"What should we do," screamed a delirious Harvard fan, "go for the two points and a tie or settle for one point and a loss?"
"Are you crazy?"
"Yes. Yes. Yes."
"By this time," said Champi, "I was so tired I wasn't even nervous." And so, tiredly, he passed to Pete Varney for two points and a 29-29 tie.
Later, in the Yale dressing room, no one spoke. Fred Morris, the center, sat on the stairs, his head cradled in his arms. He was still wearing his helmet. Slowly the team undressed, showered, then dressed. Still no one spoke. Finally an outsider said, "You guys didn't lose. You're still undefeated. You're still the Ivy League co-champions."
Bruce Weinstein, a giant tight end, looked over. "No," he said softly, "when you've done what we just did you've lost. It's the same as a defeat. We don't feel much like champions."
And downstairs, in the madhouse that was the Harvard locker room, Champi, the second-string quarterback, sat and wondered where he was, if he really was a hero.
"It's been a strange day from the beginning," he said. "I'm an intuitive guy, and when I woke up this morning I was sort of in a dream. It felt like something great was going to happen to me. Then when I got here I still felt strange. It didn't feel like I was here but someplace else. I still don't feel like I'm here. It's all very strange. "
Frank Champi the hero of the greatest day in the 94-year history of The Game? Very strange, indeed.