Big Men on Campus
Obviously, you all know that this past weekend was the opening weekend for the NCAA tournament. Itís easily the finest four day stretch in sports, as favorites get knocked out early (take that THend!), thereís a never ending supply of basketball, and itís a great excuse to get drunk with a bunch of friends. Tourney time is also that magical time of year that people who absolutely know nothing about college basketball can rake in big cash prizes from your office/friend/brothel bracket pool. Doesnít it piss you off, knowing going into the tournament, that the chick from HR is going to win it? Her sisterís husband went to Davidson back in 88, and she ëjust knewí that they were going to get to the Sweet 16. Gawh! For those of us that watch a lot of college basketball and stay on top of the regular season, there is nothing thatís more frustrating that having your bracket blown up on the first weekend (again F Davidson ñ and sorry Wolverine/Finn/The Ark).
So I always concede my bracket to any woman that is in the same pool as I am, itís just not going to happen for me. I now fill one out with the intent of ripping it up after a long night of drinking, usually the end of the first round. Sweens has had a tradition for the past few years where a bunch of drunks, er, basketball fans, gather at his house and just get shitty for the long weekend. After Tibbsing out on my invitation last year, I couldnít wait for this yearís festivities. I donít have an actual job, so the plan was to drink Thursday and Friday for good portions of the tournament. But of course, my commitment to C.A.C. prevented me from getting smashed Thursday night. Iím happy to report that circumstances didnít really hold me down and I worked the first few games with a slight buzz, which got me through.
The highlight of the weekend, however, was undoubtedly Friday evening. For those of you that were at League Night Out, youíll undoubtedly remember (I hope, for your sake) the Majic Man, Sweens, and I taunting our teammate Vig. Some of you donít know him, but he was the guy making out with the chick at the bar. Shockingly, the man was unfazed and we werenít the recipients of his tongue lashings. Long story short, she was to be in attendance for the games and some beer pong at Sweens. Everyone in attendance made a point to rip him and hoped she didnít come, therefore proving the notion that Vig has an invisible girlfriend. Ah what could have been.
Shockingly, she shows up without a wing(woman?) at her side, to a house, with no one else she knows. So for her sake, everyone pretends to like Vig for about two minutes, then itís all down hill from there. But I have a correction to make. My better half, Gripp, her teammate, is in attendance. I tried to block that out because sheís the one ripping up the pong table. Carrying me really, and I used to be good at the pong table, it was pathetic. After a bit of trash talk, we had to duke it out; boys vs girls, ëget your cooties away from meí style. If we won, they wouldnít be allowed into our tree fort. No wait, thatís not right.
Despite the fact that they are much better ballers than we are, I was confident we could win a drinking game that involved throwing a ball into a cup. Needless to say, I was a tad nervous when Vig and I, two former frat boys, were getting our ass handed to us in the early going. Seriously, how were we losing a little 10 cup pong? Daisy Dukes Davidson (Ack! That name again!!) was on point and embarrassing her opponents. It wasnít fair. Thankfully we were in Grippís head (or was it the beer?) and she couldnít hit the broad side of a barn by the end of the night. Mr. Clutch (when it comes to drinking games, not C.A.C. playoff games) ensured that weíd head to OT, dragging Vig kicking and screaming. Itís kind of sad when sheís the one patronizing you, isnít it? The rally was huge, including multiple hits in a row, and Iím confident in saying that Vig and I felt like the big men on campus after beating the ladies by a single cup, at the buzzer. It also saved Vig the humiliation of taking her nickname, “Daisy Dukes”. But that’s just because we’re still unsure as to who truly wears the pants in this budding relationship. I’m sure we’ll still find out sometime soon that it’s her. In the very least, the win validated our self-worth, and this year, I donít feel so bad now that my bracket has been shredded.