Sleeping bags. Tents. Cardboard boxes.
Sophomore year housing is supposed to be a step up from freshman year housing. However, the housing lottery for the boys of ’08 had gone terribly wrong last semester, and it seemed as if a good majority of us were going to be spending our sophomore year roughing it in the quad. By the time it was our turn to choose rooms, the Residence Life staff announced that they ran out of options.
After that harrowing announcement, Residence Life gave us the option of either choosing Dolan or leaving until “something came up.” I assessed the situation and did what any guy in a position like that would do. I walked outside and called mom.
My mother, of course, made references to our Catholic faith, telling me to be patient, pray and not to do drugs. Basically, mom gave me yet another public service announcement and was not any help. I left campus at the end of my freshman year last semester not knowing where I would lie around and play Tiger Woods golf in the down time between classes.
It wasn’t until this summer that I received an e-mail about my housing. I scanned down the list and saw my name next to the word “Gonzaga” and number “10.” Yes, that’s Gonzaga, as in the dorm that is a mere five steps away from Barone, graciously providing five extra minutes of quality time just for me and my pillow whenever I have a class in Canisius. Things could not have worked out any better.
It wasn’t until my father’s old college buddy called when I realized what it meant to be on the Gonzaga ground floor. His sheer excitement, plus the laugh that all older men give younger, wilder men (something to the tune of “ha ha” and a final robust “HA!”) made it difficult for me to understand him.
Nevertheless, he enlightened me that during the late ’70s, the first floor of Gonzaga was called “The Pit.” He lived there for three years with his friends. They snagged some lumber from a construction site down the street and made lofts for their beds, then went to Salvation Army and threw in as many couches as they could. Full-sized fridges housed their legal kegs, backgammon and cards sat next to their smoldering ash trays, and the river was real chocolate and even the trees were made out of lollipops. Okay, maybe not.
Although not a resident of The Pit, Chris Zeitz ’04 lived in Gonzaga during one of the last years it was still a residence.
“The Pit had, in my experience, a great sense of community,” he said. “There were only a dozen rooms, so it was easier to have an identity as a member of the floor.”
So I am now living in the mock-fraternity of The Pit. Each day I hear a new, wild story from yesterday. Whether its punching roommates in the stomach or playing a tackle football tournament in the hallway, the crazy stories just keep coming.
This wild tradition continues today. Frank Henderson ’08, a current resident of The Pit, describes it as a constant party.
“We have a good time in The Pit,” he said. “Public Safety would argue that we have too good of a time.”
Spencer Merghart ’08 agrees.
“Besides the beach, the townhouses, freshman classes full of girls and Barone on popcorn chicken night, there’s no place better to have a good time.”
Some residents are more impressed with the newly refurbished rooms, formerly the offices of Residence Life and the Stagcard.
While half asleep on my futon from the night before, Luke Strong ’08 could not help but notice one appealing feature of the rooms, saying, “Wall-to-wall carpeting, sweet.”
So we will live on in the tradition of The Pit, ready to leave our own legacy for classes to come.
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