On the Beat

Whatever happened to Street and Smith's top pick for this year's Ivy League basketball title? Harvard's league record is a still-competitive 2-1, but overall the Crimson is a mediocre 6-7.

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You have to wonder what Beanpot officials were thinking when they seeded this year's tournament. The two favorites, Boston College and Northeastern, must face each other in the opening round, allowing either a 3-7-1 Boston University or a 5-9-1 Crimson squad to reach the finals.

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More on Dean Fox's housing report: The three Houses with the lowest of percentage of people with Group I and Group II grades--Kirkland, Eliot and Currier--are currently the top three contenders for the Straus Cup. Currier, with a slight lead in the competition, could become the first Radcliffe House to win the prestigious intramural title.

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With all the new snow on the ground, wouldn't you rather be skiing? Rumor has it that the Harvard Entrepreneur Club is considering chartering a bus to escort students in Fine Arts 175a direct from their final on Friday afternoon to the slopes in Vermont. Night skiing, anyone?

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Super Bowl footnotes: Bengal QB Ken Anderson should shave his mustache, but he still gets my vote for Father of the Year. After dropping Sunday's game to San Francisco, 26-21, Anderson walked off the field carrying his son in his arms.

As long as nominations are being offered, Forty-Niner linebacker Jack Reynolds deserves an award for his unorthodox style of celebrating. According to the Globe's page-one story on Monday, the NFL veteran gathered the San Francisco defense around him after staging a gutsy goal-line stand in the third quarter. Reynolds then proceeded to unhitch his pants and empty his bladder in the endzone. If nothing else, it's a new wrinkle in the poise-under-pressure theme.

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Did you notice the television close-ups of Shawn Weatherly, a.k.a. Miss Universe 1980, cheering for Dwight Clark in the stands of the Silverdome? The latest word is that she's no longer interested in husky NFL wide receivers and is falling for emaciated sportswriters who run the forty in eight flat. So you hadn't heard yet? Don't worry about it, neither has she.

Just kidding, Mr. Clark. Thanks all the same, but I'd rather not see a close-up of your Super Bowl ring.