Herman Hickman snarled at the fat bulldog, "That damn second half--couldn't do a thing right."

It was after the game in the lounge at Yale's Lapham Field House. The Elis had just routed Brown by the score of 36 to 12 and Tennessee's gift to the Ivy League was disturbed. He loosened a J. Press blue knit tie and continued.

"Gee, we looked good the first half, really improved over last week. Made mistakes of course, lots of them, but gee, we looked good By the way, where are you from?"

"Harvard."

"Oh. How's Mr. Jordan doing? Got a really good man there, solid all the way." It was apparent that the second half had really done things to the huge Hickman. The white button-down shirt he were clung to his Dulky frame, wrinkling just a little as he bent forward.

"Read where Buff Donelli says Jordan's team hits harder than Army. Pretty high praise, that. We were charging pretty hard the first half, but that second half, I don't know."

A boy came in with a pitcher of ice water. Hickman poured three caps and drank them.

"What do you think of that passer, Ryan (second string quarterback).

"Looked pretty good, didn't he. Of course, he's much more erratic than Tisdale, but he's got second year status now. Sort of sophomorish, huh?"

We all chuckled.

Two gentlemen with blue and white striped ties entered the room. Hickman turned to them, and then to us.

"Having a little meeting with some alumni and friends of Yale."

We started toward the door.

"Wish Jordan good luck for me," he said. "I hope he wins every game but the last. And I mean that sincerely."

Good luck, Mr. Jordan.