Alas, poor Irma, you don’t know what you missed.
Twelve freshmen stood in a straight line, stark naked. They were of varying somatotypes, ranging from corpulent to frail (Danny Rossi was among them.) Their physiques were as disparate as Mickey Mouse and Adonis (Jason Gilbert was also among the dozen). Before them stretched a wooden bench some three feet off the ground, and behind it an imperious gymnasium official who had menacingly introduced himself as “Colonel” Jackson.
“Awright,” he barked. “You freshmen are about to take the famous Harvard Step Test. Which, as you don’t have to be a Harvard man to figger out, involves the stepping up and stepping down on this here step. Clear so far? Now, this here test was devised during the war so’s we could check our G.I.s’ fitness. And it must have worked, ’cause we beat Hitler, didn’t we?”
He paused to await some expression of patriotic enthusiasm on the part of his charges. But, losing patience, he continued laying down the rules.
“Okay, when I blow my whistle, you start climbing on and off the bench. We’ll be playing an L.P. and also I’ll be beating time with this here stick. Now this procedure will continue for five entire minutes. And I’m watching all of you, so don’t goof off or miss a step or you’ll be majoring in P.T. exercises the whole darn year.”
Danny trembled inwardly as this officious ogre rambled on.
Shit, he told himself, these other guys are so much — taller than I. For them it’s just like stepping on a curb. For me this lousy bench is like Mount Everest. It isn’t fair.
“Awright,” Colonel Jackson snapped. “When I say go, you start stepping. And keep in time!”
Go!
And they were off.
As an L.P. blared stridently, the monster pounded his stick with relentless, debilitating regularity. Up-two-three-four, up-two-three-four, up-two-three-four.
After a few dozen steps, Danny was beginning to tire. He wished the colonel’s beat would slacken even slightly, but the man was an infernal metronome. Still, at least it would soon be over — he prayed.
“Half a minute!” Jackson called out.
Thank God, thought Danny, just a little more and I’ll be able to stop.
But an agonizing thirty seconds thereafter, the official bellowed, “One minute down, just four to go!”
No, thought Danny, not another four minutes. I can barely breathe. Then he reminded himself that if he quit, he’d have to take a gym class with this sadist in addition to his other courses! And so he mustered all his inner fortitude, the courage that had once fueled him on the running track, and fought beyond the limits of his pain.
“Come on, you puny carrot top,” the torture master bellowed. “I can see you’re skipping steps. Keep going, 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?