Sober drivers are hard to come by when there's a broomball game. It's a game best enjoyed while drunk, and as many people as possible want to enjoy it to the fullest extent. But the ice rink is a ten minute drive from campus, so some people have to stay sober and their cars get pretty crowded.
The ride over is loud. We've had a lot to drink in preparation for this once-a-semester game. The windows are all rolled down so people can hang out and provide some relief for the cramped car. The music is blasting and everyone is shouting over it.
At the ice rink we spill out of the car and go inside. The rink is a mass of people. At least a hundred students, maybe closer to two hundred, have gathered. We're milling around, sliding across the ice.
Human + alcohol - friction = laughter (and bruises in the morning).
At midnight the game starts and a ball is thrown into the rink. The drunken mass now has a purpose. We are running towards the ball, trying to get it first. There’s only one rule in broomball: get the ball in the other team's net.
It doesn't take long to figure out that if you go near the ball, odds are you will end up in a pile of people. And if the ball comes to you, you will be at the bottom of a pile of people unless you throw it away immediately. Once you are in one of these piles you learn that your body bends in new and interesting ways. Ways that will probably be painful tomorrow.
Tonight drunk trumps pain.
At one point I see my roommate going for the ball while a frosh is to pulling her away. I do what my alcohol soaked brain believes is most sensible: I go after the frosh. The only problem is that he’s way bigger than I am and pushes me away easily. The next moment I’m down on the ice, and he’s reaching out his hand to help me up. My head hurts. I must have hit it when he knocked me over. I wave his hand away and indicate that I’m okay. Then I make my way over to the side of the rink.
The game’s been going on for half an hour. The other team has yet to score and we’ve scored 3 or 4 times already. Possibly 5. It’s a little unclear, but we're winning. That's all that matters.
When I’m reasonably sure that the room is spinning because of the alcohol in my system and not my head injury, I go back out on the ice. This time I make my way over to our goal, where a group of girls is lined up to block the other team from scoring. Arms linked, fingers woven into the net, our job is to block people more than balls. Which we do quite effectively.
Soon enough the timer buzzes indicating the end of the game. The final score? 69 to bitch, as always. We won, as expected. Some people say we scored 4 times, others say it was as much as 9. The other team didn't score at all.
We pile back in the car and go home. Tomorrow will be painful. Bruises and cuts on top of a hangover make getting out of bed hard. But that only lasts for a day. Memories are forever.
At midnight the game starts and a ball is thrown into the rink. The drunken mass now has a purpose. We are running towards the ball, trying to get it first. There’s only one rule in broomball: get the ball in the other team's net.
It doesn't take long to figure out that if you go near the ball, odds are you will end up in a pile of people. And if the ball comes to you, you will be at the bottom of a pile of people unless you throw it away immediately. Once you are in one of these piles you learn that your body bends in new and interesting ways. Ways that will probably be painful tomorrow.
Tonight drunk trumps pain.
At one point I see my roommate going for the ball while a frosh is to pulling her away. I do what my alcohol soaked brain believes is most sensible: I go after the frosh. The only problem is that he’s way bigger than I am and pushes me away easily. The next moment I’m down on the ice, and he’s reaching out his hand to help me up. My head hurts. I must have hit it when he knocked me over. I wave his hand away and indicate that I’m okay. Then I make my way over to the side of the rink.
The game’s been going on for half an hour. The other team has yet to score and we’ve scored 3 or 4 times already. Possibly 5. It’s a little unclear, but we're winning. That's all that matters.
When I’m reasonably sure that the room is spinning because of the alcohol in my system and not my head injury, I go back out on the ice. This time I make my way over to our goal, where a group of girls is lined up to block the other team from scoring. Arms linked, fingers woven into the net, our job is to block people more than balls. Which we do quite effectively.
Soon enough the timer buzzes indicating the end of the game. The final score? 69 to bitch, as always. We won, as expected. Some people say we scored 4 times, others say it was as much as 9. The other team didn't score at all.
We pile back in the car and go home. Tomorrow will be painful. Bruises and cuts on top of a hangover make getting out of bed hard. But that only lasts for a day. Memories are forever.
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