Since I graduated, agency life has taken over, and I miss the old days. My fondest college memories involve drinking games (is that bad?). I can handle myself, though I like to consider myself a connoisseur of the finest drinking games. My all-time favorite is a simple round of beer pong.
Legend says beer pong was invented in 1884 by the late, great Thomas Pong, but I'm no historian. Since then, it has evolved into a sport dominated only by the greatest of the great. Though I am no good at pong, I once knew a boy who was.
The year was 2006. Justin Timberlake blessed my ringback tone with SexyBack. My pre-ripped jorts gave me a funky ass tan (read either way). There was a boy named Richard.
Richard was the president of his fraternity, let's call it Sigma Tau Delta, or STD for short. He was voted "best keg stand" as a pledge. You know the type.
Aside from being a real Richard, Dick was an alright guy. Though he wasn't the nicest, he only truly hated one person: Preston Rutherford, the President of BΣΣΓ.
Richard could kill some beer pong. He never lost a game — not once. I adored him! Looking back, I don't understand what I was thinking, but hey, live and learn right? All I wanted was to cheer him on at the greatest sporting event of the whole year: The Beer Olympics.
The Beer Olympics were an incredibly stereotypical set of competitions where testosterone-filled bros from different frats attempted to outdrink each other.
It. Was. Incredible.
There were keg stands, dizzy bats, beer bongs, and in the center ring, an oblong plywood board with solo cups perfectly arranged on either end. This was one-on-one beer pong. Richard looked ready.
He flew through the competition brackets. These brothers played FAR more rounds than the average three or four for one party.
Richard's arch nemesis, Preston Rutherford was at the other end of the table for the final. Preston matched each and every toss made by Richard. They hit triple overtime. EVERYONE was laser-focused on the game. You could hear a pin drop. With only two cups left on each side, it was anybody's game. With a flick of Richard's wrist, the ball splashed into one of the last two remaining cups. All he had to do was sink the last cup. All eyes focused on the ball in Richard's hand. Time… slowed… down.
Suddenly, Richard dropped the ball on the floor and fell backward into his wall of supporters. The game was over. Richard was passed out. Preston and the men of BΣΣΓ celebrated. My heart was broken. I haven't talked to Richard since.
I learned one very important lesson from this series of events:
Never chase a trashy boy. Frat boys suck. Some guys who seem like jerks are alright. It's normal to miss a college fling.
Screw amoral. I wonder if he checks his DMs…