Raising Rhubarb in the Year 1959

April 15, 1959--not the most memorable date in Harvard sports history.

Nothing really spectacular happened that Wednesday, exactly 30 years ago today. The baseball team had played its home opener against Tufts the day before. The skiing club chose a new president. The lacrosse team was set to play Holy Cross in Worcester.

Nothing really spectacular, Nothing really exciting. The sportswriting in that Wednesday issue of The Crimson certainly reflected the kind of day it was in Harvard sports.

Take, for example, the top sports story of the day: the Harvard baseball team's 4-3 victory over the Jumbos of Tufts at Soldiers Field. Byron Johnson pitched a four-hitter, and Tufts Coach Bob Meeham played the game under protest.

Wait a minute, a coach complained to the umpire? He raved? He cursed? Pretty exciting stuff.

Guess you had to be there, because the story that ran in The Crimson sounded more like and Expos paper.

"His loud-spoken comments to the unfortunate arbiter included such pleasantries as 'rabbit-ears,' `Get into the ball game,' and assorted profanities."

Unfortunate arbiter? Pleasantries? Assorted profanities? I never knew you needed a dictionary to read a sports story.

Sports language has certainly changed since then. Does anyone talk about "rhubarb" anymore? On April 15, 1959, one headline read: "Coach's Protests Raise Rhubarb, Delay Action in Tufts Ball Game."

Rhubarb (as defined by the Random House College Dictionary--a must for the true Harvard sports fan of 1959): 1. any polygonaceous herb of the genus Rheum, as R. officinale, having a medicinal rhizome, and R. Rhaponticum, having edible leafstalks. (No, that's not it.) 2. the rhizome of any medicinal species of this plant, forming a combined cathartic and astringent. (That ain't it, either.) 3. the edible fleshy leafstalks of any of the garden species. (That's gross) 4. U.S. Slang. a quarrel or a squabble. (Bingo.)

Okay, first problem figured out. But what is the opening paragraph of the men's tennis preview implying?

"Facing M.I.T's strongest squad in many years, the varsity tennis team is nonetheless a favorite to whip the Engineers in the opening match of the regular season at 3 p.m. today on the Soldiers Field Courts."

Dr. Freud, Dr. Freud, where are you?

Some other notables from the April 15, 1959, sports section of The Crimson:

Did you know that freshman tennis player Jarum Piatigorsky "alternates a tricky top spin serve with his vicious cannon ball?" (Run for your lives, run for your lives, Piatigorsky is lighting up his cannon!)

Or that the Milwaukee Braves "nosed out" the Philadelphia Phillies? (Whose nose? Hank Aaron's? Eddie Matthews'? Jimmy Durante's?)

Yes, sports language has changed. Thirty years have passed. Sentences have become less wordy. Less difficult to read. No rhubarb. Really. Disappeared.

Check out any sports page of The Crimson, circa 1989. Notice the sports language. Instead of "stickmen" (lacrosse, 1959), we have "laxmen." Instead of "the varsity nine" (baseball, 1959), we have "batsmen." Is sports language in 1989 better than it was in 1959? Not really. Only different.

In 1959, the Harvard sports fan needed a dictionary. In 1989, the fan might need a book on popular culture in the 1980s (People magazine?).

Take this paragraph on the Harvard-St. Lawrence hockey game in January, for example:

"In this region called the North Country, they say the hockey is a little bolder, a little faster, a little better."

What does this mean? Who knows? Maybe this writer was thinking about the Molson Golden ad that flashed across a television screen in a hotel room somewhere in Canton, N.Y.

But I wonder--if this were 1959 and Harvard had just defeated St. Lawrence--would this paragraph make any sense? No way. But something about rhubarb would have. Something like this:

"The varsity hockey team raised its rhubarb and whipped the Saints of St. Lawrence, 5-1, with a powerful cannon-ball offense. The profligate Saint fans yelled assorted profanities and taunted the varsity with some malicious intent before Ed Presz advanced to the goal and proceeded to score a goal of ethereal beauty in the opening minutes of this pugilistic contest."

Times change. Sports language changes. But 30 years from now, someone will read this, look at the column head (Varelitas) and ask:

"In 1989, why did the sports section of The Crimson use all those silly column names for its writers?"