Athletics, then, are not taken out of proportion. They are clearly secondary to academic pursuits and the attractions of the surrounding city. Even the athlete cannot consider sports his total reason for being at Harvard. Very few jocks here can go on to make a career as a pro after graduating. Most of the famous Crimson heroes have gone on to make it big in fields other than sports.

With the seemingly endless, mindless expansion and dilution of professional sports, with a pro franchise in almost every city in the country, Harvard athletes now stand a much better chance than they have in past years of making it in the big time. In football, for instance, only John Dockery, who can flash a Superbowl championship ring from his days with the New York Jets, has been successful in recent years with the NFL.

But as soon as the World Football League was born, former Crimson gridders like Rod Foster, Bill Craven, Ted DeMars and Eric Crone have had a chance to try out with the big boys. While only Foster and Craven have broken into the lineup in the new league, it is an indication that more will come.

Maybe more fans will show at Soldiers Field to see future members of the Bell or the Storm or the Fire, providing the WFL hangs on, but that is a doubtful lure. Harvard fans are not so easily conned.

But really what is a Harvard fan?

He is the class of '36, a Friend of Harvard football or hockey or baseball. He has season tickets next to some old teammates who share with him memories of the good old days and compare them with the teams of the past couple of years. He is truly devoted to Harvard sports, yet reserved in his displays of emotion, win or lose.

The Harvard fan is the undergrad, with his date from Pine Manor who he is taking to the game. He wears a tweed jacket over a sweater to the stadium, and brings a blanket to sit on and a thermos of milk punch or a flask to stay warm.

He is the stripper at Watson Rink, who in between periods begins to remove his clothes in Section 18 to the tunes of the Harvard band. He is drunk and rowdy and having a great time--that is, until the University Police escort him from the building.

Or he might be the kid who is a brother of one of the players or son of an alumnus or just a local guy, who runs onto the field to get a chin strap, or collects broken hockey sticks or just wants to be near a seeming athletic hero.

Maybe it's the cheerleaders, who wouldn't be caught dead doing any sort of straight cheer. Harvard does not have a line of pretty coeds with pom-poms doing cute routines, but rather a casual bunch that stroll around on the sidelines giving an "H" and an "A", etc. now and then, but mostly clowning it up.

Or then there's that venerable institution known as the Harvard Band, which mixes those traditional fight songs of eras past with suggestive (and sometimes downright lewd) halftime formations, as well as biting sarcasm about the state of the University, the nation or the world.

But the Harvard fan is also part of the throng that invaded the Boston subways returning from the Crimson's dramatic victory over Boston University in the Beanpot tourney at the Garden--the raucous mob that rocked the train with shouts of "We're Number One" and loud, though not tuned, versions of "Ten Thousand Men of Harvard."

There are events that spark the fire beneath the seeming mask of indifference to the world of jockdom. A winning team or a big game can turn that quiet evening out with the team into an orgy.

But a team that is not winning will have to settle for a peck on the cheek now and then. Take Harvard's basketball squad, for example. The dingy old court on the top floor of the Indoor Athletic Building draws about as many spectators in a season as Maryland will get for a single game.

Granted that Boston is not a hotbed of hoop (you can ask the Celtics about that), but even by Beantown's standards the crowds are thin. Many felt that the addition of, Thomas "Satch" Sanders, former Celts star of many years, as head basketball coach would boost attendance. It did initially, but after the excitement wore off and people realized that Satch was no miracle worker and that the team was still losing as many as they were winning, the crowds dropped again to pitiful levels.