From the archives

Journal of a Tech Student:

You wake up in the top bunk, snug within your Star Trek bedsheets, with that feeling in the pit of your stomach. That pounding feeling, that giddy, nauseous rush that can mean only one thing. You rush to the potty and take care of business. The feeling goes away. But something about tinkling--the colors, the sounds--makes you remember: Yellow Jacket football today!

You put on your best yellow sweater and yellow knee-socks, though you call them natch. Then, moving to the dresser, you specially polish your thick glasses, adding one final flourish--fresh tape wrapped around the bridge. Speaking of bridges, your braces are also polished to a fine sheen, new zits are popped, and you're lookin' GOOD! You're lookin' JACKET.

Heart pounding, you race up the steps from your parents' basement. Mumsy and Pops are reading mail from the old country in New Jersey where they hope to retire someday. You slip out the door quietly and pedal your 3-speed through the crisp autumn air, gameday flags a-flying from the handlebars. And there it is, just ahead--the MARTA station. It won't be long now!

You climb onto a southbound train, your eyes scan the car, and--yes! There, sitting next to the chatty tranvestite--a man wearing YELLOW! You make your way over and wave your pom poms at him and giggle, he says, $#%^ off. And now you feel it more strongly than ever--the essence of being a Tech fan. You giggle again more shrilly, dance away, then slide around safely under the seats until the stop at North Avenue, tee-heeing for all you're worth as you elude the grasp of your tormentor and his switchblade. It's sort of like Frodo hiding from the Black Riders, right here on MARTA!

You disembark at North Avenue, snatching quarters from a few homeless men. Now you see swarms of other Jackets--two of them, three of them. It's no wonder the stadium had to be expanded. You pause on the bridge over the Downtown Connector to indulge in a Tech tradition: spitting on cars passing underneath. It's a massive traffic jam of red vehicles heading north, and you nail an RV with a big loogie from your morning Yoo Hoo.

Then you're on campus, a block from the stadium. You take in the grand pageantry that is game day. It's the gray, smoggy sky; the deep blue of the police siren; the giggling of the frat boys enjoying an impromptu tickle pile on the sidewalk. It's the sound of gunfire. It's the beautiful women with their thick makeup, standing on the street corners and bantering with the passing cars. It's the voice of Kim King, talking and talking and talking in his one-note melodic range; Wes Durham screaming about a one-yard gain. It's the giant rubber bee, George O'Leary's old bedroom toy, patched all over, making funny farting sounds as the air oozes out yet again. It's Flag Boy, the aspiration of all Tech males. Tee hee!

Above all, it's four notes on a trumpet. You hear them now, playing the hallowed music, the sacred music, the Hymn of the Bee. There it is now, and you lift your voice to join in, warm tears fogging your thick glasses. The whole stadium sings solemnly:

When you say Bud...weiser

Those four notes on a trumpet, your call to Jackethood, setting your yellow heart aflutter. Deep down you know this is the year--the year you beat Duke AGAIN--you OWN Duke. The year you road-trip to a BRAND SPANKIN'-NEW STARTUP BOWL for the holidays. The year your first pubic hairs break the surface. This sacred moment cannot last. Someday, by the Great Pointed Ears of Leonard Nimoy, you will be in New Jersey. In Michigan. In North Dakota. Someday you will buy your parents a house with a bigger basemment for you to live in. But in your heart, you'll always be a Tech Guy--a proud drop in the endless river of yellow!
"My advice to you is to start drinking heavily." - Bluto