It’s strange to think that a full semester has now nearly passed since Michael Robinson, one of this newspaper’s sports editors, and I piled into my car and trekked halfway across America to report for work in mid-August. Seventy-one newspapers, 16 credits, two Badger losses, one election and countless drunk nights at The Plaza later, I am left with only memories of the fall term that was and hopes for the spring term that will be.
Do you remember when Barry’s boys were still undefeated? When national pundits were forced to mention our humble football team in the same breath as Oklahoma, Auburn and USC? When Kyle Orton fumbled the ball, and a collective cheer could be heard throughout Madison?
Whoa, how the mighty have fallen.
What about the first day of class? When you had yet to fall behind in reading? When that cute guy/gal sitting next to you had yet to subtly mention their longstanding boyfriend/girlfriend? When you were still committed to walking up the hill instead of catching the bus in front of the Union? When the syllabus still made things sound interesting?
We can all be thankful for non-mandatory attendance policies.
Do you remember John Kerry coming to Madison? When everyone ditched class to see Bruce Springsteen play? When the state Capitol was the backdrop for the cover photo of seemingly every major newspaper in the country? When so many Madisonians sweated it out in the streets of a runaway American dream?
Turns out they were riding through mansions of glory in a suicide machine.
Fond memories of Halloween? When State Street transformed into the world’s largest masquerade ball? When you found just enough liquor to keep you warm despite wearing nothing other than a Speedo and a boa? When you didn’t realize that the cute girl in the police outfit was a real cop? When you discovered that even Greek wine can stain a friend’s toga?
You have to fight for your right to party.
What about your first protest of the semester? When you learned that the single most important goal of corporations is to keep the gay community oppressed? When organizers thought it would be practical to beat war drums next to a library? When you discovered that you have so much in common with that guy sporting dreadlocks, so long as the conversation is limited to fair trade, the evils of oil and Yoko Ono?
You taught The Man a valuable lesson that day.
How about your friend’s 21st birthday? When you spent the whole night puking into a trash can while your stoned roommate openly admired your aim? When you woke up with blurred tally marks on your wrist and a phone number on your thigh? When you found a Wando’s receipt in your jeans the next week and thought, ‘Wow, I went there?’
That bottled water and V8 had to come in handy eventually.
What about the night before your first midterm? When you took advantage of caffeine in both its liquid and solid forms? When you gazed at your computer only to discover that your entire buddy list had signed offline for the night? When you decided to start chugging Robitussin because it tastes too much like Red Bull to not be basically the same?
At least you got rid of that cough.
Ahh, yes, these are the shared memories of a semester that was. Now Bucky gets to hibernate for a month before the spring semester starts. But fear not, Bo’s boys will entertain us on the court, Mifflin will make sure we party just as hard, a new cute boy/girl will appear in one of your lectures, a local election will keep us talking, another friend will turn 21, picket lines will doubtlessly form, and this time you’ll remember that Red Bull comes in a can.
For those of you who are graduating, the good news is that you’re almost old enough to start listening to Frank Sinatra music. So take a cue from Ol’ Blue Eyes and just say “Thanks for the memories.”
Mac VerStandig ([email protected]) is a junior majoring in rhetoric. He would like to thank everyone at the Herald for a wonderful semester, but especially all of the opinion writers, Zach Stern, Cristina Daglas, Kari Bellingham and Drew Hansen. Drew: he expects you to keep in touch.
