Stover at Yale by Owen Johnson

Stover had never been on the Yale field except through the multitudinous paths of his imagination. Huddled in the car crowded with candidates, he waited the first glimpse as Columbus questioned the sky or De Soto sought the sea. Three cars, filled with veterans and upper classmen, were ahead of him. He was among a score of sophomores, members of third and fourth squads, and a few of his own class with prep school reputations who sat silently, nervously overhauling their suits, adjusting buckles and shoelaces, swollen to grotesque proportions under knotted sweaters and padded jerseys.

The trolley swung over a short bridge, and, climbing a hill, came to a slow stop. In an instant he was out, sweeping on at a dogtrot in the midst of the undulating, brawny pack. In front -- a thing of air and wood -- rose the climbing network of empty stands. Then, as they swept underneath, the field lay waiting, and at the end two thin, straight lines and a crossbar. No longer were the stands empty or the breeze devoid of song and cheers. The goal was his -- the goal of Yale -- and, underfoot at last, the field more real to him than Waterloo or Gettysburg!