pre-mature gray hair (the Syracuse game)

Whoever said “The game ain’t over till it’s over” was crazy like a fox…

With 1 minute and about 13 seconds left on the clock, a timeout was called where my team came screaming to the sidelines. We were up 11-7 on Syracuse, in front of a huge crowd on a 65-degree, sunny Saturday afternoon. Most of us could taste the victory drinks in the backs our throats. Amidst the chaos, I yelled “Its not over yet, the game is not over yet, THE GAME IS NOT FUCKING OVER YET!” Our team hushed and attempted to quiet down as we rallied around our coach for final instructions: Win the face-off, carry the ball all the way down the side of the box to the end-line, run into the box, and keep it on our end for the remainder of the game. Still, the smirks crept to our faces. We were going to beat the best college lacrosse program of all time…how could we not smile? Panic does not have substance.

They win the face-off, get it to the donner of the historic number 22, the most heralded number in lacrosse, the number worn by Gary Gait and all the Powells, the number that if you take as a freshmen is the equivalent of taking number 23 for the Chicago Bulls as a rookie, the number of the guy who is most likely to think they can win a game with 1 minute left down by 3 goals, the number of a player who left-hand cradles through a double team to put it in the back of the net at close-range. Score: 11-8. I would say that most often, Panic begins in the breathing.

They line up for the next face-off, win it cleanly on our All-American candidate face-off specialist, goose it out to their stick-savvy All-American long pole Steve Panerelli  (who in a pre-game interview spoke about how well they always play against Loyola), who is pushed to the outskirts of the box. The time is around 37 seconds. Our entire team begins to converge on him, knowing from the scouting report that this is one pole who will take it to the rack. He passes across his body, across the field, to Steven Brooks, a big lefty middie out of Chicago, one who is of the typical Syracuse fashion, who steps down maybe 2 yards from the top of the box, and releases a bullet to the top-shelf of the goal. Score: 11-9. I think when you really know that Panic has begun to set in is when it drops into the stomach. That is where you really feel it.

They win the ensuing face-off, get it to one of their other starting attackmen, who attacks the goal hard from the left-handed side of the field. Our close defenseman plays strong defense, maybe too strong, because he draws a penalty. They are so arrogant in their skills that they historically don’t ever really run set man-up plays, they just bang the ball around until they get a decent shot for one of their lethal shooters and rely on that. They had already scored a couple on us in this fashion earlier in the game. They call a time-out, come out, bang the ball two passes, get it to number 22, who proceeds to shoot from no angle to the near pipe corner from the low lefty spot on man-up. Goalie barely reacts to the ball. Score: 11-10. Panic has a tendency to force knees to the ground and eyes to the sky in prayer.

At least we get a scramble in the next face-off, killing precious time off the clock. They still pick up the ball. Another foul, another man-down situation for us, another time-out. 8 seconds without oxygen for a group of green and gray stick wielding kids. Will they actually run a play this time? We take a risk and extend to play the ball, making it 5 on 4 behind our defender. I subconsciously hear a countdown from the teammate behind me as they pass the ball. I can watch the play while he watches the clock. One pass, one second. Two passes, two seconds. 4-3-2. A pass goes into a player who has gotten naked on the doorstep of the goal. Fakes high. Shoots high. Moment of silence…

Panic is released into the air with so many screams and gloves and mouthpieces…

Green and White gloves to be exact.

Our Canuck had done it again, making a save in the last second to win us another game. He is tackled like he just caught a short punt and everyone else on the football team forgot to block. I am not a gay man, but I hugged this team of men like I loved them. I do love them. Ok, so that was over-dramatic and romanticized, but honestly, so was the game. A teammate said that was the greatest lacrosse game he had ever seen, which I do not agree with, but to make that statement shows the magnitude of the situation. It was alumni weekend and if we have a more hated rival than Johns Hopkins for our alumni, it is Syracuse. I, personally, was looking for the “hundred-dollar hand-shake” from at least a couple of these rich alumni after the game to be quite honest with you. HAHA, I did not mean that. That doesn’t actually happen, just in case any NCAA officials out there are reading, or any little kids who think they are going to make money playing college lacrosse are reading either. It is just a statement of hyperbole to show that grandiosity of the event. It was a big deal beyond the group of 50 guys who are directly involved with this team. It resonates through a community.

I said that if we win this game, I will remember it the rest of my life, and I think I will. I have scenes from this game that are frozen in my mind, and that’s what its about. These moments are great and I am loving being in them, but the memories are powerful too. I just hope I can give each element, moment and memory, its equal weight and not let either one dilute the other.

It does not even matter that I played poorly. I don’t know why this happened, I just made mental errors. Athletically I did some good things, but I hurt our team with some lack-of-concentration mistakes. This is a battle I am going to continue to fight with in my mind, but one that can be won. “In everything you do in this life, you have to learn to concentrate. To focus.” These are words of wisdom to my young ears, straight from the general himself, Bob Knight. Learning to concentrate is a practiced ability just like any other. That is a digression, though. Honestly, if I play bad and we win, then that is perfectly fine. Winning is what matters. I want to play well to help my team win and to praise that which made me, but the greatest sign of this is not goals or assist or broken ankles of opponents. It is the W in the appropriate column.

Richard Ladd and TL Hutchins, former teammates at Riverside and current friends of mine, made the 7-hour trip from Wilmington to see this game, which means more to me than they probably know. When I decided to go to Loyola as a senior and was still dreaming, I would brag to Rich about my future of playing in games like this. TL, and guys like him younger than me who grew up watching me play and emulating that as I had emulated the players before me, can probably go down as one of the more significant factors of me choosing Loyola over Duke. In my youthful need to prove something to the world, I chose to shun the local black-hole of Duke (and in a way Carolina), who sucked in local products and stole their sunshine to the hometown admirers by drowning them with Long-Islanders and Baltimoreans, never giving them the opportunity to really shine. I couldn’t be one of those guys at that time, because I needed guys like TL to know that a kid from Durham could go into a traditional college lacrosse power like Loyola and make an impact. Obviously there have been great players from NC who went on at Duke and Carolina and top level D-2 and D-3 schools that have been phenomenal players, but I had visions of grandeur. TL coming and watching this game made these dreams of my teens into actualities of my life. My high-school senior year dreams are manifesting themselves into my college senior year realities. This is a profound thing.

I sat in Rich’s living room and watched Kevin Raspet’s Navy team play in the national championship game after my freshmen year, and told Rich that it was his responsibility as the person who taught me how to not just be an athlete but a lacrosse player, and as the main person who I believe really sowed the love of the game in me, to come and see me play, and that one day he would watch me play in the National Championship game. He has fulfilled one half of our agreement. TL and Rich arrived at my house at 5 in the morning to see the 1 o’clock game. They left Sunday morning after a long night of victory celebration, to go back to their world of instilling the love of the game in middle school kids in Wilmington. This is friendship to me.

So next up is Rutgers. We all know that an upset here for us would be devastating. It is time to show our stones and step up and play like we should play all the time. This means practicing in this manner. This is a conference game, so in many ways it is more vital to our play-off hopes than ‘Cuse was. I will enjoy the rest of my victory beverage tonight, and then grab my lunch pail for tomorrow, because it is time to go back to work. I cannot afford to have another game where I hurt our team, so I have to become a better teamate this week.

We have to become a better team. This is me being Rudy. This is us learning how to win.