Most college students I know are smart enough to realize that their four years at Fairfield are not reflective of life in the real world. I mean, after college, we won’t be sleeping on lofted beds, eating off lunch trays or showering with sandals on. At least I hope not.
But one thing college students refuse to accept as reality is the fact that one day the party may end. We refuse to accept that 10 years from now a trip to visit our friends may involve a play-date instead of a keg or that a weekend could ever be complete without a rousing game of “Kings.”
But once in a while each of us has these startling realizations that your typical college night out is not typical at all. We realize, for one frightening second, that perhaps the Solo cup isn’t the greatest thing since sliced bread, or that the idea of a funnel is more than slightly masochistic.
I had once such moment just this past weekend. While the majority of my friends were busy handcuffing themselves to cases of beer, I decided to head over to the finals of a Beirut tournament. Now, for those of you who have attended one of these events before, you’re well aware that this is the Super Bowl of illicit college events. Whether you drink or not, there’s just something about watching a bunch of sweaty dudes shoot ping-pong balls into cups that gets the adrenaline pumping.
As I walked down the creaky stairs to the basement, I was overcome by a pungent scent, most likely a mix of Busch Light and testosterone. The air was thick with anxiety; you could cut the tension with a knife.
I squeezed through the crowd and managed to forearm-shimmy my way so close to the table that if it were a Knick’s game I’d be hobnobbing with Spike Lee. The lights dimmed, the music started, the game began.
I was barely three sips into my beverage when my eyes almost popped out of my skull. This is ridiculous, I thought. Not in a bad way, but this is just insanity.
Now I’m not one to knock a good party, but the combination of sobriety, red lighting, hard house techno and about 80 screaming men with veins popping out of their heads was just sensory overload.
Was I in a mere townhouse basement, or a dingy Mexican cellar about to witness a cockfight? Was I on a college campus in Connecticut, or spinning around the Red Light District in Amsterdam? Was Brad Pitt about to walk down the stairs shirtless screaming the first rule of Fight Club? I hoped so.
The game moved at a frantic pace, accelerated by the Bob Costas style play-by-play spewing from the drunken lips around me. And then, disaster struck. On the final cups, a player lost a contact. He lost a contact! The music softened until only the faint bass pulsed in our feet. The whole room took a collective gasp as he groped the dirty concrete floor for his corrective eyewear.
The other team shot – bang, bang – and suddenly the game had ended faster than Ruben Studdard’s career. Moments later, contact kid emerged from the floor, a single contract perched on his fingertip. Now I wasn’t rooting for any particular team, but in that moment, I felt like a Red Sox fan watching the ball go through Bill Buckner’s legs. Poor contact kid.
As the crowd stumbled up the basement stairs, I was left standing alone, rubbing my temples. Did that just happen? Do we always act like a bunch of communists going apeshit at a GOP convention? I stood there dumbfound, unsure of whether I should go try to regain some sense of reality or do a keg stand.
Ultimately, I realized a sad but true lesson. No matter how intelligent or grounded we college students can be, we can’t accept that the nights we create are nothing more than fiction. Since that night, I’ve woken up in several cold sweats. I just can’t accept that these nights and days as anything but truth. I can’t accept that a Beirut game may not have epic consequences. But that contact, oh that contact! What strange and wonderful fiction.
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