ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY. We start our college lives, symbolically as well as literally, in the ignominy of the End Zone

November 24, 1957

We start our college lives, symbolically as well as literally, in the ignominy of the End Zone. But our progress brings us to the happy culmination. In senior year, we get to sit right on the fifty-yard line near the President and the most distinguished alumni, whom the college honors with this pride of place.

Ironically of course, as first-year grads we’ll be back in the End Zone come next fall. So a gang of us decided to make this year’s Harvard-Yale game into a gigantic farewell blast.

Newall and I contacted some of our old prep school buddies down in New Haven and arranged for floors and couches for us all to sack out on.

We even got a place for Gilbert, who reciprocated by having his sister Julie fix us up with some of her more desirable (and we hoped pliable) girlfriends from Briarcliff.

Julie’s Cliff, unlike the one in Cambridge, Mass., is a much more pragmatic ladies’ college that puts the emphasis where it belongs — on pulchritude and charm. I mean, brains are okay for a girl in moderation, but the Radcliffe types are so goddamn intellectual — and competitive — that they sometimes make you forget why the Lord created women.

Not that I have anything against Radcliffe. If I ever had a daughter, I’d want her to go there. It’s just that when it comes to marriage, I think I’m much better off in the Briar patch.

Julie Gilbert came through with real dishes for Newall and myself. And we fixed her up with our Yale host, Charlie Cushing, a really sweet fellow. Which is a polite way of saying he’s got perfect manners but not a brain in his head (I mean, he makes me look like Einstein).

Our seats in Yale Bowl were indeed sensational. We sat on the fifty-yard line with luminaries of the world scattered around us like confetti at a birthday party.

Four rows down from me were President Pusey and the deans, politely clapping when our boys did something good (which was not very often).

Ten yards to my left was our Massachusetts senator, Jack Kennedy, and his neat wife, Jackie. They were less sedate than most of the old grads in that distinguished section, shouting their lungs out for Harvard to score against the wild, hypertrophied, and, alas, all-too-competent Yalies.

Unfortunately, not even the strenuous vociferations of a U.S. senator could help our boys that day. Yale steamrolled over us 54-0.

Oh what the hell, I thought, during the postgame festivities back at Branford College, these Yalies have so little to be proud of, let them at least win the goddamn game.

***

One afternoon in early December, Sara gazed across the pillow and smiled. “Ted, isn’t it about time you asked my parents for my hand?”

“And what if they say no?”

“Then we’ll just set two fewer places at the wedding party,” she replied.

“I don’t get it. Do you care what they think or don’t you?”

“Oh, nothing will keep me from staying this close to you forever,” she answered. And then added with shy sincerity, “But it would make me happy if my father liked you. And I’m sure he will. Mummy wouldn’t approve of anybody I brought home.”

Ted was understandably nervous. For he wanted very much to please Sara by finding favor with her father. Hence, he spent the days prior to their visit trying to learn as much as he could about the man she so admired.

Who’s Who informed him that Philip Harrison was St. Paul’s, Harvard ’33, a decorated naval officer, and one of the most successful merchant bankers in the country.

Moreover, his name appeared at frequent intervals in The New York Times as having paid a visit to advise the current White House resident on some particularly thorny economic issue.

He had sired three sons. But his daughter was the apple of his eye. And to hear Sara tell it, he was the incarnation of every possible virtue.

Boy, thought Ted, if there’s anything to this Oedipal business, I haven’t got a prayer!

*

“I think the blue would be great for Christmas dinner, Ted.”

“How about the gray flannel for dinner and saving the blue for church?”

They were scouring Andrew’s wardrobe for fashionable holiday regalia to help Ted make the best possible impression.

“Look, Lambros, it doesn’t really matter, Old Man Harrison’s not gonna judge you by your clothes.”

“You mean your clothes.” Ted smiled. And then asked nervously, “But what about her mother — or don’t you think I have a chance with her?”

As a friend, Andrew thought it best to free Ted from all illusions. “No, Lambros, she’d probably like you at her daughter’s wedding as a waiter, but definitely not as the groom. I mean, take all my clothes — even my damn club tie, if it’ll make you feel any better. But I’m afraid you couldn’t impress Daisy Harrison unless you had a crown on your head. And that I can’t lend you.”

“You’re doing wonders for my confidence,” Ted grumbled.

Andrew leaned over and grabbed his friend by the shoulders. “Hey, hasn’t three and a half years of Harvard taught you that it’s not who you are, it’s what you are?”

“You can talk, Eliot. You’ve probably still got all the labels from the Mayflower on your suitcase.”

“Come on, Ted, I’d trade places with you any day. What good is it that my ancestors came over if I can’t even get a date for New Year’s Eve. Am I getting through to you?”

“Yeah, I guess …”

“Good. Now pick up your preppie costumes and go snow her parents.”

They took the Merchants Limited on the 23rd of December. Though the overheated train was packed with students chattering gaily or bellowing carols and other spiritual ditties like “You Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog” and “Blue Suede Shoes,” Ted and Sara sat reading quietly, barely exchanging a word.

“Who’s meeting us at Greenwich?” Ted finally asked as they pulled out of Stamford.

“Probably one of my brothers. Daddy usually works late before a holiday.”

“What are the odds of any of them actually liking me?”

“That’s a little too close to call,” Sara answered. “I mean, Phippie and Evan are bound to feel a little jealous of the fact that you’re at Harvard and they both got shot down.”

“No kidding — not even with all your father’s influence?”

“Daddy’s not an alchemist,” Sara smiled, “and their board scores were far from golden. No, Lambros, you and he will be the only Harvard men at table. Does that make you feel a little better?”

“Yeah,” Ted conceded, “it actually does.”

Just after eight, when they clambered down onto the dimly lit platform, Sara scanned the crowd of people waiting for the passengers, trying to find one of her brothers. Then suddenly she emitted a squeal of joy.

“Daddy!”

Ted stood motionless as she sprinted into the arms of a tall gentleman in a sheepskin coat, his silver hair illuminated by the headlights from the parking lot behind. After what seemed like several minutes, they approached him arm in arm.

Philip Harrison held out his hand.

“Good to meet you, Ted. Sara’s told me a lot about you.”

“I hope some of it was good,” Ted replied, trying his best to smile. “I’m very grateful to be invited.”

They drove along the Merritt Parkway, then down narrow wooded lanes, and turned into the drive of what seemed — compared to Ted’s fantasies — a modest white colonial house with green shutters.

Daisy Harrison was at the door to greet them, looking impeccably informal. She kissed her daughter and then turned to their visitor. “You must be Theodore,” she said as they shook hands. “We’ve so looked forward to meeting you.” She was unable, despite herself, to play the script of conventional politeness with any real conviction.

A few moments later Ted found himself holding a hot toddy in front of a fashionably roaring fire, surrounded by the Harrison clan. It was almost like a New Yorker cartoon. They all were wearing countryish Abercrombie & Fitch-style garb, making Ted feel slightly overdressed in his tab collar and Andrew Eliot’s three-piece suit.

The two elder brothers seemed friendly enough, although Phippie’s “Hi there” and Evan’s “Nice to meet you” were hardly effusive.

Fourteen-year-old Ned’s greeting was a good deal warmer. “Gosh, Ted,” he chirped, “isn’t it awful the way Yale creamed Harvard in football this year!”

This was just the type of dialogue that Ted had mastered by osmosis from his proximity to Eliot House.

“You’ve got to understand, Neddy,” he responded, “we have a kind of social obligation to lose to Yale every so often. I mean, it bolsters their inferiority complex.”

This flagrant Harvardian bullshit completely captivated the youngest Harrison.

“Wow,” Ned exclaimed, “but isn’t losing fifty-four to nothing going a little far?”

“Not at all,” Sara interposed. “The boys in New Haven were feeling really insecure this year. I mean, Harvard killed them in the Rhodes Scholarship department.”

“Which is a little more important than football,” added an amused Philip Harrison ’33.

“Actually, Ted,” remarked Mrs. Harrison with a sweetness that would put a diabetic into shock, “all my family is Yale. Is yours all Harvard?”

“Absolutely,” replied the well-prepared Ted Lambros.

Sara smiled inwardly and thought, The Greeks lead the WASPs one to nothing.

The first night set the pattern for the week that ensued. Mr. Harrison seemed interested and friendly. When they weren’t out chasing local debs, the older boys were offhandedly cordial. Young Ned, whose fondest dream was to be admitted to Harvard, was enchanted by his sister’s guest. And when Ted actually spent an entire hour helping him work on some Virgil, he would gladly have traded his two elder brothers just to have him in the family.

But then there was Daisy…

One night Ted was awakened by the voices of Mr. and Mrs. Harrison from the adjacent room. The conversation was heated and a few decibels above normal. To his discomfort, he was the subject of the argument — though never once referred to by name.

“But, Philip, his family owns a restaurant.”

“Daisy, your grandfather drove a milk wagon.”

“But he put my father through Yale.”

“And he is putting himself through Harvard. I don’t see what’s bothering you. The young man is perfectly —”

“He’s common, Philip. Common, common, common. Don’t you care at all for your daughter’s future?”

“Yes, Daisy,” said Mr. Harrison, lowering his voice, “I care very much.”

Their conversation then became inaudible, leaving Ted Lambros bewildered in the darkness of his bedroom.

On New Year’s morning, which would be their very last before returning to Cambridge, Philip Harrison asked Ted to join him for a walk in the woods.

“I think we should be frank with each other,” he began.

“Yes, sir,” Ted replied apprehensively.

“I’m not unaware of how my daughter feels about you. But I’m sure you’ve sensed that Mrs. Harrison is —”

“Dead against it,” Ted said quietly.

“Well, that’s putting it a bit strongly. Let’s say Daisy’s a bit reluctant to see Sara commit herself so soon.”

“Uh — that’s understandable,” Ted replied, careful not to say anything disloyal.

They walked a few paces in silence as Ted worked up the courage to ask, “How do you feel, sir?”

“Personally, Ted, I think you’re a bright, decent, and mature young man. But my opinion should have no bearing on the matter. Sara’s told me she loves you and wants to marry you. That’s good enough for me.”

He paused, then continued slowly, his voice shaking slightly, “My daughter is the most precious thing I have in the world. All I want in life is for her to be happy….”

“I’ll do my very best, sir.”

“Ted,” Mr. Harrison persisted, “I want you to swear that you’ll never hurt my little girl.”

Ted nodded, almost unable to speak.

“Yes, sir,” he said softly, “I promise.”

The two stood facing each other. And then, though neither moved, both men embraced in their imagination.