Please come to Boston for the weekend...

Yeah, there's a song that has a line like that. Some whiny white guy writes to his ex-girlfriend, or grandmother, or gay lover or something like that, and he asks her to come to Boston for the weekend. I now have a better idea of who these people are.

The chick defintely isn't me. The Dude definitley isn't Harvard Athletics.

Okay, so my whiny story goes like this...

One of my big goals this year is to sit in every press box I can. I'm only going to be an assistant sports editor once, meaning I'll only get one crack at all the other school's press boxes. After that, I'll leave my legacy for the assistant sports editors to come, and the foo..er, next edit board.

So of course when Alex told me he wasn't going to Harvard, I was like "Money!" That meant that Owen and I would get to sit in the press box, all I had to do was get to Harvard.

I had that covered. Owen offered to pick me up, and together we'd drive down. Adam Sinovsky then joined the group as our photographer, playing the cowardly lion to Owen's Tin Man and my Scare Crow.

All we were missing was our Dorothy. We probably should have written her and begged "Please come to Boston for the weekend," beucase then I would have had someone to sit with.

"What?" you may be asking. "You didn't sit with Owen?"

No, I'll tell you now. Owen had the distinct pleasure of sitting the press box. His company for the evening? The Boston Globe reporter, the USCHO.com reporter, the radio guys, and Satan.

That's right, in the Ivy League's ever-expanding quest to squeeze money out of a poor excuse for a D-I doormat league, Harvard sold the broadcast rights of the game to CSTV. That's great. It's great for the fans, but it sucked for the team and it sucked for me.

It sucks for the team, beucase now Cornellians have less of a need to flood Bright Hockey center and turn the place into a Red home game. Instead of "Lynah East," the rink turned into "Lynah Least," with a dismal showing from the usually rowdy Boston fan base.

And don't think the players didn't notice. Sure they loved the crazies who always travel to see the team, but even Captain Vesce noticed the smaller than usual Cornell crowd.

"It felt like a neutral site game," he said afterwards.

And why did all CSTV, aka Satan's spawn, ruin the game for me? Simple, they took up half the press box. Then one of the cranky beat writers from one of the Boston papers that isn't the Globe bitched to have space for his space heater in the press box. I.E., no space for Matt.

Result? The dream is over. The dream has died. I did not get to, nor will I ever, sit in the Harvard press box. Instead, I was given a ticket and herded like cattle to sit with the common folk. Worse, the common folk I sat with wore crimson and carried an attitude.

(At least I answered one of life's great riddles. You can clap with one hand. I saw the Harvard fans do it, I mean how else could they clap when one thumb was wedged up their respective asses?)

Oh, sure! Disco Stu, the Mars going Harvard Astronaut and I had plenty of fun for a while. The Harvard Gorilla had even me going Ape Shit. I even got my picture taken with Harvard's Kid Rock. But then the truth came out. Cornell had built Stu's Martian Rover, Kid Rock realized that my Ag school affiliation didn't mean I could score him weed, and the Rally Rawlings started humping the ape's leg. That's when things started getting ugly (and cold -- record lows while we were in the East).

I could go on, but I won't. I promised the children I wouldn't make a scene on the internet. And Lord knows, you can't dissapoint the children.

That, and it's time for bed, where I can dream of happier days at Lynah rink, beucase you know that somewhere, someone's writing their sweetheart and asking...

...please come to Boston for the weekend.

I hope she comes to her senses and heads to Ithaca instead.