The setting was Harry Parker's closet office in the Boathouse early last fall. And the subject, of course, was Harvard crew.

Parker's varsity boat hadn't won the Eastern Sprints or the Yale race in three years. And the question were tough ones, implying that Harvard crew was slipping.

Parker however, remained totally at ease. "We'll be back," he said that day with an assured smile, "and it won't be long."

In Worcester last Sunday, site of the 38th annual Eastern Sprints, the seven seniors and two juniors comprising the Crimson varsity boat proved Parker right. The varsity Eight, plus cox, became the toast of Eastern crew on the strength of a dramatic, come-from behind, photo-finish victory over Brown and four other boats. The underdog Bruins were edged by two-tenths of second in a six minute race, which translates into a bow ball on a boat deck or maybe even a thick hair on Harry Parker's receding hairline, take your pick.

Parker's hairline probably diminished five year's worth in the space of ten minutes Sunday, owing to the suspense of this year's Eastern Spring. First came the early stages of the race, with four or five boats jockeying for the lead. By the 1000-meter mark, the halfway point, Harvard had established a slim lead, but it was still anybody's race.

Parker, meanwhile, paced back and forth, alone, atop a roof near the finish, listening to the progression of the race being broadcast over the intercom. Several times he reached down and picked up loose pebbles, running them through his fingers. But most of all he just waited, take the 4100 other spectators.

By the last 250 meters, with the boats now in full view, the field bad narrowed to Brown and Harvard, rowing on opposite sides of Lake Quinsigamond. The Bruins had the lead, by as much as three or four seats with only 50 meters left.

And then something clicked. Eight separate Harvard cars meshed together and became one, producing the fastest 20 strokes that the Eastern Sprints may have ever seen. And then it ended.

Sort of.

For two minutes 4100 anxious fans, one inscrutable Harvard crew coach, two hoarse coxswains, and 16 drained oarsmen waited for the result. And waited.

When it was over, actually over, an impish grin slowly spread across the intense visage of Harry Parker. He kicked his foot in the air and with a wide smile looked heavenward. And chuckled, as if he'd known it all along.

As a sport, crew epitomizes detachment for the athlete, and for the coach. There are no pop talks, no time outs, no staring down the opposition or huddling with teammates amidst the action.

As a coach, Harry Parker can only sit and watch and wait, helpless on the sidelines. For the individual oarsmen, they can only grip their oar a little tighter, push their pain tolerance a little higher, and cock their ear a little closer to the cox screaming signals in front of them. And hope, hope that somehow all their training and hard work will help them jell together as a unit, enough to outdistance the other crews.

Oarsmen don't even see the end of the race--they're facing the other way, detached from the action they create themselves. In the last 50 meters of an even race it boils down to faith. Faith in the cox, faith in oneself to endure, and, yes, faith in the coaching.

For Harry Parker the rewards of coaching come in races like Sunday's. The eight Crimson oarsmen in that boat started as novices in lower boats and worked their way up. On Sunday last they achieved peak form, and they'll have a chance to do it again for the Sexton Cup in three weeks against Yale, which finished a distant fourth in the Sprints.

Harvard crew is back--with a new generation of oarsmen rowing against new and tougher rivals. And Harry Parker, skipper of the Crimson dynasty, is still at the helm.