Pre-gaming

Sun streamed over the green grass. We squinted our eyes, secretly hoping that we'd get tan. About half an hour remained before the other high school team would arrive in a yellow Laidlaw bus and mosey down to the track. In the meantime, our teammates were more blatant in their desire to tan -- laying out on the track, sprawling the limbs not clad in blue and yellow.


"All right," Lauren said. Jill and I turned our faces from the sky and looked at her. "It's time to fairy."

And "to fairy" it was. With a series of skips, grapevines, and other movements akin to children frolicking on a playground, we moved up and down the field. All in the name of warming up for high jump.

The fairying was followed by a few stretches and light conditioning, including a manuever that our friend Danielle named "the pissing dog." It's undeniable that we looked ridiculous. It's also true that we dominated high jump in many meets. The link between our exercises and our success, however, has never been proven.

Every team has some sort of warm-up ritual: passing drills, running laps together, circling up for an organized stretch, simultaneously stripping down to the competition uniform. Some inspirational or possibly rap song pumps in the background.

The night before, there's the obligatory pasta party. For girls, the hair session can also be a factor. What should everyone's hair look like? Are cornrows too ghetto? There will always be a few rebels who prefer to wear their own style, which leads to some muttering about whether or not this person is a "team player."

Tempers flare in the hour before the competition begins. Funny remarks are not at all amusing. Someone forgets a vital part of the uniform, like the shirt. Others show up late. Body parts are sore. Simply put, people quickly begin to hate each other.

Then there's last call. One person mentions the bathroom and it quickly becomes contagious. When the event is held at an unfamiliar venue, mass pilgrimages must ensue. "Don't leave me!" feet in the stall beg as teammates begin to file out.

The crowd files in and fills up the bleachers. Warm-ups are over. First call is made to the track, buzzers signal both teams to clear the court, and everyone suddenly realizes that this is real. There's a certain chill that everyone tries to pass off as adrenaline or excitement or an impromptu breeze.

But you're scared.

It is at this time that the team pulls itself together for its last effort before the event: The team chant. The team gathers into a huddle. Amongst the inspirational tidbits come a hissed debate:

"We did that one last meet."

"I don't remember all the words."

"Who starts it?"

In the middle of this discussion, the other team begins cheering. Always loudly and always obnoxiously, while your team, on the other hand, is nothing but awesome. Now the heat is on. Not only are you going to beat these amateurs, but you're going to shout louder, too.

"Go, Cortland, Go, Cortland, GOOO!!!"

Winded, everyone breathes and smiles at each other in satisfaction. High-fives are exchanged. Coach swings by for a few last words.

You're exhausted. And the game hasn't begun.