its eyes fixed
hungrily on the result it wants, may sometimes fail to see that it is
getting a number of other results which it emphatically doesn't want.

[Illustration: THE VICTORS LEAVING THE FIELD]

Another example of excessive organization presented itself to me in the
almost military arrangements for shrieking the official yells. I was
sorry for the young men whose duty it was, by the aid of megaphones and
of grotesque and undignified contortions, to encourage and even force
the spectators to emit in unison the complex noises which constitute the
yell. I have no doubt that my pity was misdirected, for these young men
were obviously content with themselves; still, I felt sorry for them.
Assuming for an instant that the official yell is not monstrously absurd
and surpassingly ugly, admitting that it is a beautiful series of
sounds, enheartening, noble, an utterance worthy of a great and ancient
university at a crisis, even then one is bound to remember that its
essential quality should be its spontaneity. Enthusiasm cannot be
created at the word of command, nor can heroes be inspired by cheers
artificially produced under megaphonic intimidation. Indeed, no moral
phenomenon could be less hopeful to heroes than a perfunctory response
to a military order for enthusiasm. Perfunctory responses were frequent.
Partly, no doubt, because the imperious young men with megaphones would
not leave us alone. Just when we were nicely absorbed in the caprices of
the ball they would call us off and compel us to execute their
preposterous chorus; and we--the spectators--did not always like it.

And the difficulty of following the game was already acute enough!
Whenever the play quickened in interest we stood up. In fact, we were
standing up and sitting down throughout the afternoon. And as we all
stood up and we all sat down together, nobody gained any advantage from
these muscular exercises. We saw no better, and we saw no worse. Toward
the end we stood on the seats, with the same result. We behaved in
exactly the child-like manner of an Italian audience at a fashionable
concert. And to crown all, an aviator had the ineffably bad taste and
the culpable foolhardiness to circle round and round within a few dozen
yards of our heads.

In spite of all this, the sum of one's sensations amounted to lively
pleasure. The pleasure would have been livelier if university football
were a better game than in candid truth it is. At this juncture