Quinnipiac University

16 Nov 2009. Quinnipiac! Small New England college par excellence!
Hiding behind Mt. Carmel and the Sleeping Giant, one student center, one quad from which you can see the whole campus in a Maria von Trapp twirl*, and one security guard checking his watch and eying my overstuffed German-designed, Mexican-built car with suspicion as I blatantly disregarded the 10 Minute Visitor Parking sign.

Ken Becker skated into the penalty box. The one-person wooden bench creaked under the weight of Ken in his full pads. The referee had accused him of hooking, a lame offense even when committed on purpose. Both Ken and his tripping victim looked surprised that it was even called at all.
Club ice hockey was populated with strong, talented players who lacked the time or discipline to play full varsity at their school. Fouls and violations were off the charts, but if the refs stopped play to call them all, a game would take twice as long. At regional tournaments like this one at Thornton Wilder Arena in Hamden, Connecticut, moving the games along was especially important.
Many players took advantage of this leniency.

Like Nick Cassavetes.

Nick, a young man whose body was immune to deodorant, greased his way from goal line to goal line. He trailed a delightful mixture of sweat, Gatorade, and protein gel.
"This scash is for you, K-Becker!"
Ken watched his University of Dayton teammate grin his way down the rink. Nick didn't follow the puck; he homed in an unlucky Quinnipiac defenseman. When he was a few feet from the boards, Nick turned his head to the side, lining up the side of his helmet with the back of his slower opponent's head.
The Plexiglas panels on hockey sideboards are built to be flexible and show some give. Under normal circumstances, that is. If a force is continually pushing on you, your body will absorb the full impact. If the force is a Nick Cassavetes, the impact is most definitely full-bodied.
The two players slammed into the boards. The bolts held, but the few spectators in the first rows still jumped back. Nick and his new buddy lost their balance, ending up on the ice. Nick got up quickly, ready for his timeout. The ref whistled him and gave him the expected full five minute duty in the sin bin. And, well, the other guy was woozy. He had to be helped off the ice by his fuming goalie.


Ken and Nick shared a glove bump.
"Welcome to the box, Nick."
"Sup, K-Becker." Nick gasped as he pulled his mouthguard through his black goatee.
"What were you yelling to me?"
"The scash is for you. Brothers in arms, man."
"Ah, right, scash. Scalp crash. You scashed him good."
"He'll live. Scash only dazes 'em. Haknotch takes 'em down."
Ken thought, For someone so open about committing penalties, Nick sure loves to use his secret code words. Ken couldn't recall hearing haknotch before.
"Haknotch, what's that one again...half kill on my watch?"
"Hard knee to the crotch, K-Becker! Hard knee to the crotch. Gotta be careful with that one though. Might get you tossed from the game for good if they see it."
"Then when would you even use it?"
"I'm always prepared to use it. But now..."
Nick and Ken looked up at the scoreboard: UD 0, QU 3.
"...I think I just might have to sacrifice myself to give us a chance."
Nick peered unblinkingly at the opposing goaltender, #50.
Ken said, "Nick, the goalie?? Why don't you stay away from the goalie, it's not even their first stringer."
"Exactly! We can't score against some replacement? I need to make them bring in the third stringer."
Ken's penalty time ticked down to zero. "You do what you do, Nick. Watch yourself." He popped out of the box and back on the ice.
For the last few minutes of Nick's time on the pine, he studied the home team's goalie. #50 wasn't on the roster; he came in when the starter was still vomiting from a Tabasco chugging contest the night before. The new guy was smaller but alert. He and Nick exchanged malicious looks several times. When Nick mouthed 'Go **** yourself', #50 blinked casually and turned his attention back to the rink.

When Nick was let loose, he called to Ken.
"K-Becker! I need a mess in the crease!"
Ken nodded, lazily skating toward their opponent's goal, drawing in QU's defensemen and UD's other wings. He flung a wrister which #50 easily handled. Nick let his momentum carry him into the back of two players, who then piled into the goal crease. Two UD players and another QU player joined the mix, jabbing at each other. The refs whistled a stoppage in play and moved to separate the two sides. Underneath the hubbub, Nick found #50.
"You're unstoppable for a new guy. Have a haknotch."
Nick set his left skate and pushed his right knee up into #50's groin. There was a little more space than usual. #50 didn't groan and collapse like all the others. Instead, he dropped his stick and gloves, pulled out the front of Nick's jersey, and ran his tiny hands inside and up to Nick's chest.
"What in hell you doin', you queer napsa-"
Nick felt a pinch, a severe twist, a fist to the gut. He tried to gulp air, but he could not breathe. He didn't even know he was on his back until #50 looked down on him, pulling up his massive goalie mask.
Make that her mask.
"Haknotch. Cute. How do you like my quinipac?"
"Guhhhhh." Nick's chest was on fire. #50 went back to minding her net. Without her mask, Nick could now see her long sandy hair.
Ken took Nick's arm and pulled him up and off the ice.
"What happened to the haknotch, Nick?"
"She...quinipacked me, K-Becker."
"Quinipacked you?"
"Quick nipple attack...Can't believe it...a quinipac from Quinnipiac...just beautiful."
"Wow. So you're all right then."
"Ha. All right? I'm in love."

*To counter this Broadway musical reference, I submit for your approval: Megan Fox in a wet t-shirt contest holding six mugs of Miller Lite and a Husqvarna.

Saint Joseph's University

13 Nov 2009. I feel bloated just remembering all the pink and orange road signs along the PhilBo corridor. So many Dunkin' Donuts, so little tolerance for half a dozen jam filled crullers.


"This is my dream!"
I take a sniff.
"My dream smells like feet."
"Oh, you get used to it." Angela assures me. She's the head of gameday staff at the Palestra, our big-game court in downtown Philly.
Our regular mascot was hurt in a freak nightclub accident, so I, the mascot reserve, was called up to take his place. And what a day to be called up! Our St. Joe's Hawks (named for our Welsh first coach and some kind of priest - I think Jesuit? - Lloyd 'The Hawk' Hwcau) are taking on the hated Richmond Spiders for the A10 basketball title. The winner gets to taste March Madness in the NCAA championship!
Angela snaps me out of my awe. "Look alive, it's game time!"
I put on the hawk head, completing the ensemble, grab my two bottles of Pomegranate Per4mance, and hit the sidelines behind the SJU bench.
The atmosphere is about to blow off the roof! I have never seen SJU fans like this, what a rush! I can only imagine what the players feel like. So I do. And it's much the same, only with 40 fewer pounds of feathered body suit.

The first half was a blur. Did twenty minutes really go by that fast?
We are up by three thanks to a half court circus shot from Arthur 'Big Bala' Cynwyd as time expires.
I'm steaming in my bird suit, so before halftime is over, I drink the rest of my Pomegranate Per4mance. I head back to the locker room for a refill.
OUCH. OUCH OUCH OUCH OUCH.
I make an unexpected and urgent change in priorities.
I've been stung by bees before, and that's the closest sensation I can compare this to. But this, this is ten times worse. I let go of the bottles.
But they don't fall to the ground.
I look at my hands. My thumbs, which I stuck inside the mouths of the bottles to carry them, have swollen so big that I can't pull them out. Can't shake them off.
I see a small brown spider in each bottle. When did they get in? Why? They must have been attracted to the juice. Who knows now. Now - now I want the bottles off, the spiders dead or at least unable to bite, and my thumbs in cold water, milk, lotion, something, ANYTHING.
I spot Angela's jet black hair and wave her over. When I tell her what's up, she leads me back to the locker room to saw off the bottles with some medical scissors. We are blocked by the teams coming back onto the court. Meanwhile, I am swinging my arms, using centrifugal - or is it centripetal? - force to keep the spiders off my thumbs, stuck on the bottom of the bottles.
So I'm standing there, swinging away like a crazy man, my screams of pain being drowned out by the crowd. The well groomed coaches exit the locker room, giving me looks. I don't blame them.
Some of the students above the portal imitate my flapping. Maybe they're mocking, or a little drunk, or both. Everyone is finally out of the locker room now and the staff moves the metal barriers.
Angela leads me forward. She stops quick. She asks, "How bad are you?"
"Huh??"
"Are you sure you want to leave now?" She turns my feathered cranium so I can see the video screen above center court.
That's me on the big screen!
When I see myself, the Palestra erupts. Everyone starts their own awkward flailing.
I say, "Wow."
Big Bala Cynwyd, running out of bounds on a warmup drill, jogs past me and smiles, flapping all the way. "Yeah, Hawk Man! You better not be leaving!" he yells.
Angela, human Ritalin, brings me back into focus. "Well? How do you feel?"
I have a noseful of moldy foam and two thumbs throbbing with arachnid venom. But if I keep moving my arms, it won't get any worse.
"Unflappable."

I guess I did a good job that game. We won, sure, and made a nice showing in the NCAAs, but I hear the SJU Hawk mascot still flaps like a bug bitten maniac. All game long, in fact. It's become its trademark! And, yes, I still hate spiders.

Go, Hawk Man, Go! The Hawk Will Never Die!

Kent State University

23 Jun 2009. Frostburg, WVU, RobbyMo, and Kent State all in one day! Wait, another visit to Kent State? Why on earth would I go out of my way again? Thank a lost water bottle, originally purchased 21 Nov 2007. Which ultimately I am okay with - look at that gaudy yellow eyesore. Replaced with a centennial shotglass.

Before she was into her studies, before she was into her health, before she was into dental school, new ZTA pledge Persephone Evelyn Bumbaugh was into tanning.
Like many young women, she took her skin's tautness and her godlike metabolism for granted, bombarding it with inordinate amounts of UV rays, empty alcoholic calories, and late night slabs of pizza.
Persephone, and much of the KSU student body, took the skin coloration to another level one chilly night in November. Kent State's opening night of men's basketball was being broadcast live on ESPN. In the early days of cable sports, this was unheard of for a small school (they could thank the reputation of their big-time opponent, Ohio State). For Kent State, a televised sporting event was a first. The students, traditionally feisty, shifted into full spring break mode for the game. Persephone and her sorority mates painted themselves gold, with white lettering on their stomachs that spelled out K-E-N-T-S-T-A-T-E. Persephone played the part of the last E.

"Kent Read, Kent Write, Kent State"

During a video camera's crowd scan, mini-riots broke out. A grabby drunk tried to yank off Persephone's sports bra. She pulled away and gathered some momentum on the backswing. She launched forth at his jaw with a tiny fist. She pegged him square, then gave him another shove. He was carried off by ushers. But as she turned back to the court and the camera, her top snagged on a hastily fastened STUDENTS ONLY plastic placard. It tore away a strip of spandex. The plastic sign, though it had no libido or horny malice of its own, managed to do what the drunk frat boy could not. The TV audience at home was beholden to a brief glimpse of golden tanned teen bosom.
Persephone enjoyed the rest of the game in an usher's bright yellow raincoat.
The 'golden flash' was the talk of the school the next day as much as the basketball game itself. A new nickname was born. Persephone quickly tired of the notoriety but was proud to have inspired more school spirit.
The electrocuted bird logo is another story though.

Humboldt State University

7 Mar 2008. When in Arcata, do as the granola-eating, hemp-growing, earth-massaging Lumberjack fans do, and get a California Springs reusable water bottle.
The Humboldt Bodtle and the Towson Tumbler get daily usage, while the rest of the cup collection holds my dust collection.

Alexander von Humboldt: Mr. Darwin, the days grow weary.
Charles Darwin: I, too, feel the nostalgia of adventures past filling my head, Herr Von Humboldt.
AVH: Ho! Those salad days do not have to end quite yet!
CD: What say you?
AVH: I challenge you to a race around the Cape!
CD: But my cape is still at the tailors, kind sir!
AVH: Nay! The Cape Horn!
CD: Ah! My loins fill with great anticipation! The parameters, praytell!
AVH: We aim for the great northern California bay, coordinates 40'45' N, 124'12' W.
CD: Gadzooks! The journey itself will be a reward.
AVH: Patience, knave. The government of Spain has chartered a school of higher learning in the baytown. The winner shall be written into the charter and will be the namesake to that institution!
CD: Mystical carp gullets! Pardon my language, but a Darwin University in the new world! Dare I dream so?
AVH: An equal chance to dream for Humboldt University, have I.
CD: Then preparations must begin.
AVH: To be fair, as I knew of the Spanish charter five days beforehand, I will give you a sporting chance on this competition. When your vessel clears the horizon, it will be, let us agree, a full seven days to the minute until my departure.
CD: Indeed a charitable gesture, kind sir. Are we allowed to bypass the Cape completely?
AVH: What intriguing ideas are there swimming in your brain pool?
CD: A camel convoy crossing of the Central American continent. A short-cut if you will.
AVH: Sweet degrees of bonhomie and chagrin! I failed to allow for the Dar-win-at-all-costs ingenuity! All routes are fair game. Feel free to discover the Northwest Passage in your spare time, you swashbuckler!
CD: You flatter me, Alexander. I wish you luck.
AVH: May the best man win, Charles.

Alexander kept his promise to depart one week later than Charles. Charles did indeed complete a dromedary portage over the Nicaraguan isthmus. Thus he arrived in the bay one month before Alexander. He was surprised to see it marked on local maps as Humboldt Bay. But he was pleased to see the construction on the university already beginning. Inquiry into the Spanish charter revealed the school already had a name: The Humboldt Institute of California. The Spanish governor was adamant about the name, and was not entertaining any ideas about name changes. The story of cross country camels did little to change el jefe's mind. Charles had many questions upon Alexander's arrival.

CD: Alexander, you must speak to the governor! He claims to have heard nothing about our contest. And the school and bay are already named Humboldt!
AVH: Already named Humboldt? What a strange coincidence! None of my relatives have ever been here, and I certainly never have.
A local man in a woven poncho walks by with two small boys in tow.
AVH: Greetings Enrique! The twins are growing strong I see! Well, Charles, I guess we have to call this contest a draw. Better luck next time, eh? I have a ride to catch.

Alexander leaped onto a locomotive pulling out of the depot. The local children chased the steam engine while he doffed his sailor's hat and waved to the village. The freight cars had the words Humboldt Railways painted on the sides in green and gold lettering.

CD: I've been had! B...b...by that cad! ...Alexander von Humboldt, you've had a nice laugh, but I will claim the last one!

The last painting that Alexander and Charles would pose for as friends.