One thing I have come to realize about Duke over the years is that some times, you just need to get the hell out of Dodge. If I stay here long enough in succession, I seem to forget that life at a small, elite private university is hardly reality.
For me, it's always therapeutic to meet up with my friends from high school for some sort of adventure. In the case of this past weekend, I decided to meet with BJ and Maxtreme Testosterove. The plan was for BJ and me to rendezvous in Chicago with Maxtreme at Northwestern with tickets to watch our beloved, although currently disappointing, San Diego Chargers walk into Lambeau Field and trounce the Green Bay Packers.
I understand that for some of you, this may mean nothing, but for the any real football fan Lambeau Field in Green Bay is the last beacon of purity in the NFL. Getting tickets and trekking out to practically Canada to watch your favorite team there-now that's a pilgrimage.
Because Bill Simmons is one of my current idols, I've decided to do as he did and keep a little journal of the journey. Sorry, Bill, for ripping you off.
6 a.m.: After spending two nights at Northwestern during their new-student orientation week mingling with what BJ calls the "morally casual" segment of the female population, my pleasant slumber on the frat-house couch was rudely interrupted by our escort to the game, John.
6:30: We board John's car, a bright orange Hummer H2 with the license plate "GB PCKRS." It didn't take long to realize just how much the car and the man were one and the same.
7:30: John decides that the Chargers' fans do not need to sleep and begins to blast music. My stomach hurts, I need food. I am informed that there will be no stopping until Lambeau, where I have no choice but to eat something called a "butter burger." Further explanation to come.
7:40-9:15: I gradually progress from "still drunk" to "holy Jesus I am hungover get me the hell out of this car." Meanwhile, John has spent the last hour and a half pontificating about how Lambeau Field was like Mecca, except "not gay." I comfort myself during the agony by staring out the window and reminding myself how lucky I am not to have ever lived in Wisconsin. BJ and Maxtreme share similar sentiments.
9:20: There are signs of life, barely. We cross a bridge and exit the freeway into a quaint middle-class residential neighborhood. There is a "Welcome to Green Bay" sign. Population: 102,000. Where the hell am I?
9:30: We arrive to the middle of nowhere, and it is beautiful. The stadium, small by NFL standards, towers over the houses and fields of Green Bay. The place smells of history. I think my loins are tingling.
9:40: John leads us to Kroll's West, a bar located under the shade of the stadium, and home of the butter burger. Our guide walks right up and orders two, along with two brats and a six-pack of beer, expecting us to do the same. I also learn that the butter burger is named such due to the thick slab of butter squeezed between the cheese and mayo on the burger. I'm already having heartburn.
9:45: Maxtreme and BJ seem intimidated by the food. I am starving, screw it, it will form a nice base for what's to come. I suck down a burger and a brat.
9:50: I think I am going to die, and I need to poo. My friends are peer pressuring me to begin drinking heavily, I am not smiling.
10-11:55: Perseverance. Jager. Beer.
12: We take our seats, engulfed in a sea of dark green and yellow. Our sign made it inside and beers are only $5 in the stadium, great success.
12:35ish: TOUCHDOWN CHARGERS! Out comes the sign we spent Saturday afternoon painting which reads "REAL CHEESE COMES FROM CALIFORNIA." Yes, we were THAT guy, and it was friggin' awesome.
2:45ish: Phillip Rivers just threw an interception that is returned for a touchdown. The Chargers are done. I want to cry. No, I want to fight. No, I just want to be as far from Green Bay as humanly possible.
BJ and I remind ourselves that we live in San Diego. It doesn't help. Meanwhile, a female Packers fan, whom my editors will only allow me to call morally casual, has positioned her mouth about six inches from my ear and is screaming at the top of her lungs. Breathe. Breathe.
I came to somewhere near the Illinois border. Was I depressed? Absolutely. Was it worth it? No doubt about it. The funny thing is, all I wanted to do was get back to Duke.
Dan Belzer is a Trinity senior. His column runs every other Thursday.
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