Beside the intrepid, naked reporter crouches another man. A big man. A man with the taut flanks and self-assured ease of a man who could only be lax team captain Buddy Bixford. The men crouch, together in the alleyway. There is silence.

Slowly, the big man begins to speak. Slowly, the intrepid reporter begins to listen. The big man tells a tale of loss, of suffering, of sturm, and of drang. But there is humor, too, in his voice. A quiet resolution. The firm determination of a man who refuses to be squashed by the turmoil of uncertain fate.

This is the story that one intrepid reporter heard that dark, oh-so-dark night, not long ago.

The scene: The Yale varsity lax practice field somewhere in New Haven.

The place: Right there on the field.

The time: The recent past, shortly after a team practice. The sun, perhaps, is sinking, loweringly, into the West. The team, although despairing and badly demoralized, has not lost its patented sense of humor.

Team Captain, Buddy Bixford: Our chances, I suppose, shall improved as we yet more diligently apply ourselves to our practice.

But something interrupted the practice.

Team-mate #1: Hey fellas! What is this here by the side of the field?

Team-mate #2: It's the size of a pig's head--but it doesn't look like one.

Team-mate #3: It smells vaguely like a wet poodle--but no, not exactly.

Buddy Bixford: The identity of this mysterious object baffles me. It tastes a little bit like...well, it sort of tastes like cottage cheese looks. But not quite.

Team-mate #1: Let me try.

Team-mate #2: No, me.

Team-mate #3: I'm sure I could solve this mystery, if allowed a taste.