or I’ll make you do an extra minute.”
Sweat was pouring down all of the dozen freshmen’s limbs. And even splashing onto their neighbors.
“Two minutes. Just three more to go.”
Now Danny sensed in desperation that he’d never make it. He could barely lift his legs. He was sure he’d fall and break an arm. Farewell to concertizing. All because of this ridiculously useless exercise in animality.
Just then a quiet voice next to him said, “Take it easy, kid. Try to breathe normally. If you miss a step, I’ll do my best to block you.”
Danny wearily looked up. It was a blond and muscular classmate who had uttered this encouragement. An athlete in such splendid shape that he had breath enough to give advice while he was stepping regularly up and down. All Dan could do was nod in gratitude. He steeled himself and persevered.
“Four minutes,” cried the Torquemada in a sweatshirt. “Only one to go. You guys are doing pretty good — for Harvard men.”
Danny Rossi’s legs were suddenly rigid. He couldn’t take another step.
“Don’t quit now,” his neighbor whispered. “Come on, babe, just another lousy sixty seconds.”
Then Danny felt a hand reach underneath his elbow and — pull him up. His limbs unlocked, and stiffly he resumed the grueling climb to nowhere.
And then at last, deliverance. The whole nightmare was over.
“Awright. Everybody sit down on the bench and put your hand on the neck of the guy on your right. We’re going to take pulses.”
The freshmen, now initiated in this sweaty rite of passage, gladly collapsed and struggled to regain their breath.
When Colonel Jackson had recorded all pertinent fitness information, the twelve exhausted freshmen were instructed to take showers and proceed, still in their birthday suits, down two flights of stairs to the pool. Because, as the overbearing instructor so aptly expressed it, “Whoever cannot swim fifty yards cannot graduate this university.”
As they stood side by side under the showers washing off the sweat of persecution, Danny said to the classmate whose magnanimous assistance would allow him countless extra hours at the keyboard, “Hey, I can never thank you enough for saving me out there.”
“That’s okay. It’s a stupid test to start with. And I pity anyone who’d have to listen to that ape give orders for a whole semester. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Danny Rossi,” said the smaller man, offering a soapy hand.
“Jason Gilbert,” the athletic type replied, and added with a grin, “can you swim okay, Dan?”
“Yes, thanks.” Danny smiled. “I’m from California.
“California, and you’re not a jock?”
“My sport is the piano. Do you like the classics?”
“Nothing heavier than Johnny Mathis. But still, I’d like to hear you play. Maybe after dinner sometime in the Union, huh?”
“Sure,” Danny said, “but if not, I promise you a pair of tickets for my first public — performance.”
“Gee, are you that good?”
“Yes,” said Danny Rossi quietly, without embarrassment.
Then they both descended to the pool and, in adjoining lanes, Jason with flamboyant speed, Danny with deliberate caution, swam the obligatory fifty yards that marked their final physical requirement for a degree at Harvard.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
September 22, 1954
Yesterday we had the stupid Harvard Step Test. Being in reasonable shape for soccer, I passed it with no sweat. (Or to be more accurate, a lot of sweat, but very little effort.) The only trouble came when “Colonel” Jackson made us reach over to feel the neck artery of the guy next to you, my neighbor was so slippery with perspiration that I couldn’t find his pulse. So when that Fascist character came by to write it down, I just made up a number that popped into my head.
When we got back to the dorm, the three of us reviewed this fairly degrading experience. We all agreed that the most undignified and unnecessary aspect was the damn posture picture just before the Step Test. Imagine, now Harvard has a personal file of everyone — or perhaps more accurately, every member of The Class — standing naked in front of the camera, ostensibly to test our posture. But probably so that when one of us becomes President of the — United States, the phys. ed. department can pull out his picture and see what the leader of the greatest nation in the world looks like in the raw.
What really bugged Wigglesworth was that some thief could break into the IAB, filch our photographs, and sell them for a fortune.
“To whom?” I asked. “Who’d pay to see the pictures of a thousand naked Harvard freshmen?”
This gave him pause for thought. Who indeed would treasure such a portrait gallery? Some horny Wellesley girls, perhaps. Then something else occurred to me: do Cliffies have to take these pictures too?
Newall thought they did. And I conceived this great idea of sneaking into the Radcliffe gym to steal their pictures. What a show! Then we’d know what girls to concentrate our efforts on.
At first they really liked my plan. But then their courage sort of evanesced.
And Newall argued that a “real man” should be able to find out empirically.
So much for bravery. I would have liked that midnight raid.
I think.
Study cards were due in at 5:00 P.M. on Thursday. This gave The Class of ’58 a little time to shop around and choose a balanced program. They’d need courses for their majors, some for distribution, and some perhaps for cultural enrichment. And, most important, a gut. At least one really easy course was absolutely necessary for those who were either preppies or pre-med.
For Ted Lambros, who was certain he’d be majoring in classics, the selection was fairly straightforward: Latin 2A, Horace and Catullus, and Nat. Sci. 4 with the pyrotechnic L. K. Nash, who regularly blew himself up several times a year.
Both as a gut and a requirement, he took Greek A, an introduction to the classical version of the language he had used since birth. After two semesters he would be able to read Homer in the original. And in the meantime, as a fourth course, he would read the famous epics in translation with John Finley, the legendary Eliot Professor of Greek Literature. “Hum 2,” as it was affectionately known, would provide stimulation, information, and, as everyone at Harvard knew, an easy grade.
Danny Rossi had already planned his schedule during his cross-country trek. Music 51, Analysis of Form, an unavoidable requirement for every major. But the rest would be pure joy. A survey of orchestral music from Haydn to Hindemith. Then, beginning German, to prepare him to conduct the Wagner operas. (He’d start Italian and French later.) And, of course, the college’s most popular and inspirational free ride — Hum 2.
He had wanted to take Walter Piston’s Composition Seminar, and had assumed that the great man would admit him even though Danny was a freshman and the class had mostly graduates. But Piston turned him down “for his own good.”
