I’m nearly halfway through my third year at Yale, and I’d like to think I’ve done justice to the major traditions: I’ve attended the Yale Symphony Orchestra Halloween concert at Woolsey Hall, danced to Sofi Tukker at Spring Fling and watched the decadent Parade of Comestibles pass me by in Commons. I even wrote about the YSO show in my application to Yale: “it’s in Woolsey Hall on Halloween night that I’ll revel in good music in humor” (the rest of that supplement I’m keen to omit). I’m proud of the fact that I enjoy the de jure Yale traditions, though a little less proud that I buy into the de facto ones (being a perpetual Elm dweller, deciding on a double major in two very different subjects halfway through sophomore year, getting stranded at the Newark Airport train station repeatedly because there is literally no easy way to get to this school, etc.). 

But I haven’t been to Yale-Harvard. 

My first year, it was a clerical error: I thought The Game was the weekend after Thanksgiving, not before (and, naively, that Harvard, too, had the entire week off for Thanksgiving. Suckers). Cut me some slack; I had a lot on my mind: L4 French was a doozy, as was the aftermath of the wildest Hallowoads the world has ever seen. I watched The Game in my pajamas, at home with my parents and my dog, listening to my football-savvy father yell at the TV about first downs and passing lanes and zone reads. Alas, there are still areas where my Ivy League education has failed me. Kick ball through sticks, run into colorful rectangle. Golazo! 

My second year, I took a much-needed and long-awaited trip to Europe with my mom, visiting Paris and London. I genuinely did not care about missing The Game. Tickets were either scarce or abominably expensive (the Amtrak Northeast Regional is God’s curse unto man), and besides, I’ve heard the party scene in Cambridge is lame. Instead, I spent that Saturday with my mom at the Turbine Building of  the Tate Modern, blinded by Jenny Holzer’s Artist Rooms and looking at Cézannes. We followed up with coffee and excellent shopping. I felt zero remorse — though it did seem to be a beautiful day in Cambridge and an even more beautiful day to be a Dawg. 

But this past Tuesday, I made the fated trek to Roy Tompkins House and picked up my very own, brand new, shiny, sparkly Harvard-Yale ticket, which, regrettably, did not fit into my phone wallet (I still need to make sure I haven’t lost it to the ether of my backpack. Ticket office, can we work on these dimensions, please?). It was a major moment. Yale-Harvard. 

I’m psyched for The Game. I haven’t worn a temporary tattoo since about 2009 nor have I ever been to a football game where I was even marginally interested in what was going on on the field. Only American football could have a “special team” within a team; it’s the only sport where there’s more jargon than there is athletic movement. But any form of competition presents an opportunity for one of my favorite pastimes: trash talk. 

For example: did you know the Crimson boast a defensive back named Sterling Scott? As in, the long-lost, switched-at-birth twin of the notorious, infamous, will-never-be-forgotten Yale goalkeeper Scott Sterling? Will Harvard’s trainer also take Mr. Scott “off the field like a mustached lion dragging a gazelle through the Serengeti?” I certainly hope so (in jest, of course). 

Or, perhaps even better: Ben Abercrombie — from no less than Hoover, Alabama! Just looking at his roster photo, it’s obvious this man was born to be Mr. Homecoming, doused in Abercrombie: Fierce cologne. Too bad the boy-next-door isn’t at home — not that that’s served Harvard well in the past, anyway. 

Finally, get this one: Cali Caneval, of Florida! The only sad part about this man is that he is from Fort Lauderdale, not Cape Canaveral. I think the name in and of itself warrants a move, unless he’s particularly keen to avoid the very, very odd Elon Musk and the increasingly odder Jeff Bezos (poor NASA. What ever will they do with the billionaires?). Bonus points for Cali in that he’s a kicker — probably the only member of the Harvard team that does the term “football” justice — but also, he was a two-year captain of his high school soccer team. All I’m saying is that for Harvard, all roads lead back to Scott Sterling, and we all know how that turned out. Boola boola, baby! 

I’ve spent two-plus years waiting for The Game (ok, not really, but go along with my drama, here). Beyond the obvious upsides, I’m simply thrilled to trek out to the athletic fields in the rain (70 percent chance: you must be joking) to watch the Men of Yale™ potentially give other men concussions and cha-cha-slide into the end zone for points of various value. For God, for Country and for the traditions of Yale — Huck Farvard.