Muddy York

Days 4 - 8: March 5 – March 9 2010

Toronto, perhaps Buffalo's greatest suburb, is a wonderful place and I'm happy I chose to drive there with several friends for spring break. Dan, Neil, Mak and I drove in one car, and Rob and Thao drove in another. The majority of my time was spent with Dan, Neil and Mak.

Saturday 8:40 am – 1:00 pm

After my alarm goes off, I roll off of my mattress and into the shower. From what I can recall of events this early on a Saturday, I actually rolled from my bed, out my door, down the stairs, and took a shower lying down in the tub. I couldn't even shower efficiently; I used too much shampoo and too little body wash. I hadn't packed yet either, but I figure the masculine thing to do is to pack only a few shirts and underwears and travel as lightly as possible. Road trip participants should be as grimy and smelly and stubbly as possible, especially as the trip wears on, and I wanted to fulfill my character. All men have a toiletries bag that smells like aftershave and testosterone, and I was proud to call mine up for duty once more.

Dan and I had agreed that we should try to listen to as much stand-up comedy as possible on the drive to Canada, so I loaded albums from Mitch Hedberg, Aziz Ansari, Dave Chappelle, George Carlin, and Richard Pryor onto my mp3 player and headed for the door.

Dan and Mak have been friends since before high school, and I enjoyed taking a backseat as they reminisced about the old days. Mak mentioned how Dan used to let him drive Dan's father's car to school before Mak even had a permit. Dan told us how he was so tired during those early-morning commutes that when it was his turn to drive, he'd fall asleep at the wheel every chance he got. "Every red light was a chance to get some sleep."

By 11:00 am, it became clear that I was not going to be alpha male, or even beta male, on this trip. Instead, I focused on being a great role player - for example, I'd bail out jokes that fell flat by giving some solid courtesy laughs. I did not mind being the Shannon Brown of the trip, but only because both of our names sound pretty feminine. Sometimes, I wish my name ended with an "O" instead of an "A".

Saturday 1:00 pm – 2:00 pm

We enter an all-you-can-eat buffet place somewhere in upstate New York. The staff there was incredibly nice; one noticed Dan's Shane Victorino shirt and told us that she went to high school with Victorino back in Hawaii. She said that he was nice to her, but that he was a jerk for pitting two of her friends against each other so he could date both. She also said that Victorino was the only person in her high school who was allowed to play multiple sports per season because he was so good he didn't need to practice.

Mak needed a pair of nail-clippers, so we walked to a nearby drug store. There was only one main road in the entire town, yet there were somehow three (three!) tax preparation services competing against each other. I thought this was pretty funny. Small towns are lionized for their heartland values, not their accounting prowess. Also, Neil bought a package of laxatives which would provide most of the entertainment for the next six hours.

Saturday 2:00 pm – 8:00 pm

Neil eats a triple dose of laxatives as soon as we pull out of Dodge. We all try to trick Dan into eating some, but he says he doesn't want any chocolate, and that he also doesn't want any chocolates that are laced with laxatives. I guess he was on to us. Either way, within two hours he changed his mind and took twice the recommended serving. Not wanting to feel left out, Mak and I soon followed. Basically, the stand-up comedy had gotten kind of boring and we had five hours left in the car.

The dynamic among four guys on a ten hour car ride are hard to describe. For example, the following quotes become hilarious after seven hours:

Person A: [notices highway billboard for Jello museum] Look, the Jell-O Hall of Fame!

Person B: [takes Dan's grandmother's cataract-ridden eye shields which were in the car and begins making faces at other drivers]

Person C: [taunting Neil's laxative situation] You know what I could use right now? A niiiiiiiiice [expletive].

For entertainment in some third world cultures, people will defecate into a closed container and wait for fermentation to make the compound's fumes hallucinogenic. Our car ride was pretty similar to this.

One highway took us through the heart of Syracuse. I started disliking college basketball this year. I watched a Kentucky game trying to buy into the John Wall hype; maybe he'll be good in the pros, but all I saw from Wall and both teams during that game were missed layups, turnovers, and sloppy play. Besides Carmelo Anthony and Kevin Durant, I can't remember another highly touted college player over the past decade whose game was polished before a couple of NBA seasons. Anyway, Syracuse is more than a small college town. It's actually pretty urban and developed.

I fell asleep for about three hours and woke up after we had already passed Buffalo. Border crossing was less than forty-five minutes away. The laxatives were slowly beginning to liquefy our intestines. I keep mentioning the laxatives not because I like those contrived Tucker Max style "Can you top how crazzzzzzy this is?!?!?" stories, but because it actually happened.

The Canadian border patrol guard was incredibly nice to us, and as soon as we entered their country we saw a McDonald's sign advertising free coffee until March 14^th. It felt like the country was saying "Welcome to Canada. Here's your coffee."

Saturday 8:00 pm – 9:00 pm

We find some government subsidized parking for Dan's '73 Nissan right outside of the hostel. Shortly thereafter, we finally check in. I wonder if we can do especially stupid things because Canada has universal health care, but I'm not sure if foreign idiot twenty year olds are covered by their plan. Either way, I love moral hazards.

Sunday 10:00 pm – Noon

We crawl out of bed and take some of the grimiest showers in memory. I hated stepping out of the shower only to feel the dust and hair of the floor begin clinging to my wet feet. The bathroom setup on our floor was pretty stupid. The floor housed roughly 50 people. There were two women's bathrooms next to each other, and a third bathroom which was unisex. To recap: three bathrooms, two women's, one unisex. It was only $30 per night though.

Neil went to visit his relatives in the Toronto suburbs as Mak, Dan and I headed to the Air Canada Centre to catch Raptor fever. Sadly, Dan ended up catching Raptor herpes. We didn't have tickets yet, so we approached some scalpers. Canadian scalpers are hilarious. One refused to sell for anything less than $40; when we agreed but said we needed to go to an ATM for cash, he immediately apologized and offered to sell for $35. Dan and Mak joked that if we held out longer he would have thrown in some pie and maybe a belt.

Sunday Noon – 3:00 pm

The Raptors host the Sixers. I cannot overstate how much I loved the Toronto fan base and the arena they filled.

The fans nearly sold out the arena – no small feat in today's NBA – and cheered loudly throughout the contest. They even stayed until the closing seconds despite trailing by double digits to a horrible team for the entire fourth quarter. And, I won a free t-shirt.

The Air Canada Centre itself was gorgeous. The concourses are packed with bars, food stands, and games. Over two seasons in the late '90s, this franchise was home to Marcus Camby, Damon Stoudamire, Chauncey Billups, Tracy McGrady, and Vince Carter. Much like the Montreal Expos – erstwhile home of Pedro Martinez, Randy Johnson, Larry Walker, and many others – they should have been more successful.

Dan nearly disowned me for turning on the Sixers so rapidly, but that's ok.

Sunday 3:00 pm – 8:00 pm

Mak, Dan and I explored Toronto's financial district and enjoyed the weather during a long walk back to the hostel. After taking a nap, we meet up with Neil, Rob, and Thao before heading out. Also, Neil had already [expletive] five times today, thanks to the laxatives.

Monday 1:45 pm

We get breakfast at an excellent restaurant near the shopping district in Toronto.

Monday 3:00 pm – 6:00 pm

Though we are thoroughly exhausted and can barely stay awake, we dig deep and find a way to explore the biggest mall in Toronto. I grow progressively crankier and I need a nap.

Monday 6:00 pm – 8:00 pm

Knowing it's our last night in Toronto, we explore as much as possible on foot and finally make it back to the hostel. I stupidly forgot my Zyrtec in Philadelphia, which meant that my allergies were beginning to make me feel a little sick. Mak and Neil agree that they'd rather rest and be ready to drive at 8:00 am the next day than go out for a third straight night; Dan proceeds to call everyone a bunch of [expletive] and tries to guilt everyone into going out.

Tuesday 8:00 am – 1:00 pm

Dan lost the argument, but he did moon everyone in retaliation. We wake up on time, cross the border, and return to American soil. The first thing we do is go to an iconic Buffalo restaurant, Duff's, for their famous chicken wings. When Dan and I visited New York in November, we agreed we were allowed to indulge in anything on vacation – because, damnit, we were "on vacation". This same clause was invoked again as we all had bacon cheeseburgers to go with our buffalo wings. Dan even got a sandwich which was made on weck, which is a kind of bread that is dipped in salt. Imagine a sugar powdered donut, only instead it's covered in salt, and also there's a pound of roast beef in the middle. That was Dan's sandwich.

Tuesday 1:00 pm – 4:00 pm

Toughest stretch of driving. Everyone's legs and lower back are dead from the constant travel and uncomfortable beds. No one has showered due to the early start time, which only adds to the misery. The hero of the trip was my iPod, which did not run out of battery despite being nearly five years old and not being charged at any point in Toronto.

Tuesday 4:00 pm – 8:00 pm

My time to shine. I get behind the wheel for the last stretch from Scranton to Philadelphia. The ability for four guys to meld into one entity after spending too much time with each other crosses the line from cool to creepy when I make a correct left turn on some tiny street in Philadelphia to get to Mak's house without him instructing me to do so. I will never understand how I knew to turn at the correct street, but I did.

Tuesday 8:00 pm – 8:30 pm

Dan breaks every speeding law possible to get us from Northeast Philadelphia back to Penn's campus. Neil, Dan and I order dinner after a few hours at home and while Neil isn't looking, Dan spikes his drink with more laxatives and then uses his finger to stir the contents of the glass. I laugh a lot when the prank works and Neil comments on how his drink "suddenly tastes pretty minty", then shrugs and finishes it. I haven't run in six days.

Prologue

Spring Break has finally arrived. I will be road tripping to Toronto to see a Raptors-Sixers game so that my goal of seeing a home game at every venue in the Atlantic Division of the NBA's Eastern Conference will be one step closer to completion. My vacation plan seems like a joke when I write it down, but I will actually be in the Air Canada Centre two days from now.

Five other people and I will be leaving tomorrow morning and returning on Tuesday, which means that the Quest to complete the Broad Street Run is going to be temporarily suspended. I will not be doing any running until Wednesday, which means my streak of three consecutive days running comes to an end.

The words "epic" and "legendary" have been co-opted by people far cooler than I for usage in their everyday speech patterns. I am not a fan of this development. Still, my hope is that the Toronto trip ends up ok.

Season Finale

Day 3: March 4 2010

Prior to 2002, I had never pulled an all-nighter. Sleepovers at the time consisted of ten or so of us gathering at a kid's house, eating pizza, and playing video games. Brutally intense tournaments were built around whichever video game was chosen (usually either Smash Brothers or the EA Sports title that was in season).

This meant that for long periods at a time, two kids would be facing off against each other while eight other kids silently sat staring at the screen. My passive aggressiveness - "too bad my quarterback's accuracy rating isn't as high as yours" - was honed over many such showdowns. Tempers flared and a small amount of property was destroyed. One or two kids wouldn't take the game seriously and would spend their turn dicking around, which was considerably worse than kids like me who cared too much and acted like jerks when we lost. Apathetic kids brought into stark relief the fact that we had become emotionally invested in a meaningless pseudosport.

Finally, futile attempts to descramble the porn channel ("my brother taught me how! he swears this works!") and a discussion of women occurred before we collapsed into our sleeping bags. The host's parents usually let us sleep until about 11:00 am the next morning at which point they would wake us with bagels and orange juice. We would retire, smelly and exhausted, to our respective homes shortly thereafter.

2002 was the first sleepover I attended at which we succeeded in staying up until 7:00 am. The scene in the basement when the clock finally crossed 7:00 was very similar to how the NASA control room reacts after a daring mission succeeds in every space movie ever: muted, exhausted clapping and a series of hugs.

I have never pulled an all-nighter in college, but yesterday was pretty damn close.

A combination of strong coffee and inefficient study habits led me to fall asleep at 3:00. This is late, but not unusually late for a college student. However, my strategy on the night before tests is to study until I am no longer retaining material, then fall asleep, then set an alarm for 5:15 a.m. so I can wake up and finish cramming before the test. The strategy means I can squeeze in some sleep before a test, such as the one I had this morning at 10:30.

The test ended at noon and the adrenaline eventually wore off. By the mid-afternoon, I was cranky and needed a nap. Running today was going to be a challenge.

My plans to groggily tough it out and run a few miles today soon changed. I received an email from my intramural basketball team members indicating that we had enough people to play the game tonight. Since it was the night before spring break, a lot of kids had already flown out and left campus. Instead of forfeiting the game, we fielded a team and competed – though I'm being fairly liberal in my interpretation of the word "compete". A brief recap of our season:

Game 1: We played with the chemistry of a collection of overpaid superstars, except we all suck at basketball and no one gets paid. So, we were pretty much left with a team of crappy players who couldn't play defense or rebound. After trailing all game, we narrowed the deficit to nine with five minutes left before ultimately falling by twelve. I had six points.

Game 2: We played against a fraternity's intramural squad. All of them were built like Kevin Durant – our opponent's entire roster was seemingly over 6'1 and 150 pounds. After falling behind by twenty in the second half, I drain a couple of threes to pad my stat line and finish with twelve points.

Game 3: The nadir of my athletic career and an outcome which nearly sent me into retirement. The other team, again from a fraternity, only had four players. We lost by ten. To put this in perspective for non-basketball fans, it's similar to playing against someone at chess and losing, only they played with no queen or rooks. To put it in perspective for non-chess fans, it's like losing a basketball game to a team with FOUR !&#?!# players on it. I once wrote that my basketball ability was "a worse version of Royal Ivey". It turns out that's incredibly unfair to Royal Ivey. I think it's more accurate to compare me to those people at NBA games who get selected to make a free throw for a bunch of money, only if instead of merely airballing the shot the contestant somehow turned the ball over seven times and generally made James Naismith's family weep, and then his pants fall down for added humiliation.

Game 4: The March 4^th game was the season finale. We finally played solid help defense and hung in the game the entire time, but could not make a shot. The final score was 42 – 27.

It's hard to write about one's own basketball games without sounding like Matt Christopher. I remember plowing through dozens of his books back in elementary school (all of them had titles like Ice Magic or Nothing but Net). From what I recall, the books did not follow the Hollywood formula of "gritty underdog overcomes adversity and beats rival in final game".

So, in terms of my Broad Street Run Quest, I did not technically run any miles today, but I played a competitive basketball game so it counts as something. I have a whiteboard in my room, and I wrote "Did I run today?" on one side and "Broad Street Run in X Days" on the other and I keep updating it. I have ran for three straight days (not impressive yet) and the Run is in just under two months. I also wrote "Do Not Erase" and circled it so the custodial staff knows to keep it.

Days 1 and 2

disclaimer: read the previous post first

As I mentioned in my previous post, today begins the Quest to complete the Broad Street Run in Philadelphia on May 2^nd. I have sixty days to get into shape, which so far has left me impressed by sports movie montages because right now it feels I'm filming all the material that gets edited out. If they made a movie of what's happened so far, it would literally be two hours of an exhausted, sweaty guy doing nothing interesting, but thanks to the new Oscar rules it's probably worth a Best Picture nomination.

Day 1: March 2, 2010

I initially intended on running at 6:30 a.m. this morning and getting it out of the way early. Thirteen hours later, I was finally on a treadmill.

The day started with a 6:00 a.m. reveille initiated by my phone. An individual's cell phone alarm eventually gets to be the most hated sound in that person's universe due to the unadulterated misery it brings on a daily basis. In fact, I encourage you to play the alarm tone on your cell right now and experience the combination of fear and rage that is usually reserved for early mornings. I thought it was pretty cool that the tone has the ability to elicit this emotional response at any time of day.

Tuesdays are a tough day; class from 9 until noon and work from noon until 5. The best days at the work are when the office gets breakfast catered, which means that there are huge amounts of bagels, muffins, eggs, and various other rapidly decaying foods up for grabs throughout the afternoon. I was starving around 4:30 and knew that I was going to run, so I plowed through two stale bagels and two muffins. Distance running on an empty stomach is nearly impossible and I considered it necessary.

Eventually, I was changed and ready to go to the David S. Pottruck Fitness Center. I put my earbuds in and flipped my iPod over to my Eminem collection; I've been on an Eminem kick for the last two weeks and I turned on 2002's phenomenal The Eminem Show. The walk from my house to the gym gave me the following songs: "Hailie's Song"; "Till I Collapse"; and "My Dad's Gone Crazy". I Wikipedia'd the album later on, and I learned that "Hailie's Song" samples "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" and that "Till I Collapse" samples "We Will Rock You". Too bad Relapse was awful; Em's old stuff puts all modern rap to shame.

I already ran a few times in the past week before yesterday, and so I was ready to see if I could set a personal distance record. The goal was seven miles. Unfortunately, I was at the gym during peak occupancy hours (5:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m.) and I had to wait for a treadmill. This allowed me to notice parts of gym culture to which I had never before paid any attention.

1. The ridiculous split between intense runners and people who are at the gym to be seen. I am neither, but it is easy for to identify members of each clan. The intense runners dress in goofy skintight clothes (like bicyclists) and wear short shorts on top of their leggings. They usually wear t-shirts they received from their respective high school running teams which have movie quotes across the back where the last name would be on a football uniform. For example, the front might say Spiro T. Agnew Regional High School and the back would say something that's kind of amusing at first, but gets progressively lamer which each subsequent reading, much like Fundamentally Soundd. The people who are at the gym to be seen arrive in leggings as well, but they don't wear baggy clothes on top in order to showcase the curves of their bodies. This is a trend which makes me alternately thankful or furious depending on the figure in question. Casual treadmill users will never select a speed greater than two miles per hour and have either a really fat chemistry textbook or the latest issue of The Economist splashed across the machine's control panel. I never understood the concept of reading while being on a treadmill. I think it's a lot like those kids who used to carry around SAT prep books with them all the time in high school, meaning that it's nothing more than a display of how Seriously they need to be taken. Sometimes they read Vogue though, so I don't know.
   
2. The energy shake stand within the gym served two purposes. First, it reminded me of Power Rangers, since I think that they all used to work in the yogurt section of a karate gym or something. Second, it was clear that some of the shakes were actually pretty bad for you. Even though the sign out front says that all of the drinks are non-fat (maybe it said low-fat, I can't remember in hindsight), I was curious and I requested the nutrition facts pamphlet. The verdict? Fat! The peanut butter based smoothies all have at least 15 grams of fat. Someone should do something about this. Or, to put it more accurately, someone else should do something about this. Penn is a place where the first milk container to be empty in the dining halls is always the one which holds skim, which suggests that most people are obsessively competitive about fitness. If I can be 15 grams of fat ahead of everyone else, it's a secret I'm willing to keep.
   
3. Do you remember when Al Gore pledged in a 2000 Presidential Debate that he would put funds in a "lockbox" in order to save Social Security, and the term became a pop culture hallmark for a year or so after that? The gym literally has a lockbox, which is a giant cardboard box filled with dozens of locks that people have lost. I asked the attendant about it, and he said that people who lose locks are too cheap to spring $6 for a new one, so they spend hours trying their combination on the entire pile of identical Master locks. He even said that in the past week, two separate people picked their lock correctly out of the huge box on the first try.
   

After indulging my inner Tocqueville (Travels in America? Anyone?) for fifteen minutes, a treadmill finally opened up. For the record, I am aware that Tocqueville references are also pretentious displays of how Seriously one needs to be taken, but I'll be damned if that asshat Montesquieu ever gets mentioned on this blog again. After extensive stretching, I jumped on, turned the speed up to 6.5, and began to run. Over the next 70 minutes or so that I was running, a few thoughts crossed my mind.

First, the Pottruck televisions that are displayed in front of the treadmills are unbearably cruel. The channels on the three that I could see were showing Juno, Around the Horn, and some Food Network program. The fact that I actually enjoy sports meant that I didn't want to see the first two, and the fact that I was starving and had nothing but cold spaghetti at home meant I didn't want to watch the final one. When I ran on Sunday, they Professional Bowling U.S. Open was on and it was wonderful. Not only is the sport strangely riveting, but the announcers don't waste any time describing the action or analyzing the play. Instead, they talk about how Bowler X is "such a good guy" and how Bowler Y is "staying at Bowler Z's house for the weekend – you don't get to do that unless you're a really good guy".

Second, mile five is the breaking point right now for me. I was fine through five, but the last two were pretty tough. Gotta step it up if the Broad Street Run is in my future.

Eventually, the screen flashed "7.00" and it was time to stop. I climbed off and immediately began stretching again, hoping to ward off future soreness. I'm not sure if this helps or not. From what I can gather, most of the secrets of running technique are closely guarded by witch doctors and shamans and it's therefore impossible for a layperson such as me to figure out what I'm actually supposed to do. When and what should I eat? Should I stretch? At what points? Which shoes are the best? I may never know.

It felt damn good to accomplish my goal of seven miles. I lied down on my back and swung my legs once each to my right and left to crack my back. Sweat from my hair began to drip directly into my eyes.

Day 2: March 3, 2010

Today's run was far more stressful and far less fun than yesterday's. I have a test tomorrow, so it was not easy to carve out time to go for a run. Second, I was advised that the day after a heavy run should be followed by a light run in order to help clear the legs of excess lactic acid. Again, I have no idea if this is good running technique or not, but my friend seems to be a knowledgeable source (four years of cross country in high school). Then again, this man was once involved in creating a situation in which urine was filtered through a Brita pitcher and drank – albeit by someone else – so I don't really know what to believe. Lactic acid reminds me of anaerobic respiration, which is the only type of respiration I believe in since aerobic respiration sold out and gave that bastard Krebs the naming rights to the historic Citric Acid Cycle.

Yesterday's music for the walk to the gym was provided by Eminem. Today's was Animal Collective. I am not sure how to feel about Animal Collective. On one hand, they are indisputably the most critically acclaimed band in the indie rock world. On the other hand, their work more frequently sounds like noise than music. I turned on 2009's Merriweather Post Pavillion and listened to "Summertime Clothes" and "Bluish". I like both of these songs, but I really don't get what the big deal is about these guys.

After making fun of Pottruck's vaunted lockbox, I found that I actually needed to use it. I lost my lock the day before – I was probably still riding high after the seven mile run and wasn't paying attention. In any case, I did not need to sift through the giant pile of locks since mine was the only one that was a) golden and b) not a Master lock. I learned about this study where there is a certain type of fish that hunts other types of fish, and the predators target prey that have atypical red undersides (most prey fish had silver undersides, so the red ones stuck out). In an experiment, the predator fish would not attack a dummy prey fish that was shaped exactly like the actual prey fish, but it would attack a shapeless red blob. In conclusion, fish have very short attention spans, but most of what they are thinking is pretty racist.

2.7 miles later, I was ready to call it quits. On the walk home, I started reading a Club Trillion post that I missed. I found the site thanks to a tweet by Bill Simmons, and it's phenomenal. Mark Titus is the man.

The Council of Elrond

Driving along Route 22 in New Jersey is kind of like driving through a pop-up ad from a shady website. I think there's even a store named about:blank. Sadly, instead of Orbitz challenging me to sink putts for low fares, there's an endless display of garishly decorated storefronts competing for the attention of the denizens of central Jersey. One such location is The Sports Authority, which underwent a rapid image transformation since it changed its name from The Sports Authoritarian in the early '90s (they used to sell mostly tennis rackets, rigged elections, and nepotism).

When I walked inside, the first thing that hit me was the smell. As with all department stores, Sports Authority smells like shoe polish, but pointier if that makes sense. It's not so much of a smell as something you can feel, to the extent that my nose and bronchial tubes hurt for the first few breaths I took.

I decided to take up running as a hobby some time ago. My budget for new sneakers was limited to $40 and, fortunately, Sports Authority had a pair of Nikes for exactly $40. I went through the ancient ritual of shoe purchasers since time immemorial.

First, I sat down on the shoe-tying bench, opened the box, and removed the wax paper that supported the toes of the shoe. I proceeded to carefully weave the laces and slip one on, then looked at my dad and told him that they "felt good" in an attempt to expedite an agreement to purchase the shoes. Obviously, it failed. As per the ritual, my dad then insisted that I try both on and walk around a little bit. I did a half-assed job of lacing up shoe #2 and walking up and down the aisle with my eyes flitting among the angled mirrors that are affixed to the shoe-tying benches in the sneaker section. Finally, I concluded the ritual by nodding somberly and confirming my initial diagnosis: the shoes "felt good" and were fit for a purchase. The dance was complete and consensus was built.

The hidden upside to buying the shoes is that it incentivized running; after all, the only way to use my new toys was to hop onto a treadmill several times per week. My friend, who I named Gunslinger of the Year a few months ago, had far more running experience than I did and I asked him to help me shape a regimen. Gunslinging and planning do not mix and most of his advice involved Hydroxycut. I plowed ahead anyway and began hitting the campus gym regularly.

When intramural basketball season began, I ditched running in favor of doing my world-class Royal Ivey impression. Between the practices to regain what little skill I had and the games themselves, running took a backseat to basketball. When the season ended last week, I decided it was time to make a dramatic return to the treadmill and started up my routine again. As of today, there are sixty days until the Broad Street Run, a 10-mile race through Philadelphia. I am slow and most of my athletic accomplishments, in hindsight, are either exaggerations or outright lies that are complicated enough that they sound real. For example, there was the time we ran a halfback trap and I was the pulling left tackle, and it gained seven crucial yards on 2^nd and 8 while we were nursing a nine point lead in the fourth quarter of the Inter-County Police Athletic League Championship Game back in 3^rd grade. Still, sixty days to get in shape and finish the Broad Street Run is the goal.

A few quick notes before the (hopefully) daily entries begin: I have already been running or playing basketball consistently so I'm not completely out of shape. I started off barely able to finish 2.5 miles in January and have improved considerably, so this is not quite a zero-to-hero story (unlike Disney's Hercules). I run at 6.5 miles per hour – admittedly not very fast – but it's the best rate I can manage while running for distance. Finally, I began running seriously again yesterday, so today's entry will be a combination of thoughts from both today and yesterday.

With that, the Quest begins. Hopefully, the decision to write about my mission to finish the Broad Street Run tethers my dual goals of returning to Fundamentally Soundd with both barrels blazing and finishing a big race while leveraging the synergistic capabilities inherent in embarking on a new quest and concurrently minimizing negative externalities. And yes, I have an exam in Management class tomorrow.

Morgan Stan

January 18, 2009

Dear Sir,

I just wanted to thank you again for taking the time to speak with me at the information session for your firm earlier today. Specifically, we spoke about some of the lesser known deals you worked on with Skam, Ruckus & Company, a boutique M&A bank. I found our talk to be fascinating. Hopefully, you remember me. I actually applied to a sophomore rotational program at your firm last summer – I was rejected. Do you know if HR holds it against future applicants? Maybe there was a delivery error or something and they never received my application.

I have attached my resume for your review. My contact information – including my cell, my pager, and my home phone – is at the bottom. Please feel free to contact me if you need any further information.

Truly yours,

[applicant]

__________________________________________________________________

January 23, 2009,

Dear Sir,

I just wanted to touch base and make sure you received my most recent correspondence. Just to reiterate, I braved the 20-degree Philadelphia winter and trudged twelve blocks to attend your company's information session. Yours is the most prestigious investment bank on Wall Street, and I am very enthusiastic about the opportunity to work at your firm.

My enthusiasm is evident in many ways. I have sought to live by your company's core beliefs as outlined on a glossy handout at the career fair: Innovate. Prudent. Leadership. I actually tattooed those words backwards onto my chest so I could see them in the mirror every morning as I part my hair.

I hope I get an interview. Do you have any advice? Are they mostly fit, technicals, or should I just track current news? Please call me back. I may be the best applicant you'll forget to choose.

Best regards,

[applicant]

P.S. I remember you mentioned you were a Celtics fan. Me too! I hate to see them lose. How do you like their chances in June?

__________________________________________________________________

January 31, 2009

Dear Mr. Big Fat Investment Bank,

This will be the last letter I ever send your ass. It's been two weeks and still no word. I don't deserve it. I know you got my last two cover letters I wrote the addresses on them perfect. So this is my "additional information" box I'm filling in. I hope you read it! I've dropped at all your divisions. No reply. I just drank a fifth of vodka – dare me to reapply?

You know that song by Phil Collins "In the Air of the Night" about that guy who was 'waiting for a moment his whole life', only that moment never came? That's how this kind of is. You could have rescued me from drowning. Now it's too late, my i-banking career died before it started.

I loved you, we should have been together. Ten info sessions and you won't even read my cover letter?! Plus, my resume was flawless, admit it. You were impressed by my role as VP of External Marketing Co-Ordination, weren't you? Well, too bad! Tables have turned. I reject you! And I hope you can't sleep about it and all your analysts leave for PE without you and the C's lose and Rasheed airs a three to seal it!!!

Your lack of professionalism in responding to my questions was appalling. You're a goddam phony leveraged sellout.

___________________________________________________________________

Feb 5 2010

To: [redacted]@wharton.upenn.edu

From: campusrecruiting@[redacted].com

Thank you for your interest in our firm. Unfortunately, due to the large number of highly qualified applicants, we are unable to continue with your application and will not be extending an invitation for a first round interview. We wish you the best of luck in all future endeavors.

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

Stanford is not an Ivy League school. Yet it enjoys the sterling academic reputation that comes with Ivy association. Moreover, it boasts a name recognition that dwarfs that of actual Ivy schools such as Penn or Brown.

It doesn’t take an ivory tower egghead to figure out why. Stanford competes in the Pac-10, a top-rate NCAA athletic conference. Moreover, each school has demonstrated the ability to compete – and dominate – at the highest level of collegiate athletics. Stanford’s football team recently drubbed USC’s, and its starting running back nearly won the Heisman trophy.

The Ivy football champion is barred from postseason play, and even the basketball champion is forever fated to a #13-seed and first round exit. Penn’s Franklin Field, an historic football stadium with a gorgeous view of the Philadelphia skyline, is barely filled to 25% capacity for most Saturday home games.

But can you blame the students for not showing up? Their absence, obviously, is not the fault of the athletes. They performed wonderfully and just won the conference. Rather, the idiotic rules of the conference act as a direct deterrent to student interest. An Ivy return to the top of collegiate athletics and the accompanying leap in name recognition can be achieved without sacrificing academic standards. The stubborn refusal to do so has doomed Penn and its peer institutions to toil in anonymity.

1.

Since its 1954 inception - how many people who fawn over Ivy history know the actual League was founded a mere 65 years ago? – the League has banned postseason play for its member football teams. Ivy champions are not allowed to participate in the I-AA postseason tournament even if they would otherwise qualify due to this archaic rule.

Other I-AA football programs compete in a sixteen team tournament than runs from late November to mid-December. An undisputed national champion is crowned. This year, the national champion was Villanova, which had trouble beating Penn in the season opener this year. Penn, the eventual Ivy champion, was never given an opportunity to avenge the loss thanks to the ban on postseason play.

According to a 2006 article in the Daily Princetonian, there are two main reasons Ivy executives cite for upholding the ban. First, they claim that allowing postseason football play would disrupt the finals schedule of the athletes involved. Second, they believe the in-conference rivalries would erode since Ivy teams would focus on winning the postseason tournament.

These arguments are politely dismissed as misguided and more accurately described as moronic. The first argument, which is that student academics would be disrupted, is easily dismissed for its hypocrisy. An Ivy basketball champion could presumably be involved in an entire month of postseason play if it were to win the NCAA tournament in March. Yet extending the football season for a maximum of three weeks is “too disruptive”. The effect on basketball is just one example; obviously, since all sports except football are allowed to compete in their respective postseasons, every Ivy athlete is “disrupted” to some extent. But this is apparently ok. The arrogantly snobbish need to hew to tradition is more important than applying an equal standard across all sports.

The second argument is even more troubling, for the notion that postseason play would dilute the regular season is absurd. Look at the rivalry between Ohio State and Michigan, which is undoubtedly the sport’s most historic. When postseason play is at stake, such as in 2006 when a national title berth was on the line, the game is only augmented by the possibility of the second season. When one team wallows in mediocrity, as my beloved Wolverines have for the past several seasons, the game is still heated due to the possibility to spoil Ohio State’s postseason chances. The added aspect of a postseason keeps the games interesting.

More importantly, I’m wondering what which rivalries the Ivy executives are seeking to preserve. Sure, The Game between Harvard and Yale means something every year, but how would that change if a postseason berth was at stake? Would it not mean even more? Besides this one match-up, no other pairings generate the same level of interest. No one is currently tuning in to Providence public access television to watch Brown take on Dartmouth. But a Brown-Dartmouth game with a postseason tournament berth on the line would draw interest due to the fact that the winner could ultimately become the I-AA national champion.

As a quick aside, no one at Princeton considers Penn a rival. It’s not a rivalry if only one side cares. I’ve always considered Columbia a more natural rival – both urban schools get a Dangerfieldian level of respect despite deserving more.

Finally, there is no doubt that winning the Ivy League football title is an impressive accomplishment. But it is just as insular as winning the MAC conference. That is, nobody outside the conference particularly cares.

2.

It wasn’t always like this. For 80 years beginning in 1869, an Ivy champion had a chance to be a national champion. Princeton won the title in 1950, the last year an Ivy team would do so.

Obviously, these facts require some context. First and foremost, the Ivy League did not exist until the 1950s. Therefore, when Princeton or Penn won the title a century ago, it was technically not the Ivy Champion though the schedules between then and now are comparable. The few schools that played football for the first few decades of the sport’s existence did not have to beat many teams in order to win the title. There was also no postseason tournament to win.

But these caveats still do not deny the fact that Ivy games once meant something more than the insular competitions they represent today. Franklin Field, the country’s first stadium, was once filled on a weekly basis because the fans knew that a significant prize was at stake. The contemporary lack of similar enthusiasm is understandable since nothing more than the league title is at stake. There are no national implications. Even the NFL can’t sell out preseason games.

The I-AA postseason tournament would partially alleviate this problem. Schools like Montana and Appalachian State have strong student support for their teams since each has annual title aspirations. There is no logical reason Franklin Field can’t draw similar crowds. But why settle for I-AA?

3.

No one can name the last two I-AA champions. But any fan with a passing interest in college football knows that Alabama and Florida were the last two to hoist the BCS title. In order to become fully relevant again, the Ivy League must embrace I-A football.

Critics of this strategy to finally compete with the Big 12 and the Pac-10 for national allegiances and name recognition engage in a stunning display of cognitive dissonance to believe that increased athletic competition necessitates a drop in academic standards. Stanford proves the fallacy in this argument.

In 2010, U.S. News and World Report has Stanford tied with Penn at #4 of top undergraduate institutions. The U.S. news rankings are garbage, but they do play a significant role in driving the public’s perceptions of quality. Stanford’s academics are impeccable. Its selectivity is identical to Penn’s, and it has a significantly lower acceptance rate. SAT percentiles are also comparable between the two schools.

Stanford ranks higher than four Ivy schools. Again, the U.S. news rankings are so stupid that interpreting a higher ranking as a mark of higher quality is absurd. But, the rankings are certainly evidence that the Ivy schools and Stanford are comparable in quality despite the fact that Stanford’s athletic program – supposedly a source of academic decline – is significantly better than those of the Ivies. Plus, you’ve never seen a shirt that says “Not Stanford State”.

Stanford proved that an elite academic institution can still have a I-A football team. No reason schools like Cornell and Columbia cannot follow suit.

4.

The greatest benefit from making the leap to competitive football does not come from excellence on the playing field. It comes from not being confused with Penn State ever again.

The Ivy League, as a brand, is most closely associated with Harvard, Princeton, and Yale. College application message boards on the internet regularly abbreviate the triumvirate as “HYP”, a set of initials with enough gravitas make any overachieving high schooler swoon. College application message boards, by the way, are a wonderful source of idiotic teen angst:

“PLZ HELP: Trying to decide between Yale and Harvard for early app. Does anyone know which is better?!?!?!”

“Re: Yea, H is better internationally but Y is better domestically and has better networking opps. Depends what you wanna do later on.”

The palpable obsession with status is embarrassing to read. I remember overhearing conversations in high school about relative prestige between schools – with the U.S. News rankings as the sole arbiter of the truth.

“Hmm…Georgetown? It’s pretty good, but it’s only #23, its not as good as Emory since its #17.”

Regardless, the point is that when you hear Penn or Cornell officials extol the virtues of an “Ivy League education”, they usually don’t realize that the connotation of quality comes solely from the vaunted HYP. Why? Because no one has ever heard of the other schools. In fact, “Ivy League”, linguistically, carries the connotation of “elite” and “intelligent” much like the way “Big 10” carries the connotation of “unathletic” and “Basketball Score: 43-37, Wisconsin”.

The simplest way to fix this is to embrace I-A college football. The non-HYP Ivy schools would see the biggest benefit. Though each has a strong reputation within elite circles, each remains anonymous to most of the country.

According to Forbes, Notre Dame’s football program brings in over $50 million annually in profits for the academic institution. Notre Dame has sucked for most of the last fifteen years. But, the national following it has means no one ever confuses it with the South Bend Technical Institute.

Think of it the differences between Syracuse and SUNY Purchase or Gonzaga and Fordham. Each pairing is between schools with comparable academics, yet only two of them are nationally known. Columbia, Penn, Cornell, Brown and Dartmouth can finally escape from under the HYP shadow.

5.

Obviously, I’m being selfish. Penn is a wonderful school that nobody has heard of and I want to see this sad fact changed. Plus, besides NSO, Halloween, and one weekend in April, there are very few moments on campus where the atmosphere is anything approaching a typical Saturday at a football powerhouse. I want to see 50,000 in Franklin Field on Saturdays, with festivities starting at 10:00 am. I want to see Brown or Dartmouth Football t-shirts across the Midwest. I want to see Fowler, Herbstreit, and Corso cover a Columbia-Cornell game with title implications. I want to see the next Toby Gerhardt anchoring the backfield in New Haven, and I want Boise State to bitch about the fact that it can’t jump Penn in the BCS standings. Ms. Harris, tear down this wall!