Free Harvard Yard by William Martin Page A

crisp to cold. And he loved bringing his son.
    They were part of the crowd flowing down JFK Street, and Peter was saying, “Did you know that there was a wharf near here in the seventeenth century?”
    “Cool,” said Jimmy Fallon.
    “It was on a creek that bubbled up in the Yard, took a right in the Square and came around in a big semicircle. Eliot Street follows it exactly.”
    “Cool.”
    They were passing Hicks House, a little white Dutch Colonial that served as the Kirkland House library, one of the last relics of eighteenth-century Cambridge.
    “Near here, the creek turned for the river,” Peter went on.
    “Cool.”
    “Imagine a sloop sailing down this street, instead of all these cars and people.” Peter pointed ahead, through the shallow brick canyon created by the Kennedy School on one side, Kirkland and Eliot Houses on the other.
    “Yeah . . . Cool.”
    “Is that all you can say? Cool . . . cool . . . cool?”
    Jimmy shrugged. He was taller than his father, but he had the same black hair and dark brow, the same scowling first impression that faded as soon as he smiled. “I’m more interested in Harvard’s future than its past, Dad.”
    Peter knew why. The kid’s head was still spinning. They’d started the day at an alumni seminar: “Who Gets Into Harvard?” Peter had wanted Jimmy to hear about his chances, which Peter thought were pretty good. Jimmy, however, had only heard about the competition, which was also pretty good.
    So Peter started pep-talking. “Harvard has its pick of the smartest kids in America. You’re one of them. That means you have as good a chance as anybody. Your SATs are—”
    “Harvard rejects people with sixteen hundreds all the time, Dad.”
    “Your grades are all A’s.”
    “They turn down four-point-ohs all the time.”
    “Not from high school track stars.”
    “They have four-point-oh stars in everything. And I go to Boston Latin. I’m also a white male from Boston, and no matter what they say, they have quotas—”
    “Because eighty years ago, most students were white males from New England and New York. Pretty boring.”
    “No more history, Dad.”
    They kept talking across Memorial Drive and onto the Larz Anderson Bridge, a graceful span choked most of the time—not just on game days—with cars, cyclists, and pedestrians. The Charles River sparkled below, and up ahead two flags fluttered atop the stadium. One was crimson with a white H, the other green with a white D. Harvard vs. Dartmouth, fourth Saturday in October, as always.
    “Listen, Jimmy, you’ve got the goods. If they don’t let you in, it’s their fault.”
    “They get nineteen thousand applications. They admit eighteen hundred.”
    “So at some point, it’s a coin toss. Just stop worrying and apply.” Peter clapped his son on the shoulder. “Now let’s go find the Wedge Woody.”
    “The Wedge what? ”
    You couldn’t miss it: a 1934 Ford beach wagon floating in that sea of SUVs, minivans, and BMWs around Harvard Stadium.
    In his student days, if Peter didn’t have an invitation to a tailgate, he’d just cruise. He could walk down a row of cars, past picnic tables and charcoal grills, and before game time, he’d have sampled steak sandwiches, lobster, shrimp as big as his fist, along with all the hot spiked drinks he could hold. And if he’d kept his ears open among the alums, he’d have picked up hot rumors from politics, business, and publishing, too.
    Back then, the Wedge Woody had been presided over by Harriet Webster Wedge, who played her role like Bette Davis—the accent all broad a ’s, the bourbon straight up, the Camels as unfiltered as the opinions.
    And she was there now, standing by the old station wagon, puffing away, giving orders, acting as if she were still in charge, even though it was her son who was now master of the pregame revels.
    That was Will Wedge, the guy in the crimson-colored pants, greeting, pouring, laughing out loud at the lamest jokes—a man