The Erudite Sports Enthusiasts

By Stephen O’Connor

Professor Ernest Harrington, PhD, Trinity College, welcomed the members of the “The Erudite Sports Enthusiasts” to his home in Cambridge where, as I shall relate, a most startling development ensued. The Enthusiasts consist of Professor Margaret Alvarez, Amherst College Doctor of Comparative Literature, Retired, Giles Featheringay, Professor Emeritus, and former Chair of Modern Languages at Harvard, and myself, Sir Horace Grumpole, Purveyor of Antiquities, and Principal Librarian at the British Museum, Retired.

We had gathered to view the much-anticipated match between our New England Patriots and the Buffalo Bills football clubs. Ernest, as ever, was a generous host. His home was redolent with the aroma of chicken wings, which he air fries in his own special rub. The undisputed opinion of the Erudite Sports Enthusiasts is that it is superior to any commercial brand.

With plates of these delectable morsels of poultry pinions, we adjourned to the viewing room, where a buxom woman was projecting the national anthem with vigor. Though I am more accustomed to “God Save the Queen,” or King, I nevertheless maintained a respectful silence out of consideration for my colleagues while I awaited the kickoff. The Buffalo Bills had won the toss and elected to receive the football.

Imagine our consternation when a robust and slippery Buffalonian accelerated through the throng of apparently surprised Patriots and was not tackled until he had attained midfield. He rose and made a series of leaps, sawing the air with his fists in a wild demonstration of his satisfaction with the field position he had achieved. Giles made a sort of moaning sound and said, “Oh, let me entreat thee, cease!” But worse was yet to come. The following plays saw the visiting team push toward our goal line with impunity and garner two more first downs.

Harrington put down his chicken wing and observed, “The Buffalo squad is perpetrating a precipitous advance into our territory.”

“Pity ‘tis, ‘tis true and true ‘tis, ‘tis pity,” Professor Alvarez opined.

“Oh dear!” I said as I opened a can of Old Peculiar. “The defensive schemes of our home town team appear flawed, with the result that they are neither stout against the run nor aggressive on play action. Let us pray that Coach Vrabel can correct the situation.”

“’Tis a correction devoutly to be wished, Sir Horace,” Giles concurred sullenly.

By half-time, the New England Patriots were on the losing end of the match by ten points, which Professor Alvarez nervously reminded us was not an insurmountable lead, at which point Harrington regaled us with a stirring speech from Henry V. You will recall the king’s bold proclamation to his outnumbered troops before the Battle of Agincourt.

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers,

For he who sheds his blood with me this day shall be my brother, etc.

When the game resumed, the Patriots were able to drive down the field, though their advance was hotly contested. They seemed to have been imbued with a renewed vigor and were able to cut the lead to three points. It was at this juncture that Ernest Harrington chose to utter a most unfortunate remark. “You know, in my youth,” he said, “I was a strapping lad. Oh yes, quite strong and very quick on my feet. I believe that with a little training, I could have been a valuable addition to the receiving corps of the New England franchise.”

We were momentarily silent, since he was our host, but finally Professor Alvarez, who has ever been blunt in expressing her opinions, replied, “Don’t be ridiculous, Ernest. If you were once hit hard by a linebacker, you would be struck insensible and carried to the nearest hospital from which you would emerge on a walker.”

“Well!” cried Harrington. “I shall take umbrage at that slight!”

“Take it as you wish. We’re the same age, Harrington, but I believe I could knock you over. There never was a man who did not overestimate the physical abilities of his youth.”

“God’s teeth!” I cried. “The Patriots have intercepted Josh Allen! The tide of the battle is turning.”

Harrington rose and flung his greasy bib on the coffee table. “I must ask you to leave, Professor Alvarez!”

Giles Featheringay, no doubt recalling the Beatitudes, attempted to play the peacemaker. “Come now, we must not allow a silly dispute to break up the camaraderie of the Erudite Sports Enthusiasts!”

“What’s so silly about it?” Harrington inquired. His visage was flushed and ruddy.

“The idea of you, at any age, playing professional football is ludicrous,” Alvarez nearly shouted. “I shall watch the final quarter at The Druid.”

“Stand not upon the order of your leaving, but go!” roared Harrington, raising a horizontal arm to point toward the door. “I shan’t tolerate this egregious questioning of my manhood in my own abode.”

“What you evidently do not understand, Professor Harrington,” Professor Alvarez retorted, taking a step toward the affronted party, “is that manhood has nothing whatsoever to do with one’s ability to perform extraordinary athletic feats. There are other far more relevant qualities.” She paused. “I will say that the generosity that you extend every weekend to this group, for example, is a more relevant and attractive one, among others.”

Harrington sniffed temperamentally, “Well…” he said, wagging his large head, “it’s no bother, really.”

“You fool!” Professor Alvarez expostulated. “Will you never understand that I’m in love with you?”

“Touchdown!” Giles shouted as the Colonials fired their muskets, (a chilling sight for an Englishman). Giles was the only one who still appeared to have any interest in the match.

“Love?” Harrington coughed, appearing discombobulated. However, with a certain not unmanly aplomb, he took Professor Alvarez by the arm and guided her apologetically and with tender and cajoling mutterings back to the sofa. There were whispered confidences, and, heedless of the presence of the now superfluous members, they began to snog. For those unfamiliar with British slang, that means to kiss and caress amorously.

“They really are enthusiasts!” Giles commented, and since the New Englanders seemed to have the game in hand, this Old Englander thought it judicious to leave those two unforeseen and rather abrupt lovers in the grip of the most astonishing attestations of enamored affections. As Professor Alvarez tore off Professor Harrington’s ascot, I signaled Giles with a nod toward the door, and we picked up our coats and softly took our leave.

“Well, Sir Horace,” Giles remarked as we descended the front steps, “Professor Alvarez has proven the old Latin adage: Si vis amari, ama.”

“If you wish to be loved, love. Indeed. And the entire episode illustrates that the Swan of Avon did not write in jest:
And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods
Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony.”

Giles nodded, and gazing skyward toward the cloudy regions of air from which flecks of snow were beginning to fall, replied, “Quite. And love has spoken.”