You know how when you throw a party you get really excited about the guest list? You even create a five-point algorithmic system to judge potential partyers, etc.? When party night comes, things are going great. Everyone’s having fun, everyone remembered his robot or monkey costume, the strobe light’s a huge hit and there are plenty of beverages to go around. But then, probably about halfway through the evening, you notice that unaccustomed guy hanging out in the corner, talking to your five-star invitees and sipping your malted beverages uninvited.
p. He has a smirk on his face as if to say, “Look at me, I’m above your silly party,” when everyone knows that section 6.788 of the Geneva Convention states “No one is, or can ever be, above the robot-monkey rule.” (Unbeknownst to many historians, this is the statute that ultimately led to Winston Churchill’s political demise.) Now, using a slightly distorted thought process, there is only one course of action to take in response to this profound slight: full-on aggression. So you go up to this guy, whom you have neglected to notice is several times larger than you, even without a costume, and say something nasty before giving him a hard shove.
p. Or at least it should have been hard, but the robot costume you’re wearing is pretty constricting so it comes out as more of a lame pat in the chest. All of a sudden, despite the haze that has descended over your cognitive abilities, you can sense a spark in his eyes. He wants to hurt you. Badly. In an attempt to defend yourself, you start swinging at him wildly with your arms, but, once again, the costume takes your ferocious punches and translates them into what can only be described as a controlled flail by all in attendance.
p. In a last-ditch effort to stave off serious bodily harm, you begin calling for help from your roommate who, in a final, ironic twist of fate, is named Will Robinson.
p. Alas, no help comes, and you suffer the ultimate indignity of being pummeled at your own party while wearing what amounts to a giant sardine can. You can’t wait to explain those Facebook pictures to future employers.
p. Why, you ask, did I write this long-winded intro, and just what the hell does it have to do with sports? Well, besides the fact that I’m now halfway to my word limit, and still haven’t written anything of substance, I told the above anecdote to prove how much I hate winter. Namely, Old Man Winter — the guy who comes to the party uninvited, stays way too long, and finally leaves, but not before turning you into a giant pile of whimpering, bruised flesh and tin foil. He hangs out for a while in the corner, smirking to himself, saying, “Why don’t you try … curling?” before cackling at the ridiculousness of winter sports in general.
p. It’s worse in Williamsburg than most places, too. We don’t get hockey, or ski jumping or any of the cooler winter sports. Less than a month ago I was wearing shorts, throwing the frisbee, thinking that we, as a human species, had finally outfoxed the whole nature thing. Little did
p. I know that winter was simply lying in wait, wanting our spirits as high as possible before swooping in to make everyone miserable. Just when you think that all of our sports are safe, it hits us. All of a sudden you can’t play baseball, football kind of sucks unless it’s snowing and trying to play tennis with the swirling winds we’ve been having is a practice in futility.
p. Something must be done. We must stand up together and voice our anger. Too long have we sat idly by while our friends and comrades have succumbed to wind burn and frostbite. I think that we, collectively, should just ignore winter altogether — wear shorts and sandals, go to the beach, the whole nine yards. Sure, he’ll get angry for a while and make everything awful, but that can only last so long. Soon enough he’ll lose interest and go bother some other, less tricky campus. So please, by all means, go and fight the good fight — the fate of the campus is in your hands. Spread the word; take the reins of this long overdue movement. The ball is in your court now. As for me, I think I’ll just sit in my heap o farms, legs and sheet metal to wait everything out — it’s kind of warm in here.
__Brad Clark is a sports columnist for The Flat Hat.__
