GUEST COLUMNIST: Death and resurrection at the Palestra

BY Alexander Webster BY Alexander WebsterIt was a night at the Palestra that no Quaker loyalist is likely to forget, at least not in this lifetime. The second half of that gladiatorial spectacle on February 9 had all the signs of impending doom. As the minutes ticked off the clock and Princeton steadily eroded the massive Penn halftime margin of 24 points, my daughter Kristen and I sensed the inexorable turning of the tide of victory. Like thousands of other Quaker fans, we had the sinking feeling that the Tigers were poised, once again, to triumph in a game in which they had scored a paltry nine points in the first half to their presumably everlasting shame. As thrilling and inspirational as last year's final game was against Princeton at the Palestra -- the amazing second half comeback and near-victory in overtime -- this year's Palestra contest was shocking, numbing and depressing -- in that order. Last year's titanic struggle was Kristen's initiation as a freshman into the joyous mysteries of Penn-Princeton men's basketball. This year's game was more like the sinking of the Titanic. Now my daughter has experienced the sorrow of yet another galling loss to those insufferable braggarts from a small New Jersey village, a defeat that cuts to the bone and leads one to wonder whether such an outcome is foreordained, or predestined, or simply a matter of fate. Some of us have drunk from this poisoned well before. As a member of the College Class of 1972, I still remember, in painful detail, the debacle in the East Regional Finals of the 1971 NCAA Tournament, when the 28-0 Quakers (ranked third nationally and an outstanding shooting team) could not buy a basket against the Villanova Wildcats before losing 90-47 before a national television audience. But that game was lost virtually from the beginning. What happened in the Palestra on February 9 of this year was truly unprecedented, a self-disintegration of epic, Boston Red Sox proportions. It was, without doubt, the most devastating defeat in the last 30 years, since I was a freshman at the beginning of the Golden Age of Penn men's basketball. It wasn't until the long train ride home to Virginia later that night that I emerged from my own blue funk long enough to consider the impact of the game on those who matter most. Not the diehard, long-suffering Quaker fans, including current students and Penn alumni: we'll get on with our lives; the searing memory of what happened on the hardwood will eventually settle down to a dull pain; we'll share war stories over beer and Philadelphia pretzels wherever we are. The wounds may not, however, heal so easily for the 12 Quakers who played their hearts out only to come up short against Princeton for the sixth time in a row. As the game clock wound down and a pall seemed to hang over the Palestra faithful, I remarked to my daughter that the next couple of minutes would reveal whether the Quakers had the stuff of champions. It was a tired old sports clichZ, but, like so many sports cliches, it was true. Could the Quakers compose themselves, reach down deep within their souls and find the strength, the grit, the sheer determination to carry them to victory in the waning moments? Not this time. But sports, like life itself, often provides a second chance for redemption. In the Ivy games since their heartbreaking 50-49 loss to the Tigers, the Quakers have rolled over their opponents, while the Tigers, perhaps too heady from their fluke victory, have succumbed to the likes of Yale and Harvard. The Quaker's spirits are not crushed; their will to win remains steeled; their character is strong. They do have the stuff of champions after all. I don't know any of this year's Quakers personally, but I have a good hunch that they, and coach Dunphy, will demonstrate it for all the Ivy League world to see at Jadwin Gymnasium in Princeton, N.J. on March 2. That is more than a good hunch. Call it faith in 12 young men, good and true.