219m ag.

co m

http://www.219mag.co m/2014/03/24/o range-crush/

Orange Crush
T HE ALARM SOUNDED at 6 a.m., awakening me to my covert operation in the sub-f reezing northland of Syracuse, New York. I regretted each and every Labatt Blue that I had downed the night bef ore. I had planned to stay in shape f or today, but a couple of beers with my cousin Harrison and his f riends had turned into a long night of beer pong. Af ter all, I had to become a Syracuse University student f or a day, and I had to get into the role. As we trudged into the deep f reeze, Harrison still had spring in his step, a clear sign that less than a year removed f rom college I was already too old f or this shit. We headed across campus to stand on line until 7, when the universitys great monument to basketball, the Carrier Dome, would open its doors to admit students to a game that would start 12 hours later. T he Syracuse colors were everywhere: orange f aces, orange jump suits, orange spandex outf its orange, orange, orange, along with the rhythmic chants of Lets Go Orange! T his was the moment I had prepared f or: Would I pass f or a Cuse native, make it through the Orange crush and get past those gates? I grew up a college basketball f an. As a kid I had imagined what it would be like to join one of those rocking student sections at a big-time game. But I didnt end up at a place like Syracuse, Duke or Michigan. I attended SUNY Albany, which had teams in the NCAAs Division One, but nothing like those powerhouses whose logos hang in sports stores across the country. I can still remember my senior year at Albany and the excitement of watching the Great Danes make it to the NCAA basketball tournament f or only the third time in school history. For Syracuse, making the tournament wasnt celebrated, it was expected. Final Four appearances were celebrated. Six months af ter graduation, living in New York City, I In unifo rm: Evan Kre ntz e l, Harris o n Has c o e and the autho r visited cuse.com, the of f icial site of Syracuse University (Pho to c o urte s y o f J as o n E. Bis no ff) athletics, just to check out the schedule. Syracuse had joined the Atlantic Coast Conf erence this season, and with that came new opponents. Among them was Duke, one of the most revered teams in the country. And Duke would visit the Carrier Dome in f our short months. T his was the stuf f of my dreams: two elite powerhouses coached by the two winningest coaches in college basketball history f acing of f in a conf erence game f or the f irst time ever. A f ive-hour bus ride through the Adirondacks would be well worth the payof f of f inally seeing a game this big, this close. I called Harrison, a sophomore at Syracuse, and told him to make room f or me. For months I scoured ticket broker sites. But tickets started at $65, and I could not get a reasonable view of the game f or anything under $150. I will try to f igure something out and Ill keep you posted, said Harrison. Several days later he called me. I got a student pass f or you. We are going to the Duke game!

I would go, that is, if I could pass as a guy named Marcus, who had a short crew cut (not my longer hair), thinner eyebrows, a deeper hairline and a less pronounced jaw. As I inched toward the Carrier Dome gate, shuddering in the February dawn, I hoped this wasnt a waste of my 10-hour bus ride and the $50 round-trip ticket. Just f or a second, I had to pass f or Marcus in this orange mayhem. When my turn came, I stepped f orward, trying to match the mood of the happy, rowdy crowd of students around me. T he agent reached f or Marcuss ID, scanned it and didnt glance at me. I held out my arm f or a wristband and I was in. I remained composed (on the outside) until it was saf e enough f or a f ist pump. As I took a step down the corridor a campus police of f icer suddenly appeared. What is your sign? he asked. My Z odiac sign, denoting when I was born? I f roze, an absent look on my f ace. Marcus, when the hell were you born? Bef ore I could open my mouth and insert my f oot, the of f icer broke into a chuckle and I kept walking. When the game f inally tipped of f that evening, the stadium was f ull of Orange. I tried to blend in with an Orange shirt proclaiming Syracuse Basketball in navy print. I had borrowed it f rom Harrison, and it barely stretched over my 6-f oot f rame. But I wasnt going to be caught dead wearing another color. And there, right bef ore me, were the big men of Duke and Syracuse. As legendary coaches Mike Krzyzewski of Duke and Jim Boeheim of Syracuse paced the sidelines and tried to shout commands in the tempest, the teams traded blow f or blow. Both managed to get out to single-digit leads, but it was evident to a neutral f an like me as neutral a f an as you could f ind in the Dome that night that this battle would go down to the wire. And it did. T he student section had synchronized cheers that everyone around me knew by heart. T he easy ones, like taunting Duke star Jabari Parker by repeating his name slowly, Jaaaaaabbbbbbbbaaaarrrrrriiiii, were easy to learn. Others, such as the complex cheers f or each players introduction, were much more dif f icult. T here were distinct chants f or Duke f ree throws, Syracuse f ree throws, Duke f ouls and many other situations. Harrison coached me through some of them during breaks in the action. By the second half I had f igured out many of the chants, but I gave up on others. T he game went into overtime af ter Dukes Rasheed Sulaimon hit a game tying three pointer as time expired. As the two teams traded overtime possessions, everyone in the stadium was living and dying by every shot and possession. It became clear that the emotions I had invested just to see the game didnt compare to the agonies of the thousands of alumni, students and lif elong f ans who surrounded me. I had gotten what I came to see: A classic matchup had turned into an unf orgettable game. Syracuse won, 91-89. T he entire arena rose to sing the alma mater, led by the marching band and student section. I didnt know the words.