Friday, October 21, 2011

Confessions of a Quidditch Wannabe

I was walking to class when I noticed people running without any clear pattern in the middle of the Quad. As I got closer, it became evident that these people were on different teams. One wore orange and one wore white. Brooms. Brooms with shafts disproportionate to their stubby bristles. Shafts wagging like a happy dog who is seizing, nestled cozily in these Quad-goers crotches. In fact, happy and seizing is the only way I can describe their expressions. I checked Twitter only to find out that there had been a flash mob organized.

Quidditch is the name of the game and these players looked like damn fools.

I can't express how badly I want to be one of those damn fools.

As I walked past the 'pitch' my heart started a little. My eyes couldn't be torn away from the beautiful work of kinetic art before me. Desperate girls wearing leggings under gym shorts grunted as they hurled red rubber dodge balls at the unsuspecting opposition. In a desperate attempt to keep the awkward broom between their legs (is this subliminal training?), many lost their footing and tumbled to a glorious mud-covered defeat, head bouncing in recoil from the shock. The more mud, the harder she goes.

As if resolving to start a new chapter in life, she gets up with the fervor of a freshly whipped stallion and charges onward toward the iconic three-ring goal posts..

I'm serious, I wanted to be on that pitch. I feel so British when I say pitch. I know I would be good. I'm stealthy and lanky. I could avoid the clusterfuck of 6 different men swatting at one ball while clenching their legs together to keep the broom from falling. Inevitably their bent knees and jutting-out assess make it look like they're taking a group shit. Beautiful.

The keeper, with his striped knee-high socks and bouncy, curly locks (that's some Dr. Seuss rhyme shit) angrily swats away the opposition. His teeth bared in a hard grimace, he defends his poorly constructed three ring posts like a boss. I've never seen such dedication as he runs from his end of the pitch all the way to the other, untouched by groping hands along the way, and spikes the shit out of a rubber ball, missing.

Quidditch is, no doubt, going to be the next great American sport. The blood that runs through these broom-straddler's veins is unrivaled by that of football players, marathoners, gymnasts, bull riders, midget tossers and the like. Their sweat and tears will forever stain the quad.

I can only hope, one day, that my own perspiration will make its mark on Quidditch fields around the world. That one day I will run furiously with a rigid broom between my legs and scream in glory at my successes but later go home to apply vast amounts of baby powder to my raw, chafed crotch. That'll be the day when I can call myself a true champion.

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