Ice is Nice

Last Saturday night, I may have made my last trip to Bright Center.

I may not have another chance to sit in the front row where the impact of the puck hitting the base of the boards is incredibly magnified. I may not be able to smell the sweet, cold aroma of the refrigerated ice.

Watching last Saturday's game wasn't easy. After all, I have seen a lot of great moments in Harvard hockey over the past four years.

I remember when Randy Taylor smacked an end-over-end shot against Cornell which found its way through Doug Dadswell in overtime two years ago. He jumped 10 feet in the air. So did the crowd.

I remember that same year Harvard playing Western Michigan in the playoff series we shouldn't have been in. We would just bang away at their defense and goalie until we finally put the puck in the net. The crowd exploded after being tantalized with so many Crimson opportunities.

And I recall the great win over Denver in the 1986 national semifinals in which Andy Janfaza got that critical fourth goal.

The next season there was that great shutout win over Cornell which was the final nail in the coffin for the Big Red's playoff hopes. I can still hear the band saying, "It's Valentine's Day, and you can't score."

I remember the playoff series against a team of huge guys called Bowling Green. They were big, but Harvard was fast. The first game, a 7-1 Crimson win, was probably the best I had ever seen the team play.

This year, I cannot forget the Cornell game where, in classic Jungian synchronicity, the Crimson was scoring goals about the same time as the Harvard players on the U.S. Olympic team were connecting against Austria.

For one brief moment, the present game was forgotten due to the troika of Harvard/United States goals that were announced over the P.A. system.

And with all of the great victories came the greatest of heartaches.

I can see Scott Fusco laying prone on the ice with four seconds left on the Boston Garden clock two years ago. Luciano Borsato had, in one decisive move, stolen the puck and whipped it into the goal.

I remember Fusco standing behind the Harvard bench in Providence, R.I., unable to play against Michigan State in the national finals due to a knee injury.

The next year's Final Four featured the Motown sound of the Hrkae circus of North Dakota. I remember the Hobey Baker Award winner controlling the play as precisely as Magic Johnson runs a Laker fast break.

I don't think I've had a very great impact on the grand totality of Harvardiana, really; there have been more important things which have happened in the last 351 years.

But I will make one concession. I think I have sprung a generation of fanatical nuts who will come out for the Crimson no matter what the year Nobody sits on their hands anymore, especially when the Crimson is in trouble.

I might never see another home Harvard hockey game again. But hope my spirit will remain in old Watson Rink for all time to come Because in times of greatest victory, I have never felt prouder to be a Harvard student.

And I will always yearn for that early spring evening--whether it is in Providence, Minneapolis or Lake Placid--when the team will skate a lap around the rink. And instead of holding up a silver plaque, the squad will be holding a gold one for all those whose blood runs Crimson.