1937–38 Volume 62 No 1–5 - Phi Delta Theta Scroll Archive

SEVERAL years ago, I can well remember,
I was sitting in a group of
friends gathered around the radio in the
fratemity house at Miami. From the instrument
came the voice of a sports commentator,
very British in accent, describing
the annual race between Oxford and
Cambridge on the Thames above London.
The announcer was following the
two crews in a launch and excitedly giving
a running account of the fierce competition
of the two eights as they pulled
up the river. During the early part of
the race, the commentator would wildly
yell again and again, "There is nothing
in it, there's still nothing in it." By the
tone of his voice we could gather that
great things were happening on the
Thames that day, but the word picture
was considerably blurred by that phrase
which constantly intruded itself.
The Boat Race
It was only after coming over here and
being exposed for some time to the King's
English as it is spoken at home, that I
learned the meaning of that confusing
anglicism, "there is nothing in it." Briefly,
it infers that there is nothing to chose
between several competitors in a race or
between several objects presented for
choice.
This time I witnessed the finish of the
Oxford-Cambridge boat race from the
tow-path on the south side of the river.
There was no opportunity to employ
my recently acquired anglicism, however,
for by the time the two crews came into
view, Oxford was at least a length ahead,
and there was undoubtedly "something in
By LOUIS E. FRECHTLING, Miami '34
it." The lead of the boat with the dark
blue oars increased as they rounded the
bend and came up the final stretch, and
at the finish Cambridge was three full
lengths behind. For the first time in thirteen
years, the Dark Blues had finally
won "the boat race." Actually, in uppercrust
London and of course the university
towns, one never speaks of the Oxford-
Cambridge race or the universities race;
it's always just the boat race, as in Boston's
suburban Brookline there is The
Country Club, so swanky and well established
that it needs no other title.
But I must not infer that only uppercrust
London, the old boys, and the undergraduates
gather once a year on the
Thames to watch the race. The event is
much more than that: it is all London's
race. The towpaths, the bridges, the windows
and roofs of water-side buildings
are crowded not by Britishers intimately
connected with one or another of the
universities, but rather by typical subjects
of His Majesty who together swell
the population of this sprawling metropolis
to seven or eight millions. Workers,
workers' wives, and workers' children are
there in great numbers, for this holiday
belongs to all of London as well as to the
remote, aloof ancient universities.
Newspapermen estimated that 90 per
cent of the crowd of some 500,000 who
lined the course from Putney to Mortlake
were just average Londoners out for
a holiday, and from the character of the
spectators who were about me, I would
agree. A fruit-dealer and his numerous
THE 1937 BOAT RACE—OXFORD CREW LEADING CAMBRIDGE HOME
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