Murder in Broad Daylight

This is not going totobea column about Spinoza or the Great Books, but about something equally important. That is to say, Ivy League football.

Someone ought to remember how it used to be. Even when the team that year wasn’t much, you would walk through one of those tunnels at the Yale Bowl or into the afternoon sunlight at Harvard’s stadium, and the packed-in crowd would be singing— yes, singing. Everyone knew the traditional college songs. “Crash through that line of Blue …” “Ten thousand men of Harvard …” Cole Porter had written the famous Yale song: “Bulldog, bulldog, bow wow wow.”

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Jeffrey Hart

Jeffrey Hart is a contributor to National Review.

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This is not going totobea column about Spinoza or the Great Books, but about something equally important. That is to say, Ivy League football.

Someone ought to remember how it used to be. Even when the team that year wasn’t much, you would walk through one of those tunnels at the Yale Bowl or into the afternoon sunlight at Harvard’s stadium, and the packed-in crowd would be singing— yes, singing. Everyone knew the traditional college songs. “Crash through that line of Blue …” “Ten thousand men of Harvard …” Cole Porter had written the famous Yale song: “Bulldog, bulldog, bow wow wow.”