It was overcast in Worcester. The air was heavy, and the clouds were ready to explode. The traffic on Route 9 was light, but steady. On the shores of Lake Quinsigamond, people wandered about, looking for a comfortable vantage point along the rocky banks or hovering over the Tastee-Freeze trucks with visions of soft ice cream twinkling in their eyes.

The snake of parked automobiles wrapped around North Quinsigamond Avenue and up through the parking lots encircling the University of Massachusetts Medical School. The farther north you went, the more infrequent the cars got. There was an occassional tailgate contingent, complete with hibachi and cold beer, and the die-hard cyclist, determined to pedal 2000 meters every 15 minutes or so.

In the shadow of a pair of massive green and white tents, put up to protect the precious racing shells, the 34th annual Eastern Sprints had set up house. This was the culmination of the majestic sport of rowing, the tradition-rich spectacle that focuses all eyes on a set of human machines splitting the quiet waters of the murky Quinsigamond.

For Harvard crews, the Sprints had always been a festive occasion, a day to display the dominance Crimson oarsmen had exerted on the sport and claim the awards and recognition they so justly deserved.

In 33 years, Harvard had won the Rowe Cup (for most points in the combined varsity, J.V. and freshmen heavyweight races) 17 times. The next closest competitor was Yale, with six wins. The Worcester Bowl, awarded to the winning varsity heavyweight eight, had resided in Cambridge from 1964-70 and the again from 1974-77.

In the lightweight stable, the Crimson had compiled an even more impressive record. The Jope Cup, awarded for total combined lightweight points, had gone to Harvard every year since 1968; and the Crimson had lost the Wright Trophy (varsity lights) only twice in this decade. In addition, the J.V. lights were taking a 12-year streak with the Cornell Trophy into the 1979 race.

Carrying that formidable history in its wake, Harvard entered the 1979 race with an uneasy feeling. The lights had been beaten soundly by Yale the weekend before--all except the J.V. boat, which carried a 4-0 record to Worcester.

The three heavyweight eights were all undefeated, at 3-0; but none of them had faced Yale. And the Elis were big, bad and brutal.

The stage was set. This was to be a showdown of rival Harvard and Yale, the likes of which had never before been seen. The one new twist to the story, though, was that Yale had been given the inside track. Harvard went in an underdog, seeded second behind Yale in every race but the J.V. lightweight contest (where Yale had a very weak boat).

With gloomy skies and a somber lake, Sunday, May 13, presented the Crimson oarsmen with a less than inspiring day. It had been an eventful evening prior to the races. Last-minute reservations had forced Harvard into a Route 9 motel for what one oarsman described as "horsemeat for dinner and Frisbees for breakfast." It was a less than luxurious start; but then again, the Harvard thoroughbreads were more interested in champagne on the dock than in their rooms.

However, the taste of the bubbly was to come only infrequently for the Harvard crews in 1979.

As the heavyweight varsity eight pulled up to the dock after Sunday's 5:15 p.m. final, Harry Parker was standing silently, his yellow rain slicker wrapped carelessly about one arm. The concrete countenance, which carried with it power and dignity, revealed a slight grimmace that accentuated the signs of strain in Parker's weathered skin. The Schoenbrod shell glided to a halt as Parker grabbed one of the oars and pulled the boat closer to the dock.

Harry You was huddled in his coxswain's position. His eyes were glazed with tears, and his lips were pursed to hold back a sob. The powerful engine room was hauntingly silent. Hap Porter blinked back tears while Charlie Alterkruse hurried off, oar in tow. Paul Templeton, in the bow, looked worn--he too was ready to cry.

As the oarsmen left the boat, Gordie Gardiner, the stout and resolute stroke and captain, carried the weight of defeat gracefully. He leaned over, put an arm around the much smaller You, and offered some words of encouragement, along with a brotherly poke in the ribs. The lean coxswain looked up, and in silence, there was a clear understanding that this brotherhood was appreciated. The close-knit family was at hand to help one another.

While Porter sought out the supportive embraces of his girlfriend and Jay Smith fielded a barrage of questions from reporters, Parker wandered about silently, seeking out each of his athletes for a firm handshake and a typically brief word or two of wisdom.