Three months after Harvard's fantastic 4-3 overtime victory for the NCAA college hockey championship, I still had not found one University of Minnesota fan to abuse.

I tried to tease some Michigan fans--on the theory that Minnesota and Michigan are basically the same--but they ignored me. I then pressured my little sister into posing as a Minnesota fan, but she changed her mind in the middle of my victory dance.

I was beginning to think that Harvard had won the national hockey championship FOR NOTHING.

To avoid this chilling scenario, I went home to Washington, D.C. for the summer. I vowed to infiltrate the upper echelons of the federal government and then use its vast resources to root out Minnesota fans.

It didn't quite work that way.

Instead, I spent hours loitering outside the offices of elected officials from Minnesota. I planned to run up behind anyone leaving these offices and go sliding past. "Wow," I'd say. "This is just like hockey...and speaking of hockey, are you a University of Minnesota Golden Gophers hockey fan?"

I never implemented this plan, for fear of hostile replies and/or crosschecks into nearby marble pillars. So on I went to Plan B: the direct approach.

I took to wearing my bold "Harvard Hockey, National Champs" shirt through crowded malls and busy streets. Like single-color 10-foot high tapestries of modern art, this shirt "confronts" the viewer. Any true University of Minnesota fan would crump at the sight of it, I reasoned, and then I could move in for the kill.

No one crumped. A few people laughed and pointed, but I think they were just "confronted" by my shirt and the way I was subtly pointing at it.

I was beginning to think I would squander my summer in Washington. My plans for taking power were not proceeding according to schedule and neither were my dreams of embarrassing Minnesotans.

Then, at a party in Georgetown, I met him.

He was a student at the University of Minnesota. (Yes!) He admitted to having tickets behind the goal to every Golden Gopher hockey game, including the last one. (Yes!) Then he made a lewd comment to one of my friends.

It was no holds barred.

"Tough loss," I began. "Did some part of you die when that puck slowly crawled across the line?"

"Was it a sinking feeling, or just hollow? How much money did you waste at Minnesota hockey games? Do you mind being called a Golden Gopher?" The words dripped out of my mouth like the Chinese water torture.

"What does it feel like to support a team with athletic scholarships that loses to a team without a single one? I'll help you out here: does it feel real bad?"

Mr. Golden Gopher tried to brush off my comments. "How long had it been since Harvard had won a national championship?" he whimpered. "108 years?"

"Last year in squash," I responded. A friend added, "While we are into numbers, Harvard has racked up quite a few championships in its 353-year history."

It was tag-team Golden Gopher bashing.

Finally the poor soul puttered out of the room. My goal had been met, my summer justified.

Veni, vidi, vici.