Forget about the Big Dance, we all know the party of the semester took place at the fraternity of Mu Lambda Beta (MLB) this past Sunday and Monday. Everybody on campus made an appearance at this major league rager, and since press credentials are meant to be abused (See ESPN’s Page 2), I snuck in to give you a view of the opening party of the season.
When I arrived, Commissioner Bud Selig was checking IDs at the door. I mistakenly handed him an expired prescription drug card, but Selig didn’t seem to notice, as he was too busy hitting on that DirectTV girl.
Entering the East wing of the frat, I bumped into that pompous president of the business frat, the Yankees. He was on the phone trying to convince some prima donna named Clemens to come to the party. Wearing a stiff pinstripe suit, he looked like he had not gotten any since 2001. Word on the street is he’s having some performance issues with his A-Rod.
Standing in the Yankees’ shadow was that kid from Ithaca College, the Mets. Wearing a “Vote for Pedro” shirt, he was trying so hard to fit in, but everyone knew he was out of his league.
Passing by the coatroom, it looked like that whiny sorority, the Red Sox, had just arrived. I used to kind of like these girls until they got their bids back in 2004. Now they’re just a female version of the Yankees, but at least they’ve got that really hot Asian pledge.
Walking down the stairs, I passed a couple of typical college birds, the Blue Jays and Orioles. They’re the type who will waste tons of money on expensive handbags like Jaret Wright and A.J. Burnett and will still end up looking only halfway decent.
Continuing on my way down, I saw that girl from freshman year who used to be so hot, you know, the Braves. Now a senior, she’s put on a lot of weight — like 240 pounds of Bob Wickman weight — but she was still going drink-for-drink with the Phillies, who was having trouble swallowing Tom Gordon’s gin and tonic.
On my way to the living room, I had to step over the comatose bodies of some pre-frosh from Florida, as the Devil Rays and Marlins were already passed out at the bottom of the stairs. Sitting morosely next to them was that transfer student from McGill, the Nationals. Poor kid is living in a renovated parking lot until his new dorm is built, and his insanely hot girlfriend, Alfonso Soriano, dumped him for that guy with the bubble-gum trust fund, the Cubs.
I went to look for some true drinking champs in the centrally located dining room, but thought better of it when I saw a pack of teaming crooners from that annoying a cappella group “High Pitch” blocking my path. I hear they have their moments, but they’re always selling tickets to some show, and I just can’t imagine paying to see the Astros, Brewers, Pirates and Reds perform.
Instead, I headed up to the west balcony where I had a great view of the dance floor.
You always see the most random people at parties, like that kid from my statistics class who miraculously got straight A’s or the Mariners, who apparently have been on an extended five-year plan. Even my grad student TA, the Rangers, was there hobbling around awkwardly. Off to the side, the Padres were braced against a door trying to keep some pledges locked in the basement and while the Diamondbacks were pounding loudly, it sounded like the Rockies had just given up.
Like always, the Angels and Dodgers were dancing on tables desperately hoping some stud muffin from Sigma Iota would drool all over them. Everyone tells me the Dodgers are hot, but frankly I think it’s just the soft lighting and their mediocre-looking friends.
I was about to hit the bar, but before I could leave, I saw my ex-girlfirend, the Giants. She was with some new goofball named Barry, and I wondered if I should try to stop these homers. But then I remembered all her mood swings, cheating, and rampant drug-use, and decided the Bonds we shared were destined for my Hall of Shame.
Walking toward the bar in the central dining room, I bumped into that hypocritical loser, the Royals. A couple of days before the party, he was telling me about how awful binge drinking was for our health and now, after funneling half a bottle of everclear, he was making out with Gil Meche for what seemed like five years.
After giving the Royals 55 million reasons why such actions would get him nowhere, I finally made it to it the center of all the commotion in the dining room bar. The Twins and White Sox were trying to get a game of Kings going, but were having trouble filling out a rotation. Next to them, was that fratastic bro, the Tigers, who, having just been tapped to join Jason Stark’s secret society of Quill and Failed Predictions, was laying waste to fresh pitchers like it was his job.
At the end of the bar was Mr. Boot-and-Rally himself, the Cardinals. Grasping an empty bottle of Andres, he looked quite pleased with himself — if not a little worse for the wear. I wanted to apologize for calling him a light drinker at last fall’s World Series of Beer shindig, but before I could make my way over, I saw Her. You know the one, the Perfect 10, the one you’d sell your soul to slip a World Series ring on her finger — the Indians. Sure, she took an extended leave of absence to get her life in order back in 2001, but she’s back looking better then ever this spring. We talked late into the night and while I couldn’t help but stare at her stacked lineup, I was pleasantly surprised with her deep rotation. With the night coming to an end and summer fast approaching, we promised to keep in touch through live streaming video. While it’s not the same as being there live, at least I know I can look forward to seeing lots of the Indians this fall.
Paul Testa is a former Sun Assistant Sports Editor. Cleveland Rocks will appear every other Wednesday this semester. Paul can be reached at email@example.com.