I was prepared for the worst on Sunday.
It was something that I had been dreading yet looking forward to for more than
a week.
I was ready to experience some emotional highs and ethical lows.
I had been working on my elbowing technique for the past week, crafting the most efficient move possible.
Why, you ask?
For those of you who don’t know, Sunday was Pit Crew Shirt Distribution Day, and I was ready.
You see, I’d done it before. I had been there, and I knew what to expect.
So, I took the memories from my previous experience and prepared accordingly.
I had rations (a bottle of water and
a Powerbar).
I had on comfortable shoes (Adidas).
I had reading material (“Arcadia” by Tom Stoppard).
I had patience (debatable).
And lastly, I had a ticket and a student ID (essential).
I was ready.
The game on Sunday was at 3:30 p.m. and experience dictated that I get to Mac Court a minimum of three hours early. I know there are dedicated students who make a camping trip out of waiting for these shirts, and I applaud them, but I couldn’t do it.
With a couple of reliable sources saying that the line was already starting down 15th Avenue, I got there at 12:45 p.m., expecting the worst.
However, when I arrived, there was no line. People were already walking back with shirts.
What?
Turns out the method was changed to be the first 800 or so students who showed up got a shirt instead of however many kids could absolutely cram into the student section 90 minutes before the game.
It took ten minutes to fill out the contract, get in and get out with a shirt.
I felt numb. What had I missed?
I missed catching a football in the streets.
I missed the fact that I got more studying done in line than on most normal trips to the library.
I missed the small tent city and the rotating bathroom breaks.
I missed the pounding on the doors and the general animosity toward the security guard keeping them closed.
I missed the elation when that very same guard made a move for the door.
I missed the crush of trying to get in, wondering if the girl in front of me thought we were dating, or furthermore, wondering if I should purchase a matching ring set for the guy behind me.
I missed the uncontrollable urge to yell, “Moo.” (Explanation: Being crushed in a mob people makes me think of
cattle.)
I missed the hundreds of students with anxious looks on their faces and considering hara-kiri because they swore the Pit Crew staff was avoiding them and would run out of shirts before they got one.
And now, I miss missing it.
It was a test of endurance, an experience that any Oregon sports fan should go through. Instead, I walked in, past the pizza boxes and coffee cups, the discarded newspapers and empty stadium chairs and destroyed the experience.
And as much as I feel sorry and weird about waltzing in, I really don’t, because now I have the ticket to one of the best seats in college sports.
And with the team that Oregon will put on the floor, I feel like I have pulled off a coup or some April Fool’s joke.
But somehow, I don’t feel quite right.
I should have to endure more for a shirt.
So now I know what I will do.
Next year, I’ll get there three days early and hang out Trey Arrow style.

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