An Unexpected Dunking
There I was, freshman week at Yale, September 1956. I had come from the hinterland, Cincinnati, Ohio – from a public school. I had never played any high school sports. There was a sign somewhere on the Old Campus that said, if you’re under 125 pounds, come out for crew. What’s crew, I wondered. I’d never heard of it.
The bus trips to Derby were long; the ones back, even longer. Passing pizza signs on the Berlin Turnpike was hurtful to someone who constantly had to diet to keep his weight down. I was dead-weight for the eight guys who did all the work – Bill Shipman, Oscar Tang, Doug Lewis, among others. The highlight that Fall was watching the Olympic crew practice on the Housatonic. Each stroke had the sound of a snap. What a beautiful sight.
All I remember about Spring and our first race was going to Dartmouth to row on the Connecticut River. It was March; there were still ice chunks on the river. I coxed the freshman lightweight boat. Before I knew it, we had won our first race! What joy. Then, those same eight guys surrounded me and threw me in the icy river. I later learned it was a tradition. I almost died when I hit the still freezing water. They kindly pulled me out. I survived. I stuck with crew throughout my Yale career.