We are not going to be remarking at length on the style of our alma mater's play in football this season, which seems to draw too liberally from a misimpression it has managed to sustain through many years, of aloof contempt for achievement.
(The front four, gaudily emerging from the courtyard of Pyne Hall, exists only in repulsive fantasy, the essence of this popular volume). Suffice it to say our performance on the field owes much to Macbeth's experience of Birnam Wood, such is the zealotry of our tight ends to yield to sudden trees that reception better reserved for themselves.
But we know something about these spontaneous presences, so often associated with the magical as to lend great startlement to our collisions. The apparition of the unexpected aviator has vexed us all before.
What, indeed, are we to make of this chronic embodiment of judgment on our unpreparedness? Wasn't it always just as likely, that such obstructions would plant themselves in our way from the ground below, as from thin air? Now the sudden aviator stands athwart our gridiron weekend as an admonition to give gravity its due. Lads who take flight for pigskin need to know the rate of speed of obstructions on the ground, is greater than that of theirs in air. And watching them.
Fergoshsakes, beat Cornell!