It was ten o'clock Saturday morning, steady rain was slowly turning the green Eliot House courtyard into a quagmire. I called my date for the football game and said "Good morning, Susan, it's raining."

"That's all right," she replied cheerily, cheerily as she could after being awakened by the phone. "I'll wear my boots and raincoat. I really love football, I'm really gung-ho."

"I'll pick you up at one," I said cheerily, or as cheerily as I could after realizing I would have to sit in the stands, and not in the warm, dry pressbox. No girls are allowed in the pressbox; I wondered if Mrs. Bunting know shot.

I went to the sports information office and took an extra program (also puts the covers on her wall, or something).

Susan was almost ready when I arrived. She put on a heavy wool cardigan. "At least she'll be warm," I thought. Then a raincoat. "At least she'll be dry," I thought. Over that she put on a poncho. "She'll be shapeless," I thought. She put on loafers, a scarf, and a rain-hat. I twisted uneasily in my deceptively thin trenchooat.

Boylston Street was practically deserted. We reached Memorial Drive and a few hardy souls elustered at the light. One guy kept muttering "This is ridiculous, this is ridiculous" as we crossed the street. I looked at Susan. She was smiling; she looked like my little brother in that poncho.

Halfway across the bridge we encountered my trusty sports editor, Joe Russin. "Hello, Joe Russin, trusty sports editor," I called. "Hello, you idiot," he called back. Russin was going to sit in the press-box.

At the Stadium, Russin turned into the gate marked "press and photographers only," and I went to follow. Wishful thinking. Susan grabbed my arm. "This gate, dear," she said cheerily. Under the stands we ran into one of her friends, similarly bundled up. They exchanged raucous greetings. Her friend's date stared dumbly at the two of them and took another bite of his hot dog. We exchanged shrugs, unsmilingly.

We sat in 50-yard line seats, about halfway up the stands. Within seconds a moist chill had permeated my bottom. Dammit, I had forgotten to bring something to sit on. Susan was singing the Latin words to "Ten Thousand Men of Harvard." She really was gung-ho. Or maybe she dated someone in the hand.

We stood up for the kickoff. When we sat down the seats were wet again. The chill spread a bit farther. In front of us two guys were huddled together with Gordon Linen towels over their heads. They each took a swig from a bottle of rum. Dammit, I had forgotten the thermos of hot coffee.

Mike Bassett threw a pass to Pat Young and we scored a touchdown. Everyone leaped up and cheered. I almost took someone's eye out with my umbrella; someone almost did the same to me. It was sort of like life, in a manner of speaking.

Bill Grana scored two touchdowns and the first quarter wasn't even over yet. The guys with the Gordon Linen towels on their heads each took another swig. They couldn't have cared less.

The game progressed. At halftime the band was really funny, and there wasn't even one dirty joke in the whole show. I laughed a little, but it hurt. Susan helped me pry my hand off the umbrella handle. She was sweet.

By the fourth quarter Susan was complaining. About every two minutes she was complaining. About her feet, her hands, her bottom. I suggested that we leave. "Don't be a jerk," she replied cheerily, "I'm going to prove I'm gung-ho. We stay till the end." I watched the clock creep toward zero. Finally the last play was run off, or so I thought. There was time for one more and we sat down again. There was a puddle there.

We won, 36-0.