Like approximately 9,000 other students at UW-Madison, July 7 was one of the worst days of my college career. With the simple phrase, You did not receive tickets,"" the UW Ticket Office smashed my hopes of another season spent ""Jumping Around"" Camp Randall.
My brain was too stunned to absorb the e-mail. I, a football coach's daughter, not at the game? For four months of every year, football is life at the Corbett household. I've been to a football game every weekend of every season since I could shout cruel and demeaning things at a ref. My freshman year, I didn't have tickets, and I nearly cried every gameday as I heard choruses of ""Build Me Up Buttercup"" and ""Swingtown"" floating out of the stadium.
I couldn't take that again. Not as a junior and especially not living within sight of the Camp Randall arch. But as a very resourceful junior, I began to scheme. There had to be an alternative way into the stadium.
My first thought was cheerleading. I am blonde, loud and - damn it - if being overly perky was the only way I would get into my beloved stadium, then perky I would be. Plus I had taken three months of gymnastics when I was 7, so I had experience. I was sure I could learn a double somersault quadruple bypass half-pipe with a twist in time for the season.
Sadly, the team did not agree. Perhaps it was because when they cheered, ""We want more!"" I chose to scream ""blood!"" at the end, instead of ""beer."" While my drunken dormmates appreciate my thirst for a physical game, the cheerleading team seemed unimpressed, if not frightened.
The team respected my enthusiasm, however, and suggested I try out to be a Bucky. As far as I know, the Buckys aren't usually female, but I had spunk. I would ""Jump Around,"" hassle the other mascots and shimmy like Bucky has never shimmied before. I think things could have worked out if the players had agreed to never score more than 14 points so I wouldn't have to max out on push-ups, but even with our strong defense, Bielema couldn't make me any promises.
With my rejection from cheering and playing Bucky, I searched for another option. Sitting on the front step of my apartment building, I gazed longingly at the arch. Why not use such a location to my advantage? So I began excavation on a series of underground tunnels ending somewhere near section O.
Unfortunately, digging underground tunnels is hard and dangerous work and, while resourceful, I am also quite lazy. So instead of an elaborate tunnel system leading to the 50-yard line, we now have a six-foot deep ""Pit of Doom"" in the yard. If anyone asks, it was the neighbor's spastic dog. The dog is also the one who covers the hole up with leaves and sticks every night and watches drunk people stumble into it. It's really the meanest beagle I've ever met.
With hopes dashed, I met up with a friend who also didn't get tickets. Pigging out on ice cream and candy, we tried to cheer ourselves up with a girls' night. As she scanned Facebook, she came across Garrett Graham and - of course! - as she gushed over his good looks, the answer came.
How had I not thought of it before? Date a player and of course you get into the game. Not only do you get into the game, but you probably get amazing seats. And dating a football player isn't as dangerous as digging an underground tunnel or as much work as the cheerleader's routines. I may have a boyfriend, but he knows my passion for the game. As long as things don't get too heated with the player, I think we can reach an understanding.
So, if any young players are out there looking for a devoted fan and a way to shed excess tickets, I'm your girl. And if it doesn't work out, maybe some ticketholder will stumble into the ""Pit of Doom"" and exchange tickets for their freedom.
If you have a scheme to sneak into the football games or are an eligible bachelor on the team, e-mail Megan at mcorbett2@wisc.edu.
