the Change I Wish to See

GW football doesn't exist (despite what the t-shirts at the bookstore say). There are many rumors as to why. Some say it was contractual, to guarantee the building of the Smith Center. Others say it's because Georgetown was upset that we'd finally have a chance at being better than it at something, and so we caved in to protect the "natural order of things," -- Georgetown's actual words -- when it threatened to put us on its basketball schedule.



Yet others say football teams add school spirit, and building classes of kids who care, about anything, certainly their school, would hurt GW's image and hence its recruiting with the "I'm too sexy for my Uggs - juicy-assed - collar-poppin'" Lawn Guyland apathetics crowd.



But after a night like tonight, where we sat right behind the end zone, knee-deep in student pride for a slow, dull-witted creature, it hit me: I can't feel my toes.



It was really, really cold. And I was soaking wet because some genius had spilled his entire Pepsi on my back and legs. The whole thing. It was like the dude behind the counter had put me directly under the soda fountain rather than a cup. He might as well have thrown ice in my eye. I looked like I had been in the trenches, with shin-deep soda stains on my jeans from wading through a caffeine river. He tried to help dry me off, but at that moment, it was the kind of help that doesn't stop you from wanting to punch him in the face. And through it all, there was this sopping bag o' douche a few rows ahead, who just could not let it go. Whether it was 2nd and 4, or 3rd and 19, he was screaming, "Gimme five [yards]." He yelled during timeouts. He yelled at halftime. He embarrassed his wife. He made me sad for his kids. He smelled like hobbit feet.



And it's that kind of "god, this sucks," "I should be anywhere but here" mentality that we are sorely missing. Because we would lose. We would lose hard. And we would lose interest if GW didn't put the game out of reach in 15 minutes or less. But we could be one in our failure. We could be nothing, together.



GW, the ball's in your hands.



Give us something new to complain about.





Sent via iPhone.