The student newspaper the day after BU's first Beanpot 4th place finish in 31 years.
I’ve experienced lows as a fan before. I’ve been a fan of teams who Super Bowl wins were denied by field goals, blue collar Canadian teams defeated by oil magnet America’s Teams, a quarterbacks whose career was ended by one hit after one guard missed a block and allowed a hit so hard he was knocked unconscious, and league founding hockey teams struggling to exist in an economically devastated city. I’ve felt the lows, I’ve felt the pits, I’ve felt the loss of identity. I know what it’s like to wonder why you even cheer on a team, geography, tradition and childhood be darned.
But Boston University’s loss Monday night in the Beanpot consolation game, giving them their first last place finish in the event snarkily referred to as the BU Invitational in 31 years, felt like something different. While I didn’t have the sucker-punch pit I did when Scott Norwood’s kick went too far right, or when Jeremy Newbury missed the tackle to let Aeneas Williams take Steve Young down that last time, I felt more like I was watching an oddity. A bad dream. Something so unreal that I would undoubtedly wake up and text Laurel like I do after any weird hockey related dream, saying despite the now three hour time difference between us, “I had this crazy dream that we lost the Beanpot to Harvard.”
This dream-like sequence was further assisted by the fact that I was watching this once in a lifetime (because literally, it has only happened once in my lifetime – I’m only 29) loss from a perch on the ninth floor of the TD Garden, bright green laminated press pass around my neck, sitting at an assigned seat, laptop computer open and frantically typing away. Those I only had ever seen on NESN were walking behind me, getting ready for the main event, the Northeastern – Boston College championship game. People I recognized from Twitter, from local news sites, people who have no idea who short little me was but who I knew immediately. And I was one of them, if only for two nights in February.
I watched the Terriers defense seemingly fade to invisibility as goaltender Kieran Millan was left in the cold as a Harvard team who literally only had this game to play for from my perch. I watched as Harvard outskated BU, scoring three goals in two minutes. I watched as BU pulled Millan but never got close to converting their man advantage. I watched them lose a Beanpot with the lowest point of effort I may have ever seen from a hockey team. Even the lowly Merrimack teams of five years ago would bite, even the UMass Lowell’s seemed to have a sort of pride to play for. And now, it was one of the nation’s historically best hockey teams looking like they checked their motivation in 2009. But I was watching this all from a seat that represented the pinnacle of what I’ve been working towards since I was 12 years old.
The arena was empty, the press box was barren, and BU had just lost a game against a team that had had only four wins prior to that night. But I was in a press box, and people wanted my take on the game immediately.
“This is the lowest of lows,” I said to the first person who asked.
But still, part of me inside was jumping on a metaphorical mattress. I was in the press box, in a major venue, for a major event. And because of that, it was the best night of my entire life. The best night gift wrapped as one of my lowest nights as a sports fan.
The previous Monday night during the BC-BU first round.
