Oh, many moons ago things were so much different. James Arthur Boeheim Court was once the site of grief. Grief hemorrhaging from the souls of all good in the Fourth Estate. ‘Tis was annual disappointment and dismay and, in some cases, corruption. Nine years’ worth of losses.

But now – oh, now – tables have been revolved. Turning back to an age of words published on paper, not screens. Yes, oh yes. The Daily Orange has commenced its century of dominance. A 54-49 win inside the non-air-conditioned Domed Carrier was beautificated. For the second straight year, The D.O. was victorious.

A first half blemished with faux pas recalibrated into a second half glittered with adroitness. Shots, they fell. Grit, it oozed. Beer, it poured (afterward). And print, it was validated. Yes, the printed word is the primary source of information-spreading after that game on the night of the 13th of Saturday.

Fluttering in the air ever so gallantly, silent assassin Antonio Olivero drilled not one, not two, not three, not four, not five, not six but seven nylon-slithering baskets from beyond the blue parabola hovering on the hardwood. For his pale, quiet complexion was tinted with a snarl that made Talking Heads shiver and quake and whine in fright. A legendary performance, indeed.

‘I was sick the whole game,’ spoketh Olivero. ‘Afterward, I yacked. But it was all worth it.’

And as Olivero’s shots scalpeled the dreams of 88.3, the pensmiths were also led by a 16-point effort from Tyler Dunne, roughshodding through the lane. The Charles Oakley-esque mettle, if absence of grace, from one Yankees-loveth Matthew Ehalt and one Bears-loveth Andrew John. And the docile leadership of spectacled Jared Diamond, headbandeth Conor Orr, sickness-battling Didier Morais and bureau chief Meredith Galante.

‘We showed a lot of heart, and I truly believe that every single one of these men gave their all tonight,’ spoketh Orr, illuminating bravado. ‘A truly extraordinary display of athleticism and moxie.’

The button-pushing, mic-screameon heads of FM tried. Oh, they tried. Eric Rothman’s bunch put forth a fight. Though as Rothman’s shots rained, players flopped in Vlade-shame along every drive – rubbling themselves into small heaps. The notebook-carriers endured. Unbowed by such nonsense. For the Orangeness of Daily’s doggedness maintained. Was it the impetus preliminary passage of words from the orifice of EZE? Channeling a message that’ll forever reverberate? Or maybe, just maybe, the ghosts of Media Cup past are still dripping anger throughout the veins of Galante’s Men.

Shall never know. Shall never care. Come hither. Hear the battle cry echo down hallowed Ostrom. For the true basketeers are typing and thinking away inside the cozy confines of 744. Not 795.

After a succulent victory, a new streak has begun. Come hither folks. Come hither. The Daily Orange lives again. One can see such proof scripted on a sign inside the drinketh corral of St. Chuckles. This game will never seep out of memories, entrenched in the annals of Hill roundballing. WAER reign has been abolished.

Though still, a challenge lingers. A hand, outreached.

‘Oh yeah, we’ll milk this win for sure,’ spoketh Dunne. ‘But if they want a rematch for fun, we’ll be waiting at Archbold.’

Oh, how majestic that might be.

W.F. Whence is a germanificated staff sculptor for The Daily Orange, where he re-germanificated to sculpt this glistening prose.

Published on February 14, 2010 at 12:00 pm