UCSD has traditions of its own

    Robert C. Dynes, former chancellor and current Arnold Schwarzenegger co-star in closed-door productions, once referred to UCSD in a State of the Campus address as having a “tradition of no tradition.” The maxim he used was to illustrate the innovative attitude UCSD boasts, not necessarily that the campus community lacked a legacy it could be proud of, or that it was unwilling to put forth the effort to get one started. However, he may be on to something — at least in regards to our stagnant student life.

    On May 21, UCSD students pretended otherwise, though, ditching class to fly down a slip ’n’ slide on Sun God Lawn, drink Red Hook at Porter’s Pub, and get crazy on RIMAC Field to a lineup of bad-ass bands.

    The Guardian staff has its own tradition on Sun God. We’re up at the crack of dawn to eat cheap breakfast and drink mimosas at Broken Yolk Cafe. Our table buzzes with whatever amount of excitement we can muster up at 7 a.m., and we line our stomachs with eggs, hash browns and toast that will (attempt to) subdue the alcohol consumed during the day. The 21-and-up crowd then heads next door to the Silver Fox for an eye-opener with “the regulars.” Afterward, we hitch a ride to campus, turned loose on the booths, the Pub and anywhere else where fun/spirits can be found before heading into the concert.

    This year was pretty much the same as every year, which doesn’t sound that interesting, though I really wish I could rehash more of my memory from that day. There was Adam and Hart Attack tackling trash cans like they were the Steel Curtain defense. Busta Rhymes called me and the other thousands in attendance, to our enjoyment, “pussies,” “bitches,” “weak bitches,” “motherfuckers” and “weak motherfuckers.” The Moving Units rocked, the Pub and Round Table were hopping in the daytime, and the sports office fridge had enough suds stocked inside to clean a barge.

    Sun God is a great tradition, and a fun one at that, but the most anticipated ritual the Guardian staff partakes in (except maybe our Vegas trip) is the sloshball game against the controversial and loathed Koala staff.

    The rivalry has existed as long as the two publications have, and records show that the sloshball contest, regularly played the day immediately following the Sun God festival, has lasted longer than a decade. After being largely incommunicado with the Koala heathens during the school year — despite our offices being right down the hall from each other — we get down and dirty to duke it out on the sloshball field. We show up, they show up, and worlds collide.

    This year was no different. Many of us were looking for blood — whether it was to avenge the losses we suffered in the last two years, or to floss with Bryan Barton’s bones (as was Rugby Jill’s plan), we came to play, drink and kick some ass.

    The battle royale got off to a late start, as the venue for the game was unknowingly changed from the Kearney Mesa Recreation Center to University City High School. The game was a few hours behind schedule when we showed up with our keg, and the Koala insisted that their keg would arrive when ours ran out, which came back to bite them in the ass later. I agreed with George, the Karl Rove of the Koala operation, that the game would end when the keg ended. Koala editor in chief Bryan Barton, unfortunately, couldn’t make it to the game, much to our chagrin. He was reportedly attending a funeral in his hometown, a valid excuse, but some of his staff confided that he usually doesn’t show up to these things anyway. Totally weak.

    Meanwhile, Koala staffer Sammy had a Die Hard battery hooked up to his mouth and was running it nonstop, only to get scorched in the drink-off by Jill. We elected to have first ups, and our lineup looked pretty solid.

    Solid enough, in fact, to snap a two-year losing streak, as the Guardian took the first game, 10-9. After the first keg was cashed, the game was called, per our pre-game aggreement, but not without dispute. The Koala tried every loophole they could think of, even suggesting a quarter flip to determine whether we would resume the game upon the next keg’s arrival. We knew we won, they knew they won — but being the type of pests they are, we agreed to settle it through a drink-off. Rugby Jill again cleaned up and the Guardian officially took game 1.

    And it didn’t matter because we trampled over the Koala in game 2 by a 35-20 margin. The balls were flying off our bats, I won my first ever sloshball drinkoff to settle a play at first (a career goal finally marked off my UCSD checklist), Koala hooligans Sammy and E-Dogg fought each other right after E-Dogg did a Greg Louganis into the mud (the sprinklers had inadvertantly switched on during game 2, adding some extra “slosh” to the contest). Greg, Rinaldo, Ian and Tom had been putting the keg away the Milwaukee way, and by the middle of game 2 were acting as the enforcers in between Nordic keg tosses. Illustrators Bo Rhino, Danny and Raty were hitting the cover off the ball, independent candidate Bryce Warwick captained the outfield, and Jill, well, she won almost every drink-off, ate mustard out of the bottle and beat the shit ouf a trash can. Hands down, Jill was the sloshball MVP.

    But as for the Koala: good game, losers. We beat you in every facet of the game, out-drinking you guys, winning the scrums near home plate, and making plays in the field. After the pummeling you took this year, there is no denying the rivalry is still alive and well. And that’s a tradition I’m proud to be a part of.

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