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AMONG THE MINORS

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

With less than a month of the Eastern Intercollegiate League's basketball season to go, a comparison of the standings of the teams is both interesting and enlightening, especially in reference to the recent games. The remarkable peregrinations of the Crimson team from the lower reaches of the standing to a tie for third place, and then back to sixth place within the past few weeks serve to show the closeness of the race, and the lack of disparity between the teams.

In the first crimson flush of victory after the Dartmouth game, rosy visions of undisputed third place were floating about the New Indoor Athletic Building, but they have since vanished into nothingness. Defeats by Princeton and Columbia have dropped the Feslermen to undisputed sixth place. The crucial game with Princeton, whose loss put the Crimson boys on the skids, was dropped largely due to the absence of the invaluable Mr. White from his position at right forward, due to a charleyhorse.

This charleyhorse of Leavitt S. (Levi) White '37 is the white man's peril right now, for it is that that threatens to send the Feslermen down to dark defeat. For a team drilled ever since the start of the season as practically a five-man squad, due to the exigencies of material, such an accident to one of the regulars is little less than tragic, and no adequate solution has yet been found. Both By Moser and Jack Mason, regulars on last year's Freshman quintet, have been working out at the right forward position, trying to get in the swing, but the punch of the former combination is still lacking.

The treatment of the persistent charleyhorse seems to be one of those secrets that come down in the families of trainers, jealously preserved from the public, as do the secrets of fine craftsmanship continue in the families of Europe. At least there seems to be a considerable difference of opinion on the treatment of the malady by those in the know along the Atlantic seaboard.

As the suffering Mr. White limped, game to the last, into the Princeton dressing room, the local genius presiding over the white rags and smelly fluids threw up his hands in despair. "Who the hell did that?" quoth he, and forth-with ripped the bandages from our feebly protesting star and tied him up with the Princeton half-hitch. That was all very well until, after the squad hit Cambridge again, our hero, smiling through his tears, visited Dillon Field House to have some attention paid to the injured member. A cry of disgust rent the air. "Who the HELL did that job?" said a pained voice, and the trainer lunged for the bandages.

The bandages are now done up tight, in a third totally different way, but White is nowhere to be found. Afraid of being accosted and undressed on the street, he has not dared emerge from the confines of Lowell House for more than a week now. A man's house is his castle, and that is what our Leavitt is sadly in need of right now.

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