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The raucous cries of noble Crimson supporters will soon fill Harvard Square. The pouring in of thousands of Harvard alumni to participate in the rogue mischief and storied traditions of The Game is a constant, which current students can count upon year over year.

Or so they might think.

In the 149 years that Harvard has struck out to solidify its superiority over its Ancient Eight counterpart, there have been nine fateful years in which the Harvard faithful have been denied their revelry. This recounting of those nine canceled contests features war, disease, and all the other bizarre ways in which football can be prohibited — at great cost to fans of the past, and great wonder to those of us in the present.

1877

Most do not know the extent to which the Ancient Eight conference shaped the rules of football. In 1875, the first game was fought between the two teams, but each squad carried with it an entirely unique set of rules and procedures.

Yale, in an act of goodwill, played by Harvard’s rules, which allowed for passing, running, and throwing the ball rather than just kicking. The Cambridge cohort also valued the depth of its roster, pleading with its New Haven brother to allow for 15 men from each bench to battle on the grass at once. Yale, unfamiliar with the rules, was easily walloped four goals (at this point, the game of football was still a rough rugby-soccer combination) to nil.

The kinks in the system were partially thought through in 1876, but it was the lineup dispute that came back to haunt the New Haven college. In 1877, Yale insisted that the two programs play with a lighter first line of 11 players from each team rather than 15. The athletic association to which Harvard reported, however, barred the school from competing in the game unless the two programs played with the allotted 15.

In 1878, Yale again made the concession to allow for 15 members, and the two schools played along this guideline until the 11-member lines were formally adopted by the association in 1880.

While the Varsity programs were unable to compete during this year, the freshman squads battled in New Haven with lines of 11. With “the politeness and hospitality of Yale” being “deeply appreciated, and after the handsome supper given to our eleven, both teams parted on the best of terms with a ‘Good by till Thanksgiving,’” a traveling Crimson editor noted.

1885

Too dangerous. That is what Harvard faculty declared the sport, pulling the football team from the athletic association in an effort to protect the next class of brilliant minds from the dangerous brutality of the game. The students would not let this stand.

Despite being unable to play intercollegiate contests against rivals Yale and Princeton, a squad led by one M. M. Kimball, class of 1886, who led the 1884 team, rallied together to play — directly contradicting the faculty’s instruction.

Kimball’s rallying cry around the “revival of the good old game” would inspire over 50 men to assemble on Jarvis field. “Never before,” The Crimson wrote, “have so many candidates presented themselves, or has so much enthusiasm been manifested by the players.” Despite the show of support, the team was only able to play intra-team scrimmages, local high schools, and out-of-conference teams.

When presented with a last-ditch opportunity to play the Elis on neutral ground, then-Harvard President Charles W. Eliot refused to let his cherished Crimson cross state lines to keep the tradition alive. While the squad refused to participate, a group of other schools — Yale, Princeton, UPenn, and Wesleyan — were establishing a reputable league on their own.

Eliot lauded the effort and said the school might rejoin after seeing the success of the programs that season. Those teams carried the fate of the Crimson on their strong shoulders, ultimately succeeding in swaying Harvard’s leadership to again let the footballs fly.

1888

Two years of hard-fought competition ensued after the 1885 break. It seems that after years of deferring to its Boston rival, Yale’s spirit of concession had come to a halt. Another break in yearly play seemed likely to plague the Crimson and stymie any momentum it might make amongst the competitive ranks of the Ancient Eight. This time it was not the directive of President Eliot, but the Harvard Athletic Committee’s interdict.

In the spirit of alternating the home team with each contest, the 1888 rendition of The Game should have been played in Cambridge. The Yale management, however, relied on a league technicality that stated that the first and second ranked teams in the league – Harvard and Yale – would play in New York on Thanksgiving Day, knowing that the Crimson would be unable to make the journey due to its faculty’s objections.

The New York Times reported that when an intercollegiate athletic council decided on the New York site the previous summer, Harvard failed to make an objection — instead waiting until the weeks leading up to The Game to make its opposition known.

According to The Crimson, the Elis not only failed to offer a neutral site that might be amenable to Harvard’s athletic association, but went so far as to decree that if Harvard failed to make the journey, the game would be forfeited in favor of the Bulldogs. Harvard acquiesced, but not without pleading. Its appeals were simply ignored.

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1895 and 1896

“Bloodbath.” “Massacre.” These are just some of the honorifics attached to the 1894 rendition of The Game, which was also bestowed the moniker of The Springfield Massacre. Neither the Elis nor the Crimson would accept responsibility for starting the violent brawl or take ownership of the flagrant fouls that injured several players on both benches.

Yale, sanctimonious in its position that it was Harvard who should take blame for the failed display of sportsmanship, insisted on silence. The New York Times reported that Harvard’s captain had attempted to draft a letter to send to the Elis’ administration, but that the school thwarted his attempts at brokering a peace deal.

The Bulldogs suggested that the two schools adjourn and refrain from playing for one or two years until the horror at the bloody 1894 matchup had faded from public memory.

While the issues surrounding the game were initially settled in the spring of 1895, the matter was reopened in June of that year. Newspapers began to report that the Crimson had ceremoniously held out an olive branch of peace to the Bulldogs, suggesting that the programs divide the league in two over the disputes surrounding the game.

Though this was never officially offered as a solution in writing — as neither program was keen on having a paper trail associated with the decision of splitting the Ancient Eight — private conversations between officials at both universities concluded that Harvard would not offer an apology and that the Elis would not ask for anything of the sort. In doing so, both schools would be visibly absolved of the sin of transgression.

Later, in discussions surrounding the proposal — which never came into fruition, thereby saving the integrity of the time-honored rivalry — it was decided that letters should be passed between the Elis’ captain Thorne and the Crimson’s captain Arthur H. Brewer, class of 1896, as a means of brokering peace between the squads.

“There is a price Yale will not pay for college sports. She considers them worth preserving only with competitors in whose sportsmanship she has confidence and who have reciprocal confidence in her sportsmanship,” wrote Thorne in his letter to Brewer, justifying the Bulldogs’ anger towards their rival. “This word means to her clean, honorable, forbearing rivalry on every field.”

The pen pals reached an agreement to meet and discuss the possibility of hosting another football game. But Harvard’s athletic leaders deemed the act of contrition insufficient, however, and the hiatus extended for two years until play resumed in 1897.

1917 and 1918

Yale has a noble saying: “For God, for country, and for Yale.” During the two-year span of 1917 and 1918, the football players for both schools found themselves fighting a battle bigger than football, defending their country in a period of unprecedented geopolitical instability.

Intercollegiate sports came to an abrupt halt for both teams as the young men composing both rosters found themselves thrust into The Great War.

Arnold Horween, class of 1921, and Ralph Horween, class of 1920 — standout football players for the Harvard program who both served in the Navy and later went on to play professionally for the Chicago Cardinals — were amongst the dozens of men who found their collegiate careers stalled during the fighting.

Despite the reprieve, this particular set of classes produced some of Harvard’s most accomplished phenoms. Eddie Casey, class of 1819, was inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame in 1968 and the Rose Bowl Hall of Fame in 2019.

Casey was named the MVP of the 1920 Rose Bowl contest in which Harvard toppled Oregon 7-6 — the only bowl game appearance in Harvard history. He would later go on to play professionally before coaching the Crimson team and two professional teams: the Boston Bears and the Boston Redskins.

Arnold Horween and his brother Ralph were the last pair of Jewish brothers to play in the NFL before Geoff and Mitchell Schwartz in the early 2000s. Arnold, who played professionally for four seasons while acting as a player-coach for the Cardinals, had a prolific coaching career following his stint as a player, assuming the job of Harvard’s head coach from 1925 to 1930. Ralph also transitioned from player to coach, but unlike his brother, spent the whole of his coaching career with Cardinals.

A Nov. 1, 1918 article in The Crimson captured the patriotic spirit which made even the most American of sports secondary to the primary goal of winning the war.

“Since the existence of football as a University enterprise is not compatable with the best interests of the Nation during the present crisis,” the unnamed but loquacious writer wrote. “Let us drown our regrets and, after the Kaiser has been securely caged, we will again take up successfully our yearly task of taming the Tiger and the Bulldog.”

Following the conclusion of the war, Harvard took the task of besting its Ancient Eight rivals Yale and Princeton to heart, and would not pause again until the nation’s involvement in the Second World War in 1943.

1943 and 1944

Ibid.

Intercollegiate athletics were postponed for the Harvard benches following the school’s withdrawal from the Central Office for Eastern Intercollegiate Athletics in the spring of 1943.

While schools were able to selectively offer up rosters for individual sports — with the Elis, for example, choosing to register an ice hockey team but not a fleet of crews — Harvard withdrew its programs entirely from competition amid the height of the war.

The freshman football team — and players still registered for coursework at the College, rather than serving overseas — competed against local schools like Tufts, but no formal varsity team was established for the years of 1943 and 1944.

2020

A global pandemic. Social distancing. Strict, stringent precautions taken to ensure the health and safety of the entire nation — extenuating circumstances that even the long legacy of The Game could not overcome.

The first game since World War II to be missed, and the most recent in memory for supporters of either bench. A true testament of the lasting mark of The Game manifested in the outpouring of support from both schools to come together and keep the spirit of the weekend alive in the form of online events.

One Yale student who helped to organize an online roast-off between the two schools that fall even commented to the Yale Daily News that the event was “better than football.” Thus, even when football could not be played, some of The Game’s traditions have never stopped — Elis being foolish among them.

—Staff writer Katharine A. Forst can be reached at katharine.forst@thecrimson.com.