Fifty-Five Out

To this class,"Men of Dartmouth"was a gross exaggeration.

They said we lacked class spirit. We were, intimated The D, a sorry, lackluster bunch not worthy of Dartmouth. Now, on that first Saturday, were we ever showing them. "Fifty-five out! Fifty-five out!" we screamed as we ran like the wind, hundreds of us, across the soggy grass of Memorial Field toward the Fordham flag waving defiantly halfway up the visitors' stands. I finally had the feeling I belonged to Dartmouth, that all of us were doing something of which President Dickey, the sophomore Vigilantes and, in fact, all of Dartmouth, watching from the west stands, would be so proud.

Until I became vaguely aware that I happened to be running in the front of the pack and would, therefore, be among the first to reach the other side, it was one of the most exhilarating, downright liberating moments of my life to that point. Then, well, I'm afraid I sort of stumbled. By the time I'd recovered and was back up to speed, most of my classmates were already scuffling around in the stands and the enemy flag was no longer waving. My return to the west stands for the second half of the game, however, was nothing short of triumphant. Surely now I was, as President Dickey had already called us all duing his convocation address several days earlier, one of the "Men of Dartmouth.

Wrong. What we'd done was generally described as juvenile. "It reflects no credit on the individuals involved," said Dean Neidlinger. "In order to leam responsibility," pontificated a Deditorial, "freshmen must be allowed to act irresponsibly." Even the Vigilantes distanced themselves. "Not our idea," they said, their black skull-and-crossbone caps, exuding hostile authority, pulled low over their eyes.

And so we returned to our submissive, confused state of mind. Our silly-looking green beanies or "dinks" with "55" on the front, said it all. Freshman. The lowest of the low.

our first week was Bing Crosby and Jane Wyman in "Here Comes the Groom," but I don't think I followed the plot. I simply used the time in the dark as a temporary respite from the general feeling of anxiety I experienced throughout those first few weeks as a Dartmouth freshman. We continued to "duck walk" the dorm corridors at night when ordered to. We moved furniture for upperclassmen. We did pushups on command. As dictated by the Vigilantes, we sat in the last rows of the Nugget. The movie

Ironically, the only times I felt like I was doing something right was when I was doing something wrong. No question in my mind that the hanging of a headless effigy of a Vigilante next to the senior fence was a marvelous gesture. And late on that first Dartmouth Night, after the bonfire and all those belligerent speeches about what Dartmouth would do to Syracuse the next day, how wonderfully appropriate to splash huge gobs of white and green paint in front of the Inn in the barely recognizable letters, "B-E-A-T S-Y- R-A-C-U-S-E." Why was everyone angry about that?

To me, the most wonderful group of people on campus were the seniors. They were mature—truly "Men of Dartmouth." Unli ke hundreds of us freshmen and upperclassmen on a particularly exciting night that fall, the seniors weren't interested in the likes of "capturing" or "defending" the muddy hill in front of Bartlett Hall. Some of them knew people, for instance, who were risking death on Korea's Heartbreak break Ridge during that very same week. The two seniors on my corridor in South Massachusetts were that way. As I say, mature. Besides that they were not only generous enough to be friendly to us freshmen but they were both on

the varsity football team. In short, these two 20-year-olds were the sort of wise, wonderful, accomplished human beings I hoped someday in my life to possibly become.

On a night following a student demonstration in front of Dean Neidlinger's house—meant to convince him to relax the strict rules to do with beer and "guests" in the dorms—one of these seniors poked his head into our room just as my roommate and I were about to go to sleep. "Can you come down to our room for a minute?" he asked, with his usual friendly smile. "There's somebody I'd like you to meet." Dressed only in skivvies and Tshirts, we jumped out of bed and followed him down the corridor. Must be a classmate he'd like us to know, I thought. What a super guy. As we entered his sitting room, his roommate, also smiling, motioned us to proceed on through the door into their sleeping area.

"Hi, there!" said a woman's voice. A woman's voice! There, sitting up in bed, naked all the way down to the blankets covering her legs, a smile on her pretty face, was a young woman. Believe it or not, I'd never seen a live young woman naked down to blankets covering her legs. "I'd like you both to meet my guest, Debbie," said our senior jovially. "She hails from Bellows Falls, Vermont." (I'm not sure now ifit was "Debbie" but I'm positive it was Bellows Falls.)

We attempted small talk. I'd give anything to hear a recording of it today. I'm pretty sure what both my roommate and I attempted to say was virtually unintelligible. But then there'd be in the background the wonderful laughs of our two seniors, our idols, joined by the merry, melodious voice of their pretty friend and "guest" from Bellows Falls.

I turned 60 last March. My charge across Memorial Field toward that Fordham flag occurred more than 4o years ago. Now, Dartmouth is a wonderful part of my life. I'm so proud of it and of my lifetime connection with it. Those first few weeks as a freshman, however, are still, literally, a recurring nightmare. Strangely, I never dream about the rebellious things I did that were wrong. I dream exclusively of my fervent attempts to do right. The bells of Baker are ringing, for instance, and I'm late for my next class located somewhere, I don't know where, across the campus. Well into my freshman term, I discover to my horror I've forgotten to attend a certain class. President Dickey or Dean Neidlinger, or sometimes even Captain Goodreau of the campus police, demands I return my completed freshman "Green Book" by nightfall. It's overdue. But, but—I don't know where it is. I don't think I even got one.

When I awaken, I can feel the tension, confusion, and anxiety of those initial freshman days of long ago. Then I slowly relax. It's over. Long over. I'm old enough now to know I'll never have to be a freshman again. Unless I live more than a century, the proverbial river is now closer in time than my days at Dartmouth. So not to worry. Surely the land across is one where everyone is forever a senior. It couldn't be any other way, could it? Oh, Lord in Heaven, don't hand me a beanie! Even if it's green.

Hale's mother came to campusfreshman spring, which wassort of awful and sort of nice.

The only times I felt like I was doing something right was when I was doing something wrong.

Jud Hale is editor of Yankee magazine andThe Old Farmer's Almanac and chairmanof this magazine's Editorial Board.