The perils of fandom: A cautionary tale

I have two rules for picking the right university.

High-definition television is a must. Sophomore year, my roommate bought a humongous LCD TV that was starving for an ABC channel that didn't look like scrambled porn. After the SEC scoffed at my petition to break up the TigerTV monopoly, I tried to bribe Rolanda from DirecTV to install a dish in the tower of Blair. Rolanda and I had a tense discussion that failed to yield the desired results. She wouldn't budge, and I was left grasping for clarity in an otherwise fuzzy picture.

High definition is genuinely the third greatest invention of humanity, falling behind Southwest's online check-in but slightly ahead of embryonic stem cells. For example, employing HiDef research techniques over Thanksgiving, I was finally able to confirm that Arkansas man-child Darren McFadden's legs do indeed extend all the way into his helmet. And every follicle on Kansas head coach Mark Mangino's third chin actually is, despite internet rumors to the contrary, a Cheez-It. This is to say nothing of Charles Barkley's suits, which are even worse when you can see all 50 stitches per inch.

Unfortunately, this was not something I had looked into before applying Early Decision to the University. Please don't fret, though; when I begin to roll in liquid assets, I will eventually be standing next to "That Guy" who pays for our laundry and "The Dude" who buys our printer ink and paper as "Thank You Man" for paying for the gorgeous high definition all over campus. Our holy trinity will form the three greatest Princeton alumni givers ever. You're welcome.

The second rule for picking the right school is, of course, that it must have one perennial athletic powerhouse. In a major sport.

Enter the Princeton basketball team. Yes, I'm going there.

We've been to the Big Dance 23 times and the Final Four once (1965). From 1989 to 1998, Princeton put on its tap shoes seven times, including its 1996 epic win over UCLA. In the '90s, Princeton had a 19-game winning streak and another of 20. And get this — according to the team's official media guide, the University has had 13 consecutive seasons "with a national TV game." Yeah, I'd say we're a powerhouse.

The Princeton Offense brought me to this school. Not that I was going to play for the varsity team or anything. Most of the players on the team look like ivory towers next to my five-foot, 11-inch frame. But it brought me here nonetheless as a fan.

Pete Carril and the backdoor cut were the two concrete things I knew about Princeton before I received my admission application in fall of my senior year. The return address on that envelope told me it was located in New Jersey. Hmm.

So there I stood, 12-odd months later, watching three-pointers find the bottom of the net in Princeton's home opener against Rutgers. It wasn't Cameron Indoor Stadium, but the crowd was good, and I didn't need to watch "Survivorman" to stay alive while waiting in line for tickets. The Tigers won 53-40. I started booking flights to St. Louis, Mo., in March, a city you would only visit if there was an NCAA Tournament taking place.

But fortunes for the team quickly went south. I vaguely remember meltdowns against Harvard and Dartmouth. Then there was the epic journey to the Palestra.

I took the laborious NJ Transit journey to Philadelphia for that game freshman year with my roommate Jeff, who's from Philly and has family who went to Penn. I wore orange and grey. Jeff wore his black hoodie because it was slimming. We were jeered. It was everything I was looking for in college, minus the HDTV and a roommate who would wear something because it was slimming.

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The game was even better. Princeton had a double-digit lead with time winding down. The Quaker crowd was stunned into silence, and I was just about to start the "This is our house" clap clap clap-clap-clap chant. It was beautiful. But then the perfect storm of defeat rolled in — huge rival plus traditional powerhouse plus big lead plus Palestra equals "We can't hear you" — except we definitely could.

It was the biggest sports comeback I have ever seen live. On the way out, some idiots from Penn saw our hoodies and yelled "Princeton sucks." I commended them on their ability to read. I was a freshman — I thought I was witty.

After that, I'll admit, I was a little bit of a fair-weather fan. My enthusiasm for the team waned. You can imagine my disappointment when 50 percent of my reason for coming to Princeton was staring at me from the wrong side of a .500 record. If Stanford weren't three time zones too far, I would have transferred that January.

But this year I'm back.

Head coach Sydney Johnson '97 — I'm putting my faith in you. You've got one year to fulfill my dream of seeing Princeton play in the Tournament while I'm still a student.

You came from Georgetown, a place that knows a thing or two about winning basketball games. You played for my hero Pete Carril. You ran the Princeton Offense. I'm told you have really long arms. And your team was off to a great 2-0 start before bumping into genuine powerhouse Duke and perennially competitive Arizona State. Chaminade worries me, but at least it was close.

Your team looked good enough against that really athletic Blue Devil team in Maui, Hawaii, especially when you more than held your own in the second half. I am so truly optimistic about this season right now, and consequently my decision to come to Princeton, it's difficult to describe.

Even your Hawaiian shirt was looking good. Or at least I think it was Hawaiian. I couldn't really tell on my TV.