Ivey Cup, Part II
Friday, March 03, 2006
South Bend, IN to London, ON
Music: A selection from Brass’ iPod, including a fantastic live 20-minute version of “Cortez the Killer” by Built to Spill and Interpol’s “Turn on the Bright Lights”. Must ask Brass for other names. Turns out the guy’s got a pretty wide range of interests, a lot of which are very interesting indeed.
Books: Alexis de Tocqueville (“Democracy in America”), Thomas Friedman (“The World is Flat”)
Spent the morning preparing, doing laundry and handing in my CC&M final paper. Didn’t quite make it to see M., though the way I feel right now about the whole Adjoined thing, it’s better for me to stay away. Did manage to drop in to see K., though, with an offering of coffee, and was once again surprised at how easy it is to just go along with the flow with her. She has a charming accent, and flawless written French, which is always a good way to earn my admiration. Must remember to take a picture of those eyes.
And now, game on! The second edition of the Ivey Cup is upon us, and this year’s contingent, if not superior in numbers, is at least superior in talent. It’s me, DeHond, Caleb, Brass, Karsten, Mikulec and Prentice. Rambaldini bailed on us at the last moment, citing “the flu”, and for that, he’s cut off for life. I can’t believe a countryman would do that. No big loss, as it turns out, just annoying in the way it happened. So Caleb’s going to play goal. Thankfully, one of us can take on those duties, and I’m glad it’s him.
But talent doesn’t really matter, as it never really does at this tourney. What I’m most looking forward to is further cementing some bonds with Ivey folk, Bassin in particular. It’s only dawning on me now that the Toronto foul-up—that’s what I’ll call it from now on—looms a little bigger in light of the plentiful reasons why Toronto would have been an ideal place to start off in business (Zakarow, the Ivey bunch, D., the fact that it’s in Canada and close to Montreal, etc.). But I’m moving on, no looking back.
First game: Harvard, on olympic-sized ice. We were looking forward to “fuckin’ up some smaht kids”, but as it turns out, they’re fresh from a successful run at the Tuck championship, laden down with talent of questionable academic affiliation, and boast a domer goaltender (Charron) with, apparently, no conscience at all. Final result: 13-0 for the “smaht” kids. We held it together for the first period, and then for part of the second, but in the end, the legs just weren’t there and they started running up the score without mercy. Which brings to mind an observation: what does it say about me that I would have taken the foot off the gas pedal at, say, 6-0 or 7-0 to avoid humiliating the other guys, while they plowed ahead unabated? Am I not competitive in the sense needed to be a winner that takes it all? Or is it just that they’re a bunch of vainglorious tools who wanted so bad to win this tourney as well that they took the opportunity to cement their standing at our expense? Whatever it was, it wasn’t a fun game at all, for obvious reasons. Bassin and Kara were in attendance, and there appears to be something there, but we’ll get to that later.
Post game, I go back to Bassin’s for a shower and to prep for the evening’s festivities. We’re going to the Barking Frog, same place as last year where I drunkenly declared my love for probably the youngest undergrad in the place. Not intentionally, mind you, but I’m sure that was the case. So we chill out at Bassin’s a little with Smitty, drink some beers and chat about Smitty’s recently defunct relationship with the tall and elegant girl (whose name eludes me right now). I tell them about “confession girl” and K., and we’re now knee-deep in the kind of bullshitting session that seems to be so commonplace for these Ivey folks, yet so alien to me. These people live in a kind of winter version of Melrose Place, with all the attendant scandals and social intricacies. Really fascinating.
At the Barking Frog, I meet up with my teammates, who are trying to appeal (unseccussfully) to Charron’s sense of loyalty. I move on. These guys seem so intent on either getting drunk or clustering together, despite all the women around, that I think it’s best for me to explore other people. Enter Jen, Rachel and Crystal. Not anything to howl at the moon about, but they’re sassy and friendlt and, most importantly, not hockey players. Bassin effortlessly plays the part of the sidekick, and though the details are neither salient, memorable nor saucy, the evening does end on a positive note, and we retreat to the Bassin stronghold.
Music: A selection from Brass’ iPod, including a fantastic live 20-minute version of “Cortez the Killer” by Built to Spill and Interpol’s “Turn on the Bright Lights”. Must ask Brass for other names. Turns out the guy’s got a pretty wide range of interests, a lot of which are very interesting indeed.
Books: Alexis de Tocqueville (“Democracy in America”), Thomas Friedman (“The World is Flat”)
Spent the morning preparing, doing laundry and handing in my CC&M final paper. Didn’t quite make it to see M., though the way I feel right now about the whole Adjoined thing, it’s better for me to stay away. Did manage to drop in to see K., though, with an offering of coffee, and was once again surprised at how easy it is to just go along with the flow with her. She has a charming accent, and flawless written French, which is always a good way to earn my admiration. Must remember to take a picture of those eyes.
And now, game on! The second edition of the Ivey Cup is upon us, and this year’s contingent, if not superior in numbers, is at least superior in talent. It’s me, DeHond, Caleb, Brass, Karsten, Mikulec and Prentice. Rambaldini bailed on us at the last moment, citing “the flu”, and for that, he’s cut off for life. I can’t believe a countryman would do that. No big loss, as it turns out, just annoying in the way it happened. So Caleb’s going to play goal. Thankfully, one of us can take on those duties, and I’m glad it’s him.
But talent doesn’t really matter, as it never really does at this tourney. What I’m most looking forward to is further cementing some bonds with Ivey folk, Bassin in particular. It’s only dawning on me now that the Toronto foul-up—that’s what I’ll call it from now on—looms a little bigger in light of the plentiful reasons why Toronto would have been an ideal place to start off in business (Zakarow, the Ivey bunch, D., the fact that it’s in Canada and close to Montreal, etc.). But I’m moving on, no looking back.
First game: Harvard, on olympic-sized ice. We were looking forward to “fuckin’ up some smaht kids”, but as it turns out, they’re fresh from a successful run at the Tuck championship, laden down with talent of questionable academic affiliation, and boast a domer goaltender (Charron) with, apparently, no conscience at all. Final result: 13-0 for the “smaht” kids. We held it together for the first period, and then for part of the second, but in the end, the legs just weren’t there and they started running up the score without mercy. Which brings to mind an observation: what does it say about me that I would have taken the foot off the gas pedal at, say, 6-0 or 7-0 to avoid humiliating the other guys, while they plowed ahead unabated? Am I not competitive in the sense needed to be a winner that takes it all? Or is it just that they’re a bunch of vainglorious tools who wanted so bad to win this tourney as well that they took the opportunity to cement their standing at our expense? Whatever it was, it wasn’t a fun game at all, for obvious reasons. Bassin and Kara were in attendance, and there appears to be something there, but we’ll get to that later.
Post game, I go back to Bassin’s for a shower and to prep for the evening’s festivities. We’re going to the Barking Frog, same place as last year where I drunkenly declared my love for probably the youngest undergrad in the place. Not intentionally, mind you, but I’m sure that was the case. So we chill out at Bassin’s a little with Smitty, drink some beers and chat about Smitty’s recently defunct relationship with the tall and elegant girl (whose name eludes me right now). I tell them about “confession girl” and K., and we’re now knee-deep in the kind of bullshitting session that seems to be so commonplace for these Ivey folks, yet so alien to me. These people live in a kind of winter version of Melrose Place, with all the attendant scandals and social intricacies. Really fascinating.
At the Barking Frog, I meet up with my teammates, who are trying to appeal (unseccussfully) to Charron’s sense of loyalty. I move on. These guys seem so intent on either getting drunk or clustering together, despite all the women around, that I think it’s best for me to explore other people. Enter Jen, Rachel and Crystal. Not anything to howl at the moon about, but they’re sassy and friendlt and, most importantly, not hockey players. Bassin effortlessly plays the part of the sidekick, and though the details are neither salient, memorable nor saucy, the evening does end on a positive note, and we retreat to the Bassin stronghold.
posted by Nic at 6:31 AM
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