Once, when I was a lad, studying engineering at Virginia Tech, my relatively bleak college life of studying and agonizing over exams and eating and occasionally hiking and less often partying (though I'm not sure I would ever say that I really "partied" in the classical sense of the word) was punctuated by the bacchanlistic madness of attending Virginia Tech football games. I tried to go to as many games as I could, because I loved the atmosphere (especially if the game was a real nail-biter) and it was a great experience to share with the friends you were sitting with.
Yes, in spite of the opening of this post, I had plenty of friends. Actually, college really wasn't that bad. It's called hyperbole. If you want to see a good example of how it is used (though I wish this wasn't the case), turn on any cable news network.
Anyway, Tech Football. Decadence on a grand scale. I used to look out over the parking lot in front of the engineering buildings on the edge of campus, and the sight reminded me always of the bivouac of a tremendous medieval army. Flags flying everywhere. Multi-colored tents and awnings set up adjacent to RV's and SUV's that have an uncanny resemblance to the regal wagons of yore. And the smoke! Good God man, look at the smoke! Smoke billowing out from hundreds of grills and cooking fires. I'd be staggered at the thought of the mass quantities of flesh being roasted, the huge flagons of beer being downed! All you need is a few jesters, some trumpets, and some sacuy wenches fit for sporting and you'd have a scene fit for a King!
So tailgating wasn't for me.
And yeah. That's the post for this week. Thanks for coming. We'll see you next time.
Excuse me? You've never been to a tailgate? Seriously? Well, its easy enough to recreate. All you have to do is go out into the parking lot, fire up a the ol' grill, toss on some meat (preferably circular in nature) and crack open a beer. If anyone looks at you funny just shout at them that Tech is going to kick their asses this afternoon, and give a hollar.
Sorry? You've never been to a GAME?? Well, that is something we shall have to rememdy. Here, take this copy of Slaughterhouse 5, click your heels three times, and say "Billy Pilgrim is unstuck in time, Looking for another word that rhymes, When I cook chicken I like to use thyme!"
You like those dope rhymes I just busted out on your assess, motha fuckas? I got plenty more, or at least one more. Beastie Boys: you got my number.
But not know. We've gone back in time to a cool, November afternoon, with maybe an hour to kickoff. And yeah, it's overcast, and it might rain later. I'm sorry. I can take you back in time, but I can't change the weather. Dude, who do you think I am? The Pope?
So I'll try to give you the experience from my persepective, and we better hurry. But we do have time to Shotgun this beer! Ready.....one...two...three....GO!
...That was awful. Anyways...
IT'S GAME TIME! LET'S DO THIS!
So you and your buds stagger down to the stadium and find your seats among a polyglot of plastered plebians but don't sit down becase REAL FANS DO NOT SIT DOWN! COME ON ALUMNI!!! STAND UP!!
And now it's time for team to come out, and this is actually really cool. No doubt you have seen it on TV, but if you haven't, basically when the team lines up in the tunnel the PA system starts blasting the openening few 20 seconds or so of "Enter Sandman-uh" by Metallica and everyone starts actually jumping up and down, keeping time with the song (I reckon its around 100 beats per minute or so). And then finally the team bursts out, charging onto the field to a thunderous roar and the quaint, old fashioned raising of caps by the Corps of Cadets.
It is awesome to be a part of, but if you are an engineering major you might be a little worried the first time you experience it. After all, most engineering students learn about resonance (if you excite a structure at its natural frequency bad stuff can happen. Just do a video search for Tacoma Narrows Bridge. You'll get the idea) So what gives?
You might start pointing your fingers at other people. But history majors who really immerse themselves in their history and veterans who are now in college will know that when an army marches across a bridge they break their step so as not to induce collapse due to resonance phenomena, so the concept isn't foreign to them. You think maybe you could blame English majors and theatre people, who probably wouldn't know about resoance. But there are not many of them at Tech and you wouldn't expect them necessarily to come out to the game anyway (too busy reading/participating in consensual thespian activities).
Failing to place blame, you think maybe you should inform those around you that if we are not careful we could bring down the whole stadium. But come on dude. Don't be a killjoy dork AGAIN! Besides, that beer you shotgunned has caught up with you and you are too buzzed to really care. At any rate, the moment has passed, the stadium is still standing, and all is well until next time.
So the game has begun, Tech winning the toss and electing to defer. Those hoping to see an epic clash of "Heads v. Tails" leave the stadium happy, Tech being victorious.
For those still at the stadium, Tech kicks off the ball and we're off! And you scream and shout at the top of your lungs as 22 men smash into each other with the force of small killer whales, their pads popping like the distant boom of cannons. On the thrid down you jingle your keys becuase that's what we do...no one knows why. But it works, becuase in no time at all it's fourth down and now you start praying to God that you will stop masturbating if only, IF ONLY, Tech blocks this punt, and admist a cacophany of sound God lifts his Garfield pencil to write your prmoise in his Hello Kitty Notebook, and he grudingly suspends the laws of physics for just a moment, forcing the punter to kick a few inches to the left of where he wanted so that number 52 can block the kick to the ground and Tech recovers on the WVU 25.
And you are happy. Oh! So happy! But you will be sorry later when your eternal soul is at the door to the Pearly Gates and St. Peter opens the Hello Kitty notebook. Trust me.
Well. Eternal damnation can wait for another day. While the teams are changing up and you exchange some high fives with your compatriots, let's take a Billy Pilgrimesque jaunt through time and look at number 52, hero of the moment. The announcer says his name but its quickly forgotten as the day goes on. He is a special teams grunt in his last year of eligibility with two degrees who is studying German to maintain his eligbility. He will foresake a Rhodes scholarship to join the Army, spending the next decade fighting for his country with the utmost valor. While you are waiting in line on November 26th to purchase a big screen TV at ridiculously low prices, 1st Lt. Number 52 will be killed by a road side bomb in Afghanistan. His name will be in the paper a few days later, and you will remark that that name rings a bell, and your heart will ache for a moment when you read about the wife and daughter that he left behind. But the heartache will pass like a little indigestion, and his name will be forgotten again by you and by most others.
Gosh. Its too depressing. Let's get back to the game!
A quiet, almost reverent hush falls over the crowd as the offense takes the field, led by the quarterback, the Great Number 8, who's name you can't ever forget because it's plastered onto the back of the jersey you are wearing over a VT sweatshirt. And even though he leaves Virginia Tech after two years without hardly setting foot in a classroom, and even though he never really buys into the altruistic stuff that most other NFL quarterbacks do, and even though his name is splahsed across the media for sex scandals and a bluegrass album that totally flopped and his comments concerning Upper Malakvian Refugees, he's still a hero because he can throw a ball and run pretty fast and, damn it, he wins football games. After stumbling a little he's back in the game on a new team and with a second chance you and I will never have becuase we can't throw and we're slow and damn it we DON'T win football games. You're convinced of his sincerity. You just bought the new jersey last weekend and ironically enough you're wearing it as you wait in line on November 26 for that big screen TV while Lt. Number 52 is picking his way down a road in Helmand Province...
Oh look! They hand off to the fullback and he pounds his way through to the 15 yardline. We're in the red zone baby! WHOOOOO!
You might notice now that the band is playing a saucy rhythm and everyone around you is waggling their hips and yelling "stick it in! stick it in! stick it in!". This is the infamous "stick it in!" cheer, which was in vouge a while back and, honestly, is something you find embarassing. But you do it anyway, because you shotgunned a beer and you have a low tolerance for alcohol.
A few years after I left college the Athletic Director got the band to stop leading the cheer and it eventually died. When I heard about his proposal I was in an uproar. It's outrageous!! How dare the Athletic Director in his big, cushy office tell those poor students what to do at the football games!?
Well I, for one, have certainly changed my tune. Why? well, not long ago I was at my computer with my daughter, watching Jack Black describe an Octagon to Elmo on You Tube, and I saw that someone left little gem of a comment:
I wish Jack decided to go ahead and play himself... except how he did it in "Tenacious D: Pick of Destiny"
"ELMO DUDE! Stop being such a cock block I'm trying to find a wonderful god fucking damned octagon for the mother fucking KIDS, Elmo!"
I'm glad my daughter can't read yet, because I would have had a lot of questions to answer. What really worries me is that some 7 year old kid on his parent's computer is going to see this comment and turn to his mom and say "Mommy? What's a cock block?"
You guys are ruining the internet for everyone.
And the kids doing the pelvic thrusts and yelling "stick it in!" do the same thing, or at least they did. If I really could play the Billy Pilgrim card and time ceased to be linear so I could take my daughter back in time to see some cool Tech games she'd see people doing that and I would have to make up a few quick lies. One day she'll figure it out though, and I imagine it will yield the same sickening feeling I had when I figured out what the song "Afternoon Delight" really was about. So many good memories irrevocably damaged.
BUT. You don't care about any of that right now. We're on the 7, and they can't stop us. This is football, bitches. So you keep thrusting that pelvis and acting most uncouthly until at last
AT LAST
TOUCHDOWN! WHOOOOOO!
The crowd goes wild, naturally. The Corps of Cadets fire a cannon (A Cannon!) and the band erupts into a fight song that no one knows the words to. Number 8 pumps his fist into the air and God, closing his little Kitty Notebook with about 70,000 new debts, so many of which cannot be repaid in a million lifetimes, sighs with exasperation. But you all wanted it. Just don't complain when you realize you traded eternal bliss for a touchdown against a mediocre opponent. Left to their own devices, Tech would have probably scored anyway.
And this happens again, and again, and again. Finally the buzz from that beer wears off and you realize it's cold, and Tech has the game well in hand. Your mind begins to fill with all the things you have to do and the exams you have next week and you decide to retire. You say goodbye to your friends (though true friends wouldn't call you a pussy for leaving at halftime. Don't worry...when you bust the curve on the exam next week they'll be sorry. No one insults you with impunity!) and make your way to the exits.
It's a long walk home. You think maybe about popping into one the bars on the way back, but you think better of it and you keep walking along. When you get home you toss your keys on the table and turn on the TV to see how much Tech is winning by.
And you can't beleive it, becuase winning Tech is not. Somehow WVU managed to pull a fast one on Frank Beamer. You call up the NCAA to report some violations they must be committing, because nobody does that. Nobody.
Its going to be a rough one. So you pull out the vodka and cigarettes, and forget about those books....this one's going down to the wire.
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