As I walked into 323 Alspaugh on the first day of move-in freshman year to admire my new home, I was greeted by a fat kid sitting Indian-style on what would later be considered my bed, with a bucket of fried chicken resting in between his legs. He wasn't wearing a shirt. In fact, he wasn't wearing anything. They say not to judge a book by its cover. But in the case of Eddie, I'd say that the double chin and stretch marks did him adequate justice.
Within the first few weeks of living in that small sweatbox that overlooked the East Campus dumpsters, I began to not only hate my roommate, but my life as well.
Not only were things not going my way at the beginning of that semester, but Eddie seemed to be having the time of his life. I was waking up at 7:30 a.m. every morning to go to class; he was sleeping in until three (and even then only waking up in order to prepare for four o'clock quesos). I was working hard to make new friends; Eddie seemed to already know everyone on campus. I would strike out every weekend; Eddie would always bring back tons of girls (just not many of them).
Yes, it was certain-college would be a miserable four years. In fact, one late September afternoon I actually packed up my room and called my parents to take me home. I had had enough.
Turns out that on their way to pick me up, however, the horse's leg gave out (the Ohio equivalent of a flat tire). Looking back, it may have been the best thing that could've happened. I still remember the day that followed as if it were yesterday.
Despite having already decided to drop out of college and return home to take over the family farm, I showed up for classes that day and went through the motions until I could find another way to get home.
During my last class of the day, Econ 51, I found myself sitting near the back of the room, quietly taking what I thought would be my last quiz ever.
Out of the clear blue, three naked male bodies came bursting through the back doors of the auditorium and sprinting to the front of the class in an attempt to steal the quiz's answer key. Although the professor had a rattail, she was no match for the three of them.
No one else in the class of 300 seemed to be stepping up, and so I had to act fast. But what could I do?
All three of the men were wearing superhero masks to hide their identities. Two of the criminals I had never seen before. But there was one set of ass cheeks flopping across the front of the lecture hall that I'd recognize anywhere...
Acting purely out of instinct, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a hard, spherical object. A baseball? No. It was a condensed ball of cheddar that had been left over from four o'clock quesos earlier that week. Somehow, it must have slipped into the pocket of my jeans and been allowed to harden.
I stood up in the middle of the lecture hall with the cheese ball clenched in my fist. Eddie paused for a moment and looked at me, as if it were almost a dare. Although my target was small, with all the adrenaline rushing through my blood I wound up and delivered a fastball that would've probably impressed a few minor league scouts.
It was a strike. Eddie went down, and went down hard. Although what happened from there is all a blur to me, some say that the cheese ball got lodged with such force that the medics had to bring in the Jaws of Life.
It was a turning point in not only that semester, but in my whole college experience. In addition to Eddie's suspension leaving me with a single to myself, word of the incident spread like wildfire around campus. Before too long, "Cheese Ball Boy" had achieved minor celebrity status on campus. I think back to that first semester as proof that even in the bleakest and most obscure times can lie opportunity.
Nick Alexander is a Pratt junior. His column runs every other Friday.
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