Bud and baseball. PBR and field hockey. Amstel and jai-alai.
There's just something about alcohol and watching sports that truly exemplifies the ideal partnership. After all, watching sports is one of the more competitive experiences you can have without actually doing anything, and nothing fuels the competitive juices like booze.
Your average fan at a sparsely crowded Division III lacrosse game, such as 35 to 90 percent of the Tufts Lax home games, might be a little gun-shy getting the De-FENSE chant going, but put a beer in him and he'll hop the fence and start doing push-ups on the field after a goal. And while it could be said that alcohol will have this effect in any given situation, sports provide a generally acceptable venue to release that newfound energy.
If you were taking a test in organic chemistry, for example, you'd naturally have some difficulty, as taking an orgo test isn't exactly like playing the Clippers. Imagine, if you will, somebody standing outside the window yelling, "You'll never finish! You suck at combustion reactions ... And your shirt sucks!"
Even if this situation hasn't taken place all that often, you can imagine how your concentration might begin to falter. Maybe you'd get a little pissed off and break your pencil, costing you precious seconds. Or maybe you'd curse at the student sitting next to you, prompting your professor to send you to the box for two minutes. And if this kind of heckling doesn't seem too realistic, I guarantee a whole bunch of people reading this column would be right there outside that window if they were a few brews into a Friday morning.
Which brings us to the two sides of the vocal sports spectator that are most prominently augmented by booze: the cheerer and the heckler. I wouldn't argue that anyone needs alcohol to root for the home team or to boo the visiting starting lineup. When something good or bad happens on the field or court, a good fan will show his approval or disapproval, which in turn should help to motivate his team.
The beauty of the fan with beer in hand is that he doesn't need a reason to open his mouth. All he needs is a program. "Mother of pearl!" he'd say, "This guy's name is Fenster! Hey, Fenster! Fenster! Fenster!" If you've ever had someone say your name four times in four seconds, you know that it's more annoying than getting your mailbox filled with e-mails telling you that your mailbox is filling up.
A player's number, or his hometown, or the way he runs are all fair game. And cheering requires nothing more than hearing the ref blow the whistle to start the game, or a friend on the team glancing towards the stands. Every good play by the home team is greeted with full emotion.
Nobody would argue that school spirit on this campus is one of Tufts' selling points. In my experience, I've only ever felt strong instinctive ties to this school at an athletic event. And let's be honest, athletics aren't really emphasized here.
Sure, the Daily puts in a little chart with the week's schedule, but more freshmen probably know what's being served at Carmichael on a Saturday than who Tufts is playing in football. And just think if you wound up at a place like Michigan, with games being advertised on national television. The point is that Tufts pride isn't extremely visible on campus, but the best place to find it is at a game.
The first time I ever felt proud to be a Jumbo was at my first lacrosse game freshman year, when we all donned our "Welcome to Browntown" shirts, got hammered, and made our way to the field. The other team, both players and coaches, were taunted mercilessly, every goal and check was cheered enthusiastically, and the referees eventually told us all to turn it down or risk getting our team penalized. It was about as perfect a spectator experience as I'd ever had.
Want to know what the best part was? The parents absolutely loved us. We got the crowd going, especially with the Browntown chants ("Give me a brown! Give me a town! What's that spell?"), and after every goal, one father would shower us with Jumbo Nuts (just bags of peanuts, sicko).
After that game, I was hooked. I still boozed for most of the weekend games, but I found that in the midst of my drunken fun, I actually began to care about the team. It became my team, a team that would make me feel upset after a loss, a team that I'd read about in the paper whenever I could; I had become a fan, and being a Jumbo took on a whole new meaning.
Obviously, there are lines that fans should not cross as spectators of a game, and drinking tends to blur those lines. Throwing rotten limes at the visiting goalie probably wasn't, in retrospect, a smart thing to do a couple seasons ago.
But sports are a wonderful part of the college experience, and at a Div. III level, it is much easier to be close to the players, both on and off the field. Just going to a game in any state of mind is a fun way to take a break from whatever stress is currently occupying your time.
Just ask any athlete if he or she would prefer a sober or drunk group of fans at the next home game and most would be happy to have his or her supporters pounding that Budweiser before the contest. Instant support, instant opponent intimidation, and instant spirit juice can be found in a twelve ounce can.
So if you want to encounter a pairing as perfectly matched as Janet Reno and "My Sharona," try cracking one open and rooting on the men and women at Tufts.
Cole Liberator is a senior majoring in history. He can be reached via e-mail at cole.liberator@tufts.edu
