Everyone knew it was coming.

This year’s Kyle Wente or Harrison Schaen was lurking, ready to become another name on the long list of Harvard killers.

The game was too close, the heartbreaking history too pervasive. The collapse was a question of when, not if.

But with every made free throw by junior forward Matt Stehle and sophomore guard Jim Goffredo, the ghosts of Harvard-Princeton’s past began to fade, if not disappear.

After Goffredo sunk both of his free throws with 10 seconds remaining to put the Crimson up five, the celebration was underway. It took just four seconds and a well-placed Judson Wallace three-pointer to remind Harvard fans that history doesn’t condone such premature jubilation.

This, however, was a different Crimson team. It was a year older than the one which fell in double-overtime at Jadwin Gym on Feb. 7, 2004. Last season, the Wallace trifecta would have triggered a chain of events that would have given Princeton a shot at the win.

Coming out of the timeout with 4.9 seconds to go, Goffredo calmly walked to the baseline to inbound the ball.

Before images of last year’s miscommunication between junior guard Michael Beal and Stehle that gave the Tigers a chance to win in regulation could pop into one’s head, Goffredo had already managed to find Stehle, who was promptly fouled.

It was the kind of situation you practice in your driveway as a kid. Up two, 4.4 seconds left, hit both and it’s ballgame. Miss one or two and you’re possibly staring down the barrel of another chapter in what has recently become one of the most painful sagas in all of Harvard athletics.

Everyone who knew the history knew the miss was coming. The story worked so perfectly. Stehle would miss one or two and the Tigers would hit the miracle shot to tie or win.

The scene was set. Stehle was ready to play his part. The first free throw was on the way.

Swoosh.

This would be the miss. Stehle’s shot would find the iron and the ball would make its way to, say, Scott Greenman, who Harvard coach Frank Sullivan continually refers to as “the Harvard assassin” for the clutch three-pointers he hit in both showdowns last year. Greenman would then nail a ridiculous half-court heave to force overtime.

The script was edited and neatly rewritten. Once again, it was Stehle’s turn to fill the role. The second free throw was on the way.

Swoosh. Ballgame.

While most of the Harvard fans resumed their celebration, which had been temporarily postponed by the Wallace three, an eerie feeling swept over the building. It was one which was best embodied by the dumbstruck look on the faces of the Princeton faithful who had made the trip north for the road trip.

They needed four points. They needed more than a miracle. Not even Kyle Wente could save them now.

Tigers guard Scott Greenman rushed down the floor and fired up an irrelevant jumper that didn’t come close to falling.

The horn sounded. Half-dozens of Harvard students rushed the floor. The rest remained in the stands, not quite sure what to make of the events that had just unfolded. Maybe they were still waiting for the crushing blow, the timely dagger. Or maybe they were just perpetuating the stereotype of the apathetic Crimson fan.

On the opposite side of the gym, the feeling of shock predominated. A slip-up against Brown had turned into a skid at Dartmouth, and now it became a season death warrant in Cambridge. They had waited anxiously but confidently for the dramatic comeback to occur.

Even after the tip-in by junior center Brian Cusworth and his layup on the next possession to give Harvard a 54-50 lead with a minute to go, it was still just a matter of time. History would step in and trump the Crimson’s chances.

But the Harvard players refused to pay attention. They knew about the past, but they didn’t care. They shouldn’t have been able to inbound the ball so easily. They shouldn’t have made 7-of-8 free throws in the final minute. They shouldn’t have been able to get a defensive stop up three with just 22 seconds to play.

Where was the costly turnover? The choke at the stripe? The big Princeton shot?

Everyone knew it was coming. And in the end, everyone was wrong.

—Staff writer Michael R. James can be reached at mrjames@fas.harvard.edu.