Collegiate Times

There's something about competitive drinking that brings a college student to a feverish pitch. Beer Olympics, Beer Die and Beer Pong just get the juices flowing. Just last week I drove up to James Madison University to play in a 64-team beer pong tournament. When we lost in the Elite Eight, my partner and I were so inconsolable that instead of hanging out at JMU for the rest of the night, we got in her car and drove the two hours back to Tech. It meant that much.

That's the attitude I had on Saturday for Bar Golf.

A few members of our group gathered in The Chase before the round, an ominous sign. The Chase, of course, is possibly the last real bastion of college partying at Tech. It goes down at The Chase. I mean last Saturday they set a tree on fire. A live frickin' tree. People have horror stories about that place. Mention The Chase and girls will shake their heads with a frightening look in their eyes. "I don't go to The Chase anymore."

You don't hear stories like that about Collegiate Suites.

Luckily, the scene was calm at The Chase; ten members of our group milled around a ground floor apartment. Jeff Jones, a Tiger Woods look-alike, came decked out in full Eldrick regalia: a blood red polo and sharply creased black pants. He donned the trademarked T.W. hat.

"Going all out this year?" I asked.

"Nope," he said. "Gonna finish the course."

The same goal was on my mind.

Two others chatted a few yards away from us, sitting diagonally from each other on a wraparound couch. One couldn't wait to start the bender; the other fretted about getting arrested.

Jeff and I looked at each other. "Rookies" we thought.

We felt just like golfers do before a big round: a little nervous, a little anxious, but ready for the experience.

For this round I'd chosen a salmon J. Crew polo, deep brown khakis and a sharp, fresh PING visor. A battered golf glove adorned my left hand.

The kicker to the outfit though, was golf shoes. Nothing stands out like the obnoxious white of a golf shoe. Jeff and I had on new pairs. Ain't nobody gonna be missin' us.

Everyone else was accordingly decked out. Girls wore argyle sweater vests and tight, bright skirts. Most guys rocked plaid shorts and expensive polo shirts. One person, even in the mix of abominable attire, still managed to stand out, wearing a bright yellow Ralph Lauren and pink, pink pants.

"Pink pants?" said senior Eric Burtzlaff. "Why the hell not?"

We loaded way too many of us into my big blue van and headed to the Boston Beanery.

The Beanery sits in the Prices Fork strip mall, a long non-descript brick building, replete with GMAT prep schools and an absurdly expensive coffee shop. We entered, my vanload the first golfers to arrive. Just two others people were at the bar, their eyes fixated on the spectacle moving toward them. We filtered off into several of the little tables throughout the bar.

The Beanery serves 25 ounce domestic draughts, big glasses that offer a tantalizing extra ounce of booze. Last year, we clueless rookies sucked those down. This year, a smarter and more economical approach: $2 pints. The four at my table ordered a round of domestic draughts.

The excitement in us brought us to the Beanery 15 minutes early. Unfortunately, the idiocy in us ordered our beers 15 minutes before tee time. They couldn't be sipped until 4 p.m., the official starting time. They teased us as we sat, their head slowly dissolving away. That didn't matter all that much, but their sweet flavor tempted us. A few people sneaked quick sips.

"Mulligan," someone said as he put his glass down.

We waited, fondling our glasses, as more golfers began to show up. They arrived sporadically, small groups breezing in over the next 15 minutes. By the time 4 p.m. rolled around, our number had swelled to 38. We enveloped the small bar. The two diners that originally offered us scolding stares now gazed at the scene, half in bewilderment, half in pure fright.

One of the latecomers went to order a drink. The bartender looked at the scene and asked him if we were doing this because of last week's Collegiate Times article.

"No ma'am," he shook his head. "We are the article."

A light drizzle began during the short walk to B-Dub's

Continue Reading: 1234 Next »