Duke

ORATORICALLY, Alfred Duclos will go down in history as one of humanity's greatest natural disasters, but no man in the realm of athletics at Dartmouth will ever rival this crusty legend when it comes to reducing the ranks of spirited athletes to rows of intimidated pups. No athlete, great or otherwise, has escaped his wrath, a fearsome mixture of tongue and scowl that has helped to make men of boys.

Probably 99 per cent of the Dartmouth athletes who have trod the stairs to the depths of Davis Varsity House have known this piece of New Hampshire granite simply as "Duke." From his lair, the equipment room, Duke has dispensed socks, jocks, and every other athletic accouterment along with a withering look and biting barb for the better part of these past 40 years.

If this appears a picture of Satan, you've never met the man - and you've missed one of the great experiences of education at Dartmouth. Born in 1912, his life has been devoted to the boys of Blaik and Jeremiah, Tesreau, Hillman and Dent, Noyes, McLaughry, Julian, Lupien and all the rest of the coaching fraternity who have looked upon him as they would their own right hand.

He was an end on a Hanover High football team that didn't lose a game and outscored its opponents 104-12 in 1930, and it was Clarence Jellis, then the guardian of the athletic grounds, who put Duke to work in 1934 on the icemaking brigade in Davis Rink. Three years later, he moved into the equipment room with Art Thibodeau, and when Art retired in 1962, Duke took command.

You came to know Duke's friendship when he called you by your last name - and consistently mispronounced it. His furrowed brow, creased scowl, and challenging chin have been tools in molding a brand of psychology that made the strongest freshman legs turn to rubber and made playing Harvard seem like a walk in the park.

Beneath the gruff exterior, however, is one of the softest hearts you'll ever know. He's lived for the athletes, laughed with them and cried with them, cajoled them and been their confidante. Along with Thibodeau and his long-time friend and associate for the past nine years, Carl Whitney, Duke has labored under trunks and duffel bags, operating an equipment system that borders on vintage Victorian.

It's been a labor of sweat and love that finally caught up with Duke on the Sunday morning last June when the Class of 1975 prepared for the final walk to the Baker Library lawn. The old duffer's heart did a quick-step and a flutter and put him out of commission for most of the summer. He thought about returning to work this fall but one day made the decision to retire, drove down to the "Silver Service" in White River Junction, and filed for his social security benefits.

Things will never be quite the same and Tony Lupien, who was a freshman at Harvard in 1935 when he first crossed Duke's path, knows how much the man has meant. "They'll change all the systems and probably make it efficient as hell," said Dartmouth's baseball coach, "but they'll never replace the man. You can't replace what he's meant to athletics at Dartmouth. Duke is what friendship is all about."

In his lair Duke called you by your last name and consistently mispronounced it.