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.

I need not tell you about the rest. You know how congenial, how satisfying the after-game party was, a network of warm friendships, a hubbub of excited, laughing conversations, laced through with the bracing stimulation of hot rum punch. You know also what their dinner was like, the chicken cacciatore, the wine, the one candle filling their flushed faces with flickering figments of fantasy. You know what the play was like, the hurrying into seats, the white furs and black satin lapels, the amiable crowd in the lobby at intermission. But then you don't know what transpired in the car as they parked on a hill overlooking Boston, and I wont' tell you. The tender togetherness of young lovers can be shared with no one.

Lunchy

At last, warmed and exhilarated, a little exhausted, Rocko and Tubeless stood together on the veranda of Briggs Hall, Radcliffe, still murmuring snatches of Harvard songs, chuckling quietly, rubbing noses, and displaying similar bits of lunchy sentimentality. Rocko ran his nose along her forehead, savoring the fragrance of her clean blond hair, watching the darkness of the Briggs Hall veranda. It was only then that he noticed another couple, embracing. The girl seemed to be resisting, and as she turned her head away from her escort, Rocko heard her speak: "Oh don't, Hubert. Please, Hubert. Don't ruin it." Rocko noticed that the boy wore ratty clothes, and his trousers were too short. His socks were disappearing into his torn sneakers.

Five weeks before, Hubert Blemish had dialed Briggs Hall, smiling apologetically at the neighbor whose phone he was using.

Hubert scratched his side. He had had a haircut, and he itched all over. Briggs Hall was busy, so he hung up and sat scratching himself with both hands. Hubert was not very imposing at first glance, but after watching him for a few minutes you would decide that he was not imposing at all. His clothes had a slept-in look, and it was obvious that his laundry was late again. Hubert was majoring in fine arts because he wanted to be an interior decorator. Interior decoration begins at home, you might comment after seing Hubert, but he would not care about your opinion.

Hubert dialed four numbers, scratched the side of his big nose, and dialed three more.

"Briggs Hall, good evening."

"Uh, hello, Uh, uh-Uh, I forgot the name of the girl. Gee whiz. Maybe I should hang up and call back."

"Is that you, Hubert? It's lucky I'm on bells, or you'd never find me. For the last time, my name is Mary Jane Brown. Got it? Mary Jane Brown. Now what was on your mind?"

"Oh, uh, hello, Mary Jane. Say, how the hell are you?"

"Fine. What's on your mind, Hubert?"

"Well, uh, what are you doing Friday night?"

"I have a date."

"Saturday?"

"I have a date then, too."

"Thursday?"

"I have a paper due Friday."

"Sunday?"

"I have to wait on that night."

"Well, uh, how about next Thursday?"

"I have a long paper due the week after that. Have to stay in all weekend."

"Oh, well, how about two weeks from Friday?"

"My mother is coming up then. Mothers are such an awful bore."

"Well, uh, then what are you doing the weekend after that?"

"Why, uh, I'll be having loads of hour exams and things the next week, and I'll probably have to stay in all weekend. I'll just be exhausted. I guess I study too much."

"Yes, Mary Jane, I know how it is to put your heart and soul into studying. It's a sacrifice, but we should never hesitate to make it."

"You're right, Hubert. You're so right."

"And the weekend after that you will probably want to get out a little and relax, won't you?"

"Why, yes, I guess I would, Hubert. I guess I would."

"Okay, well, I'll pick you up at 12:30."

"Oh, Hubert-why so early in the afternoon?"

"Well, I thought you might like to see the Yale game."

"Urp. Uh, I-Well of course, Hubert, I'd love to see the Yale game."

"I knew you would. I sort of trapped you, didn't I?"

"Yes, Hubert. How clever of you."

At Dawn

Yale Saturday dawned murkily and Hubert struggled free of the tangled bedclothes, leaving a trail of sheets and blankets leading toward the john. Therein he groped for the drinking glass, but remembered that his roommate had dropped it the day before. He noticed blood pumping from a deep gash in his foot. He somehow got the shaving cream can backwards, and squirted his eye, dropped his pajama bottoms in surprise, lost his balance, and fell into the shower.

Hubert attended his three morning classes, but they had all been cancelled in honor of Yale's visit. He had to pass up lunch because the car wouldn't start, but a little salt in the radiator and half a coke in the battery water did the trick.

Hubert dropped his transmission in Harvard Square, and coasted to a stop in front of the Wursthaus. The game itself was a letdown for Mary Jane, because Hubert had misspelled Yale on his ticket application, and had been informed by a Mr. Lunden that his application for Yule tickets had been rejected. They listened to the game on the car radio until the battery ran down, then walked to Hubert's room for the last half, during which Hubert attempted eight forward passes and completed none.

I need not tell you about the rest. You know how congenial, how satisfying were the eight after-game parties they crashed, the blank faces, the curious stares, the drone of dull, repetitive remarks, the streaks of sticky gin punch on people's clothing. You know what dinner was like (breaded veal in the house dining hall). You know what the double bill at the U.T. was like. You don't know what transpired later in the car, because the tender togetherness of young lovers can be shared with no one. But Mary Jane pushed, and Hubert steered.

If you must socialize, if you must suffer, then go ahead. But with tickets going for $20 a pair, you can clear $19.50 by taking in the matinee at the U.T. Join me. I've got apathy I haven't even used yet.