A football season opens today.
It's a patchwork quilt day, a day of multi-colored squares, a day which means something different to every individual.
This afternoon the band will play Harvardiana, a vendor will sell a proud father a Crimson pennant, a hundred cocktail glasses will be broken, someone's grand father will be sick, and some touchdowns will be scored.
An old man with a red feather in his hat will walk across the Lars Anderson bridge, he will enter his section of the stands and wave at a few acquaintances. He will look out on the field and see Ernie Horween or Eddie Mahan or Charlie Brickley. He'll watch the game and won't remember the score.
Students will come over the bridge too. Some will walk quickly, whistling a bit, pausing a second to drink from a leather bound flask, pulling a brightly clad girl along by the hand.
Others will walk more slowly, solemnly discussing the game, what the chances are. And one will turn to another and say, "What are you doing here?" There'll be no answer, for no one really knows.
A football season opens this afternoon.
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