Confessions of a Gameday Pledge

It’s 7 am on a Saturday, and it’s a brisk 88 degrees outside. Not only am I half asleep, but I’m also putting on a white button down shirt, khaki pants and a tie. The last time I dressed up this formally at 7 am on a Saturday was for my bar mitzvah. Today, however, is not my call to manhood. But it is a similar rite of passage every college student must embrace before they enter the real world.

Today is game day.

At 7:30 a.m. sharp, about 40 dressed-up pledges stroll up to the fraternity house to begin what may well be the longest day of their lives. Some of the guys have the ever sought after Chick-fil-A breakfast in hand upon arrival. My mouth begins to water as I outstretch my arm for the bag.

Suddenly, I remember that we’re peasants.

That chicken biscuit is obviously for a brother who’s probably lying on his couch, aggressively awaiting the arrival of his pre-boozing snack. Damn, that’s shitty.

The clock strikes 8, and it’s time to grab our keys and head east. Our services are required at Sorority Row.

Driving on a game day makes me feel like a hermit crab trying to move from one side of his cage to the other. It’s not a matter of whether I’ll get there — it’s a matter of Museum Drive being a fucking parking lot.

I’ll drive for four hours today and make five rides if I’m lucky. The need for game day drivers completely validates the theory that Americans are fucking lazy.

Which brings me to my passengers. Let’s enter the mind of a sun-dressed, cake-faced sorority girl on game day.

“Should I simply walk from Sorority Row to the tailgate? Or should I wait for a ride, lap up with 12 other girls and sit in traffic for 30 minutes while not shutting the fuck up about things the driver gives zero fucks about? I think I’ll take the latter!”

After my first ride, I get back to the house to find a plethora of orange and blue gear and a pile of empty Natty cans on the floor. I walk to the bathroom and find myself standing in a pool of liquid garbage that makes skunk spray smell like a fucking Febreeze factory. You can’t let that scary liquid rain on your already abysmal parade, because if you do, you’re in for the longest fall of your collegiate career. On this day, everybody enters with a smile on their face and probably leaves feeling drunk, depressed and lonely. Wait, this is starting to sound a lot like Café Risqué.

After a few more rides, it’s time to take the party from the house to The Swamp. I don’t know what’s worse, driving on a gameday or going to the actual game. Want to hear about the shittiest situation ever? Imagine being at a football game, wearing a button down and khakis, the blistering sun shining directly on your face, drunk frat bros badgering you for water and hot dogs and being painfully sober.

Shitty, right?

Suddenly, I have an epiphany. I’m sober and they’re wasted. I have the upper hand! Okay, let’s formulate a plan. A brother is bound to ask for a hotdog or a lemon chill within the next five minutes. When he does, cordially accept and walk away, buy the lemon chill and worship it. Then, eat that delicious treat on the peaceful walk back to the ole dorm. The brother is probably too hammered to remember my name, let alone a damn lemon chill.

Once my master plan is complete, I slide under the covers and nap until my heart is content. When I wake up, I realize my pledge duties are over for the day, allowing me to start binge drinking with my homies until I’m drunk enough to order a lemon chill from an actual brother.

#YOLO.

Featured photo courtesy of: Gallery Hip

---