Princeton coach Norm Peck and Crimson assistant Mark Panarese retired to the locker room to await the final results--the pressure had proved too great to bear. The opponents commiserated watching the decisive battle, a five-game, seesawing, gut-wrenching match involving Harvard's Chip Robie, who had suffered from the flu all week. The Crimson racquetmen wondered whether he had the stamina to go the distance with stubborn Tiger Jason Fish.
Hemenway's crowd was hushed during each rally, then would explode after the point had been decided. Robie and Fish thrusted and parried on interminable points, bending but not breaking.
Finally, Robie gained the edge at 14-12 in the fifth game. Fish fought back to 14-13 and the gallery emitted a collective sigh--he had already squandered a match point. But then Robie clinched the game, the match, the national crown championship, exacting a sweet measure of revenge. Hemenway, as always, still smelled of sweat, but on this afternoon champagne (squash players are ever eminent) flowed freely.
* * *
A week later, I was at Boston Garden watching the Northeastern Huskies scratch and claw their way to the Beanpot crown. The UnderDogs were overmatched by the formidable B.C. Eagles, who jumped out to an early lead.
The Huskies, however, were resilient and relentless--in a word, dogged. Gerry Cowie, Paul MacDougall and Sandy Beadle whisked all over the ice for the heretofore hapless Huntington Hounds, who had never struck Beanpot gold in the tourney's 27 years.
A late Northeastern goal knotted the score at four and sent the game into overtime. Wayne Turner notched the winner for the Huskies and coach Fernie Flaman, a former Bruin star who possesses the world's most beautifully broken nose. The Garden erupted in the greatest hockey upset of the year--to that point. Who could've imagined a couple of old Pot participants name of Eruzione, Craig and Silk would lead the U.S. past the mighty Soviets?
The aftermath also has a personal note. In the ensuing frenzy, I lost my copy and proceeded to retype my story on the Red Line--to the stares of many suspicious and, needless to say, inebriated Huskie lovers.
* * *
West Point. A great place to train generals, no doubt about that. Plebes al week had greeted superiors with the salute "Beat Hahvahd, sir." A friendly place on the exterior. But make no mistake. This meant war.
The Crimson gridders had an extra spring that day, swarming the field with boundless kinetic energy. As the sun-flecked mountains gleamed in the background, Harvard managed one of its most unexpected--and most welcomed--triumphs, a 15-10 shocker over the gray, gray Cadets.
Brian Buckley, Crimson quarterback, deserved a Purple Heart for his gutsy performance against a characteristically disciplined and hard-hitting Army defense. The partisans, who assuredly frown on defeat, watched in growing disbelief. Harvard? The Preppies?
"I'm quitting this job. No way you guys should beat us. No way in the world," one disgruntled Army P.R. man muttered. The look on his face and the setting were unforgettable.