You’re thinking, ‘Why is this lunatic wielding a field hockey stick in a blizzard?’ Some of you may think I am covertly mocking the BU field hockey team. Nothing could be further from the truth I’m openly mocking the BU field hockey team.
Truthfully though, my impassioned exuberance for field hockey drives me to carry my stick with me at all times. What’s more, I discovered it proves a valuable weapon in defending myself from disgruntled BU players intent on opening a can of whoop-ass on the ignorant, inconsiderate columnist.
Given my diminutive stature compared to 97 percent of the field hockey team, the stick is imperative to my survival. Actually I could use some secret service agents or Navy SEALs, but it turns out they are all busy thinking up new colors to which to raise the Department of Homeland Security’s terror alerts.
All joking aside, I really could have used that stick the other night. Instead of wasting your time by providing enlightening commentary on issues of international significance like the metallurgic makeup of field hockey sticks, let me subject you to my self-indulgent diatribe.
Friday evening, in the midst of swirling snow and howling New England winds, a group of friends and I trudged to an SMG gathering in a sleazy basement. In case you’ve never attended such a fiesta, let me clarify: an SMG party consists of several dozen wannabe accountants standing around a water cooler full of beer debating the finer points of e-recruiting and their universal desire to work 176 hours per week for JP Morgan and Co.
After avoiding a possibly fatal situation involving my drunken Russian friend slam-dunking five cups into our hosts’ toilet, I thought all brawls for the evening had been avoided. I was wrong.
As we departed the party, one of my compatriots, who will remain anonymous except to be called Bustin, thought it prudent to rouse the entire neighborhood by shouting incoherent profanities.
Unfortunately for our group, his antics were overheard by a young woman accompanied by four angry gentlemen the size of Ricky Williams. Bustin then proceeded to direct his eloquent monologue at the young woman. He does have a history of such sexist behavior, which was augmented by a fifth of cheap vodka and an abused prescription of Ritalin. Given his complete trivialization of women, he clearly has never felt the wrath of disgruntled field hockey players.
From what I could make out, his comments amounted to the X rated version of, ‘You intoxicated girl who has intercourse with many people, be quiet, you piece of excrement, you’re unattractive and…’ But before Bustin could complete that thought, he was grabbed by his protruding ears (think Dennis Kucinich) and tossed to the ground like a lawn dart (think Pedro Martinez vs. Don Zimmer).
Why is it that the first snowfall of the year brings out the insane idiocy in everyone?
Finding myself at the bottom of a growing pile of intoxicated, sizable people, I began to reconsider my poking fun at the field hockey team. We could have used some brute strength. To be fair, the toilet-dunking Russian does possess the brute strength of a grizzly, but was reduced to a slurring abominable snowman after being repeatedly pile driven to the curb.
For a moment, my life flashed before my eyes. I always imagined this would involve the rapid succession of the Nobel Academy applauding, several Olympic Medal ceremonies and an inaugural address to the American people, but in reality it was four repeating frames of me oversleeping, me suffering technological difficulties, a sexually frustrated singing bear troupe (don’t ask) and me being chased down Commonwealth Avenue by a howling pack of field hockey players.
I probably would not be here today, wasting your time with frivolous anecdotes, if it weren’t for two people one large, corn-fed Minnesota native and a Jersey Girl with one nasty elbow drop. By tag teaming, these two succeeded in making no difference whatsoever in the outcome of the brawl except to move it into the middle of Harvard Avenue.
After successfully blocking traffic in both directions, and being scolded by a Pakistani cab driver for doing so, the scrum dispersed, backs were patted and candy canes exchanged I’m really not kidding.
Maybe Christmas cheer does exist after all.
In a fitting end to an eventful evening, our group convened back at Bustin’s apartment. Here we all exchanged our differing stories of the event, which collectively amounted to our misconception that we won. What in reality was a huge pile of us being pounded into the snow, we recalled as a valiant triumph of our courageous group.
Well people, we’ve come to the end of what has been an amusing semester. For now I’m signing off because there is a pounding at my door, which is most likely a field hockey player disguised as the Dominos delivery guy, and I’m late for the BU football game.
Cory Hardy, a senior in the College of Communication, has been a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press.