Going Through Hell for Hockey

BOY, am I going to enjoy the ECAC hockey tournament this weekend. It's not because I am an avid hockey fan, and it's not because Harvard is the top-ranked team in the nation. It's because I went through hell to get the tickets.

This Monday I set my alarm for 7 a.m. Most Harvard students who wake up at that ungodly hour have a good reason for it, like finishing off a paper or cramming for a morning exam. I just wanted to get on line for hockey tickets.

My roommate planned to get to Harvard Hall and join our upstairsneighbor who had been there since 5 a.m. and was the first person on line. Little did she know that a lynch mob of huge water polo players would foil her plan.

When she tried to get on line with our neighbor, a near riot ensued. The attackers demanded that my roommate get to end of the line. She acquiesced. When they finally calmed down, one of them suggested that she might obtain a good spot on the line in exchange for certain sexual favors.

I had planned to arrive on the scene at 8:30 a.m., figuring that I would be the first person there. Harvard logic told me that since the tickets were to go on sale at 9, everyone would arrive at one minute before the hour like they did to all their classes. I certainly underestimated the motivation of my fellow undergraduates.

FIVE minutes after I turned my alarm clock off, I received a frantic phone call from my roommate, who urged me to get down to Harvard Hall right away. I rolled over and went back to sleep. Ten minutes later she called again, this time sounding really concerned. So I threw on a pair of sweats and dragged myself through the snow to Harvard Hall, cursing all the way and wondering why I became such a hockey freak.

There was no hope of "cutting" the line, as a group of students had taken it upon themselves to form a ticket line police force. "We've got six guys at about 250 pounds each, policing the line verbally and, if necessary, physically," said William C. Jackson '91, self-appointed police commissioner. I took my place at the back of the line.

The people at the front of the line were having a grand time. Although some of them had been standing out in the cold since before dawn, they were practically guaranteed seats in muchcoveted section 14. A foursome sat at a portable table and played a heated game of cards that began a couple of hours before. After downing a few bottles of peppermint schnapps, they felt no pain, nor chill, for that matter.

WHEN freshman goaltender Chuckie Hughes walked past the line with a self-satisfied grin the size of the Sumner Tunnel across his face, people gathered snowballs in their hands and got ready to pelt him. Lucky for him, he walked pretty quickly.

Finally at 9 a.m., the ticket office opened its doors. A cheer resounded through the crowd. The line started moving, and so did the circulation in my feet. But I barely noticed that my toes were thawing, because I was too busy witnessing a transformation.

The people who came out of the ticket office were not the same ones I had seen going in. Tickets in hand, Trisha D. Perez '92, who had just complained of acute frostbite, emerged from the box office yelling, "This is totally awesome!"

"It feels damn good," said Jeremy T. Amen '92, who had been ready to admit himself to UHS for a severe case of pneumonia only minutes before.

I guess I can tell my mother that she was wrong all along. Neither chicken soup nor hot cocoa can cure coldrelated illnesses the way a few tickets to see the Harvard hockey team play at Bright Arena can.