Irony is the sportswriter's most valued tool. It elevates merely exciting events to the realm of the extraordinary. The Oakland Raiders' Super Bowl victory, for instance, was a prime example--as the first wild card entry ever to win, it was interesting, but Jim Plunkett's remarkable comeback made it a story in the fullest sense.

Covering the Harvard sports scene this past year has left indelible impressions. On reflection, I am overwhelmed by the intensity and gratified by the intimacy of Crimson athletics. You can have Stanford, Michigan or Princeton.

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The IAB, however you deprecate it, is intimate. And on occasion, it can throb with intensity. On December 6, American University came to town, replete with a genuine All-American, a classy entourage and the year's best publicity campaign.

The All-Everything's name is Russell "Boo" Bowers, and his comely features adorn a replica of an American Express card together with his 1970-80 nation-leading points-per-game average among returning players. This night, Boo showed a packed IAB crowd why his team does not leave home without him.

He was all over the floor, slinky, often inconspicuous. By the end of the first half, he had scored more than 20 points, and hardly anyone paid attention. But in the second half, he was unstoppable and eminently noticeable, hitting from all angles to run his game total to 45 points and to propel his Eagles to a 108-88 win.

The most powerful aspect of the game, however, was the effort displayed by the Crimson cagers. They shot at a superb clip and held American close, 54-52 at halftime in fact. The audience in the old, soon-to-be obsolescent IAB stomped and stamped, exhorting the Crimson defense. Seldom have so many Crimson hoop fans cheered so loudly for so long. And even if Bowers ultimately performed a one-man wrecking job, he could not dispel the image of a fired-up bunch of devotees in the cramped quarters.

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Why? Why spend hours every day of the year lifting weights, running, doing the most grueling of exercises only to have training compressed into a minute and a half? Those who don't row crew at this school, those who watch their roommates tumble out of bed at 6 a.m. in the middle of winter for a brisk jog, those who can't help detect a rower's inexplicable calm during reading period, ask this question. After all, rowers have their daily workout, their daily dose.

And why venture down to the Charles or the Thames or wherever to witness a crew race? The Head of the Charles, sure, that's panorama. But in all honesty, I didn't expect a rush when I trekked down to the Mass Ave bridge to watch the first Radcliffe heavyweight Black and White (the only varsity squad that stubbornly resists the "Crimson" appellation) race.

I was pleasantly surprised. Despite the frigid and turbulent conditions--the race had been delayed till dusk--it proved an exhilirating moment. The last traces of sunlight scraped the horizon, and the sky grew pink, then azure, with the Boston skyline silhouetted in the background.

Darkness fell as the heavies cruised across the finish line, in first place of course (death, taxes, and the good Harvard crew teams are the only certain things), and in a sudden epiphany, the ostensible absurdity of working so long and so hard for a fleeting instant of victory made perfect sense.

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It was a temperate Saturday in early February, sunny and balmy. But buried in the bowels of Hemenway Gym was one of the closest, point-for-point squash matches imaginable. Mike Desaulniers, who eventually retired undefeated, had dispatched his Princeton opponent in short order.

None of the other matches in this showdown for the national title was as mercifully antacid. Almost every contest came down to the fifth game, many of those sudden-death tiebreakers. The Crimson had a point to prove: for the past three seasons, squash primacy had belonged to the heavily recruited and deep Tigers.