In relative obscurity, the varsity soccer team captured its second straight Ivy League crown this season. By far Harvard's most successful squad in intercollegiate competition, the Crimson edged by Yale last Friday to complete a 9-1-3 record, with a 5-1-0 Ivy slate.

But the fact remains that, for all the team's success and for all the inherent appeal of the game, soccer continues to be played before a select few--coach Bruce Munro, substitutes, and the participants' girl friends and immediate families. For most others, the entire game is an anathema. Harvard men hesitate to inflict their dates with the discomfort of sitting through four 22-minute quarters of a largely incomprehensible contest, usually in the cold of a Saturday morning.

Even at the all-important Yale encounter at 2 p.m. in New Haven, with the Ivy championship at stake, only 100 hardy followers bothered to watch. Freshman and J.V. football each drew many more spectators, and even some of the House contests rivaled what should have been the day's feature attraction.

Still, most of the non-believers are people who have never sampled the wares. The game has a tremendous fascination for anyone who likes fast action, suspense, and stiff competition. Those who have never joined the close-knit community of devoted soccer fans in the first few hours of a fall weekend have missed one of the finest moments Harvard athletics has to offer.

In no other major sport is the spectator so intimately connected with the events of the game. Players wander among the crowd, the stands are within ten feet of the field, and the absence of protective equipment renders nearly every participant's expression visible to the observers.

And the spectators are an extremely knowledgeable and convivial lot. Soccer at the pre-college level is confined almost entirely to the Eastern prep schools, and most rosters are studded with athletes from Andover, Exeter, Deerfield, and the rest. Thus, a soccer crowd is likely to consist of people who share this "preppy" orientation. Also, since soccer fans, once committed, are passionately loyal to the game, those in attendance usually understand every rule and nuance. Programs were a luxury the team could not afford this year, but, after the season's first encounter, everyone was thoroughly acquainted with the lineup.

Everyone Knows the Players

Most regular observers did not even need the one game to be able to recognize the performers. Nearly everybody knows everybody else at a soccer contest anyway, and the great thing about the game is that you can see faces. Few rely on numbers to identify the players. This is in direct contrast with football clashes, where the large throng fulfilling the weekly social requirement forgets uniform numbers between Saturdays and must depend on squad listings.

Without any protective equipment except heavy shoes and shin-guards, the players are seen as individuals. A really big man, like varsity captain Lanny Keyes, looks big. A colorful player like inside John Mudd can be distinguished by the bandana he wears around his fore-head and his unruly mop of hair. If someone is playing with an injury, as, for instance, right half Charlie Steele was during the last two contests of the season, the signs of his ailment are in plain sight. And when two speeding performers collide, the impact, undampened by any protective material, is felt in the farthest reaches of the stands.

Actually, soccer should rate high at Harvard. A recent survey by Sports Illustrated placed the sport fifth on the list of "up" games--those that have gained social acceptance in collegiate circles--while football just edged into tenth position. Furthermore, there is a gentlemanly restraint that should appeal to the self-styled sophisticate. When the Crimson lost to Princeton near the end of the season, the defeat was the first after seven wins and three ties, and it seemed sure to knock the varsity out of the Ivy League race. Yet there were no tears, no recriminations, no vows of "we'll get 'em next week." The loss was accepted with the same equanimity that marked all the previous successes. In fact, the only time the squad allowed itself a display of emotion came after the Yale game, when the players hoisted coach Munro on their shoulders for a few brief seconds.

The outcome of a soccer game is always in doubt, and the better team does not necessarily win. All it takes to score a goal is the one big play, by an individual in a split second. One isolated effort can ruin a team that completely dominates play the rest of the time. Inside John Hedreen scored after 3:10 had gone by in the Yale game on a fine, alert shot that evaded Bulldog goalie Andy Block. The Elis fought the Crimson on equal terms in the second period and were in control for the last two periods, but the Crimson's one big moment was enough.

A careful observer is close enough to the field of play to hear the by-play and verbal warfare that is continually going on. The varsity's midseason string of more than 200 scoreless minutes produced two extremely vocal clashes. In the 0-0 tie with Williams, Eph goalie Bob Adams continually exhorted his teammates to "get the big guy"--Keyes, the Crimson's main defensive cog. The Ephmen did their best, once actually dazing the big full-back, but they could not halt his effectiveness.

An even more talkative affair was the Columbia encounter. Much of the conversation in this game, however, was lost on the crowd, since the Lions fielded one of the most multilingual elevens ever seen here. The Crimson's Mudd started the byplay by remarking, "Those Columbia boys are pretty rough. They're from New York City." After a few crunching collisions around the Columbia goal, a Lion player countered, "Gee, fellows. He's a Hahvuhd man." Things were pretty rough for a while.

Lion goalie Stew Witt had an awful time with his left fullback, Ekkehard Boellert, a 6 ft., 6 in., 250 lb. specimen who seemed to be in the right place at the right time by divine intervention, but was obstructing Witt's view of the play. The following exchange resulted:

"Can't you please stay out of my way, Boellert?"