The following is a semi-satirical typical week in the life of a club lacrosse player. Names and places have been changed to protect the guilty but all events occurred at some point in the four years of SICK CLUB LAX that I was so humbly #blessed to experience. And even though I ended up blowing my knee out twice, I still managed to underachieve like I knew I would.
Monday: Schedule for the year just came out. Hopefully when we travel this year, the DEA won’t raid all of the opposing team’s fraternity houses again and they’ll be able to field a team without their best players all facing felony charges. Such a buzzkill. Pretty sure Vance still has the chair we jacked from the Kappa Sig house when we were there? I swear that fucker gets away with everything. When he’s not talking shit after a run at d-mid, he’s begging large women to dance with him at the bar. D-mids are strange in a way that I’ll never truly comprehend, but I’ll be damned if they aren’t damn good at what they do. After a certain amount of time after the fact, everything starts blending together. Fuck. I just realized I’m out of clean calf socks and I just got new white air maxes. No way in Hell you’ll see me rocking black midcalfs and white air maxes. I’d rather drop a bunch of Catholic priests off at a little league game.
Tuesday: Club fields are closed due to rain. I swear to God, someone’s dog could piss on those fields and they’d shut them down. The two differences between “great” club programs and “elite” club programs are 1. facilities and 2. steezy recruits. Obviously, ‘recruits’ is used lightly as most of the elite club squads have horses at midfield that should be playing second line at Brown or Yale, but chose MCLA instead. Facilities are an entirely different animal, as some schools simply have more scrilla to give out to their teams. Whatever. We ended up getting some stick work in on the field next to the marching band’s field. Yes, they gave those shitsucking nerds a field to practice on but we have to swing the rock around on the softball outfield. Has the marching band ever won a conference championship? Have they ever finished a beer? I digress.
Wednesday: Just finished up stringing three sticks for some teammates. You can put a general ledger or list of o-chem problems in front of some of these guys and they’d have no fucking problem, but stringing a lacrosse stick totally escapes them. How can you average three goals a game and not have a clue how to string the tool you use to sing those g-notes? Christ. It’s still syllabus week, aka we go to 40% of our classes and use the rest of the time fighting hangovers before practice. At least the entire squad managed to make it out for practice on Monday and Tuesday. All the dumb wide-eyed freshman are still in somewhat of good shape coming off of their high school lax seasons, and us old guys are over here blasting 27s after practice trying to take the edge off before an all nighter. But I’ll be damned if I say the young guns don’t have any talent. My favorite part is getting to give the freshman nicknames that will inevitably stick with them for the entirety of their college career. There’s Lassie, named after the high school he went to. Sneeze, because his last name sounds like a sneeze. Sweatshirt, who still lives up to his nickname by rocking a sweatshirt whether he’s on the field or not. Even their fraternity pledge nicknames bleed over into lacrosse… personal favorite is Cheesedick. Who, by all regards, embraces his nickname to the fullest extent.
Thursday: Rolling out of bed, I realize the soreness I feel in my body is not because someone beat me with a phonebook while I was asleep but is from the sprints we did after practice last night. Look, I’m not saying I’m the goal scorer or team’s best athlete, but someone has to be able to finish the leftover beer every party and still be able to stand outside the box and shred 90 mph in both hands. Speaking of parties, apparently there’s one tonight with the girls team? The proudest moment of my rookie season was when the girl’s goalie punched me in the face. I’ve never been so aroused in my life. I think she’s at veterinary school dismantling corpses of cats or something, which is the most fitting job in the world for her.
Friday: Inevitably, the dildo was brought out at the party. We use indefinite articles in the case of a dildo as to not imply ownership of said dildo. When a bunch of girls show up with a dildo, how do you suspect they decide whose to bring? Do they rotate? Is it a communal dildo? I hope they wash their hands. Either way, that thing is the MVP of their away games. There were pictures taken that would ruin every single person’s chance for a job in the real world, but we’ve all developed a kind of “don’t you fucking dare post that anywhere” kind of mentality over the years that has paid off greatly. Poor Johnny, that picture of him with the dildo getting shoved down his throat when he thought he was getting a haircut is going to probably show up at his wedding. Hopefully he gets some penicillin because I’m not sure anyone knows where that thing has been.
Saturday: Well, as luck would have it, I woke up in the hospital. All I had in my pockets was my phone and the discharge papers. At least the nurse was nice, because I don’t think my father is going to appreciate the bill for the ambulance ride. While shamefully chugging the cold Colt 45 left out on the porch at the party still looking for the shirt I was wearing, it suddenly dawns on me that nobody probably collected the money from the rookies to cover Bob for the keg. He’s a KA, so it’s not like he needs the money. I might be a man of questionable morality, but I do have principles. I decide to Venmo Bob the money along with a funny message because nothing screams white privilege like making jokes about transferring money.
Sunday: Lather, rinse, repeat (x4 years).