Outside of Verizon- my second home!
Front row loves: me, Maggie, Liz and Ann
I'm in the front row, third from right
It probably won't surprise you that I've already cried about this today. When I woke up, I watched all of the YouTube videos I could find, and as we speak, I am listening to my Hoya Hoops playlist. And I am proudly wearing blue and gray today, along with the rally beads that Allie sent me.
I knew, when I applied to go abroad, that this would be a problem. The prospect of missing an entire basketball season was a major factor in my decision, and, other than missing friends, family, and everything going on at Georgetown, it was one of my biggest reasons in the "con" column for going abroad. And I know that I will look back on this experience at the end of the year and know that it has been totally worthwhile and has enabled me to grow so much as a person, but that doesn't mean it can't hurt when I think about all of the people I'm going to miss, all of my basketball friends. I won't be able to sit outside Verizon for 4 hours before the door opens with Maggie, Liz, Ann, AMC, Andrew, Reba, and all of my other front-of-the-line friends. We won't be able to give the other people behind us dirty looks as we wonder if they're going for our seats, and then either try to box them out if they are, indeed, going for our seats, or make friends with them if we find out that they're going for non-pep band side. This is no light matter. There is an incredible amount of strategy.
For example, we always have one designated bag holder. This person has the incredibly important task of blocking out people behind them so as to give the designated runner (that was me the second half of last year- I'm proud to say that I was undefeated!) a little bit more time. We always try to spread people out among doors so as to give ourselves an optimal chance, and we have unspoken agreements with the other front row pep band side regulars to grab us a couple of extra seats if it doesn't look like we're going to make it. Pushing is encouraged, and deception is not at all frowned upon.
Take the first game of last year, for example, against William & Mary, back in the days of cattle herding: the Verizon Center personnel would let us into the building, saying that they were doing us a favor by getting us out of the cold, and would then corral us a few hundred feet from the entrance to our section. Let me just say that whoever came up with that idea deserves to be fired. Anyway, we were in good position, at the front of the line, but next to us, we could see some freshmen trying to creep up. We could hear them saying to each other, "Okay, section 117-118, you go first." Now, the entrance to the student section is section 116-117; 117-118 gets you trapped in a corner. So I whispered to Maggie that I was going to go to 117-118 so these girls would think they were going the right way, and she would go to the other section. We're so evil. So the freshmen got second row, and we got our seats. That's right. Our seats. We had them for every single home game of last season (including the one game all of us missed, because no one sat in our seats. I think they knew).
Running for seats is the most incredible adrenaline rush ever. When we're still outside, I have to shed all of my layers, because they'll just slow me down (especially since security now makes you open up your jacket). I start shaking, not because I'm cold (which a few friends have thought and thus wrap their jackets around me), but because I am nervous. What if I don't get the seats? What if I trip? What if I can't run fast enough? What if we end up in the second row? I grab my ticket and my GOCard, and, once the ticket checker scans my ticket, I run as fast as I possibly can to section 116-117. I sprint by the next level of security, flashing my ticket and GOCard at the checker (but barely slow down), and then go as fast as I can down the stairs that are uncomfortably close together, not exactly optimal for going down quickly. When I get down to the first row, I lay across the first four seats from the left of the first row, and once Maggie, Liz, and Ann hurl themselves down the stairs, we marvel at our handiwork. And still, there's an hour until game time. I try to get my heart rate back down, because, simply put, running for seats is the most incredible adrenaline rush I've ever experienced, and the satisfaction when you get your seats is amazing.
We typically spend the first 20 minutes or so warming up (especially if it's a January or February game). Then, I go up to the bathroom and put in my contacts (and take off my spandex, if it's cold enough to warrant wearing it under my jeans). I do my hair, in the same style every game, pulled back into a half ponytail with the same barrette. It doesn't take a genius to see that I am a very superstitious fan. If you've ever watched a Red Sox game with me, I'm the same way. For example, my mom has a certain talent for jinxing the Sox when she says things like, "Oh, I feel bad for the Rays" (back when they were bad). So I forbid her from talking during games, and if she starts to say something that sounds like it will be jinx-worthy, I shut her up.
With about a half-hour to go until game time, the team comes out to warm up for the first time. This is when the crowd starts to get animated. By this point, we have our face paint done, which is really an art form. So I start snapping pictures- I mean, come on, this is me we're talking about!!! With 15 minutes or so to go, the team goes back into the locker room, only to reemerge 10 minutes later with a new set of warmups and looks of determination. The first warmup can be lighthearted and fun, but not the second. With a minute or so to go, they all run over to the bench. This is when the pregame video starts, which, in the case of last year's video, is incredibly well-done. This always ends with a "We are Georgetown," with pep band side chanting "WE ARE" and non-pep band side answering "GEORGETOWN," pumping our fists in the air. When warmup time expires, the announcer reads off the starting lineup for the visiting team. The entire student section turns around so that our backs are facing the court, and drown out the visiting team's lineup as we chant, "Let's go Hoyas!".
We know it's time to turn around when the lights go out and search lights rotate around the stadium. Then it's our turn, and we make the most amount of noise possible for our beloved Hoyas. After the lineup is read, the lights go back on and Zombie Nation comes on, so if you look across the court, you can see a sea of gray shirts bobbing up and down. This is what it means to be a Hoya. We truly embody the mantra of bleeding Hoya blue. We are the ones who stand outside the arena, in rain, snow, wind, and cold, forgetting all other responsibilities (because doing homework in line is impossible unless you have concentration of steel) in the name of basketball. We work harder than most college students, but this time is just for us, for enjoying being a Hoya. For two hours (well, it works out to more like 7 or 8, when you factor in travel time and time spent outside of Verizon), we put all of our energy into cheering on our beloved team, and sometimes I just have to stop for a moment and take it in, appreciating feeling like a part of this tight-knit community, the Georgetown basketball faithful. It's hard to describe to someone who has never been a part of it, but something about being a part of something bigger than yourself is intoxicating. Never have I felt more proud to be a Hoya than when I am in my seat, pep band side, first row, second seat from the left.
So you see, this is what I'm missing this year. Call me crazy, but I know I'll come back senior year and be even more motivated!
I don't really feel like writing about Luxembourg and all of my ridiculous work today, but once I have recovered from my misery at not being at the game, I'll get around to it.
Until then, I BLEED HOYA BLUE! HOYA SAXA!!!! And I'm sending you my love,
Kristen
1 comment:
*hug*
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