders for your stomach lining."

Vag thought of all the games he had seen. Why had he gone to them, and cheered himself hoarse? Why had he paid money for tickets labeled Section 37, Row B? Why had generations of college men done so before him. . .

That was a comforting thought. You could argue that he, Vag, was crazy but you couldn't say the same of all the new solid citizens who had rooted for losing teams in their day. There must be something in it.

Vag looked down at the table, and noticed that the nickels in the secondary were overshifted. He placed them properly and spun the quarter again. This time it ran head on into the center backer-up and was thrown for a two-yard loss, slowly subsiding onto the beery table top.

Pageantry, hell, he thought, these track stars aren't so hot after all.