Until the very end of his life, when he died aged 44 in 1940, F. Scott Fitzgerald would send diagrams of football plays to the Princeton head coach, aiming to facilitate gridiron glory. You’d not be amiss in stating that Fitzgerald never got over college. He was, as history rarely seems to remember, a college dropout, one who spent most of the summer of 1919 back home and drunk in St. Paul, Minnesota, mulling his university life, desperate for it to still play some role in getting him what he wanted.
