Looking back on three years of sport from the press box

The thing about journalists, someone once said, is not that they know what they're talking about. They just get paid for the talking.

There's some truth to that. I don't know much more about Princeton sports than any other fan on campus. And I haven't even gotten paid yet.

The great thing about covering Princeton sports has not been that I know more — because I don't. The great thing about my job has been the privilege to see more — and the fun of sharing it.

I have been richly compensated during the past three years with a press pass to some extraordinary sporting events. And now I have a column with which to re-share a few of the moments I won't forget.

I remember a sunny day last spring when I should have been in the library. I wasn't covering the game, but Dartmouth's baseball team was in town for a best-of-three series, and the Ivy League title was on the line. Princeton had made it to the Ivy Championship Series for three straight years, only to lose three straight times.

In game one, head coach Scott Bradley started his ace, Chris Young. And the pitcher never stopped. That was the first time I had seen Young pitch. It wasn't a perfect game, but his team didn't need perfection. It was a complete game — in many ways. Coolly composed on the mound, Young fanned seven Big Green hitters while only allowing four hits in the 5-2 victory.

I turned around at one point in the game and saw then-men's basketball head coach Bill Carmody with a proud, admiring smile on his face — watching his star center command the mound like a virtuoso. At that moment, Carmody could probably foresee the choice Young would later make. His destiny did not lie on a basketball court.

The second game, too, would come down to a pitcher — a freshman closer named David Boehle. The Tiger offense had given Princeton a 4-3 lead heading into the ninth, and the youthful Boehle took over from there. He struck out the league's hottest hitter for the final out. His teammates mobbed him on the mound as the Class of 2000 finally earned its title. That was the happiest bunch of baseball players I've ever seen.

I remember driving all the way to Hanover, N.H., just for the chance to smirk. I had a personal motivation for agreeing to cover that distant football game two seasons ago. My father — a Dartmouth graduate — was going to be in the stands rooting for his alma mater, and there was nothing I wanted to see more than a Princeton victory on the road. Forgive my subjectivity, but a year's worth of bragging rights were on the line.

Heading into the fourth quarter of a game that wasn't pretty, it looked like I just might get my smirk after all. Somehow, with 15 minutes remaining in a season of such frustration, the Tigers were leading 18-0. All they had to do was hold on.

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On the first play of that final quarter, a Princeton wide receiver's bobble landed in Dartmouth's waiting hands — and the entire game was turned on its head.

After Dartmouth's quarterback drove his team to a quick score following the interception, Princeton tried to run the clock out. But the Big Green offense didn't need much time at all. Sixty-five seconds. Eighty yards. 18-13. Sixty-three more seconds. Eighty more yards. 19-18.

I'll never forget it — because my dad will always remind me.

I remember my first visit to the Carrier Dome. I had seen Syracuse's famed facility plenty of times on television with capacity crowds screaming for the Orangemen's basketball team.

I was there for a lacrosse game, and the lower level of the place was barely filled.

It was a matchup of collegiate lacrosse's two most storied programs — Princeton and Syracuse — both supposedly past their prime. Three early-season losses gave Princeton a harsh imperative: Win the rest of its games or forget the NCAA tournament the Tigers had won the three previous years.

The game began with expected Syracuse dominance. And then Princeton head coach Bill Tierney called a timeout and pulled his team together. The game was just beginning. After the Tigers scored two goals in a span of nine seconds, the two teams battled back and forth until the end of regulation — the score tied, 14-14.

And then there was overtime. Two teams that found 28 different ways to score through the first 60 minutes couldn't find one more through four overtimes.

As the game wore on, the Carrier Dome's less-than-capacity crowd brought back the decibels usually reserved for basketball season.

After 76 minutes of intensity, Josh Sims '00 danced around the Syracuse defense and ripped a game-winning shot. In my lead, I called it "The Game that Wouldn't End." The truth is, I didn't want it to end.

I remember a rainy evening at Philadelphia's Franklin Field in November of 1998. The field hockey team was in the NCAA semifinals against a Connecticut team that had spoiled the Tigers' perfect record earlier in the season.

One of the team's stars, Molly O'Malley '99, made an inspiring return to Princeton's starting lineup, playing at full speed just a few weeks after completely tearing her ACL.

Princeton romped to a 5-1 win and earned a bid to the finals.

As I stood up in the press box to head to the post-game press conference, the band began to play Old Nassau. With a few beguiled Philadelphia reporters wondering what exactly I was doing, I did what every Princeton fan should — and hailed the school that team so valiantly represented.

I remember another night in Philadelphia, when the band played and played as a contingent of Princeton fans sat in silence — at first.

The men's basketball team was playing Penn in the Palestra, and the scoreboard told the story. Pennsylvania 29, Princeton 3.

In the second half, a different team walked onto the court. Bit by bit, the Mason Rocca-led Tigers chipped away. And as the score got closer, that contingent of Princeton fans grew louder and louder. With two minutes, 14 seconds left in the game, Young slid into the lane and completed the remarkable comeback with a soft hook shot. Princeton 50, Pennsylvania 49. The scoreboard wouldn't change for the remainder of the game. The moment was frozen, as I stared in disbelief. I'll never forget dancing beneath the Palestra's rafters with my best friends as the scoreboard glowed and the band played on. That was a good night.

We will all leave here with our own memories of Princeton sports. And no matter what the Wythes report implies about Princeton athletes and how the critics bemoan "jock culture" on campus, I cannot overstate how much sport enriches the Princeton experience. From the Jadwin Jungle to Baker broomball, there is something quite special revealed on our fields of play.

For the athletes on this campus who have given us those many memories, I reserve a final thank you. I tried to be a Princeton athlete once, but I soon found that I was much better suited for the sidelines. I have tried to record your accomplishments as a reporter and convey them as an editor as best I could. You have been fair to me. I hope that I have been fair to you.

Thank you for giving me so much to write about.

Thank you for giving us all so much to cheer about.