An Overdue Apology

Two weeks ago, in an article about the Harvard football team's devastating 42-23 loss to Bucknell, I made a comment that was utterly unfair--poorly researched, exaggerated, an utter breach of journalistic standards of respectability.

No, it did not concern my depiction of Coach Tim Murphy's stark honesty after the loss.

No, it wasn't my trashing of the team's defense in the loss. And no, it wasn't my comment about old men smoking pipes as the Titanic sunk.

All of those comments were fair, at least to the best of my knowledge.

I am, rather, referring to my below-the-belt shot at one of the most unappreciated organizations on campus: the Harvard Band.

In my story, I tried to illustrate the utter badness of the day for Harvard. I mentioned the gridders' anemic offensive performance and its lame defensive effort. I then tried to square off the paragraph with this wisecrack: "Even the band's performance was more cryptic than usual."

The comment was unfair for two reasons.

First, my comment had nothing to do with my own perceptions. The window in the pressbox on that fated afternoon was closed. I couldn't hear a damn thing--neither the band nor its loudspeaker, nothing. So no matter how cryptic the band's performance might have been, I wouldn't have known.

And second, even if I did hear that it was more cryptic than usual from friends, my comment violated the sacred "balanced-coverage rule." For the years that I have been here, the band has always been good and entertaining--a veritable source of pride to the university. We've never mentioned its accomplishments on these pages before, so it hardly seems fair that I would so flippantly degrade it.

For the two weeks since the Bucknell game, I have secretly wished that my comment would be justified late, that the band would put in a particularly egregious performance and my flippancy would be off the hook.

That has not happened.

The band has, rather, put in two of the best band performances I have seen.

Against Holy Cross, it shined by contrast. The Crusader marching corps wore ugly uniforms (hats, for God sake!), played cheesy music (wasn't "Old Time Rock n' Roll" in its reportoire?) and led grossly overenthusiastic cheers throughout the game. In short, it looked like my high school band from Manhattan, KS.

The Crimson corps, on the other hand, looked dignified in its Crimson blazers, played rousing renditions of Harvard classics and behaved like any self-respecting college band should: irreverant, obnoxious and humorous.

It was even better, though, against Cornell.

On the occasion of its 75th anniversary, the band--doubled in size by the participation of a number of nostalgic alumni--hit an all-time high.

Not only did the band outhumor the poker-faced Cornell corps, it outplayed, outmarched and outcheered the Big Red--one of the best bands in the league.

After the game, I couldn't help but duck in the back of the band's procession and follow it up JFK St.

No one could see the expression on my face--it was shielded as to avoid getting thumped by a trombone--but it was full of pride.

That, I would say, is a fair statement.