It was a cold autumn day in the middle of November. The leaves were falling, and the days grew shorter. A crowd of 2,000 spectators gathered in New Haven’s Hamilton Park. As they took their seats, 30 men dotted the field before them. 15 of them were clad in crimson knee breeches while the other fifteen sported dark blue jerseys.
Forgive me, please, for repeating myself, as people of a certain age often do. I’ve written columns before on major anniversaries of the assassination of John F. Kennedy. But I