The Class

doing so damn many push-ups we were almost living on the ground.”

“I don’t get it,” Andrew said. “I mean, you guys were only being friendly, weren’t you?”

“Of course, but naive Jason Gilbert hadn’t clicked that off the base, the town of Quantico is segregated like before the Civil War. Can you believe this member of the U.S. military was not allowed to have an ice cream in that place with us? That’s why he was so pissed off. He thought that we were mocking him.”

“No shit,” said Newall. “That’s amazing in this day and age. Christ, Gilbert, bet that made you happy that you’re only Jewish.”

Jason, staring at his teammate and supposed friend, deflected the unwitting insult like a skillful boxer. “Newall, I’ll forgive that last remark because I know you’re congenitally stupid.”

The eternal mediator, Andrew Eliot, deftly changed the subject. “Hey, listen, guys, I’ve got the latest Freshman Register. Why don’t we check out the new crop and get our bids in early, huh?”

“Sounds good to me,” said Newall, happy to move back to neutral ground. “What do you say, old Gilbert? Shall we cast our eyes upon the lovelies of the Class of ’61?”

Jason smiled. “At least you’re consistent, Newall,” he jibed, “always last man off the mark. I did my homework yesterday. The pick of the new talent is Maureen McCabe. And I’m taking her to Norumbega Park tonight.”

ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY

November 24, 1957

We start our college lives, symbolically as well as literally, in the ignominy of the End Zone. But our progress brings us to the happy culmination. In senior year, we get to sit right on the fifty-yard line near the President and the most distinguished alumni, whom the college honors with this pride of place.

Ironically of course, as first-year grads we’ll be back in the End Zone come next fall. So a gang of us decided to make this year’s Harvard-Yale game into a gigantic farewell blast.

Newall and I contacted some of our old prep school buddies down in New Haven and arranged for floors and couches for us all to sack out on.

We even got a place for Gilbert, who reciprocated by having his sister Julie fix us up with some of her more desirable (and we hoped pliable) girlfriends from Briarcliff.

Julie’s Cliff, unlike the one in Cambridge, Mass., is a much more pragmatic ladies’ college that puts the emphasis where it belongs — on pulchritude and charm. I mean, brains are okay for a girl in moderation, but the Radcliffe types are so goddamn intellectual — and competitive — that they sometimes make you forget why the Lord created women.

Not that I have anything against Radcliffe. If I ever had a daughter, I’d want her to go there. It’s just that when it comes to marriage, I think I’m much better off in the Briar patch.

Julie Gilbert came through with real dishes for Newall and myself. And we fixed her up with our Yale host, Charlie Cushing, a really sweet fellow. Which is a polite way of saying he’s got perfect manners but not a brain in his head (I mean, he makes me look like Einstein).

Our seats in Yale Bowl were indeed sensational. We sat on the fifty-yard line with luminaries of the world scattered around us like confetti at a birthday party.

Four rows down from me were President Pusey and the deans, politely clapping when our boys did something good (which was not very often).

Ten yards to my left was our Massachusetts senator, Jack Kennedy, and his neat wife, Jackie. They were less sedate than most of the old grads in that distinguished section, shouting their lungs out for Harvard to score against the wild, hypertrophied, and, alas, all-too-competent Yalies.

Unfortunately, not even the strenuous vociferations of a U.S. senator could help our boys that day. Yale steamrolled over us 54-0. 

Oh what the hell, I thought, during the postgame festivities back at Branford College, these Yalies have so little to be proud of, let them at least win the goddamn game.

***

One afternoon in early December, Sara gazed across the pillow and smiled. “Ted, isn’t it about time you asked my parents for my hand?”

“And what if they say no?”

“Then we’ll just set two fewer places at the wedding party,” she replied.

“I don’t get it. Do you care what they think or don’t you?”

“Oh, nothing will keep me from staying this close to you forever,” she answered. And then added with shy sincerity, “But it would make me happy if my father liked you. And I’m sure he will. Mummy wouldn’t approve of anybody I brought home.”

Ted was understandably nervous. For he wanted very much to please Sara by finding favor with her father. Hence, he spent the days prior to their visit trying to learn as much as he could about the man she so admired.

Who’s Who informed him that Philip Harrison was St. Paul’s, Harvard ’33, a decorated naval officer, and one of the most successful merchant bankers in the country.

Moreover, his name appeared at frequent intervals in The New York Times as having paid a visit to advise the current White House resident on some particularly thorny economic issue.

He had sired three sons. But his daughter was the apple of his eye. And to hear Sara tell it, he was the incarnation of every possible virtue.

Boy, thought Ted, if there’s anything to this Oedipal business, I haven’t got a prayer!

*

“I think the blue would be great for Christmas dinner, Ted.”

“How about the gray flannel for dinner and saving the blue for church?”

They were scouring Andrew’s wardrobe for fashionable holiday regalia to help Ted make the best possible impression.

“Look, Lambros, it doesn’t really matter, Old Man Harrison’s not gonna judge you by your clothes.”

“You mean your clothes.” Ted smiled. And then asked nervously, “But what about her mother — or don’t you think I have a chance with her?”

As a friend, Andrew thought it best to free Ted from all illusions. “No, Lambros, she’d probably like you at her daughter’s wedding as a waiter, but definitely not as the groom. I mean, take all my clothes — even my damn club tie, if it’ll make you feel any better. But I’m afraid you couldn’t impress Daisy Harrison unless you had a crown on your head. And that I can’t lend you.”

“You’re doing wonders for my confidence,” Ted grumbled.

Andrew leaned over and grabbed his friend by the shoulders. “Hey, hasn’t three and a half years of Harvard taught you that it’s not who you are, it’s what you are?”

“You can talk, Eliot. You’ve probably still got all the labels from the Mayflower on your suitcase.”

“Come on, Ted, I’d trade places with you any day. What good is it that my ancestors came over if I can’t