For as long as I can remember, the weekend before Thanksgiving has meant one thing to my family. The Game. I’m speaking, of course, about the Yale-Harvard football game, the annual renewal of the oldest and fiercest rivalry in sports.
My dad, a Yale alum, has taught my brother, sister, and me from a very young age to hate Harvard. We’ve heard the stories of the legendary Carm Cozza and the days of Dick Jauron and Calvin Hill (before his time, but my father still talks about him). And the stories of the infamous 1968 Game, which Harvard won 29-29 on questionable timekeeping to spoil Yale’s perfect season. Or the heartbreak of the 1974 Game, which my dad covered as sports editor of the Yale Daily News. Harvard’s 21-16 win again spoiled an unbeaten season for the Elis. I remember my first trip to the Yale Bowl. It was the 1991 Game, and the Bulldogs won 23-13.
Despite this, my hatred of Harvard had always been second hand. That is, until the weekend before Thanksgiving last year. The same weekend as The Game, Cornell and Harvard met for the first time of the season in men’s hockey. And last year, as a na