Harvard hair is standing on end this morning. The announcement that the Brooklyn Dodgers may spend their spring training period in the ivy-covered Yale indoor cage is enough to make any College Flatbush follower reach for his smelling salts. Too long have the Durocher Dandies been subjected to a nation's ridicule; to foist upon this group of hale, uninhibited American youth the stigma of Gothic Bulldog culture is as dangerous a proposition as bringing Bill Terry unarmed into Ebbets Field.
Consider the plight of the Bedford Avenue beauty, the denizen of Section 16, who has lauded his beloved Bums ever since McPhail was a pup. Upturned Dodger noses and supercilious smiles will greet the once-inspired shouts of "trow de big bum out; de empire oughtta take gas." National league umpires will have to carry a pocket-sized edition of Funk and Wagnalls into every argument at home plate. The Dodgers' educational standards will thus be lowered to an unheard-of extreme; it will be like throwing a Ted Lyons curve ball to a rookie straight from Andalusia of the Georgia-Florida League. Unless the Dodgers forego this unholy alliance, their rakish diamond tactics may soon be Whiffenpoofed to a grey-flannel sophistication.