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 I seem to hear a million voices of students and ex-students roaring out at me with menaces that the game is perfect and the greatest of all games.  A national game always was and is perfect.  This particular game was perfect years ago.  Nevertheless, I learned that it had recently been improved, in deference to criticisms.  Therefore, it is now pluperfect.  I was told on the field—­and sharply—­that experience of it was needed for the proper appreciation of its finesse.  Admitted!  But just as devotees of a favorite author will put sublime significances into his least phrase, so will devotees of a game put marvels of finesse into its clumsiest features.  The process is psychological.  I was new to this