Once upon a time, I was "that girl." You know that girl who I'm referring to -- that girl who thought being girly was for girly-girls? That was me. When I was a kid, I oiled my baseball mitt every night, then I put it under my pillow, said my prayers (to The Bambino) and went to bed. I stored all of my Topps collectors' cards in air-tight plastic sleeves and would never trade a mint condition Bo Jackson for a bent Ken Griffey Jr. in a million years. I played H.O.R.S.E. at recess and wore my unwashed, inside-out, backwards Dennis Rodman jersey to school every day there was a Bulls game. I was hailed by my teammates for making the biggest hockey tape ball in the history of the Gold Mites, and I had a trophy shelf full of glittering bronze. Sports were my life.
Then one day, the Spice Girls released "Wannabe." Needless to say, my identity was forever changed. The Spice Girls were the ringleaders of my pink phase. As far as I was concerned, Girl Power was the new Gatorade. I spent the next four years oiling my cuticles, pillow-fighting in my underwear, and singing/dancing around to "Just Like a Prayer" every night before going to bed.
By the time I had to choose a college, sports were entirely off my radar. Every college had its reputation, and I informed my decision accordingly. Harvard was famous for "sucking," Princeton was distinguished for "being in New Jersey," and I was very aware of the fact that Brown "was for hippies who smoked granola."
I was told by my college counselor that, since its foundation in 1769, Dartmouth had always been hailed as a "jock school." This reputation was supposedly fostered by Dartmouth's outdoorsy setting, bulging granite muscles and those meathead beef-dudes who dome Billy-Bobs at the Hop. (Go fencing!) I had been "thinking pink" throughout all of high school, so I decided that a few years at The Big Green would be a nice change of pace for me.
Everything they say about our jock school rep is true. Dartmouth students are all united by sports. Whether you are a football player, a karate kid, a pong queen or a mathlete, all of us need three P.E. credits to graduate and athletics are therefore inescapable. Even if you cheat and get your PE credit by doing something requiring no physical activity -- like "Hunting Safety" or that "Learning at Dartmouth" study hall class that I'm taking next term -- you still have to pass the swim test. My argument is therefore flawless; all Dartmouth students move.
Some Dartmouth students are forced to move more than others. For instance, the Dartmouth heavyweight crew team has to work out a lot harder than, say, the club table tennis team. (It exists.) That said, the less-heavyweight club table tennis players still manage to get more chicks -- for reasons that are blindingly obvious.
All kinds of sports are popular here at Dartmouth. Of course we have the basics: football, basketball, etc. -- but we also have an excellent figure skating program, a great boxing club and a brand-new not-bad horse-lacrosse team. (P.S. What?)
Of course, no adequate discussion of Dartmouth athletics can omit the mentioning of tennis balls. Fortunately, the ECAC hockey league wisened up this year and scheduled the Dartmouth/Princeton home game on the Friday of the Thanksgiving holiday. This year those awful, reckless, ball-hurling Dartmouth fans won't be around to delay the game, the Princeton goalie will go home unbruised and his mommy will be very relieved.
Hopefully those reckless, disrespectful, formerly ball-hurling Dartmouth students don't get any ideas for how to continue this malicious tradition from afar. I suppose they could take a cue from Shakespeare's "Henry V" and FedEx a couple hundred tennis balls to the Princeton hockey team headquarters. That simple act was insulting enough to ignite the Hundred Years War between England and France ... Meh, I guess that's a stupid idea. Let's just throw granola bars at Brown instead.
Heckling is obviously the best part about going to college sporting events. There is nothing more fun than chanting the enemy goalie's name when he lets one in the net, or yelling at the freshman to rush the river during halftime at a crew regatta.
There is truly an art to heckling. When you are in the front row, you are basically the conductor of the orchestra that is "the people behind you." It is your responsibility to decide when everyone can sit down/relax and when they have to stand up (because you're blocking the action).
The front row is also instrumental in getting taunts going (because they have a better view of the names on the backs of the opponents' jerseys) and they're also the initiators of "The Wave," (which is soooo 1990, can we not do this anymore, please?). Really though, I would argue that heckling should be a club sport -- or at least we should be able to get P.E. credit for all our hard work.
There has recently been some controversy over our mascot, Keggy The Keg. Some have questioned the appropriateness of having our esteemed Ivy League educations represented by a barrel full of beer, which is an intoxicating substance that allegedly hinders intellectual development. Obviously those whiny, beer-hating nerd-bots don't realize that Keggy is sensitive to the fact that there are lots of kids around when he's working at games and that he therefore can't be totally sloppy. That's why he's full of O'Douls whenever he's on duty.
Plus, not everyone has to know that Keggy is a symbol of unruly drunkenness. Whenever little kids are really confused about what this word 'Keg' means, Keggy just starts doing a futuristic "Mr. Roboto" dance and his identity becomes a non-issue. Plus, when those little kids go to sleep that night, they're all lulled into sweet dreams of growing up and being the starting quarterback for the Dartmouth Robots, the greatest college football team in the history of the universe.
I'd go on and on about Dartmouth sports, but unfortunately I have to go study now. Nerd Bust!!! (I hope I don't get beat up in the locker room ...)
-Let'sGoRobots!
