You Row or You Study

by KENNETH KENISTON

WHILE Americans undoubtedly have much to learn from English sports, they must examine them carefully before they make them their models. Rowing for an American and an English university has convinced me that the simple labeling of athletics in the two countries as “professional” and “amateur” falls short of the whole truth. Eor one thing, the usual comparison between American varsity football and competition between Oxford colleges is not completely valid. Also, even when interuniversity sports on both sides of the Atlantic are contrasted, it turns out that the English sometimes have as much of the do-or-die spirit as have Americans. Finally, where the English do have the lackadaisical attitude towards winning supposed to typify their sports, this is not always the unmitigated blessing it seems.

The standard argument in favor of British sports runs as follows: “Trinity College, Cambridge, takes rugger less seriously than Ohio State takes football. This proves that the English are less professional than the Americans.” This argument overlooks the fact that it is not fair to compare sports among Oxford or Cambridge colleges with those among major American universities. Oxford and Cambridge each have about twenty colleges with their separate athletic programs. These programs operate in addition to the so-called university or varsity teams, which draw from all the colleges. The English college teams are roughly equivalent to a well-organized intramural competition in the United States. Naturally, in teams which represent English colleges of 200-500 men, one could not expect to find the same degree of athletic specialization as in a team representing a university of 10,000 men. Nor are English college teams, in which relatively little general public interest is taken, equally liable to alumni pressure or the charge that they distract from academic life.

A fairer comparison, however, can be made between varsity sports in the United States and university sports in England. Though it is undoubtedly true that American sports are more commercialized than English, some English sports suffer from the same “overemphasis” as American football. Rowing is an extreme example of this. I rowed at Harvard for four years before coming to England. Rowing there was completely amateur, and though we had consistently good crews, there was never any hint of scholarships, alumni pressure, or special concessions to oarsmen. Rowing was something you did for two or three hours at the end of the day — just one part of college life.

At Oxford, upon ray arrival, I was warned, “Either you row or you study, but not both.” I soon learned the truth of this warning. Varsity rowing practice averaged four hours a day for two months, five hours a day for the next two months, and culminated in a month spent in seclusion in London, doing nothing but preparing for the Boat Race against Cambridge. We missed five weeks of vacation to be able to row.

During the early period of our training for this, our only race, scholarly articles on coaching methods and rowing styles appeared in London papers. As the race approached, comments grew more and more specific, till it was not unusual for the Times to comment in its daily article, “Stroke continues to carry his elbows too high,”and for the Guardian to add, “Number six is still rowing with an unsightly American style.” Correspondents interviewed both crews for feature articles; details of our daily life appeared in tabloids, on the radio, on television. We were confined for a month to our palatial quarters in a London club; visitors could see us only with special permission. Each night at our formal dinners, we entertained rowing men of former years, old blues who had been especially helpful to Oxford rowing. With their innumerable stories of “the days when races were races,” they impressed on us the importance of breaking the long string of Cambridge victories.

As the day of the race approached, we grew more and more nervous. Television cameras were being set up along the course. The B.B.C. told us that 200 million people could hear the race on the home and overseas programs. The stream of well-wishing telegrams grew to a torrent, and the newspapers devoted more and more space to the details of our practices, the betting odds, and speculations on the outcome. When we lined up for the start, the crew was more intent on winning than any other I have known. As we edged over the finish a few led ahead of Cambridge for the first time in six years, the old blues wept openly with delight.

But rowing at Oxford has advantages other than competing against Cambridge. Though one oarsman admitted that he had not written an essay for nine months— the weekly essay is the supposed core of an Oxford education — neither he nor his tutor seemed concerned. Since college officials appreciate the difficulty of studying while rowing, it is often possible for oarsmen and other blues to obtain official permission for an extra year to complete the degree. Also, undergraduate gossip has it that being a blue is, for some reason, a help in passing the final examinations, so few mind devoting their time to rowing. Although we had to pay some $175 from our own pockets to help finance our training and our elaborate wardrobes, this was accepted as a good investment. It is axiomatic at Oxford that “a blue is better than a first” (rough translation: “a major letter is better than a Phi Beta Kappa key”) in getting most jobs in business and the government.

But this is not the whole picture. As in America, few students are members of university teams. Yet unlike the situation in the United States, many take part in the highly organized college athletic program. Here sports are on the whole less seriously treated than, for example, university rugger or rowing. A lackadaisical attitude toward winning prevails, and often the feeling that, as one college coach said, “it’s better to lose among gentlemen than to win in bad company.” Matches are generally friendly; if there is any training at all, it is taken to mean not more than ten cigarettes and three pints of beer a day.

Yet even this justly lauded system has certain drawbacks. In the summer of 1950, Harvard visited England to row in the Henley Regatta. I was a member of the Harvard crew at that time; and before our own races, we used to watch the heats of other events. Boat after boat from Oxford and Cambridge colleges lost by a few feet without trying to catch the victors in a last-minute sprint. Half a dozen of the boats seemed potentially excellent; yet the oarsmen were not making the extra effort that might have raised their boat above mediocrity. When the races were over, some of our opponents joshed us for having come to England so obviously intent on winning. But we felt that the desire to win was necessary to make a boat go fast and smoothly. And among ourselves, we remarked that English college rowing might be more enjoyable as well as faster if winning were more of a goal. The attitude of “it’s just a game, chaps, never mind who wins” doesn’t often produce the effort necessary to attain a high standard of competition. One of the supreme satisfactions of any sport is the feeling of playing it well, in addition to playing it “in good company.”