It'll be a cold day in Hell before...

"The million-to-one shot came in. Hell froze over. A month of Sundays hit the calendar. Don Larsen today pitched a no-hit, no-run, no-man-reach-first game in a World Series."
-Shirley Povich in The Washington Post, 1956

That unforgettable lead penned by the best sportswriter the world has ever known described the first and only time a man pitched a perfect game in the Fall Classic, but I couldn't help but play it over and over in my head Monday as I gleefully anticipated Game 5 in Philadelphia, when incandescently hot Cole Hamels was set to take the hill and end a 25-year Depression in the City of Brotherly Love. I wondered if I would cry when that last out was recorded, as the Red Stripers poured out of the dugout to gang pile their perfect closer, Brad Lidge, as he posed for immortality in a city that never forgets.

But it wouldn't be on that night, or even this night, as rain pelted Willy Penn and snow floated throughout the region, and so we wait, with the aforementioned lonely Cole Hamels stuck on 75 pitches and stranded in the home team's batter's box holding his breath for the conclusion of the 6th inning of Game 5 of the 103rd World Series.

As the Phillies teeter on a precipice I often wondered whether they'd ever achieve, I tried to comprehend the moment, soak in every last detail, because at 21 years of age, this is a long time to wait for one stinkin' championship.

But it's more than that; as I poured over the comments page on philly.com following their NLCS clinching win a few weeks back, I saw a litany of references to deceased family members smiling from above, optimistic outlooks despite dreary financial and professional news and too many happy father-son stories to count.

And so, I can wait another day, spend it wondering in facisination how the last out will be recorded, where I will be sitting, how I will react, and what it will finally feel like, all while imploring the Phillies not to break my heart like so many of their predecessors.

Homecoming, Part I

The joys of Homecoming week are well-chronicled. Midterms are completed, parties are a nightly given and the tailgate of the year looms to culminate a great week.

This week did not follow the script. To begin, we were burdened with a sorority that was our not our first choice, not even our second, but instead our sixth choice, all after locking with our number 1. Unfortunately, due to some sororities' improper gift giving after the original match ups were determined, the Office of Fraternity Life took this opportunity to reshuffle how match ups are determined, and elected to have fraternities select the sorority of their choice, with the selection order to be determined by grade point average. Needless to say, this put us at a severe disadvantage, and our sorority of choice was snatched up long before we were called to the podium to make our selection.

Then, a bomb exploded. I was forced to remove a pledge from the process, and worse of all, I could not detail to him, his pledge brothers or the fraternity why. And even now, the issue is still too fresh for me to detail it in this space, so that story will have to wait for a later date.

Finally, mercifully, the weekend came and with it, the yearly Homecoming tailgate. Graduate Brothers from near and far flood State College Town, all looking to reminisce and drink their asses off. Unfortunately, they brought the first rain drops State College Town has seen in some weeks, casting a frown upon the glorious celebration.

Undeterred, we pressed on through the droplets and the wind; food and beer were abundant, there was a great turn out of faces I hadn't seen in months, and pretty soon the competitions got under way. Unfortunately, that competition cut my day short.

I am an avid cornhole player. It has quickly become my favorite game, far surpassing washers, ladder golf, and even beer pong. As such, I am a horrible sport in defeat, and my losses are typically accompanied with a fit of rage. Saturday, I was playing with my dear friend and recent graduate, Cheesy. Unfortunately, the wind and rain were affecting our game, but not our opponents, and we were getting worked. With the game to 21, and the other team already at 20, my opponent stepped up and sank his first shot, worth three points. I then attempted to respond by going for the cornhole, which I missed and left off the board. He responded by walking off, declaring victory and refusing to shoot further, leaving me to shoot my last three shots consecutively, and should I miss the board even one time, defeat would be sealed. Needless to say, this show of disrespect riled and my booze-addled brain up.

Throughout the game, the rain-soaked bags bounced and slid all over the place, but I had begun to find my groove, and landed my second and third shots on the board. I had already admitted defeat, but I refused to be shown up; I wanted to force him to make another shot to beat me. So I aim for the last one, it hits the board, and bounces right off. We lose, I chuck my half-full beer can as far as I can...

...Shit... and sliced open my index finger on the open aluminum top.

"Oh well, that sucked," Cheesy began, before noticing the blood streaming down my arm. "Dude, what happened?"

"I just ripped open my hand chucking that beer," I deadpanned. "Jeez, that's bleeding a ton."

"It looks pretty deep, dude," Cheesy chuckled. "You might have to go to the hospital."

I ran to the pledges, demanded paper towels, and attempted to wrap up the crater in my finger. I have sliced my fingers many times while chopping vegetables, so this type of injury rarely makes me sweat. But there was a chunk missing from my finger, and the blood was flowing freely, coupled with the fact that I get light-headed merely from the sight of blood. After an hour of applying pressure, sitting on my hand to try to get it to go numb and slow the blood flow, I gave up, called Audrey, and she forced me to go to the ER.

We arrive at the ER, where I had to describe my idiocy for all who attend to me. I have made a couple trips to the ER before, and they are never pleasant. It usually spells a big bill and a long wait. Fortunately, I have a couple months left on mom and dad's insurance, so the first concern was nigh. Because the wound was minor, I would not be forced to see a doctor, which would shorten my wait, which only amounted to about 45 minutes, with another 45 minutes of care, so overall, not too bad.

But the 45 minutes I was forced to wait made me think. There were two other groups that arrived at about the same time as me, and I was seen betwixt them. The first was a young mother with her toddler son and elementary school-aged daughter. The toddler had a hack worthy of a blue-hair at a black jack table in Vegas, and it seemed the only thing that kept his weary mother awake at 4 p.m. on Saturday. I couldn't help but hypothesize about this poor woman, and the awful battle that was waging in her weary head. It is likely she had worked all day Friday, only to come home to find her youngest with a harrowing cough that kept her up all night. It is even more likely she is uninsured, seeing as how she brought him to the emergency room and not the family doctor, and I can only imagine the worry that went through her head as she was kept up by her son's cough the night before while she did calculations in her head, attempting to determine if he needed professional help, and if she could afford it.

I sat not ten feet away, bleeding from a self-inflicted injury, about to receive precious medical attention all because I am a drunk fool, and at the end, the tab would be picked up by pop's place of business. On the other side of the aisle sat a struggling (presumably) single mother with her two children, so exhausted she could barely lift her head to relay information to the attending nurse, gripped with worry for her son and her bank account. I felt physically ill watching this play out before me, and I do not solely contribute that feeling to blood loss. The world is a great teacher, and on a day that I bemoaned the gods for bringing rain down upon me because it didn't make enjoying food and drink with friends as pleasurable, I instead received a dose of reality and a look into how "the other half" lives.

College Triathlete

He braves early mornings, soldiers through long nights and can always be counted on when the lights shine brightest.

Of course, in college, those early mornings are to tailgate for noon games and the only thing he can be counted on for is a good laugh when drunkenly screaming at the bar lights when they come on to signal closing time.

Yes, the college triathlete is not an athlete at all, but instead, could most generously be called a functioning alcoholic. But alas, the time to shine was thrust upon my esteemed brothers this weekend as homecoming commenced with a three day event I have deemed "The Drinking Triathlon."

The first leg was a sacred competition that stretches through our chapter's lore, a twice annual occurrence that pits the most foolish 32 members of our grand fraternity against one another on 16 man teams to see who can be the first to finish a keg. I was selected to suit up for the pregame favorite, and fool-heartily prepared myself by consuming a gallon of water per day to expand my stomach for the onslaught of Natty Light it would soon encounter.

But I was not our team's hero or anchor on that day. That honor went to our captain and my former roommate, BC, who solidified his place in the hall of fame by downing 17 pints in 47 minutes last spring to pace the underdogs to victory.

He made his plans for a repeat performance no secret, and his past performance was honored by being named a team captain. Unfortunately for us, his judgment of others' abilities is not akin to his drinking.

We lost a close battle, but not before he put down 20.5 in just under 50 minutes (I merely managed nine). The sober pledges kept the official count, but his 20.5 beers went the way of Jordan's 63 in Boston (points, that is).

With a full stomach and a heavy heart for the beers lost in failure, I retired to the Chapter House to ease my soul with the herb. But, the night would still prove interesting.

My current roommate, Muffin, does not partake, so he left out for home before me. Not five minutes later, I receive a text telling me that our rival had left their Homecoming backdrop unguarded in the back yard. Giddy Up.

The Homecoming backdrop is typically designed by the sorority in the match up, and it adorns the stage while its owners perform their Homecoming skit. The banners are judged, and this score factors in to the overall score that determines the winner at the end of the week. If we could capture it, we could (illegitimately) improve our position.

So, I relayed this information to my little brother in the fraternity, Kush (aptly named for his seemingly never ending supply), and the other guy we were chilling with, George. We shed any fraternity markings, cloaked ourselves in black, and set out to do some reconnaissance. We noticed the banner lay under four cinder blocks in their well lit back yard, but the trees that ringed the property would provide excellent shelter from guarding eyes.

However, we thought it best to wait for the hour to creep closer to dawn and to recruit an additional member. No sooner did we decide this than BC burst through the doors, fresh from the bar, probably close to 40 deep on the day. His drunken recklessness was deemed an excellent quality for our task at hand, a premonition that proved true not 30 minutes later.

So, George and I left Kush and BC behind to map out our escape route. We planned how we would get it out of the yard and where we planned on taking it once we had it secured. We decided it best to head for a satellite house a few blocks away, where we could more easily secure the huge banner for eventual transport/disposal.

Satisfied on our route, we set out back to the house to wait for the bars to close and foot traffic to slow. But as we walked past our rival's house, we noticed someone in their back yard moving the cinder blocks that held the banner in place.

"Shit, those fucks are on to us," I cursed in dismay. "They're fucking taking it inside."

"Damn, we blew it," George lamented. "Are you sure? Look over my shoulder and check it out."

I cautiously glanced over just in time to see the the kid put the finishing touches on rolling it up. But, instead of heading into the house, he lit out of the yard toward the street, and started running in the opposite direction.

"Holy shit, I think someone else one upped us and stole it," I said as I gawked at the fleeing figure.

So, we turned and chased after him to see who had accomplished our goal. But, something looked really familiar about the jacket that adorned the darkly dressed theif.

"What was BC wearing?" George queried.

"I gave him Kush's coat, he didn't have anything else dark," I told him.

"Well, that looked a lot like it. I think that might have been BC," George said, optimistically.

"Get his ass on the phone," I nearly screamed in delight.

But the first call went unanswered, as did the second. We were wandering around the block, beginning to abandon hope, when a hearty chuckle emanated from down the street.

"HAHAHA, I got it!" the crazy asshole exclaimed. He had taken it upon himself to go into the enemy's back yard and take what the four of us had all plotted to pilfer.

"Unbelievable, you are such an idiot, but God do I love you," I congratulated him on his second drunken achievement of the night.

We walked the two blocks to the satellite house and went down into the basement, eager not to alert anyone for fear of the news spreading. BC got a call and ran off to meet a girl, so George and I were left with the booty.

"This is a really shitty backdrop," George noted. "Why did we bother to steal it?"

Shit.

"I don't know, because we didn't steal their backdrop. Fuck my life. This is their gay ass banner they put on their match up's house for the week."

What we had stolen was a banner adorned with the chapter's letters informing all of their possession of the sorority they are matched up with for the week. We had not improved our Homecoming standing; we had merely rid the Greek community of the obnoxious signage that would not be on a sorority house anytime soon.

We elected to dump it, deciding it was best for them not to have it, as only bad things could happen should it be found in our possession. So we rolled it up, laughed at the near miss, and chucked it in the nearest dumpster.

The next two legs of the triathlon, the next day's tailgate and Kegs and Eggs Sunday morning, proved less eventful. But despite our loss, we still managed to forge our place in the long and storied lore of The Keg Race.

Spring Break, Part 1

Welcome to all who have visited the past few days. I encourage you to share any thoughts you have on the site with me and to pass along the url to friends who might also enjoy it. My apologies for spamming on juicy campus, but I had to get the word out somehow.

What follows is the first installment of my 2007 Spring Break. I traveled with a group of 6 brothers and one pledge that spring to New Orleans on an alternative spring break. Five of us, including myself, made the trip via Honda Civic, and it made for an interesting road trip. Below is the first half of the trip.

Around noon on Saturday, our driver, Pickles, picks up Roy, Muffin Skinny T and me. Our plan was to do about half the trip to New Orleans, find a hotel in a city still to be determined, and then finish the trip Sunday. Because it was St. Patrick's Day, we placed a high priority on a big city where we could go out and drink. As we enter Tennessee, and realize Memphis is out of the way and out of the question, we settled on Chattanooga, exited the highway, and stopped at the first Days Inn we came across.

Skinny T and I went to secure the room for the night while the other three went out to pick up drinks for the pregame and to find a good bar. Unfortunately, although we had heard of Chattanooga, it wasn't for its night life. They returned to inform us that the place dies after nine and barely has a pulse on the weekend. That left the Days Inn Hotel Bar as our only option. So, we downed a 40 a piece and headed over to the only option in town.

The place was straight out of a southern stereotype. Country music playing softly from a juke box, guys who hadn't left their stools in 12 hours and a bar maid that wasn't securing any Coyote Ugly auditions any time soon. To complete the Hollywood cliche, in we come, loud, lude and ready for a party, only to be stopped in our tracks as this scene unfolds and every eye in the place looks us up and down. We settle down and in to table in the center of the room, the furthest away from the regulars hugging the ring of the place.

So, the bar maid comes over and asks us what we want.

"What's on special?" I ask.
"6 bucks for pitchers," she says as her voice cut through years of abusive menthol cigarrettes.

So, there's five us at a buck a pitcher, let's get nuts. Eventually, the place starts to empty out, and we inquire about closing time.

"Oh, I'll be here till 3 o'clock, sweethearts. Take your time."

Pretty soon, it's just us and her. Pickles goes off to bed to get some sleep for the next day's drive. Since she's the only chick in the place, we start to talk up the bar maid. Turns out she's from Georgia, was passing through Chattanooga and decided she liked it so much she'd set up shop. She asked us about "the North" and what we thought about Tennessee. The conversation went on like this for about 15 minutes until another group settled into a table in the corner and she went off to take their order.

So, after she leaves, we begin to wonder how much our tab is, and seeing as how we've been drinking for about three straight hours, we have no idea how much we've had between the beers we ordered and the shots she offered. So, the conversation then turns to paying for the expected monstrosity. Roy and Muffin, both with girlfriends at the time, begin to debate if either Skinny T or I could sweet talk the bar maid into giving us a price break. It is quickly decided that Skinny T should be the man for the job, since he loves to boast about all the girls he can bed (although actual figures are difficult to come by). So, we send him up to the bar to work his game and settle our debt.

While all this was going on, and unbeknowest to us, another group has followed the first in, and they have begun quietly bickering back and forth across the bar. But, things quickly escalate, signaled by Roy's sudden stricken look.

"Guys, don't turn around," he said to Muffin and I, who had our backs to the bar and were facing Roy. "There's a knife out."

"What the fuck..." I begin.

"These guys are about to rumble, lets get the hell out of here," Roy says.

"We can't just leave Skinny T, he's right in the middle of all of it," Muffin points out.

At this point, the barmaid has lost the starry gaze in her eyes that Skinny T has produced and turns her attention to the animosity right in front of her.

"You all ain't doing this shit in here!" she screams. "Get your hick asses out of my bar and do your bickerin' on the street!"

So, the two groups head out to brawl else where. Crisis averted.

Once order has been restored, we call Skinny T over, learn he is making decent progress, and hand him a credit card to pay whatever the tab ends up being. He goes back to work, and we head over the to all-night diner adjacent to the hotel bar. Hell of a Days Inn they have in Chattanooga.

As we're eating, Skinny T comes in and tells us our tab is $145, and he's talked her into knocking $25 off.

"That's not enough," we tell him. "Get back in there and hook up with that Swamp Donkey and get it down."

"All right," he drunkenly grins, and heads back to the now closed bar.

Fast forward about an hour. We've retired to bed and are shooting the shit, when I suddenly realize its 4:30 in the morning and Skinny T hasn't come up to bed. Just then, we here a knock on the door. I was closest, so I get up, dressed only in boxers, and pull the door open. It's Skinny T.

"Where the hell have you been? How much did you get off?"

"SHHHH!" he says. "She's standing right here."

So he staggers in, and in follows the slampig bar maid. My mouth agape, I fail to say anything to improve the situation, but she surveys the room, seeing four guys in two hotel beds, and utters the immortal words I shall never forget.

"Am I about to get gangbanged, y'all?" she asks, grinning, as if she was hoping we'd all say yes, hogtie her and throw her in the bathtub.

My mind went numb from shock, and I could only see Skinny T's reaction in the failing light, but it was somewhere between horror and humor. He turned, shoved her outside and closed the door behind her as he bid her good night.

"What the fuck did she just say?" Pickles asked, still not exactly sure what was going on as he had only gotten pieces of what transpired after he left from our drunk trio.

"I believe it was, 'Am I about to get gangbanged y'all?'" Roy snickered as we all doubled over in laughter.

Skinny T then describes the experience of hooking up with said swamp menance.

"Well, after you all sent me back in, she was waiting by the door and grabbed me as I came though. She pulled me behind the bar and started to do what can be best described as eating my face. Then she dragged me into a room behind the bar, up against a couch and started ripping her shirt off."

"How were the tits?" someone asked.

"They were terrible. The worst things I've ever seen. I thought she couldn't possibly get uglier, but these things were awful," he grimaced. "They were like pancakes, but then it was as if they had a scoop of ice cream on top."

At this point, we had lost it. We had sent our friend in to hook up with this random woman to save us a couple bucks, and not only had he succeeded, but he had discovered a new kind of breast; the pancake ice cream scoop.

"So, how much was the tab?"

"46," he proudly stated.

$46. He had saved us almost a hundred bucks. Unbelievable.

And thus ended the craziest St. Patrick's Day I have ever experienced, yet it was so fitting for what was yet to come in the Cresent City.

Ham and Cheese

Theft on college campuses is nothing new, especially with drunk students making such easy targets, but this was one of the stranger robberies I've ever heard about.

This is the tale of one of our newer guys; lets call him Saul. I quickly became a fan of Saul's during away weekend two semesters ago, when he accompanied me up a mountain to take in the view and a blunt. So, while he is two years my junior, him and me are pretty cool, and he told me this story from his weekend.

Saul pledged his first semester at State University and currently is our fund raising chair. Unfortunately for him, he recently broke up with his high school girlfriend, lets call her Jenna, who happens to also be in Greek Life. So, in an attempt to get over it, he's been hitting the bars pretty hard. Along the way, he's bumped into one of Jenna's sorority sisters, named Wendy, who he had gotten to know while dating Jenna. Some playful flirting ensued, but he wasn't terribly interested in her and has yet to hook up with her.

But things got interesting this weekend. Once again, they crossed paths at the bar, and she asked him to leave one bar with her to go to another. Being a slow Saturday night (they aren't actually slow, they just aren't fun because they're swamped on the weekends), he decided to go with her. After some more flirting, she asks him if he wanted to leave with her. He agreed, because they live in the same building and he figured he'd walk her home. So they get back to their apartment building.

Wendy: "I've never seen your room before, can I see it?"
Saul (unpersuaded) "Are you sure? I'm pretty certain you've seen it before."
Wendy: "No, I've been in your apartment, but never your room...Can I please see it?"

Saul relents, and takes her upstairs. There, his roommate is chilling in the living room trying to get some work done. Ten minutes of conversation pass, and the roommate gets up, leaving Saul and Wendy alone. Saul has little interest in hooking up with a girl in his ex's sorority, so he's doing his best to usher the girl out of the apartment, but she isn't taking his subtle hints.

Wendy then asks to use his cell phone, saying that hers has died. He agrees, and she goes off to use it. He leaves and goes to catch his roommate up on the developing situation. After a few minutes, he decides to stop being so nice, and to take the elevator ride with her downstairs to her apartment to make sure she gets in safe.

But Wendy beats him to it. She says she wants to go home, so Saul offers to walk her home.

"OK, I'll walk you home. Do you have my cell phone?"

"Whaaa?" Wendy crows, her mind having trouble processing alcohol and speech simultaneously.

"My cell phone, I let you borrow it. What did you do with it?

"I don't know," is all she good muster.

"Are you kidding me? Is it in your purse?" Saul exclaimed, suddenly fearful his new phone met a painful and blacked out death.

So Saul begins riffling through her purse. He not only locates Wendy's cell phone, which he notices isn't dead, but also a mysterious package for a girl's purse: a packet of lunch meat ham.

"Where did you get this," he asks Wendy, holding up the ham for her to inspect. She merely stares at him dumbly.

"Did you take this out of my refrigerator?" he asks, choking back laughter at the absurdity of the situation. "This is mine."

"I'm sorry," she whines. "I don't have any food in my apartment." Saul pulls out an accompanying packet of turkey and cheese, thrusts the refrigerator door open, throws the pilfered parcels back in, and turns to take Wendy home. He then sets his attention to finding his lost cell phone.

He calls it from her phone, hearing it vibrating through fabric, but still unable to locate it.

"Did you steal my cell phone too?" believing it to be in her purse.

"No, I swear, I don't know what I did with it!"

After several frustrating minutes, he searches through his roommate's backpack, where she had stashed the phone. Frustrated and flummoxed, he takes Wendy home.

It turns out, Wendy was going through the phone to see if Saul was still talking to Jenna, which he was. Once she learned that, she seemed to lose interest in him and gain interest in a different type of meat. Aside from the great story, he got an earful from a none-too happy Jenna, who was pissed about him hanging out with her sorority sister alone in his apartment.

At least he was able to save himself a trip to Subway.

Friends Old and New

Fall Break is upon us, and while State University does not bless its students with a mid-semester reprieve from classes and exams, most schools do, and that brings my high school friends back home.

A few of them made the trip out to State College Town this past weekend, two of whom were playing in a Beer Pong Tournament in the hopes of earning a trip to Las Vegas to compete in the World Series of Beer Pong. I dutifully awoke at the at the hour of 1 p.m. to be on hand to see my old buddies, Charles and Ned, battle amongst the 60-odd teams that were competing at one of the local bars. I brought Audrey with me, and also in attendance were two other friends from high school, Mark and Clint, hoping to see Charles and Ned to victory.

To preface this post, I must do a bit of detail on my life before college. I attended an urban, single-sex school, made up of students from the surrounding suburbs. Only one other guy from my middle school went to high school with me, and we eventually parted ways, hanging out with different crowds. My crowd could be most generously described as "bookish," I being the least brainy of my friends. They went off to the Ivy Leagues and the prestigious private schools of the East Coast, and I remained behind, toiling a mere 15 miles from my parents.

My freshman year at State College was anything but a success. I missed the single-sex atmosphere and the tight bond that developed between my classmates, no matter your clique. I missed the relationships I had developed with teachers and faculty members who served as friends and mentors alike. Simply, I missed the camaraderie and gentle playfulness that attended each and every one of my classes.

I believe this is what led me to join a Greek organization; I longed to be part of something bigger than me, something I could be proud to be a part of and eager to achieve for the greater glory of its name. I did not find this in the dorms, and I did not find the relationships I had cultivated in my four years of high school.

Unfortunately, with every passing year, it becomes more and more evident that the bonds I had with my old friends has become strained, and, that in many ways, I have changed a great deal, and during no other encounter was it so painfully obvious than this weekend's.

I met my four friends at the bar and we shared a few beers and a few stories as we watched the college football contests play out on the screens that adorn the bar's walls. We chatted about the tournament, about how our semesters are going and plans for next year. I learned Charles had broken up with his girlfriend of a few years and that Ned was continuing a relationship he started with a girl from this summer, while lamenting about my inability to keep in touch with Clint, despite the fact he too goes to State University.

But, the dynamic shifted when Audrey entered the bar, dressed in her sorostitute best amongst shabbily dressed, and mostly overweight, guys throwing ping pong balls into cups of beer. She had only met two of them, albeit briefly, but it was a paradox I was excited to view: my current girlfriend vs. my old friends.

There were the predictable embarrassing stories, but what was most telling was their overall inability to relate to or talk to her. Audrey is not shy in the least, and she tries very hard (bless her heart) to hang out with my friends, even if she is outnumbered by Y chromosomes. But she was a little taken aback at their lack of interest in getting to know her; they were more concerned with talking amongst themselves or making fun of me.

It was truly telling that my old friends behaved in this manner. I often think about who I have become in college and who I was in high school, and how peers who have seen me through both periods view me. I am admittedly terrible at keeping up relationships, evidenced by this awkward exchange between Clint and Audrey.

Audrey (to Clint): "So, where do you go to school?"
Clint: "I go here, Carter is just too cool to call me anymore."

Ouch.

So, have I become "too cool?" Well, yes and no. Yes, because the nature of Greek Life, unfortunately, is to exclude those that aren't in it. It becomes a headache to be in the middle of two groups of people that do not know each other and have little interest in knowing one another. But, Audrey, as she always seems to do, had an interesting take on the situation. She said that, yes I bear some of the responsibility because I choose to hang with my fraternity brothers over my high school friends, but, she also sympathized with my situation.

The adjective "fratty" gets tossed around by my old friends quite often to describe my new social order, and with it all the negative stereotypes: I'm too concerned with what others think, I'm too cool to do stuff we used to do in high school and that I'm overly obsessed with talking about girls and our relationships with them. (Greek Arrogance alert!) I grow frustrated with old friends and their unwillingness or unsuccessful attempts to hang out with me and my fraternity brothers, because, on a whole, they lack some of the necessary social abilities to succeed in Greek Life. But it is a two way street. Perhaps I am "fratty," and I definitely have changed since high school, but the fact remains that they still display timidness around my friends, even my girlfriend who is eager to get to know them and by correlation, me as I was as a young adult.

For example, if you had the choice to go to the bar with fun guys that would intermingle amongst the crowd or a group that would huddle with itself, which would you choose? I hate that my involvement in Greek Life has left my old friends behind, because I had strong, meaningful relationships with them, and many of my Greek Friends are closer to party friends, but how can I involve myself in one group enough without leaving the others on the short end? I joined Greek Life in the hopes of building relationships similar to the ones I cherished so much in high school, but it appears increasingly more likely that I have irrevocably damaged those that I held so dearly.

My old friends shed their college identities when they return home from school; I do not have that luxury, because I go to college at home. They want me to be the guy from high school, the one with the chip on his shoulder because he was originally from Philly and because he didn't get any playing time on the basketball team. And when I fail to fill that role, it is because I have changed, because I have become "fratty," and lost my self identity. So, I pose the question, does the Fraternity inhibit my individualism, or is it my old friends who want me to behave in old patterns?

To be or not too be... Greek

The music is blasting, the beer is flowing and the lovely ladies are out in full force, all indicators of a great night and a successful party.

But soon the alcohol and the music become too much, the police arrive and the girls head for the bar, and a once promising night is in shambles.

But aside from the stereotypical Greek theme party, what does the community offer to prospective members and the community as a whole?

Many who reside outside of it see it as a drinking club, a friend service for all who have a checkbook, or purely as an egotistical group of attention seekers.

On the other end, there are those that tell you they build life long friends, meet their future spouses and build powerful networks that help them land future jobs and careers. But, as with all things, it seems to follow Aristotle's Golden Mean.

I have been particularly introspective the past week, partly because this is my last year and partly because it helps me fill up this space, but mostly because the job search has left me reviewing my credentials and wondering if they will be enough. As I've updated my resume, written slews of cover letters and asked for letters of recommendation, I've considered my three years at State University and wondered what could of been if I had chosen a different path.

Ultimately, the biggest decision I made in college was to go Greek. I originally was adamantly against it, fearful of the party stereotype and the havoc it would wreak on my grades. But when three of my roommates took the plunge sophomore year, I was left in the uncomfortable position of being without a social life if I let them leave me behind.

I cautiously jumped in, leery of the "frat boys'" promises of grandeur, fun and friends. My logic was that I could always drop it if it became too much of a time commitment, which I deeply feared it would. That fear would be realized, but when it did, it was of little consequence to me.

Pledging was a blast. I quickly had a large social network of friends and was given the golden pass to parties and bars I couldn't sniff the year before. What I lacked my freshman year, close friends who I could count on, was forced upon me during the pledge process. I had an identity now along with a crusading cause to help my fraternity achieve greatness in the community.

However, my grades plummeted, my parents were not pleased, and the hammer dropped. I struggled juggling partying, working and school my first year, and adding pledging killed my will to put in the work necessary to achieve scholastically. I was three semesters in, having already achieved junior status because of Advanced Placement credit from high school, but I was decidedly behind my peers even when ahead in credits.

Today, that semester looms as the most bittersweet four months of my life. On the one hand, it marked the beginning of a decision I have never regretted. I owe my relationship with Audrey to it, 95 percent of my friends and a host of great stories about long nights. But at what cost? Would I have done better in school had I not joined? Might I have gotten involved in an organization that was focused outside of the social aspect? Would my unfortunate social situation have motivated me to achieve more tangible results that look great on a resume?

The advantages of Greek Life are not well-known by outsiders, and are typically scorned, and perhaps my bias places a higher value on them. But, now as a senior whose job in the fraternity is to lead our pledges toward initiation, pledges that are sophomores and freshman, I can not overlook the social building values that are learned by Greek members. On a weekly basis, we are forced to stand and speak to the fraternity as a whole, to speak our mind on the week that has past. Not all do, but those that take advantage build confidence in their public speaking that does great favors for them down the road. It is not difficult to see the strides taken as new initiates bumble through this their first few meetings but quickly grasp the eloquence necessary to make an impactful statement in front of the brotherhood. The pledges are quickly blossoming in this aspect too. At first, they were cautious and full of trepidation, but now, they are quick to call someone on their mistakes or pat them on the back for successes.

And then there is the nature of the organizational beast, the ins and outs of dealing with 70+ personalities. It is impossible to expect all 70 of us to love each other, and admittedly, we do not. There are a fair number who I would prefer not to have to deal with, and some I out right dislike, but, we are all united under the fraternity oath, and I am forced to hang out with, work with, and see people daily that I really do not care for.

Finally, there are the political considerations. I have put into practice leadership skills when heading up an event or challenging a position I disagree with at meeting. I have competed with other brothers for positions in the chapter and devised strategies for winning. I have voted and campaigned for candidates whose lines of thinking follow mine and whose leadership would directly benefit me. Are these skills tangible or even worthwhile, or merely a "frat boys" attempt to legitimize his alcoholism and drug abuse?

Is the fraternity a god send to the university? Far from it. We cause more headaches than we cure. We drink and party more than any other group on campus, and with that comes rowdiness, lewdness and, more often than I care to admit, violence and sexual assault. Often, we merely go through the motions or phone in the requirements campus has for us to keep our charter. If I have any great regret about Greek Life, it is our lack of impact on campus, and our utter disregard for change in that direction.

I made my bed with Greek Life. I elected to succeed socially, rather than push for a cause or pursue membership in an academic club. But I also know that I owe a great deal to my fraternity, with or without its shortcomings, and that I learned a great deal about life, people, and, ultimately, myself along the way.

Milwaukee vs Philadelphia, Game 1

Coming live to you from Citizens Bank Park in Downtown Philadelphia...

Just kidding, I just got back from class, and because I have an exam tomorrow but cannot tear myself away from the tv to study, I figured I'd blog about my thoughts throughout the Phillies second turn in as many years through the postseason.

2:50 p.m.: Confident and nervous at the same time. Being a fan of a Philadelphia sports franchise never leaves you room for confidence. My father's line that has stuck with me: "The Eagles could be winning the Super Bowl 35-0 with six seconds to go in the fourth quarter, and I still wouldn't be comfortable." We love our teams, but are always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Jimmy Rollins was quoted in the papers the other day saying the dread from the stands is felt on the field, so perhaps we as fans are our own worst enemies.

3:00 p.m.: Great promo by TBS: "Two tortured cities." Why don't they just say, "Hey, both these places suck, but we still have to cover them. Don't change the channel, ok?"

3:04: John Smoltz is in the booth. Nothing worse than current players giving play-by-play, but hey, I'll give him a chance. Put me down for 10+ whiny references to how small our ballpark is during the telecast.

3:08: John Smoltz on Cole Hamels: "He has a 2.99 earned run average at the Bank, which is unheard of." Only nine more, John.

3:09: Great start, Cole battles back to strike out Mike Cameron. BSB is a Brewers fan and tells me these guys kill left-handers, but the combination of Cole Hamels and the relative anonymity of Milwaukee's line-up makes me confident about Game 1.

3:12: Don't want to jinx it, but Hamels' worst inning has been the first all year. He looked great, 2 Ks and a flyout to put the Brew Crew down in order. Lets see what the offense has in store.

3:17: Bad Omen: Rickie Weeks makes the play of his life to retire J-Roll. I just can't stay positive when watching the Phils.

3:25: Good Omen: Chase Utley makes one of the best plays of his young career to throw out J.J. Hardy and get the Phils back in the dugout. Cole looks great through 2 innings. He's got the change up working. Ryan Howard, Pat the Bat's Balky Back and the Flyin' Hawaiian are due up for the Phils.

3:32: Another hard hit ball at an infielder gets the wild Gallardo out of the inning. Phils have to stay patient at the plate and get into the Brewers' suspect bullpen. The weather also could pose a problem. Overall, not a bad start by the Phils, but they need to get a hit. Cole faces the bottom of the Brewers lineup in the top of the 3rd.

3:39: Really Cole? You're going to leave a pitch in the middle of the plate for the opposing pitcher to hammer to Left Field? Thank God for that weather for keeping that ball in the yard.

3:43: First hit of the 2008 postseason: Carlos "Chooch" Ruiz

3:44: Thank you, Bill Hall/Rickie Weeks. Phils now have a shot at a big inning. J-Roll coming to bat.

3:45: J-Roll to the rescue, Brewer fans. Classic J-Roll, first pitch swinging resulting in a soft pop up to left field. Disgusting.

3:47: Might be another quick postseason in Philly. Two terrible at bats by Rollins and Werth. Chase needs a hit here.

3:50: A hard hit ball finally falls in, and the Phils cash in on the Brewers defensive miscues. John Kruk said defense would make the difference in this series, and so far it has given the Phils a 2-0 lead as Ryan Howard draws an official IBB in his second postseason at bat. He has yet to see a strike.

3:57: It's clear as TBS's cameras pan the crowd, the people of Philadelphia are unlikely to win any beauty contests.

3:59: Milwaukee is really making it difficult on themselves. Gallardo is really wild, and the defense was dreadful in the bottom of the third. Cole, having yet to give up a hit, now staked to a 3-0 lead. Gotta like the Phils chances today, assuming the rain holds off. What a huge hit by Chase.

4:02: Come on, TBS, if you want to be taken seriously as a sports broadcaster, clean the lenses off your cameras. That interview with Rich Dubee was completely undone by the huge water spot above his head.

4:04: Cole Hamels still cruising. Another thought on the aesthetics of the crowd. My dad had noted that the women got much better looking once the Phils moved from the Vet to the Bank. Today, it looks like those people are still at the office, and the uglies were bussed in to wave the rally towels. Oh well, makes for a better atmosphere.

4:15: Phils go down quietly in the fourth. I'm terrified of not adding on and Milwaukee coming back. Lets see what Cole does in the 5th.

4:17: Cole gets Prince Fielder to chase, 13 in a row. Smoltz is letting me down, but his booth mates are picking up the "Small Park" slack. And why is David Aldridge doing baseball now?

4:20: Cory Hart breaks up the no-no. Blame me, I should have known better mentioning it.

4:22: I bitched about Smoltz earlier, but he is doing a great job analyzing the game. He has a lot of incite about a Phillies team he plays against 19 times a year.

4:30: This game has quickly gotten boring, and making it worse is now the Brewers are into their bullpen. It's the 5th inning, and they are already bringing in lefty specialists to get Ryan Howard. Good news, though. If your wife gets hot by you wearing your prom tux but you can't carry her upstairs, you can still get laid because Viagara is in its 10th year. Who writes these commercials?

4:33: TBS is a shameless self promoter. I am going to be so sick of Frank Caliendo by the end of this postseason. And has there ever been a show with such funny promos and miserable programming?

4:38: Unbelievable Craig Counsell is still playing. Even more unbelievable that he has half the Brewers' hits thus far.

4:40: Mike Cameron draws the Brewers' first walk on the day, and they have a legitimate threat here. Important for Cole to get out of this inning and keep his team ahead. CBP has gone into its middle inning swoon. There is little energy right now. Time to bear down.

4:44: Again, I don't want to jinx it, but I can't say enough about this start by Cole Hamels. He was good down the stretch, but not great. He has dominated the Brewers thus far today, and the offense is getting by. I'd like to see them push some runs across the board and put this game away.

4:50: I can't really complain, because the Phils are up, but all of their runs are unearned and they only have 3 hits. That does not bode well for the rest of this postseason. On a completely unrelated note, Captain Morgan is now #1 in my Alcohol Ads Power Rankings.

4:52: Great pick by Ryan Howard to retire the opponents first basemen. Can anyone think of a guy who makes so many spectacular plays but blows so many routine ones? J-Roll talked today about Howard's offensive push late in the year and how his defense contributed.

5:00: Cole hit for himself in the bottom of the 7th, no suprise. Will Chollie let him go 9 if he keeps up htis performance, or go to the bullpen? A good point by the TBS crew about the Phils clinching Saturday night, allowing them to rest Cole on Sunday. Funny how playoff series are so drastically affected by when your team clinches, especially because the LDS are best-of-five.

5:03: More painful to watch: Another Jason Werth strikeout, or a Frank TV commercial?

5:05: Phils bats have been quiet, but a great day defensively. Another nice play by Chase on a bunt by Tony Gwynn, Jr.

5:09: It's a shame the rain has subdued the crowd on hand to see the Phils' first postseason win in 15 years. Ooops, did I jinx them? How about a little Philly faith. I'm going to try it out.

10:30 a.m., Friday morning: What happened? I blacked out after that last entry.

5:12: All joking aside, this game has been fun. I cautiously like this team, and if they keep getting pitching efforts like this, they will be a tough out.

5:25: John Smoltz with reference #2 on the size of the park. A disappointing day for him in that category.

5:27: Counsell was a nice mid-game substitution. It'll be up to Lidge to deliver the Phils the win.

5:32: The Comeback Player of the Year gets Mike Cameron looking for out number 25.

5:41: Waiting with baited breath as Lidge gets a huge second out. One to go.

5:45: Do they not have recording technology in Wisconsin? Did they not see Lidge in any of the 5 loses to the Phils this year? Why do they keep bringing up how seeing Lidge today will help the Brewers? He's been the best Phillies pitcher all year, they haven't been paying attention?

5:47: Wasn't pretty, but Brad got it done. I'm a little worried that the law of averages is going to catch up to him, but he gets the job done and the Phils get off the schnide. Great Game 1.