For gay men, Yale-Harvard is a war defined prominently by attempts to sleep with the enemy. In this war for dominance — athletic, intellectual, and sexual — the battle cry is hard to pin down. What do we scream to welcome our enemies into our arms?

The Crimson is coming! The Crimson is coming!

Okay, no. A) Crimson is a color, not a sports team. A pretentious color, too. For those straight readers out there, “crimson” is homosexual for “red.” B) How does that relate to the mascot? Crimson Cantab? Ah yes, crimson: the color of the blood fountain that springs from the Cantab’s neck when a rabid bulldog rips out his jugular after doing him doggy-style. C) “The Crimson is coming!” is the horrific cry of straight boys mid-coitus, surprised by the sudden visit of Auntie Flo.

Screw the sports team (you know you want to). For gay men, Yale-Harvard has very little to do with that game those jocks are playing.

The Homos are coming! The Homos are coming!

Our Yale-Harvard battle is a big nelly bitch-fight. Our campus will soon play host to an influx of extra Ivy League homos. Football isn’t just straight-man land anymore. Why shouldn’t we love watching boys pound each other into the ground, pass the ball long and deep, and push hard into each other’s end zones?

Come on. They’re asking for it.

And by half-time, we’ll be drunk enough to shout it loud and proud. Those new tailgate rules ensure that we’ll spend half the time drinking double the booze. Inebriated gaYalies may not be overly concerned with football, but we are very concerned with the man-prowess of Yale’s muscle men, on and off the field. Footballers and Harvard homos, beware the roar of the sloppy-drunk Eli. Obscene gay jeering to be expected:

“Nice tight end!” Not you, I was talking to the quarterback.”

“Cheerleaders, put some clothes on! Number 36, take your clothes off!”

“Wanna autograph my ass with your mantool?”

And instead of writing “G-O Y-A-L-E-!” in big blue letters across their hairless chests, a long line of mo’s will spell out my phone number.

We know you think you’re smarter than we are, we know you think you’re better at football, but we’re great in bed. And (as last year’s entire Harvard cheering section will undoubtedly agree — we have photos to prove it) Harvard sucks. But according to my friends who have tried it, you don’t even suck that well.

The valedictorians are coming! The valedictorians are coming!

Harvard is the university populated by the heads of our high school classes, those mo’s who chose the school for its name and fame rather than love of the game. Perhaps we’re getting closer to the fray, the allure of the Harvard man, why we love to hate him, hate to love him, and love to hate-f*ck him. Everyone wants to throw that sexy librarian down and strip off his tighty-whiteys. We want those uptight, nerdy Harvard fans to relax for a minute and put down their copy of the Yale Shakespeare … just long enough to get freaky.

Gay marriage is coming! Gay marriage is coming!

And there it is: the queer heart of this college rivalry.

In this perversely retro modern age, gay boys come to college for more than just the learning and liberation; they come to college for their MR (no S) degree. Yale boys think boyfriend or “life partner”; Harvard boys think husband. Cambridge, Boston, even Williamstown residents are a coveted breed for the permanence of their prospects.

At Yale-Harvard, Yale men aren’t just battling with Harvard homos; we’re battling with each other. Our gay army is indeed an army of one, fighting to build an army of two; in the fight to find the perfect man, it’s every ‘mo for himself.

We may be “the gay Ivy,” have a mascot that makes sense, and be happier people, but Harvard boys have marriage. Marriage beats that Connecticut civil union bullshit any day. If one really wants to settle down like an old-fashioned fairy, he can only do it with a Mass. Man. And we all want one. Probably the same one (once we’ve sized up our options).

Hands off, he’s mine.

The common factor uniting gaYalies and straightYalies (the same factor uniting all us social climbers who managed to grab a seat in an Ivy League classroom) is competition. Though surely not as cut-throat as some other Ivy League students, Elis are competitive enough without adding a college rivalry into the mix. Doesn’t matter if it’s man on man, man on woman, woman on man, or woman on woman; the Yale-Harvard battle of the bulge is bound to get down and dirty: Our hair is better, our clothes are cooler, our muscles are bigger, our limbs are more limber, our love-legs are longer … and we’re willing to prove it.

On Monday, the enemy will return to its Cambridge castle, those Saybrook juniors will put their clothes back on, and the fire of competition will return to its proper home: section.

Chad Callaghan loves games with balls.