There is very little one can do about Yale weekend, except remember that old adage about weekends: The bigger they are, the harder they fall. Yale, like Christmas, comes but once a year, and similarly would be nothing without its "spirit." The spirit is compulsory, but the spirits are limited. The unfortunate necessity of remaining cold sober because one's date is so important makes the day insufferable.

But happiness is where we find it, and it might help us face our festive ordeal to investigate two fairly typical Harvard men, men who sought happiness the last time Yale hit town. These stories are true: only the facts have been changed.

W. Rockingham Cabot, otherwise known as Rocko, stood studying his cream-colored telephone. "Of course she is saving the weekend for me," he thought. "But I should call her just to confirm it."

Square

Rocko was strikingly handsome, a natural football hero who had renounced the sport for advanced nuclear physics. His close-cropped blond head seemed tiny atop his muscular frame, and yet there was something kindly and perceptive about his square, sun-tanned face. Frowning purposefully, Rocko dialed Briggs Hall.

"Briggs Hall, good evening."

"Good evening. Might I speak to Miss Tubeless Whitewall?"

Tubeless came to the phone. "Hello, is that you, Rocko dear?"

"Hello, sweet. Might I take you to the Yale thing tomorrow afternoon, with perhaps a cocktail and a show afterwards?"

"Oh, Rocko! What a surprise! Why of course. When will you be by?"

"Noonish."

"Oh, heavenly. Noonish then. Ta ta!"

Rocko double-parked his red Ferrari outside Briggs Hall the next afternoon. Tubeless, who had been waiting, ran out and embraced him, a dream in her black knit sheath and white suede greatcoat. Her wavy blond hair tangled silkily with his fingers as she crushed against him. Her matchless face was burning with anticipation.

After a tasty lunch at the club, Rocko drove across the bridge and on to Storrow Drive, made a U-turn, and found a parking space near the stadium gate. The Harvard band played them to their seats. Sunlight poured down, warming them. The nippy air filled their lungs with clean coolness. Conversation buzzed around them; martial music stirred them; they lent their voices to cheers surging like surf from the sea of happy faces. Awed by it all, they sought each other's eyes.

Yale kicked off, a long, spiralling kick that carried to Harvard's goal line. A lineman caught it and darted for the near sideline. A deafening crescendo of agonied yells sped the runner past the midfield stripe, behind a series of crushing blocks. Two tackles clung to him but he would not stop. Finally, crushed under a mountain of Yale muscle, he lateraled a pass between the legs of a tackler, and a teammate gathered the ball into his arms for the last twenty yards and the first of Harvard's nine touchdowns.