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.