The game was depressing. Utterly. I think Andrew covered it better than I would have (I’m thinking backhoe, deserted countryside). To stay on the light side of things, I decided to document my experiences in the cash crawl. Many have come before me, more are sure to follow, so the experience isn’t particularly unique. If you’re bored, depressed, or simply just enjoy clicking this funny little javascript link, have at it.
I felt it. The adrenaline, the hardwood under my sneakers. Springy, yet firm. It was my time to shine. My night. I was ready to charge into it, scramble, and do all that I would need to do to succeed. Last night was the closest I’ve been to being a GW student-athlete: I crawled for cash at half-time.
A little background. I’ve been following this team for only the last four years so I’ve grown accustomed (for better or worse) to big scores on the jumbotron, bigger than life student-athletes (I still possess an unhealthy obsession with Mike Hall), and big dollars on the court during halftime as some hefty white dude flops around trying to recoup as much of the $50 grand he can get in 20 seconds of spasmodic money shoveling. In middle school, if you sold enough magazines (why did we sell those things, strange fundraiser…) during that one part of the year, they’d throw you in the cash machine and blow dollars at you. Imagine, if you will, a phone booth with none of the climate patterns typically exhibited by phone booths: It’s only windy on the inside. The college update is much more mature. Wind simply isn’t as impressive anymore. Let’s do it blindfolded! And dizzy! With so much money spread over the floor and even the helpful guidance of the cheer team, it had to be a cinch.
To be fair to my fellow members of the Colonials nation, I would only put myself in the ‘Top 5’ Armchair NIH Cash Crawl®? experts category. Maybe top 3. It had to be easy, a game of numbers. Simple math. Circle of cash, radius of body, swirl, scoop and ca-ching (thanks to fellow colonial hoops blogger Brendan for assistance in refining my strategy). I got this. Why doesn’t everyone make 370 dollars any more like they did my freshman year? Why does no one seem to have any semblance of a strategy? Why is everyone clearly moronic?
Like any tried and true athlete, I was psyched. Pumped. Ready. I wore loose fitting clothes, and a belt. My shirt was tucked in before the game even started. Mentally prepared myself and perfected my strategy over wings and beer. Half-time began. I practiced my moves on the sideline as I got ready. I felt the kind of adrenaline reserved only for super-star athletes. As I saw the student-athletes on the Dean’s List file by, I smiled. I had joined their ranks.
They blindfolded me while I still attempted to conspire with the cheerleaders. This seemed earlier than normal. Maybe they were on to me. They knew I had something up my sleeve. I desperately offered them nickels on the dollar. No luck.
Last night I learned a few new things about the Cash Crawl.
First lesson: IT’S FUCKING HARD.
Lesson two: They used to throw down something in the range of a cool grand. Now it’s $100 on the court. Singles. Yeah, it’s all about the Washingtons. Some sort of sick University-namesake joke? I tried to get the cheerleaders to help me out, put a few bills in my pocket; anything to get ahead, this is DC after all. To no avail. They mostly seemed like they wanted to go home. Can’t really blame them. As much fun as getting pummeled by La Salle at home in the middle of the week can be.
Third: it’s kind of a creepy bank operation. I had to sign things and provide information AFTER I made the money. If I didn’t sign, would I have to return the money? How much more work is this going to add to my tax filing and will it actually be worth half of what I made. I felt like I was signing up for something I didn’t quite understand for an amount in a denomination I wasn’t sure had any use. Sign your name address and social security number away for $22 dollars and 53 cents. Well, there wasn’t 53 cents, but I still felt somewhat shortchanged.
At the end of it, as my friends shook their heads in turns of disbelief and disappointment, I returned to my spot in the empty bleachers with a new found respect for the accomplishments of athletes. Maybe this is why true athletes like Pacman and myself find the need to use our singles and make it rain after a tough game…
Camelot or Archibald’s anyone? 22 Washingtons ought to get us half a dance…
-Thanks to Andrew for photo and vid.
Comments
-kiddo