The Sporting Scene
Just An Old-Fashioned Fish Fry
Last Tuesday evening this correspondent was privileged to attend the annual meeting of the Ivy League Chowder and Martini Society, otherwise known as the Harvard Club Football Smoker. Gaffers of all ages from Harvard, Dartmouth, Yale and Princeton gathered in the Commonwealth Avenue hall to listen to four gentlemen expound on their teams-or so it said on the program.
When the drinks (excellent as always) and the fish chowder (pungent and tasty) had been disposed of, a joyous soul arose and cried, "Is there a Yale man in the house?" The band, cleverly revealed on the balcony, burst into Ten Thousand Men of Harvard." The logic of this was sublime compared with what was to follow.
Ernie Ransome, a quiet-spoken and well-informed young man, spoke briefly and to the point concerning Princeton football. He put it off the record, but it was good-for the Princeton men in the house. He also had kind words for Columbia, which scrimmaged the Tigers almost to a draw last month.
Oh, Mr. Cunningham . . .
At this point football gave way to eloquence. Bill Cunningham, a high-salaried local scrivener, arose, said he'd rather be in Washington watching the Red Sox, and opened his eulogy of Dartmouth with a reference to "my beloved alma mater." Things aren't so hot up there, he said, because what with one thing and another they've lost the left side of the defensive line from end to center. But: "We aren't striking the flag," "we older fellows must realize the game has changed;" and "football teaches . . . all those beautiful things without which we can't be the men our fathers were."
Victor O. Jones '28, managing editor of the Boston Globe, represented Harvard on the platform. Mr. Jones is a little guy who was once sports editor of the Globe, and who knows a good deal about football. He disagreed politely with Cunningham, who had stated that football players made great soldiers, by pointing out that most of the men who fought in the war were in the stands during football games. He mentioned that the seating capacities of our college stadia far exceeded classroom space, and that this rather than the score at Stanford was a cause for worry. He didn't discuss the team much, for the reason that he hadn't watched them yet. But he wound up with a pretty good argument for Mr. Bingham's athletic policy: "Let them (subsidizing colleges) work their side of the street. I hope we never do it any other way than we do now . . . all our players are students, all undergraduates." It was an interesting note of sanity in the football fever of the great hall.
. . . Yes, Mr. Britt
The final speaker, for Yale, was Jim Britt, whose unctuous tones are familiar to those who follow the fortunes of Boston's baseball teams. He told a dirty joke, told a dreadful and moving story about Joe McCarthy, and split an infinitive or three.
Mr. Britt was born in Indiana and attended Detroit University. He has not seen Yale this year. Just why he represented Yale is still unclear, except that he may have as large an appetite, if not so keen a wit, as Herman Hickman.
The chowder and apple pie were delicious: Herman would have enjoyed himself, the more so since the meeting followed one of his cardinal rules: "I plan to keep the alumni sullen, but not rebellious."