Many a wise man has said that it’s not about the destination, but the journey. Last week, I experienced quite the journey in an attempt to arrive at a celebrated destination—the Big East Championship game at Madison Square Garden in New York City.
I arrived back on the Hilltop late last Friday night after a long week of purely academic activities in Florida. Upon landing, my friends and I kept our phones off and avoided all possible contact with anyone set on telling us the outcome of the Georgetown vs. Marquette semifinal matchup. As soon as we arrived back on campus, we ordered a Wingo’s feast, then huddled around a computer monitor and watched the game on ESPN360.com. Thankfully, our Hoyas prevailed in a landslide, continuing their post-season run. Understanding that this was an opportunity not to be passed, my friend and I decided to pull the trigger and get to the Saturday Big East Championship Game.
In the matter of 30 minutes, we had booked a train, tickets to the game, and a bus back. This was most definitely going to happen.
The following day, we headed to Union Station to catch our 1:25 p.m. Amtrak. We were due to arrive at Penn Station at 4:45, leaving plenty of time to meet up with my roommate, have a relaxing dinner, and pick up the tickets. The plan was perfect … too perfect.
About half an hour outside of Philly, the Amtrak slowly decelerated to a halt nowhere close to an actual stop. The news was not promising: engine trouble. We were told the engineer was working on it, but he didn’t know what the problem was. About 30 minutes later we began to creep forward, eventually regaining full speed. After arriving in Philadelphia, we were told that in the interest of safety, they would be replacing the engine—great. After four announcements claiming the fix would only take 15-20 more minutes, we finally left the station. We were now an hour and 45 minutes late—so much for a full dinner, but the night was still not close to in jeopardy.
We were well on our way when the train slowed to a crawl between Trenton and Newark. We were told that due to weather, there was high traffic getting into the city, causing delays but not seriously impeding our trip. After 20 minutes spent covering less than a half-mile, we stopped. Power outages and flooding of the tracks at Newark Airport had stopped all trains from coming or leaving the city. The word was that the delay would be anywhere from two hours to all night, and that we could receive rations in the third car. My friend and I nodded in agreement. It was time to make moves.
We asked if we could exit the train and try to catch a cab as we stopped at a tiny station in Edison, New Jersey. When we stepped out of the train at 7 p.m., we entered a monsoon. After 35 minutes in the driving rain trying to grab one of the few cabs before the other fifty or so people on the forsaken platform, we snagged a taxi with a Georgetown alumnus and his two daughters to the city. After an hour and 15 minutes of the slowest driving possible, we arrived at the StubHub ticket office in Times Square. We got the tickets and hopped back in the taxi, at which time our driver revealed that he did not know the way to MSG. It was already 9 p.m.—the game’s official start time—so we bolted out of the taxi and sprinted along the streets of New York.
We arrived at the arena, completely soaked, and just in time to hear the final note of the national anthem. We made it. The game itself was fantastic, and nearly an hour after running through the rain in the city, I was selected to spell “GEICO” with my body on the MSG floor during halftime.
In the end, the Hoyas lost. Was it a heartbreaking end to the day? Yes, but the journey made it all worth it.
