I am a graduate of CCNY, Class of 1955. More CEOs graduated from CCNY than from Yale or Harvard (e.g., Andrew Grove, CEO at Intel). Another distinction of CCNY is that it stands alone as the only school to ever win the NIT and NCAA basketball championships in the same year (1951). This record will never be surpassed, since teams are not invited to both tournaments any longer.

Unfortunately, due to gambling scandals, there is no longer any "Big Time Basketball" at CCNY. When I entered the school the "Big Time Basketball" had just ceased.

I anticipated Hoop Dreams, and I got "zilch."

No games to attend at Madison Square Garden!

No Allegeroo-GaRoo-GaRahs!

No dreams of championships and sports glory!

Can a mere human being recover from such a catastrophic disappointment? I have tried, but I can't say I have fully succeeded.

In the early 1990s, I became a season ticket holder at St. John's University in Jamaica, Queens. St. John's in the 1940s and 1950s was a bitter rival of CCNY. It was a basketball, as well as a cultural rivalry. It was Dick and Al McGuire versus Ed Roman, Irv Dambrot and Al "Fats" Roth.

Why did I join the enemy?

Was I a traitorous alumnus?

A round ball Benedict Arnold? Why?

Because it was the only game in town! No other meaningful Division I college basketball team played in New York. No other college team played at Madison Square Garden as part of its routine schedule.

In the intervening seven or eight years I have become a rabid St. John's Fan. I love attending games played at the Field House on Utopia Parkway, as well as the games played at the Garden. When the Garden "rocks" as a close game with UConn, the Hoyas or the Orangemen winds down, an orgasmic miasma descends on 34th Street. The Garden becomes a gigantic nerve center. At that moment, it is the only place to be on the North American continent.

That was why I made a five-hour pilgrimage to see St. John's play Syracuse at the Carrier dome on Feb. 24.

My son, Gregg, an MBA student at Cornell, got tickets for the game and invited me to come to Ithaca so that we could go to the game at Syracuse together.

But here was the "catch." It would entail

(a) a five-hour Shortline Bus ride to meet Gregg in Ithaca (Cornell U)

(b) a two-night stay-over at his lodgings on the couch

(c) eating campus food

(d) a 60-year-old acting like a 25-year-old (not easy)

(e) an hour drive to Syracuse from Ithaca

(f) another five-hour Shortline Bus ride back to the Big Apple and Long Island.

All this for a 40-minute basketball game, both teams representing schools I personally never attended.

A blizzard was predicted for game night, but who believes the weather prognosticators? Not a true sports fan. Not I.

I made the journey. (They showed two good movies on the bus.)

Upstate New York was a snow machine. The weather guy hit a bullseye. It was a true blizzard. Two feet of snow and bitter cold.

Let me stop the tale of this odyssey and philosophize a bit. What is reality?

Is it the mundane 9-to-5 job, the usual breakfast, lunch and dinner, the reading of the daily newspaper?

Or, is it the sports event?

The stirring to life as the opening whistle, to start the games, pierces our eardrums.

Life becomes deeper, purer and, yes, even holier in the anticipation before the "Big Game" itself.

From the opening moment till the sound of the final buzzer, there is a heightened sense of life and existence. Our tactile senses are enhanced and we become a living, breathing organism known as the "Sports Fan."

Is the time between whistles the reality and the rest of the time a dream? Interesting thought!

For a 7:30 p.m. game we needed to travel 38 miles (an hour trip). We left at 4 p.m. in the middle of a blinding snowstorm in a Ford Explorer Jeep with four-wheel drive. Plenty of time!

There were four of us, Josh (the driver), Jeremy (the sensible one), Gregg (my son) and myself (the 60-year-old tagalong.) We set out for Syracuse and the Carrier Dome in a white holocaust. My son, two roommates and moi.

Two hours passed and we had covered 10 miles. Cars fishtailed, trucks jackknifed and we moved eastward like a wounded snail. Ithaca to Syracuse it sounded like a Greek novel set in the First century. The window wipers were caked with ice and frozen. Thank heaven for a four-wheel drive. Josh had provided a full fuel tank and we plodded by inches toward Syracuse. At one point we sat for 25 minutes in a snowstorm without moving.

A mini-mutiny sprung up with eight miles to go. We approached a U-turn sign and exit with which we could have aborted our mission. An hour to game time. Should we turn around? We took a quick vote,. It was an open ballot. Josh abstained. Jeremy said "turn around." Gregg, urged to keep going and I voted to keep going.

Onward!

We hit the Syracuse campus with 15 minutes to game time. Around the Dome there was a sheet of ice. At every entrance we slipped and fell, but we pushed forward.

Did they play the Star Spangled Banner yet?

After our long struggle we must not miss the opening tip-off, we agreed.

As I entered the fabled "dome" for the first time, I was impressed. Football and basketball under one roof. Wow!

There was Orange, Orange, Orange everywhere. We, St. John's fans, were in the lion's den.

Could we prevail?

Should we root meekly or loudly in the enemy stronghold?

I said to the boys, "After our 'ordeal by snow,' we have earned the right to make fools of ourselves. Root as loud as you can!" And we did.

When the "Cusers" taunted Felipe and Zendon, we cheered our boys loudly. Coach Fran received an undeserved technical foul and we cheered our beloved leader. Ron Artest also drew much voluble enthusiasm from our group.

As the lead transferred back and forth, so did our emotions. The refs were killing us! Three- and five-second violations against the Johnnies at critical moments.

Are they kidding us? Those three refs are homers.

The seconds ticked down.

We had the lead!

Syracuse turnover!

Johnnies win! A two-point victory¬very sweet.

Twenty-one and seven¬what a record!

The game was over. We won. At the dome!

It was all worth the effort. We almost turned back, we were there, victory!

The trip back was uneventful. I slept all the way back to Ithaca. Thank heavens Josh didn't.

We have earned the right to recite the Odyssey of St. John's-Syracuse in the blizzard of February 24, 1998 to our grandchildren.