COLUMN: The Sweetest Days

From Ian Blake's "Church of the Poisoned Mind," Fall '95 From Ian Blake's "Church of the Poisoned Mind," Fall '95Jerome Allen's not that good. He ain't goin' to the pros. Hey Matt, look, do you see how many "#%*#ing" nigg#rs he's playin' JEEEZUS and they're up twenty. It just ain't fair!" Anyway, we were crushing the "University of Halloween" so the game had lost interest for me. I was counting the house, and checking out the Princeton skraags, OOPS femmes; until this "very tolerant" Princetonian's words perked up my ears. You probably want to hear more of what he said, so I'll just shut up and let you listen in. Where were we, ah yes, it just wasn't fair? "Jeezus how many ni*g#rs does Dunphy have on that team? The only reason Allen won two MVP's is because he plays with all those f#$%ing blacks, you got number 52 and that Ira whatshisname guy that transferred from Providence. Matt, how'd Dunphy get that guy, betcha he did somethin' illegal, pay him to come here or somethin'. Christ why can't Pete [Carrill, Princeton's head coach] get more nig#@rs like Penn. Matt, look he's runnin' up the score with those guys SH#T!" I was astonished as I listened to these two admirably home trained future leaders of tomorrow. I was also disappointed to learn that there are hostile pockets of Ivy League society that begrudge Fran Dunphy's and Jerome Allen's astounding success at Penn. But I didn't have too much time to be disheartened. These gentlemen had opened my eyes to unknown aspects of the Ivy League community that I heretofore had not known existed, and it was time for me to reciprocate. I know what you're thinking, time for another one of my patented Civil Rights lessons. As I was saying before, we had pretty much finished off Halloween U. and there wasn't any point in rubbing the score in their faces. So, I decided to take a different approach. I decided to disguise myself as the sympathetic, sympathizer from Princeton. But first, I needed to introduce myself to these gentlemen. I put on my coat and pretended that I was just entering the Palestra. I asked the gentlemen if I could sit in the space next to them. They consented and I sat. I looked up at the scoreboard and loudly declared, "@#*$, I can't believe were losing this bad." I turned to my two new friends and asked them what the hell was going on. "You go to Princeton?" they asked in comical unison. "Yes, I go Princeton. Do you think I would come to this filthy gym for any other reason?" I tried to look as indignant as possible as I blurted this out. I asked them why Sidney Johnson, Princeton's only available African-American player, was not in the game. I wasn't sure they were thoroughly convinced of my authenticity, so I played my trump card. "Why is Jerome Allen still playing? There's only eight minutes left in the game, that f*$%ing Dunphy's trying to run the score up. That's why they got blown out at UMASS," I shouted. Those extra "%&$#ing" expletives turned the trick, I had convinced them that I was indeed a Tiger. For about a minute, we all started putting Penn down in unison. I had become the little black companion these gentlemen never had growing up. Our mutual distress at the game's ultimate outcome bonded us together tightly. Another minute had passed before "Irawhatshisname" started doing funky stuff on the court and the Palestra really started rocking. I should probably point out at this time that those "colorful adjectives" my new friends had previously been using to refer to the African-Americans on our team had strangely ceased as soon as I was seated next to them. The crowd was placated. There were only a few minutes left in the game. Dunphy had cleared the bench, and put the "white guys" on the court. I was enjoying myself so much, I almost forgot my divine mission. I leaned over to the gentlemen and formally introduced myself. Then I loudly declared, "Why are Penn's white guy's better than ours? They've got Maloney, Kegler, Moore and that number 23 whatshisname, you know, that shoots too much from the outside for a big man!" Despite the noise in the Palestra, there was a deafening silence between us. I tried to look as exasperated as possible. But, neither Matthew or Devon had an answer for me. I finally broke the silence by saying, "The only reason Penn is so good is because of those #$*&ing; white players. If Jerome Allen played for us he wouldn't be as good!" Matt and Devon put on their coats and departed shortly thereafter (not the desired response). Like I said before, I always enjoy sitting in the visitor's section of the Palestra. It gives me a special feeling to know that I can comfort the "unfortunate ones" who sit with me in the nosebleed seats of the East end. That the University of Pennsylvania will win three consecutive Men's Ivy League Basketball titles is a forgone conclusion. For me, these last few hours I have at Penn (as a senior) are the sweetest days left in my life. As for Matt and Devon, I'll be thinking of them, as the "#&*%ing" blacks and whites of Penn's basketball team carry me and my television through the NCAA Tournament all the way to the Final Four in Seattle. Ian Blake is a senior English major from Mt. Airy, Pa. Church of the Poisoned Mind appears alternate Wednesdays.