11/20
A young Asian guy is holding 3 of 4 of the straight back fold down seats for friends joining in Stamford. The circle of friends nearest me say, “Dude, seriously?” And he relents and offers up 3 of the 4 seats and goes back to his Times. A young woman looks up and sees an old man standing and says, “Would you like to sit down?” And without hesitation, I say “ I sure would” and take her seat.
My companions are all 26 or so and Yale Med grads working at Sinai. A mix of ethnicities, genders, gay and straight, friends. Yale. They are well supplied with craft beer. They ask if I’m an alum and I say “Yes, Div School’75” which leads to questions and shared beers as we roll on to New Haven.
I realize the overwhelming number of riders on this train are young professional grads from Yale and Harvard who live and work in the city. Their city adventure years. Doctors, lawyers, traders and techies, you could run a small country with this train. But today, it’s all about the GAME.
To the Bowl
How to get to the Bowl from the Union Station is a major concern. Cabs and Ubers, given the traffic, are out of the question. My companions are ready for a two and a half mile trek to the Bowl. My best option seems to be a cab to campus and then a Yale shuttle. As I look for a cab, I see another FREE shuttle to the Green.
And there I am, right across from the Yale shuttle. I’m pleased that I’ve managed to come this way all for free. On the bus, I remember the old familiar route to the game. Little changed in almost half a century. Even the package stores where we’d load up on beer and harder stuff and the delis where we’d stock up on hoagies for the game. I remember the long Saturday afternoons with my friends, from Texas and Ohio and Virgina. Our crew of first Div School students still feeling like, holding onto being college students. And I remember my late December time here in freezing rain with one of my Bridgeport students to see the Giants trounced by the Vikings during their ill conceived two year sojourn here. How the Giant’s faithful must’ve hated this journey. I see it all again, my friends, their faces. The feel of crisp fall New England air.
As we slowly wind our way to the Bowl, there’s a steady growing, flowing stream of people walking their way with determination to the Bowl like pilgrims to a shrine. Which is in a way true.
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| The OG |
We finally stop a couple of blocks short with traffic at stand still so I walk the rest of the way, looking at the grassy fields filled with tailgaters. At the gate, a group of Harvard students are surprised to find a no bag policy in effect and the security guy is giving them a tough once over. He sees my old school hat and repro practice jersey, my age, smiles and says, OK OG, you’re good, c’mon through. And after an ID and vax check and always anxiety filled mobile ticket scan, I’m there. The grassy hill that surrounds the bowl, built from the earth dug out to make it, like a prehistoric culture’s burial mound.
Pregame
Nothing has changed …except for the circle of food trucks ringing the stadium with everything from barbecue to guacamole to kelp burgers. I settle for a “loaded” kielbasa.
Oh, and portable stadium lights on trucks. With the advent of overtime in college ball, games, even starting at noon, can stretch out into late afternoon with darkness falling.
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| Joint bands |
Inside, I’m shocked to see the Bowl only about a third full. At most. I take a great aisle seat on the 40. The Harvard side nearly empty as first the band in Crimson and then the Yale Precision Marching Band, both in their blazers and white pants, do their pregames and the the two bands join together for the National Anthem.
The Game
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| The GAME is underway |
Yale marches right down to score. A couple of interceptions lead to a field goal and touchdown for Harvard . With 5 minutes left in the half, Harvard is up by 10 after a return of an all too short punt. Then at about two minutes left, Yale’s left handed sophomore quarterback Grooms is nearly sacked, scrambles and nearly out of bounds flings the ball straight down the sideline to a sprinting JJ Howland for a thrilling touchdown.
I missed some exciting plays due to the steady stream of people entering the stands. I’d forgotten that for a large part of the crowd, the tailgate is the main event. I remember taking my visiting brother to a game. As we walk past tables laden with food and cutlery and iced bottles of champagne, he said, “It’s like a rich peoples’ Woodstock.”
As I look at the game wear, the quality of shirts and white Yale sweaters and corduroys and fine leather shoes, LL Bean and beyond, I imagine the stone front the houses and rolling Connecticut estates. Trains are for the young during their city adventure years, not people my age. There is almost an aroma to privilege. And I’m beginning to feel annoyed. As the half ends, a late arriving group ousts me from my seat.
There’s a tribute to veterans and a recording of I’m proud to be an American by Lee Greenwood. It feels almost Ivy ironic. I stay for the snarky half time shows of the two bands, always the essence of clever and ironic. But always ending with the traditional Boolah, Boolah (1900) and March down the field (1904). (When I moved to Oklahoma, I was shocked to discover Boolah Boolah had morphed into Boomer Sooner. Yale always has a majorette twirler and at least one guitar and violin in the band. Then head to look for food.
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| second half view |
With interminable lines, I head to the lower curve of the Bowl. And to my surprise, see a nearly full stadium. The Yale side fulll, Harvard about three quarters. Nearly 50,000. Still. Years from the glory days. Still.
I realize I’ve seen more fur today than I have in decades. Mainly on men. Old white Elis and a black man in raccoon coat and boater and a young flambouyant Latino with his dad. We really are reliving the last golden age right into the twenties. This would clearly be disconcerting to the kelp burger guys.
I am sitting at just the right angle for a sweeping stadium view, There’s a steady stream of couples lining ups for panoramic memory shots.
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| Harvard's ball |
The game itself is a classic. After back and forths and being down by 10, Yale finally takes the lead on another Grooms pass at 34-31 with 7:48 left. Too much time, I think. And sure enough, Harvard marches relentlessly down the field and with 22 seconds left, Luke Emge hits Wimberly with a perfect corner of the end zone pass for a Crimson touchdown and that is that. And despite PA warnings, the Harvard students take the field.
Postgame
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| Handsome Dan |
Grab a pulled pork barbecue on the way out. The kelp guys are giving away free burgers. Stop to check out the Handsome Dan icon statue. Searching for the shuttle back to campus.
On the crowded bus, a beautiful young woman with chestnut hair sits beside me and, clearly having had a long day, fall asleep, her head on my shoulders. This seeming pleasant experience is fraught with anxiety contemplating how one accidental shift could lead to a startled wake up and potential “trigger” incident, me being the only old man on the bus. So I sit frozen in place for the 45 minute crawl back to campus. Thankfully, as we arrive, a friend taps her on the shoulder and I am set free.
Soon enough, I’m back at the station and on my way back to New York.
Back to New York
The train is not crowded on the way back. Mainly Harvards around me. And I’m reflecting on privilege. How with my Yale degree and first call at the then largest Presbyterian church in the country, the table had been set for me. And pondering the choices that wind me up in my Harlem apartment and riding the train instead of a stone manse in Connecticut and a car and tailgate party near the bowl.
My Div School friends came from good schools. We all felt privileged to be grad students at Yale. Somewhat taken aback by the undergrads we’d encounter who looked at Yale as an expected birthright.
What made Yale for me was New Haven. My off campus work as a teachers’ aid in a ghetto middle school. My time with Legal Aid in the Hill District neighborhood with a feisty staff of blacks and Puerto Ricans. Getting to know and Iove the people of the projects. Starting to learn Spanish. The summer I stayed in New Haven working with them. My Puerto Rican paralegal girlfriend. The Friday afternoon beer and pizza sessions reviewing the week. My architect school friend Harvey from the Bronx living on Dagget Street and working to build an access friendly peoples’ information system for the Hill. My work at St.Paul’s Episcopal in the Wooster Square neighborhood with its landmark pizza parlors. That’s what set my course for life more than storied Ivy walls and Gothic architecture.
I think of my friend Mark, heavy set, long haired, wheel chair bound singer-songwriter of magnificent songs, a Doonesbury era Yalie. Hosting the pandemic virtual Yale Cabaret, his circle of Yalie friends from that ‘70s other side of Yale. The unchanged older Zonker Harrises. We lost him to Covid.
All these memories and thoughts fill my mind as the train makes its way back to Harlem. It was good to be back.
March, march on down the field,
Fighting for Eli.
Break through that crimson line,
Their strength to defy.
We'll give a long cheer for Eli's men.
We're here to win again.
Harvard's team may fight to the end,
But Yale will win!
Bulldog, bulldog, bow-wow-wow, Eli Yale!
Bulldog, bulldog, bow-wow-wow, our team will never fail!
When the sons of Eli break through the line,
That is the sign we hail.
Bulldog, bulldog, bow-wow-wow, Eli Yale!
