Author's Note: This was written March 17, 2001, the night it happened--right after the game I came home and wrote about it. See the epilogue at the end, though--it has a few interesting details, and one very important, very sad thing that nobody knew at the time.
Streaked Face Paint

         I enter the women's bathroom of the Frank Ritter Memorial Arena, home venue of the Rochester Institute of Technology (RIT) Tigers' ice hockey team. Setting my face paints on the counter below the long mirror by the door, I go to the sink and wet my paintbrush. I open my face paints, wet them with my moistened brush, and try to mix the red and yellow together just right.
         I test the shade of the newly-mixed orange by wiping the brush against my thumb. Too pink. More yellow paint is incorporated, and I try again. This orange is much better, and I make sure there's a lot of it on my brush.
         I regard myself in the mirror. When I painted my face last night at home, I had my face painting book open to help me. The book isn't with me here tonight, though, so I have to do it by memory. I begin like I began last night, making orange lines on my face like I'm marking the numbers on a clock--one stripe at the twelve o'clock position, one at the one o'clock, etc. Soon I have orange lines all around, including under my bangs, which I have to push up so I don't paint them by mistake.
        I rinse off my brush and mix up the black paint. There's too much water on my brush, though, and the black is almost drippy when I first apply it. I mix harder, and the water is absorbed. I use the black to fill in the gaps between the orange lines. The colors stop in the middle of my face, though--my nose, part of the cheeks around that area, my eyes, and the space between my nose and upper lip are still unpainted.
        For those I mix up the white paint. After the white paint dries, I go back to the black. I haven't rinsed off my brush right, though, and the black paint turns gray. No matter, though--I want the whiskers I'm painting to look different from the orange and black. I apply those, mark some dots near the sides of my nose for whisker-holes, and slather the tip of my nose, even painting my nostrils. I rinse off my brush again and take a last look in the mirror. I am a tiger. The paint job isn't as good as last night's, but it's still very decent.
        I am no longer alone by the mirror, though. As I was applying my gray, two college student girls with ponytails sprayed orange came in with paints of their own, and are still hard at work. They aren't painting their faces, though; they're painting their stomachs. The girls are dressed sort of Britney Spears-style, with shirts ending just under the ribs, and stomachs exposed. They're painting letters as part of a line that will spell either GO RIT or GO TIGERS. I'm not sure which, since those two are the GO.
        I pick up all my stuff and leave the bathroom. The arena is sold out, and is a zoo, because one game has just ended, and RIT's won't start for another hour, but everyone's trying to get good seats already.
        The game that has just ended is the consolation game of the NCAA Divison III Men's Hockey Tournament, and Wisconsin-Superior has just beaten Wisconsin-River Falls. The losing team of this game is the team RIT beat last night. I was there then, too. Tonight we play the Plattsburgh Cardinals, who, like us, are from New York.
        I've been to quite a few regular-season RIT games against Plattsburgh, and while I think the word "Plattsburgh" is kind of catchy, there's basically nothing else I like about the team. My apologies to any Plattsburgh fans who, against all odds, chance to stumble across this website, but the Cardinals play dirty. There's no denying it. I can only guess what they'll be like tonight. I mean, the winner of tonight's game is the NCAA champion, the best Division III team in the nation.
        And there's plenty of reason to believe that RIT'll be it. They have had an undefeated season, winning various tournaments in the bargain. They have tied only one game (which I was there for) and have lost none. They are 27-0-1. Their goalie, Tyler Euverman, is fantastic. A lot of them are fantastic. They score on 46% of their power plays, which is incredible.
        I have heard all this from my parents and brother. I am not, under normal circumstances, a huge hockey fan. I mean, don't get me wrong--I've had allegience for the RIT Tigers ever since I can remember. I've been going to games since I was--well, I don't know, but my parents have been coming since I was about three or four, and I can't have been too far behind. I care about how the Tigers do. But I'm not much of a spectator. I've often read through RIT games, only getting into them when the action is intense. I'm not one to follow the game.
        But despite the copy of David Copperfield  in my coat pocket, I'm not planning on being oblivious this game. This is the NCAAs, and like last night, I'm going to watch it through. The book is only to pass the time between the periods--and the hour before the game starts.
        So when I get back to the bleachers, I greet my parents' friends and then sit down and begin to read. I don't have any friends with me. My brother does, though. He's in his usual spot--the front row, by the opposing penalty box--with his friend Craig, who has a tiger-striped blanket draped over his shoulders.
        I should explain where my brother comes in--indeed, where he's come in all season. Sometime last season, my brother bought an orange foam tiger paw--like those "big puffy hands" you see around, only it's a got a black paw print on it, and it says GO TIGERS. This year, he brought it to games and started sitting by the opposing team's penalty box. Whenever anyone was put in that box, he'd slam the paw against the glass wall of the box as hard as he could, a bunch of times in succession-- bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang! --as kind of an in-your-face taunt.
        And he became semi-famous at the games for it. RIT college students would talk to him, would pay attention to him, this shortish twelve-year-old who looks younger than his age. He was nicknamed "Paw Boy". Even when Campus Safety, the RIT security force, got on his case for banging on the glass and told him not to anymore, he waved to the player in the box instead, then turned around and waved to the Corner Crew, which cheered. He was--he is--a thing. Not having gone to many games this season, I found this out only a couple months ago, and I am still stunned at his being a thing. I mean, no one's asked for his autograph or anything, but he got the Corner Crew's attention, and is having a lot of fun with it--he wants a fake RIT jersey for next year with PAW BOY on the back.
        This brings me to the Corner Crew itself. The Corner Crew is a bunch of guys who like to lead chants--often funny, sometimes rude, always loud--during the game. You're probably picturing college students here, but the three or four main guys are in their thirties and forties. Some have nicknames--Big Goon is the ringleader, Stick Boy is the guy who slams a hockey stick against a piece of fiberglass--some don't. They're backed up by their whole corner of the rink, which is mostly college students. They have their own banner, which has a picture of a tiger-printed hockey puck, the words RIT CORNER CREW, and the following inscription in smaller letters along the bottom: Warning: We're Loud and Obnoxious at Hockey Games.
        And they are. They must have at least a dozen and a half chants, and one for almost every occasion. They have rituals and things they say every time. They love to single out the opposing goalie for razzing. A lot of the time I can only participate in parts of the chants, either because I can't hear Big Goon no matter how loud he shouts, or because they involve words I can't say. But I'm hoping they'll do one of my favorite chants tonight, which makes fun of state schools like Plattsburgh, which belongs to SUNY. This chant is sung to the tune of "If You're Happy and You Know It" and goes as follows:

 If you can't go to college, go to state!
 If you can't go to college, go to state!
 If you can't go to college,
 'Cause you haven't got the knowledge,
 If you can't go to college, go to state!

        There are ones even better than that. My mom says almost all colleges have some sort of Corner Crew-type bunch, but I can't help but think that RIT's must be the best of anywhere. At the very least, it must be the best D-III bunch. They're such characters.
        The atmosphere is high--we haven't lost a game all season, the Corner Crew is tuning up, our mascot (RITchie the Tiger) is roaming around (he's no stupid mascot, either--for some reason most of the RIT fans rally around him instead of seeing him as a little-kid thing), my brother has his paw and is in his corner. We're ready to rock.
        The opening notes of "Eye of the Tiger" blare from the main arena speaker, and RIT comes out. We cheer and yell and wave the orange and black pompoms that were handed out yesterday at the semifinals. Plattsburgh comes out, and the other side of the arena begins to yell--the Cardinals fans have filled their allotted space. We're not used to that--most of our home games are mostly us, with a few opposing fans here and there. But we cheer the Tigers, and the Corner Crew boos the Cardinals. I look over and see some other people with tiger faces. The two girls I saw earlier are down in the front, accompanied by some shirtless guys. They're cheering. Everyone is who isn't booing the other team.
        After a lot of skating around and basking in the glow of an undefeated season and a crowd who adores them, RIT lines up parallel with the Cardinals. Both teams are introduced, and stand, along with the audience, for the national anthem.
        Then the game begins. It's fast-paced and punctuated with cheers led by the Corner Crew, mostly simple stuff like "Here we go, Tigers, here we go [clap, clap]!" The thing is, RIT keeps losing the puck. Last night we scored within the first thirty seconds, but tonight we aren't getting off to such a great start. Plattsburgh is a tough team--they always are.
        Suddenly the red light that signifies a goal goes off--on the other side of the rink. Plattsburgh has scored. Their side of the arena goes crazy. My parents and their friends are a bit worried. But the game is young. I don't like it, but it's only one goal, and it's so early. The Corner Crew retaliates with their most popular anti-state-school cheer: "That's all right, that's okay--you're gonna work for us someday!", then leads us in chanting "R-I-T! R-I-T!" as those of us with pompoms shake them. We're flying high again.
        Until Plattsburgh scores a second time. I'm surprised--this isn't what I'd had in mind for the NCAA finals--but not worried. Two goals in a period is very possible for RIT--I've been to regular-season games where they've scored about six. Granted, none were against Plattsburgh, but there's a first time for everything, right?
        The game starts again. A penalty is called on Plattsburgh and a player is led to the box. My brother waves at the unfortunate guy and turns to the Corner Crew and the surrounding crowd, hailing them, too. I'm not sure how much of the cheering is for the player getting in the box and how much is for my brother, but he grins and sits back down.
        When we score soon after, everyone jumps to their feet. I yell as loud as I can, realizing in doing so that my voice hasn't completely recovered from last night. Not that I care. We yell and chant and celebrate, only quieting down when the puck is about to be dropped again.
        But RIT keeps losing the puck to Plattsburgh--they seem to steal it right off the Tigers' sticks. We keep them from scoring again, but we can't get another goal, either. The period ends, and we are down 1-2.
        We've still got 40 minutes left, though. We Tiger fans aren't exactly at ease, but RIT hasn't self-destructed under pressure all season. They'll correct their mistakes, get it together, and be better than ever the second period.
        But when the second period starts, they seem the same. They play hard, very hard, but they are scored on again. Now we're worried--it's a two-point deficit again--I realize just how awful 1-3 looks on a scoreboard--and we haven't got the time we had before.
        To be fair to RIT, though, it's not all their fault. I'm not trying to imply that they weren't prepared, because they were. Their play has been very good--but somehow it hasn't been working. Plattsburgh has played good defense, and managed to get in a few goals. It so happens, too, that Plattsburgh's goalie has picked an excellent night to be excellent. He has been all over the place, saving shots I didn't know could be saved. And, as usual, Plattsburgh has done some dirty stuff that got by--not that it's kept us from scoring, really, but it's very annoying. I keep waiting for the goalie to start to tilt the net off the line, as Plattsburgh goalies tend to do, but it doesn't happen--maybe they do that more when they're down.
        I go back to the bathroom towards the end of the period. My face paint hasn't smeared, although it has been itching mercilessly. I can't rub it much without it coming off onto my fingers.
        As I'm trying to lock the stall door, a huge cheer goes up. Someone has scored, but there's no speaker in the bathroom, so I can't hear who. As I leave the bathroom I find out--Plattsburgh. Again. There are five seconds left in the second period, and it is 1-4.
        Between the periods my parents and their friends rehash everything, addressing what went wrong and expressing their concern that we'll lose, tonight of all possible nights. I read David Copperfield, trying to ignore the song they're playing over the speaker, because it's one I can't stand.
        The Corner Crew starts singing the Kit-Kat commercial jingle ("Gimme a break, gimme a break..."), and I look up to find a Corner Crew member throwing miniature Kit-Kats and tiny wrapped candy canes into the crowd, like last night. Like last night, by the time he gets to us, there are only candy canes left, but not far away is an undisturbed Kit-Kat on the floor, and I grab it. I give it to one of my mom's friends, who had coincidentally expressed her craving for a Kit-Kat before the break.
        I begin the third period hopeful. Three goals to tie, four to lead--they can do that. They've done stuff like that before. Twenty minutes--to beat, they'd have to get an average of one goal every five minutes, without letting Plattsburgh score again. It can be done, I figure, but we're going to need some power plays. With Plattsburgh, that should be easy enough.
        But Plattsburgh gets by most of the time. Our anxiety grows. That song I hate sticks in my head, and I start singing the Newsboys' "WooHoo" to myself to get rid of it--and to calm myself down. It works--for the song. The anxiety doesn't diminish much.
        I start to think seriously about an RIT loss, even when we finally score our second goal. I shout with all my breath when they do score, but ten minutes and something, or whatever is left, isn't an easy amount of time to get two goals in.
        But we can't lose. Not to Plattsburgh, whom none of us can stand. We've been undefeated. We are in the NCAA finals. If we win tonight, we become the only undefeated team ever to win the NCAA D-III title. Plattsburgh is not the nation's best team, we are.
        It would even be better, at this point, to be getting beaten by Wisconsin-Superior. Better to have to say we got kicked by some out-of-state hotshot team like them than to have to say the same about slashing, hitting, arrogant (you should have seen them when something went their way), injury-faking (you should have seen one guy feign falling over) Plattsburgh, whom I believe we beat 8-2 last time we met with them. Anyone but Plattsburgh. Anyone.
        The clock ticks down, but I'm still cheering, as loud as I can, along with the Corner Crew. My mom is too depressed by the score--the Cardinals have gotten yet another goal--to cheer, but I keep at it, shouting and waving my pompom for all I'm worth. Five minutes--they can do it. They've still got a shot. They've undoubtedly done it sometime before in all the years I've liked them. They can do it again.
        There is, I think, just over a minute, and Plattsburgh makes a final goal. It is 2-6, and now we cheer all the louder in hopes of a pride goal, because 3-6, as bad as it would be, looks so much better than 2-6. We also cheer so we don't have to think about what lies a minute away: RIT is going to lose--in the NCAA finals--to Plattsburgh.
        And we do. No goal is scored. The last second arrives, and a Plattsburgh player throws his glove--or maybe his helmet--into the air. A second later, the whole team follows suit. The opposite side of the rink is pandemonium. The Cardinals swarm their captain, or somebody--I don't know their players well enough to say. RIT is huddled in the corner.
        I don't want to look at my brother, who I am sure is crying despite his efforts not to. I don't want to look at my mom, who may be doing the same thing. I look at the Tigers, but it shoots pain through me. They are the picture of dejection, of a wonderfully happy dream dashed. I don't see any of them together. They are all spread out on their side of the rink. The one guy I see--which one is he? I can't read the back of his jersey--has his stick stood up in front of him, and his head is down and pressed against it. He looks like he's crying, although I can't tell. I can't describe to you how he looks--I have to put all my effort into it, watching him, not to cry myself. Even remembering him now tightens my throat. It is that sad a sight--he worked so hard, and came so close--and now what?
        So I look away. I watch Plattsburgh celebrate--and I have to smile. No matter how they play, or what they're like, I have to smile--they look so happy. They're embracing and jumping--and on ice skates; if I tried that, I'd fall down in a second and bruise everything I have. Gloves, helmets, and sticks litter the ice. And no wonder. They've beaten the undefeated. They probably came in thinking, deep down, that they were going to be taken down just like every other team was taken down by the Tigers (save the one that tied, which was not Plattsburgh). But here they are, not quite 9:30 on the Saturday night of all Saturday nights for them, and they've won. Their seniors can leave the college and say that they were part of the best D-III team in the country. Pete Bournazakis is an incredible RIT senior who, along with his younger brother Mike, has been one of the team stars for the past few years, but he can't say that. Stat-wise, maybe he can, but he's not the one holding the trophy.
        We watch the NCAA awards for both teams being given out. RIT gets their awards first, because they lost. I shout for them all, but loudest for McDonald and Euverman--for them I yell as loudly as I did when RIT scored. I clap softly, politely, for Plattsburgh. Most people don't, but they're not derogatory. Even the Corner Crew is subdued. I clap hardest for the goalie, who made so many impossible-looking saves. If I have respect for anybody on that team, it is him. He's something.
        The snow swirls and hazes the sky as we walk to the van in the cold. We switch on RIT's radio station and listen to the postgame show. Two players are interviewed as we drive home. One in the background sounds as though he's crying.
        Their statements are brave. "We're the real champions," the one says, softly but with emphasis. "They may be the ones down there with the trophy celebrating, but we're the champions...we lost one game all season."
        The other says, at one point, "Like he said, we were phenomenal...I know we're live here and on the Internet, and my grandma's listening...I'd like to dedicate the season to her. I lost my aunt and uncle this year [or did he say last year?]...this season's for them..."
        I go in the house and into the bathroom. I fill up the sink with water, taking another look in the mirror at my tiger face. I push back my bangs and plunge my face in for a second. The first streams of warm water take effect, and some paint comes running down, beginning to trickle black into the sink. I prepare to splash my face again and look one last time at my face paint, now streaked as though with tears.
        Congratulations, Tigers, on your undefeated season, save one game. You were phenomenal.
 

Epilogue
 
        Over my cereal the next morning, I read in the newspaper that Sundberg, the Plattsburgh goalie, had some inhuman number of saves--was it 35 or 53? I don't remember, or know which is more likely. I also read that one of the Plattsburgh players is the son of a famous Boston Bruins player whose name I have forgotten--can I have read it only a week ago? It seems like so much longer.
        The morning after that, I read over my cereal that on the same night that the Tigers lost the NCAA final game, a 19-year-old RIT lacrosse player named Todd Bernhardt died when his condition worsened as he recovered from injuries sustained in practice about a week before. Between the letdown and the tragedy, I wanted to wear RIT shirts to school all week, sort of symbolically, but I scrapped it, since I only have two that fit, and settled for just wearing one Monday.
        And today, a week after the fateful game, I read the Reporter, the RIT magazine--though not over my cereal--and the articles about the finals there. What particularly grabbed my attention, though, was the photo on the back cover--it was taken upon RIT's defeat, as the hockey players tapped their sticks on the ice and held them up to us in the audience. The thing was, the shot was facing the audience, especially the Corner Crew, but not the Tigers--it looked like some of the Corner Crew members were crying, too. It made me wonder if RITchie was crying himself, inside his costume where no one could see him.
        I wonder how many would have already been crying for Todd, had they known. It's so easy for us to trivialize his death, the real tragedy of that night, amid all the hype of the NCAAs. The only complaint I have about the Reporter's articles is that the hockey team got a whole two-page story, and Todd only a few paragraphs boxed off by the lacrosse report. My condolences to his family, and my hope for Todd's eternal joy.