Search

FOOTBALL STADIUM

Oct. 25, 1954
Oct. 25, 1954

Table of Contents
Oct. 25, 1954

Pat On The Back
  • Herewith a salute from the editors to men and women of all ages who have fairly earned the good opinion of the world of sport, regardless of whether they have yet earned its tallest headlines

Soundtrack
Spectacle
The Wonderful World Of Sport
Winning Combination
Weidman's Burden
  • Father Weidman, a larcenous lover of long shots, learns a thing or two from seven-year-old John, to wit: lay your money on the line and let the odds go hang

Under 21
First Scent
A Place To Be
Sporting Look
Motor Sports
Baseball
Acknowledgments
Fisherman's Calendar
Yesterday
  • Red Grange hit Pennsylvania like a tornado, silencing those Eastern skeptics for all time

19th Hole: The Readers Take Over

FOOTBALL STADIUM

On autumn Saturdays they are not only fine places for watching a game, but wonderful for family picnics too

The citizens sunbathing on the page opposite, while the athletes exercise below, are inhaling one of the prime pleasures of the American autumn. The breeze is full of gusto, the air is full of festivity, the ladies are full of chrysanthemums, and the trees are beginning to share colored leaves with the earth.

This is an article from the Oct. 25, 1954 issue Original Layout

Ensconced here in the tiers of Harvard Stadium, these devotees have filtered over the Charles River from Harvard's Georgian houses along its banks, from the subway that stretches all the way to Boston and from the parked cars in from everywhere.

It doesn't take a college graduate to make an alumnus when football is on. Notre Dame never had more partisan fans than in the days when its subway alumni converged from all the boroughs of New York to see it square off with the Army in Yankee Stadium.

Yale's Merritt Parkway alumni include anybody with a pasteboard and a Pontiac riding the Connecticut highway that leads to the Yale Bowl. Both Yale and Princeton are merely objectives for picnicking families on fall Saturdays. Those who get down to Nassau early enough string out along the edges of Lake Carnegie and old club members head for Prospect Street to set up an alfresco lunch on eating-club lawns.

Both Yale and Princeton turn their practice fields into parking areas on Saturday mornings. By noon the family Buicks are streaming like safari wagons across the green turf, covering the cleat marks where bruised scrubs battled a bare 72 hours before.

Then from the trunks come the wicker baskets that arrived last Christmas tied with a satin bow and loaded with liquor. And the Scotch Koolers decorated with the tartan of the Royal Stewart (may they never know). And from the coolers come the pint-sized whiskey bottles, washed out now and replaced with Martinis which have been chilling all the way from Scarsdale.

From the depths of the wicker, wrapped in cocoons of waxed paper, come the hard-boiled eggs the deep-fried chicken, the well-mashed sandwiches. The formalists dip into the trunk and come up with cocktail shakers. The fastidious are busy taking silver goblets out of felt bags that tie with drawstrings. You can hear the ice cubes clinking in the plastic cups of modernists. And the Lewis & Congerous sit smugly at their picnic tote table that folds up into a kit this big.

Blankets are spread from hubcap to hubcap; the tailgates are down on the station wagons. Both are laden equally with cellophane bags of potato chips and plums and plates crowned with Himalayas of potato salad mixed by mama the night before from a German recipe that calls for green peppers. And what's left over is wrapped again and stored until after the game. There isn't anything quite like a half of a soggy egg-salad sandwich when the car is on the highway, rolling home under the ivy-covered bridges, past leaves burning on a suburban lawn and the white birches and the red maples. Oh, to have an old egg-salad sandwich any Saturday at 5, when Mel Allen's pipes are working over a western game on the car radio and the air is musky with wood smoke and the dying sun is coaxing the last glint of yellow out of a poplar leaf that only lately was a shade for the summer sun.

TWO ILLUSTRATIONSPHOTOJERRY COOKE

OLD GRAD'S NOSTALGIA

On a fall Saturday not long ago a gentleman in a polo coat and muffler stood for some time on the corner by the Old Campus in New Haven watching busload after busload leave for the Yale Bowl. Finally the starter, worrying that the gent would miss the kick-off, walked over to him. "Can I help you?" he asked.

"Well, I'm waiting for one of the open trolley cars," the gent replied. For years the local transportation company, as full of tradition as a Yale sophomore, had trotted out the open-air trams every fall Saturday to transport spectators from the campus to the field.

"Ah," the starter said, shaking his head, "they're gone. They've taken them off for good."

At this the visitor spun on his heel and without another word, climbed into a nearby taxi to take the next train to New York.