How the heck did this happen? Two weeks to Christmas?

Maybe it is because we don’t call it that, anymore. I think we are just being polite, you know, don’t want to offend anyone, after all, and inclusive is a good thing to be. Still, just calling it “the holidays” sort of robs it of a center-of-mass, and makes it much more amorphous than a hard date when predictable things are supposed to happen.

Or maybe it is just me. It doesn’t feel much like Christmas. The weather was balmy down at the Farm, and the gray skies of the capital opened up to light blue with wispy cirrus clouds. Out on the back deck I could hear the faint buzz of private aviation from T.I. Martin Field on the other side of the Brandy Station battlefield.

It was magnificent. I went over to the Big Box and got some drop clothes add to my collection of crap, this being a means to cover the crap with additional crap. I was done in time to switch on the flatscreen and watch the opening ceremonies for The Game.

I had developed the habit of watching it at Army-Navy Country Club, where I remain an absentee member. The old club house had a cavernous Members Grill where some unreconstructed vets could smoke cigars and drink beer and scoop up complementary popcorn and hot dogs smothered in chili, cheese and chopped onions.

There is a new clubhouse this year, and the smokers have been banished to the basement someplace I have not discovered as yet.

I thought the Farm would be a new tradition, and it was a grand one. The Russians showed up and joined in a wine and vodka-fueled celebration of a magnificent rivalry.

It is not real 1A football, of course. The Academy brand of football is never going to be mistaken for an SEC pro powerhouse, even if Navy stunned Notre Dame a couple times when the Golden Domers were down.

Even worse, the Midshipmen had run the table for a decade on the Cadets- an intolerable situation for the kids from West Point. It is fading now, but I remember when the Black Knights of the Hudson made hapless Middies their buffet. But it didn’t matter. No one from this game was going on to the NFL- they are all going to get orders, salute and move out smartly.

Maybe that is why it is special. Most college athletes will never be good enough to go pro- that is a fact. Yet the possibility of vast riches keeps a lot of young men in the hunt for fortune and fame. In the process they provide us all semi-pro entertainment allegedly with connection to the institutions of higher learning we may- or may not have- attended on the way to whatever happened to us after.

That is clearly not what Army-Navy is about, and the rivalry has a certain antique patina about it.

(Saturday Evening Post view of the game. Image 1946 by Crocket)

It was a great game. I had a spinach dip, one of those fabulous baguettes from Croftburn Farm, pimento dip, pretzels and dried peas rolled in wasabi to counteract the effect of the alcohol a bit.

Army had heart and a real shot at winning right to the final second. The Russians were amazed. I would have loved it if that last field goal had beaten the Midshipmen instead of arcing left and outside the goalpost. And you cannot put the ball on the ground as the Cadets did once too often to win.

Good new tradition at Refuge Farm. It’s a game you can believe in.