Or that the Milwaukee Braves "nosed out" the Philadelphia Phillies? (Whose nose? Hank Aaron's? Eddie Matthews'? Jimmy Durante's?)

Yes, sports language has changed. Thirty years have passed. Sentences have become less wordy. Less difficult to read. No rhubarb. Really. Disappeared.

Check out any sports page of The Crimson, circa 1989. Notice the sports language. Instead of "stickmen" (lacrosse, 1959), we have "laxmen." Instead of "the varsity nine" (baseball, 1959), we have "batsmen." Is sports language in 1989 better than it was in 1959? Not really. Only different.

In 1959, the Harvard sports fan needed a dictionary. In 1989, the fan might need a book on popular culture in the 1980s (People magazine?).

Take this paragraph on the Harvard-St. Lawrence hockey game in January, for example:

"In this region called the North Country, they say the hockey is a little bolder, a little faster, a little better."

What does this mean? Who knows? Maybe this writer was thinking about the Molson Golden ad that flashed across a television screen in a hotel room somewhere in Canton, N.Y.

But I wonder--if this were 1959 and Harvard had just defeated St. Lawrence--would this paragraph make any sense? No way. But something about rhubarb would have. Something like this:

"The varsity hockey team raised its rhubarb and whipped the Saints of St. Lawrence, 5-1, with a powerful cannon-ball offense. The profligate Saint fans yelled assorted profanities and taunted the varsity with some malicious intent before Ed Presz advanced to the goal and proceeded to score a goal of ethereal beauty in the opening minutes of this pugilistic contest."

Times change. Sports language changes. But 30 years from now, someone will read this, look at the column head (Varelitas) and ask:

"In 1989, why did the sports section of The Crimson use all those silly column names for its writers?"