The Life on the Road

ROUTE 90--I am Charles Kuralt. I am Jack Kerouac. I am Willie Nelson.

I am on the road again.

The signposts point to Springfield. The signposts point to Albany. Fifty miles away. A hundred miles away. I am going further. I am going to upstate New Yorrk, to the far side of nowhere, to the village of Potsdam to cover the Harvard-Clarkson hockey game.

My driver is D. Jean Guth, photographer and uncertain master of the stick shift.

I am Mel Gibson.

For Harvard teams, being on the road is more tedious than exciting. The road is usually a long bus ride to someplace, a night in a clean, but inexpensive, hotel and a bus ride back after the game.

No matter if the game ends at 10 at night, and Cambridge is seven hours away. It's back on the bus for long hours of driving and pitiful attempts at sleep.

My favorite road story is told by Lane MacDonald, a member of the U.S. Olmpic Hockey Team.

In 1984, MacDonald was a freshman wing on the Crimson hockey squad. The team was in Toronto for a pre-Christmas series with the University of Toronto.

As the team bus made its way through downtown Tornto, Randy Taylor--the giant sophomore defenseman--grabbed the bus microphone and started giving a guided tour.

"On your left" he announced, "is the Labatt's plant. Makes the best beer in Canada. On your right, notice the Marriott hotel. A fine example of modern architecture."

"His analysis," MacDonald said, "was pretty interesting."

Taylor was a messianic figure. It was Taylor who blessed the Crimson's plane before it took off from Massena Airport in upstate New York for Cambridge last year. Despite the rain that filled the sky, the plane landed safely. Bless you, Randy.

The big-time Harvard teams--the football squad, the men's hockey team--must adhere to rigid schedules while on the road. Leave at this time. Arrive at this time. Hurry. Move.

Other teams, though, have looser schedules. The women's hockey team makes frequent excursions to houses of Crimson players.

"Hi, mom, just dropped by with a few of my friends. Hope the refrigerator's full."

Some sports psychologist once spoke of a "two-hour period"--the first two hours the team gets on a bus. During that time, there's talk, chatter, jokes batted back and forth, insults hurled from player to player

After two hours, there is a calm. People read, listen to walkmen, fall asleep. The excitement is submerged in the hum of the bus.

After the Harvard-Yale football game, a drunken Yale fan hopped on one of the Harvard buses and proceeded to tell the Crimson players how well they had played, what classy individuals they were.

Like many people in his condition, the fan did not know when to stop. So he kept on, kept saying--yelling, exhorting--what a great job Harvard had done and what fine boys all the Harvard players were. On and on.

The bus driver finally instructed the fan to leave. Hit the road, Jack.

Leele Groome once stood up in front of a bus and did a 10-minute Harvard field hockey rap. For 10 minutes, the bus was filled with laughter.

I am on the road again. The highway stretches deep into the horizon.