The optimists might call me a good-luck charm, the impatient a bad-luck charm, and the grouches would counter that there’s no charm in women’s hockey at all.

Whatever your position, the simple fact remains—I have a knack for long sessions with the ladies.

I have been to three of the four longest college women’s hockey games of all time, or better said, the three longest games since 1996, or even better said, the three longest games since kids still played with pogs. If I was a lifetime devotee of the sport, that would be one thing, and this unlikely coincidence could be explained away as hard-core fandom. But, in fact, I hadn’t been to a women’s hockey game until I arrived at Harvard two years ago and to this point have only attended roughly 50 contests.

Sure, 50 is a lot, especially considering the limited scope of the sport, but a better than 5 percent chance of seeing a game bound for the record books, and a full trio of history-makers at that? That’s borderline uncanny.

It’s not just fortuity, though. As the beat writer for the team at Harvard, I have been uniquely disposed to partake in these marathon affairs. A national powerhouse, the Crimson is a perennial qualifier for the NCAA Tournament, and as a Boston school, participates annually in the local Beanpot Tournament, where games are played with the 20-minute overtime periods usually reserved for postseason play.

And each of these clock-winders has been its own memorable experience.

It all began with the national quarterfinals in 2005, the first year the NCAA field expanded to eight teams, with Harvard hosting upstart Mercyhurst. The tenacious Lakers poured in four goals in regulation, matched tit-for-tat by a quartet of scores from Crimson winger Nicole Corriero ’05 (part of her record-setting total of 59 goals that year).

With only two seats in the Bright Center press box reserved for our paper’s three credentialed reporters, one of us rotated out into the stands each period. For the third overtime it was my turn, and I found myself sitting down beside the Harvard bench, one row behind then-University President Lawrence Summers. When Julie Chu scored the nifty backhander to finally win it and Big Larry raised his arms and turned around in exultation, I slapped him an emphatic high 10.

Elapsed time: 112:28, then the second-longest game in women’s college history.

That mark stood until last month, when I trekked crosstown to Boston College for the opening round of the Women’s Beanpot. Trying to regain the trophy after a run of seven straight titles was snapped by the Eagles the year before, the Crimson erased deficits of 2-0 and 3-2 to force overtime. The extra minutes piled up. The Harvard band took off after the first bonus session. By the time BC forward Anna McDonald ended it late in the third OT and the post-game interviews were conducted, there was no other option but to take a cab back to Cambridge—the T was closed for the night.

Elapsed time: 114:13, making it the new second-longest game on record.

But nothing prepared me for the Crimson’s gut-wrenching Frozen Eight matchup with Wisconsin this past Saturday. The trip to Chestnut Hill was nothing compared to this assignment; I flew out to Madison for the weekend.

The game turned out to be a new variety of all-nighter, with both goalies whitewashing the opposition through three regulation periods and three additional overtimes. Harvard sophomore netminder Brittany Martin blinked first, allowing the game-winner at 7:09 of the fourth overtime, on the 68th shot she had seen that night.

Martin’s performance called to mind Harvey Haddix, a good but unexceptional National League hurler, who one day in 1959 turned in arguably the greatest pitching performance in baseball history, twirling 12 perfect innings—36 up, 36 down—before dropping the decision, 1-0, in the 13th. Few remember a loser, and Haddix’s remarkable afternoon has been largely consigned to the margins of baseball lore. Martin’s heroics may end up similarly and unjustifiably overlooked.

Elapsed time: 127:09, the new new second-longest game, bumping the BC game down to third and the Mercyhurst classic down to the fourth spot.

If only that was the end of the story. After press conferences for the 7 p.m. game ended after midnight, I spent the next hour-and-a-half writing my stories. While waiting on line at a cheesesteak truck, the time changed from 2 to 3. I dripped Cheez Whiz all over my sneakers, shared a cab ride with three girls intent on making “sexual” the English language’s most-used adjective, and proceeded on to the airport for a 6 a.m. flight. Next thing I know I’m being shaken awake by a beautiful stewardess named Michlain (yeah, I asked for the spelling).

Limping out of Logan Airport into the daylight, returning home from the third of my mega-games, I knew, personally, I could call it good luck.

—Staff writer Jonathan Lehman can be reached at jlehman@fas.harvard.edu.