Again, the ghost smiled--if you can call it that--and seemed to understand my plight.

"You know, Eric, the 1984-85 team cocked like it had just drunk a bottle of bleach."

I stared at the ghost and wondered. "So you're saying that this team will lose its last seven games, finish--say--about fifth in the Ivies and spend the summer wondering what could have been?"

"Do you want that?" it asked.

I stopped, realizing that I had fallen into ghost's trap. Did I want that? There is safety in repetition, but shouldn't all things change--even the Harvard men's basketball team?

"Not necessarily I just want to know the future. No one knows "What's going on with this team--whether it's a flash in the pan or the start of a major power. I'm so used to knowing what will happen when the Crimson takes the court."

"It's kind of cool, isn't it?" the ghost replied. "When you go to a same, you don't know what to expect. Isn't that what sports are about?"

"Wily ghost," I thought aloud, you got me again."

And with that, it vanished. Maybe to return, maybe not.