Whee-e-e-e, wham;
Chop suey, chop suey;
Tate! Tate! Tate!
The shrill war cry, flung into the autumn air by thirty thousand loyal Tate throats, thundered across the gridiron streaked by the afternoon shadows.
But this time the cry did not ring out just in the imagination of a college-struck country youth posturing in front of his bedroom mirror.
It was the day of days! When every heart in Tate stood still and all the world watched football history in the making.
The tocsin surged like a barrage of artillery before the first wave of attack goes over the top. It surged from a solid, brightly hued mass of humanity banked fifty tiers high in the Tate Stadium. Excited youths, pretty girls, sedate matrons ready to turn their heads away in horror at injuries down on that lime-marked field, white-haired old grads, sports and actors from Broadway, gamblers and the great non-collegiate but sport-loving mass of the American people. And, over in the oppo-
