My friend Doc has worked for the Syracuse University Athletic Department for each one of the 34 years I’ve known him. But if you were to contact SU, they’d tell you they’ve never met him. They really should make the effort, for Doc has been the best unpaid PR agent the Orangemen have ever had.

Many years ago Doc relocated to New England for reasons of love and money, but that hasn’t deterred him from his appointed rounds as Diehard. Should anyone doubt his passion, consider the following…

Immediately upon moving to Rhode Island, Doc applied for and was delighted to receive license plates that read “ORANGE”. When the time inevitably came for him to get a new car, he did his research and negotiated a sweet deal on a leased vehicle. Except for one tiny thing. Almost as an afterthought, he was told that he wouldn’t be able to transfer his existing plates to the leased car.

Houston, we have a problem.

A team of diplomats worked through the night to find common ground, before the dealer finally caved in and agreed to tackle the administrative red tape necessary to keep Doc and his ORANGE plates together.

Hearing this story didn’t faze me (or anyone else who knows Doc) in the least.
     

For years I worried about Doc – mostly because he is also a passionate Red Sox fan and thus seemingly destined to endure unrelenting year-round disappointment as a result of that unfortunate combination.

Then, in a space of just 19 months, Syracuse won its first NCAA basketball title and the Red Sox claimed their first World Series since 1918. The faithful were rewarded. Twice. After that short respite however, Doc resumed his regularly scheduled suffering.

So I ask you – what could possibly be more fun than attending a must-win Syracuse basketball game with Doc? Experiencing first-hand the alternating outbursts of ecstasy and agony would be worth the price of admission all by itself. The fact that it was a rivalry game against Connecticut was merely dessert.

Unfortunately, the Mother of All Winters continued to sabotage any coherent attempt at pulling off a Winter Sports Swing of the “It’s Game Time Somewhere” Tour. Unlike other events on this trip, the game actually did take place as scheduled…but 78 miles of skating rink disguised as highway stood between us and Hartford’s Xcel Center. So we were forced to watch on television as Doc’s Orangemen came from behind for a satisfying win in enemy territory.

As for me, it was time for Plan B, or C, or whatever letter I was up to in terms of alternatives for keeping the IGTS Tour on pace for completion within its allotted one year. Fortunately, the cozy home that Doc and his bride Diane share in Pawtucket, RI is just a short drive from Brown University. And since Brown keeps Di gainfully employed, shifting our Division I basketball focus from the Big East to the Ivy League was a no-brainer. So to speak.

Two nights later Doc and I were driving/sledding across town to the Pizzitola Center, where the Brown Bears would be playing host to the Columbia Lions.    

Ivy League winter athletics is limited to weekend play because…well, because it’s the Ivy League. They’ve got more important things to do on school nights. Makes perfect sense – although it does tend to bunch things up, event-wise.

When we approached the Brown sports complex and saw nothing but police cars turning traffic away from the already full parking lot, I was a bit surprised. After all, Brown had not yet won an Ivy League game, and their leading scorer Peter Sullivan had just been injured and rendered unavailable until further notice. And their opponent that evening was Columbia, who already had a dozen wins under their belt and a 3-1 Ivy League record.

So, with no disrespect intended, why would this many people come out on a wintry night to see what looked to be a blowout? The answer…well, they wouldn’t. They were actually all there to see the Brown hockey team play against Dartmouth in Meehan Auditorium – the building adjacent to the Pizzitola Center. As for the hoops game, it was a much cozier crowd.

I don’t know if they had to throw fingers or do Rock, Paper, Scissors, but the hockey team got the Brown pep band, which wandered into Meehan with instruments in tow and in some cases, without…well, cases. It was a humble scene that reminded me of exactly where sports stand in the lexicon of student activities in the Ivy League. It would have been refreshing, even without the sleet that began falling on us as we slopped over to “The Pitz”.

The atmosphere in Pizzitola was about as casual as NCAA Division I basketball can get.  Although the arena is over twenty years old, you’d never guess that. It is in every way a first-class facility – just a bit on the small side (2,800 capacity).  Great sight lines from every seat, fantastic lighting and good acoustics. And this being the Ivy League, the P.A. announcer of course possessed perfect diction and pronunciation. All in all it was a really comfortable, low-key place to get an up close and personal view of D-I basketball.

It was the kind of gym that you could easily envision providing a huge home court advantage for Brown, if they actually drew any fans. But those who were missing on this night had no idea of what they were actually about to miss.

While the facility was scaled-down, the size of the players and the quality of play was not. We walked past the Columbia Lions as they were running through their pre-game layup lines and I couldn’t help notice that I was looking up at over half the team. Sure enough, when I got to my seat and consulted the program, it revealed that no fewer than eight players exceeded my 6’ 6” height – including one of the guards.  

Once play began it was immediately obvious that this was going to be classic Ivy League basketball – i.e. “smart”, for lack of a better term. The tempo was upbeat, but played under control. Nothing was forced. Passes were crisp and accurate. Honest-to-God plays were run, and if they didn’t work, the ball was brought out and the offense was re-set. And wait a second… was that a flawlessly executed pick and roll I just saw?

And boy could they shoot. Almost every single player had that perfect shot release. You know the one – where the ball spins beautifully while floating along an arc that explodes into the net. None of these guys will ever play on an NBA team. But it’s entirely possible that one or two may eventually buy one – after running a battery of ROI projections and asset valuations, of course.

To be concluded in next post…