The College Memoirs

Copyright - Zac Jackson

2005-05-01T19:40:00.000-04:00

Put together in April, May and June 2004. Orginally published June 10, 2004, the night before my last college class ever.

Enjoy.

Chapter 1: A Long Journey Begins

2005-05-01T19:37:00.000-04:00

“Anyone can make history. Only a great man can write it”—Oscar Wilde

It was the best of times. No, really, it absolutely was the best of times.

What you’re about to read is very much the PG-13 version of what I remember, what I accomplished, what I learned and what I was thinking—the nuts and bolts, highlights (mostly) and lowlights (a few, but they’re funny), and a little social commentary on a long but pretty damn remarkable period of six years, 600 friends and 6,000 memories I wouldn’t trade for anything.

College. And I lived to tell about it.

I was five days past my 19th birthday when move-in day came. I remember feeling a little numb when my dad stopped the car under that Athens bridge, my mom hugged me goodbye and started to tear up, and I took my first 100 steps toward independence and adulthood. (Step 101 was made with the purpose of turning on the Playstation. Step 102 was a quick hop and soft landing into the chair; conquering EA Sports’ newest College Football game was 1-A on my list of priorities.)

I’m 75 days from my 25th birthday as you read this, and my college journey is finally over. It’s taken me from Athens to Cleveland to Akron, back and forth between Cleveland and Akron about 1,437 times, from Las Vegas to Fort Myers, from Roanoke to Seattle, and to all sorts of dive bars and dog tracks in between.

Here it is in a nutshell. I’ll go into about 9,000 words of detail later…

Went to Ohio University because it had the best journalism school around. Got paired with a roommate who was a dorky, rich-kid, engineering major. We had zero in common. He hated my sports-loving guts. My friends stole, drank, and destroyed his shit. Lots of it.

Call it a match made in heaven.

(First of many random but important side notes: One thing you should NEVER do when you’re in college is watch and/or show videotapes of your high school football or basketball games. It’s over. Move on. But my roommate—and I couldn’t make this shit up on my best day—not only missed the memo, but took it a step further. I came in one day as he was showing his high school MARCHING BAND films. Seriously. This was a highly traumatic experience for me.)

Anyway…I made some friends, took some interesting classes, played some video games, and had some fun. A quick bio on a few of those friends—you’ll learn a lot more about them in the coming pages—is below:

Matt Bakota—We grew up together. Went to high school together. We were both journalism students. Both smartasses. Quite a combo.

Dallas Lycans—Genuine, happy-go-lucky, small town kid. Lived down the hall. Played sports. Loved sports. Loved sheep. Except for the critters, we had a lot in common.

John Pezzente and Sean Gideon—Roommates; they lived across the hall. They grew up about four houses apart in Chesterland, east of Cleveland. We bonded right away. For better or worse, we’re still close today.

Felt my way, slowly, through a lot of things freshman year. Acquired a taste for beer. Liked the Freshman 15 so much I did it twice. Stayed in the same dorm (single room) my sophomore year with a lot of the same guys. Had an immeasurable amount of fun. Brought home a 4.0. Yeah, I got lucky. But I was living it up.

Then, as my sophomore year came to a close, my life changed forever.

One day I responded to an ad about an internship with the Cleveland Browns. I didn’t expect to hear back from anyone, let alone land it. But I put together a resume and some clips and sent them in anyway, because I figured it couldn’t hurt.

John and I had this routine in spring quarter where we would go to lunch, skip class, play some video game baseball, debate about going to our last class of the day, then go out and soak up the sun. Shoot some hoops. Play some catch. Bask in the glory of being 20 years old, surrounded by sunbathing girls, and not having a single real responsibility in the world.

Glory, indeed.

One day we returned from a trip to Ponderosa (John ate 2 plates of food, I ate 12) to find a message on my answering machine. It was someone from the Browns, and he wanted me to come in for an interview. Holy wow! We jumped for joy. Had I not been so grossly out of shape and incapable of even the slightest athletic maneuver, I might have done cartwheels down the hallway of Boyd Hall, second floor.

On Memorial Day Weekend, I interviewed for the internship. On June 15, I was hired for the season, meaning I’d miss fall quarter at OU. By November, it became apparent that I had the chance to stick around with the Browns—the opportunity of a lifetime. I started making plans to stay with the Browns and finish my degree at the University of Akron.

I started at Akron in January 2001. Because everything was put together hastily and going to school was really the last thing on my mind, I took some bad advice and signed up for a couple of classes that I didn’t need. I ended up taking one class the whole semester and another in the first summer session. Not real good progress.

Now, three and a half years later, I’m still with the Browns. More importantly, I’m about to retire from college forever. Upon successful completion of two summer classes, Spanish 202 and Survey of Mass Communication, my degree requirements will be fulfilled. Assuming I pass Spanish (crossing my fingers and praying) I will walk out of class on June 11 and turn the page.

It’s been one hell of a ride.

Chapter 2: Wild Times In Athens

2005-05-01T19:34:00.000-04:00

“Lookin’ back now, it makes me laugh. We were growin’ our hair, we were cuttin’ class” –Kenny Chesney

I originally thought the best way to tell this story was to divide it into the three main chapters which define my college career—gambling, girls, and video games (you know, the truly important things in life). I chose those because I’ve experienced both victory and defeat in all three. And even though a wise man (Dan Arthur) once told me that only the victories count, telling both sides sure does make for good theater.

But after giving it some thought—I never knew exactly how many bases I had to cover until I started writing this—I couldn’t do anything justice in three main chapters. Shit, it’s a struggle to keep it under 30!

Two years at OU. Four years part-time at Akron. A handful of trips to Bethany. Long and blurry nights (and mornings) at Mount Union. Bars at Ohio State. Sleeping in my car at Bowling Green. Tailgates. Road trips. Characters that you’ll learn a little about in the coming pages but are really indescribable. So, so, so many things…so many reasons I’m grinning ear-to-ear just thinking about it all.

I have been blessed. Now, back to the story…

I chose OU first and foremost for the Scripps School of Journalism. I knew the campus was beautiful, and I thought three hours from home was a good, safe distance. I also knew about the “party school” reputation, but I wasn’t especially impressed. I wasn’t much of a partier. I loved sports, video games, sports video games, girls, and cheesy rap music. Anything else was sort of unimportant.

We played lots of Euchre at OU. We played tons of Playstation. I even busted out the old school Sega Genesis and won three Stanley Cups in one quarter. We picked on each other…a lot. One time at dinner about two miles across campus, I told 17 jokes about Dallas’s mom. Dallas, our driver, said, “one more and you’re walking home.” I told four more. I walked home.

John and Sean actually duct-taped me into my room one night. Covered the entire doorway with thick duct tape. I woke up, saw I couldn’t get out, and actually went back to bed, thinking it was all a bad dream. An hour and an important missed class later, I cut myself out.

A lot of things about OU were intimidating for me – especially at first. I could neither bong a beer nor grow facial hair, two things which quickly appeared to be socially necessary. Speaking of being socially retarded, I couldn’t carry on conversations with strangers without mentioning the little-known “free kick after a fair catch” rule or the glory of UNLV’s 1990 national championship team.

Yeah, I was a dweeb. And the girls thought so, too.

Girls. When I stepped on campus at OU, I had the experience of one significant relationship. Actually, significant isn’t the word I’m looking for. More like one relationship of any length or substance. Yeah, that’s better. So, I had that, a little bit of confidence that I was smarter than the average bear, and a pretty impressive high school makeout resume (even if it was mostly with freshmen). Basically, I was a virgin with a capital V and naïve with a capital N. But I thought I was Joe Pimp.

It wasn’t long before I was Joe Nobody. My very first college crush wouldn’t give me the time of day—not that I had the balls to say anything more than “hi” to her, either. She was on the basketball team, though, which was super cool to me. Know what else is super cool? Gideon downloaded her picture from the OU Hoops website, made it the background on my computer, then coaxed her into paying me a surprise visit. Yeah. File that one under “stalker.”

Girls weren’t exactly making Gideon’s phone ring off the hook, either. Not that they could get through even if they were trying, because John was probably on the phone with his high school girlfriend. Bakota was convinced that every girl in the cafeteria was checking him out, and it wasn’t long before he had details on every sorority on campus and knew the names of at least five girls in each one.

Again, file that one under “stalker.” Put it this way: Reality was calling Matt, but he was too busy doing his hair to answer.

Dallas and I talked a lot about the girls we used to get in high school (both of us were stretching the truth, I’m sure), and John talked a lot about what would happen when he became single and went on the prowl.

Six years later, John and Sarah are still together. Gideon still closes the deal about as well as Jose Mesa in the ’97 Series, and I still talk a lot about the girls I got in high school (or do I still get high school girls? Hmmm. We’ll address that issue in my next book, “Letters From Prison.”).

Chapter 3: Athletic Glory

2005-05-01T19:15:00.000-04:00

“Before we go any further, let’s thank the Lord for another beautiful day to play baseball,”—Paul Adamson

When you’re down by two with 10 seconds left, whom do you want taking what might be your last shot? Michael Jordan? Robert Horry? Keith Smart?

We chose Sean Gideon.

I honestly don’t remember exactly how it went, but let’s assume Bakota pump-faked a couple of times, couldn’t get a shot, and swung it over to Mosher. He got into the lane before getting triple-teamed, and he kicked it to Gideon in the corner. I was open on one wing. Bakota was open on the other. But frickin’ Sean wasn’t passing this ball.

Frickin’ Sean let it fly.

I covered my eyes. A collective gasp of “noooooooooo” rang through the Ping Center. And you don’t even have to guess what happened next.

Yep. The shot went in. Somehow, miraculously, his one-handed chuck found the bottom of the net. And the Short Bus Superstars (yes, we are aware we’re going to hell for that one) snatched another victory from the jaws of defeat.

Intramural sports were a big deal at OU. To us—especially me—they were a huge deal. I thrived on competition. Sports were my life. Exercise was never a bad thing. My first quarter at OU I dove in head first as a flag football official and eventually was hired on to ref basketball in the winter and ump slow pitch softball in the spring. I loved every second of it.

(Random but important side note: Every now and then, a softball team actually showed up sober. Occasionally, I was too.)

I officiated for three reasons: I had to (as part of my strenuous academic schedule that included the class “football officiating”), the $5.15 an hour (bling-bling, baby), and the chance to meet girls (that part of the experiment failed miserably). Actually, I reffed for four reasons. Can you guess what the fourth and most important one was? It was fun.

I was getting paid to be outside, run around, and socialize. I certainly needed the exercise and the pocket change, but I also needed to get away from the Sega and the instant messenger. I met soooooo many people; it was great. The only time it was less than great was when my team played its games. My bigmouth, smartass, tough guy teammates didn’t care that the officials were my friends. They were relentless.

I remember grabbing Bakota by the arm during a flag football game and telling him that if we wanted to get any calls the rest of the season, it might be a good idea for him to refrain from calling the ref 13 versions of MF in two sentences. Almost simultaneously, Dallas was sprinting across the field full-steam, and as soon as he got within earshot he, too, was screaming—in a way only a true Creston hillbilly could scream—that the ref was “the blindest muuu-ther” you-know-whatter in Athens.

OU Intramurals. Where winning isn’t everything, it’s the only MF thing.

With me gone, those guys went on to win the campus flag football championship in the B-Division (the Zac Jackson Division, as Bakota liked to call it) in their senior year. And I couldn’t have been happier for them. But deep down inside, I was haunted (and in many ways, I still am) by the co-ed softball championship we didn’t win in my last quarter there.

I had declared myself general manager and, if I must so say myself, I built a championship caliber team. We had speed. We played defense. We had girls that could flat-out play the game. And, thanks to a trip to Gabriel Brothers in Parkersburg, we had the nicest damn uniforms in the history of college intramural softball.

Dallas and I made the trip with hopes of finding 11 matching t-shirts. Instead we found authentic Arizona Diamondbacks inaugural season jerseys. Authentic. With patches and everything. And they were three bucks apiece.

We stood in that store like the light was shining upon us. At that very moment, Dallas and I were the two grinninest hillbillies in the state of West Virginia. We bought all 13 jerseys on the rack, decided we’d charge the team 5 bucks apiece, then we went to Applebee’s to celebrate our find and spend the difference. Life was good.

The season was good, too. Every person on our team could run like the wind (save for me and one of the girls, but I won’t go into detail on her in case she somehow reads this). We had the best damn left-handed shortstop these eyes have seen. We had a stud first baseman, and I don’t know if it’s flattering to call a girl a “stud,” but she was. Both at the plate and with the glove. We turned a bang-bang double play once, and she threw such a rocket that my hand stung like hell. For like 4 innings.

We went into the postseason tournament with the swagger and confidence that an undefeated team should have, and we were paired against a bunch of long-haired stoners in the first round. I wasn’t just picturing us winning the campus championship; I was practically writing my acceptance speech.

Except something happened. These stoners did little things like hit bloop singles and catch routine popups. We, on the other hand, did not. We booted balls like Zac Jackson circa 1992 in Manchester Youth Baseball and swung at ridiculous pitches like, well, Zac Jackson circa 1992 in Manchester Youth Baseball. We bitched at the umps. We bitched at each other. It was the Day from Hell, and it was followed by at least a weeklong hangover of the Day from Hell.

It was a very weird period. I actually called my mom and told her that losing that softball game stung worse than losing my last high school basketball game (file that one under “get a grip”). John and I went to our favorite BS place, a place we had named Johnny Jackson Hill, and just bitched about everything. I kept telling myself to get over it. Myself kept saying it wasn’t that easy.

I suppose the Browns’ thing helped, but I don’t really remember. For all I know, I started my interview there with “excuse me if I’m not myself today, but it’s been a rough month…”

Chapter 4: Animal House

2005-05-01T19:09:00.000-04:00

“I’m so cool…too bad I’m a loser.”—Barenaked Ladies

My life was changing fast. Leaving OU was the right thing to do, but it wasn’t easy. My mom was worried about my long-term future; she thought I’d never get my degree. I was worried about my Ricky Williams posters I had already moved into what was supposed to be my new room in Athens; I cried because I thought I’d never get ‘em back.

Getting set with classes and a plan at the U of A was the last thing from my mind. I was 21 and working for the Browns. The Cleveland Browns! What did I need with college?

I loved every minute of the Browns’ experience. I talked football with people who got paid to talk football. I met Lou Groza and Jim Brown. I got my picture taken with the Playmate of the Year. I even earned a little respect.

I started seeing and doing things that a kid growing up a football junkie in Northeast Ohio could only dream of doing. The first time I ever came into Cleveland Browns Stadium via the underground entrance, the first person I saw was Deion Sanders (wearing the most ridiculous multicolored suit I’ve ever seen). The second person was Bruce Smith. The third was Lavar Arrington. This was like, wow.

(Trust me, I’ve got a million NFL stories. But right now I’ve got college girls to talk about.)

Living at home was starting to get awkwardly miserable. I was stepping on my parents’ toes and cramping the style of my brother, Brody, who was 15 at the time and just barely cracking the surface of the celebrity status (he’s the brightest star in his own galaxy) that comes with being the first Beacon Journal Summit County Player of the Year since some kid named LeBron.

Around Thanksgiving, my dad told me it was time to get the hell out of the house. I told him I was working on it. He said no, seriously, it’s time to get the hell out of the house.

The wheels were in motion. Talks about big dreams with a couple of old high school buddies, Brian Workman and Steve Soles, led to us checking the classified ads. Both were a year older than me and both had steady, full-time jobs; both were ready to move out. Steve and I were both part-time students at the U of A and both intrigued by the idea of hosting group study sessions with our female classmates.

(Random but important side note: If there’s one thing Steve and I love in a girl, it’s brainpower.)

The three of us visited one place, and it was…perfect. The little white house at 2507 Pelton Avenue restored my belief in love at first sight. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a huge finished basement, great location, and independence. Sweet, sweet independence—the essence of the American college dream.

This was our campus house away from campus. This was, in many ways, what we had dreamed about. This was going to be ridiculous.

The craziest, most spontaneous stuff happened at that house. Parties broke out on Tuesday nights. Euchre games turned into wrestling matches. We played cornhole (if you’ve never heard of it, it’s only the best game EVER), we played Sega, and we played trivia. Workman always won, of course, but looking back, we were all winners.

I mean that.

A fourth person, Terry Harbaugh, moved in (the more, the merrier). Like 40 random people would spend random nights on the couch. Often. Swain came in through my window once and slept in my bed. Kindig slept on the floor of the dining room like it was the thing to do. A pair of WWF Tag Team Championship belts and a bottle of whipped cream were found in the…ahhh, I won’t go there.

We once had a rather larger card game in the basement that ended with Coyle rolling around butt naked in the driveway. Not sure how it happened, but it definitely did. We used to listen to the college band OAR a lot in that house, and no disrespect to them, but that was the craziest game of poker I ever saw.

After 18 months in that house, I did some serious thinking about moving closer to Cleveland. The drive (80 miles round trip) was killing me. Getting my own place was tempting and even semi-affordable. I figured being closer would be a good step towards keeping this amazing job I had.

I slept on it, wrestled with it, then…finally…signed a lease in North Royalton and moved out. The Pelton Dynasty was crumbling, and it was my own damn fault.

This was the first time that I realized I was actually growing up. We had our share of fun and craziness in that house, but I felt like it was time to move on. I wanted to concentrate more on the online radio show Reggie Rucker and I did with Coach Davis, on my work, and maybe even on my studies. Yuck.

Being 40-some hours from graduation, it was tough to care about school at this point. But the bottom line was as clear as ever. Getting my degree was necessary, and I was going to have to make some sacrifices to get it done. I discovered five-week summer classes were a great way to graduate sometime this decade. I discovered that taking a night class during football season, as terrible as it was, wasn’t really the toughest thing in the world.

Most importantly, I discovered that I could do it.

And attitude, kids, is more than half the battle.

Chapter 5: The Opposite Sex

2005-05-01T19:03:00.000-04:00

"Lisa, if the Bible has taught us nothing else, and it hasn't, it's that girls should stick to girls sports, such as hot oil wrestling, foxy boxing, and such and such.”—Homer Simpson

Girls. Ladies. Females.

So this is farewell? Hmmmm. Let’s start with this…

Things I already miss: Suntans and mini-skirts in the first week of classes and the first week back after spring break. Things I won’t miss: Cigarettes and beer bellies in November and February (and every other month for that matter).

Now what? Do I preach? Do I offer wisdom? Do I tell stories? Hmmm. How about a little of everything?

Somewhere along the way (I think it was Year Three, but I don’t know for sure) I met the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. She liked it when I told her that, so I made a mental note. Since then I’ve told about 14 different girls that THEY were the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen—and they, too, liked hearing that—but I really only meant it once.

I know you’re SHOCKED to hear that. And you’re probably equally as shocked that I got a whole lot of nowhere with all 15 of the aforementioned upstanding young ladies. Anyway…

It’s crazy looking back on my dating career. Same goes for you reading this. Really. Admit it. For every “what the hell was I thinking,” there’s a “damn, I really blew that one.” For every friend you made out of a crush (or a hookup, or even a relationship) there’s a friend you lost because of dating politics, because of ego, because you were selfish and irresponsible and short-sighted and immature and dammit YOU DIDN’T JUST BREAK MY HEART, YOU TWISTED AND STEPPED ON IT YOU BITCH!!!

Ahhh, I feel much better. Anybody got a cigarette?

(Random but important side note and advice: Guys still in college, I learned an important lesson in my final semester. And I learned it too late. Date a sorority girl.)

(Stick with it. Grit your teeth. Be patient. Yes, she might have meetings and group activities and 12 frat boys blowing up her cell phone and mandatory nude pillow fights—there I go fantasizing out loud again—but she’s got friends. A whole frickin’ list of friends. Like 65, maybe as many 85, girls that she HAS to be friends with. And that right there is the beauty of the deal.)

Take a look at this impressive dating resume I’ve put together in the last six years (the printable version, anyway). I…

**Was in love with a black girl once at OU. Went out with a black girl once in Akron. (Hang on while they pick my grandma up off the floor.) Told ‘em both to be careful, that once you go Zac you never go back. Yeah. That line ALMOST worked.

**Had a pretty big crush at OU. Things went back and forth, but mostly in a good way. We danced and drank the night away once at the Cheese. The next day, she left town to go see her boyfriend. I responded by emailing her a list of the Top 10 times it may have been appropriate to tell me about the aforementioned boyfriend. I also used some colorful adjectives. We didn’t speak again until I needed her for my star-studded intramural softball roster. I, of course apologized.

She told me I was soooooo sweet, thoughtful, and forgiving. I told her she’d better hit the goddamn ball.

**Met a couple girls in my classes at Akron, but one stands out WAY above the rest. I’ve done a good job so far of leaving names out of this but you, Heather Pollock, are a goddess. I bow to you.

**Dated a girl who went to the University of Missouri. She was in Cleveland for the summer, and she was great. Good looking. Fun. Got along with everyone. Great to talk to. And she was a sports writer. Seriously. It was heaven. Then I went to see her in Missouri…and she left me waiting at the St. Louis Airport for more than three hours. Glad those feelings were mutual.

**Went head over heels for a girl a little while back. She screwed with my head and clipped my heels, but I’m stubborn and surely don’t give up easy. Spent a little time with a couple different girls in the ensuing months. Both seem like great girls. Both aren’t quite sure what to think about me. Both have or will read this.

(I don’t like my chances.)

In closing, I present the Top 10 lessons I learned from college
girls…

1. If she’s as hot as you tell your friends she is, she’s either a certified wacko or has a boyfriend (maybe both).
2. There’s an 80 percent chance (maybe an underestimate) that said boyfriend is under 5-foot-9, works out a lot because he’s mad at the world, and treats said girl like shit. That’s, like, automatic. Take it to the bank.
3. If she makes out in the bar, you should definitely get her number. But you definitely shouldn’t take her home to mom.
4. Especially now that everybody and his brother has a picture phone…the whole “making out in the bar” thing definitely should not become a habit.
5. Things happen when you least expect them to. You might go out on Fat
Tuesday with the mission of proving you’re every bit as cocky and obnoxious as
the girl you’re talking to heard you were…and end up meeting a girl who might,
possibly, potentially be somewhat special.
6. If she’s young and hot (experience with this dangerous combination makes me a great teacher), she’s a freaking roller coaster. Either buckle up or call back in two years.
7. If you go through your cell phone and don’t have at least one “Jen” or “Julie” whose number you don’t recognize and, quite frankly, you haven’t the slightest idea
who Jen is and how you might have met her…then you’re not really in college.
8. If she breaks plans with you once, she’ll do it again. If she’s still breaking plans with you two months later, well, the joke’s on you, bud.
9. Sad but true: She’ll never like you as much as she does when she’s worried that you don’t give a shit about her.
10. As Curt Rouser and Frank Barile taught me back in high school…and Rouser and I still believe strongly in this theory…if she smokes, she pokes.

Chapter 6: Here, There, Everywhere

2005-05-01T18:57:00.000-04:00

“Rob, we are in Vegas. There are 900 girls in this club. And you found the two who don’t speak English. Congratulations.” –Zac Jackson

In this chapter I’m going to discuss a little bit of everything…random ramblings and some good stories from the last six years.

**I’ve been to Vegas four times, once with my dad and three times with my friends. That place…wow. I can’t do it justice, so I won’t even try. My parents were out there in March, and my mom was surprised by the amount of college spring breakers they shared the week with.
Mom? Hell-ooooo? Sunshine, cheap hotels, free liquor and 24/7 access to just about everything in town? It doesn’t get any more “college” than that.

**I was raised on horse racing. I’ve always loved it. Shit, I was reading the Form when most kids my age were reading Green Eggs and Ham. Back in ’99 I had a few bucks on a 31-1 Kentucky Derby longshot named Charismatic, and this drove Gideon crazy—even crazier when he also won the Preakness two weeks later.

I came back from class one day to find a note on my door from Gideon about Charismatic meeting his destiny at the glue factory. And when Charismatic suffered a career-ending injury in the Belmont, Gideon (the worst bettor EVER, might I add) took it as some sort of twisted personal victory.

When Smarty Jones came a length short of winning the Triple Crown this year, I was pretty depressed. I had Smarty in the Derby, and also hit the superfecta in the Preakness. The Belmont was hard emotionally and hard on the wallet. And when my phone was ringing five minutes after the Belmont, I didn’t even have to look at the caller ID. I knew it was Gideon. And I knew what he was going to say. So I simply picked up the phone, told him I was “absolutely shocked” he would call, and said, “If there was any justice, you would be turned to glue.” Hey, Sean, I mean that.

**Times change. Tastes change. Songs come and go. But six years of college (and college bars, college parties, etc.) has taught me this much: “The Humpty Dance” is definitely the greatest college song ever, and I’ve got five reasons to back this theory…

1. “Well yeah, I guess it’s obvious, I also like to write”
2. “Hey yo, fat girl, come here, are you ticklish?”
3. “Yeah I called you fat, look at me I’m skinny, it never stopped me from gettin’ busy”
4. “Black people, white people, Puerto Ricans, Samoans…do the Humpty Hump”
5. “I once got busy in a Burger King bathroom”

**Retro is in. Throwbacks are the craze. But we were ahead of the game. Remember the video “NBA Superstars” that came out in the early 90’s, with a subscription to Sports Illustrated I believe? This was a must-have college video. Everybody had it (well, everybody except my roommate. He had his marching band videos). And we watched it all the time. Indescribably awesome. Magic making no-look passes to “Control,” Larry Bird doing his thing to “Small Town,” and Charles Barkley shootin’ down the walls as “The Warrior.” I’ve got chills just thinking about it.

**Nicknames. Wow, did we have some characters in the dorm at OU. And we gave them all nicknames. FOB. POS. TPT. The Homeless Guy. Iron Mike. Asshole. Asshole Jabroni. Shaggy. Sneaky Cornici. Hoe Ass Rat. The best of ‘em all, Can’t Get Right. The boy just can’t get right. Boy, do I wish I had the time and energy to explain them all. I don’t, but they deserved at least a tiny shout out.

**When John and I got sick of looking at the Homeless Guy doing his hair in the bathroom and Can’t Get Right stumbling into our conversations, we’d go to a place on College Green we named Johnny Jackson Hill and BS the night away. Often.

We talked about horse racing. We talked about the girls we were afraid to talk to. We made fun of Dallas. (Now, John lives in Fort Myers, and I visit as often as possible. And when I go, we lose our money at the dog track. We talk about girls we’re afraid to talk to. And we make fun of Dallas.)

Johnny Jackson Hill is where we bonded. We talked about our dreams, told our old high school stories, and argued anything you could ever think of. It’s where he promised that when Brody became the big high school star I said he was going to be, he would come watch (he did). It’s where I promised that when he moved to Florida, I’d come down and mooch off of him as much as possible (I do).

God bless that place.

**As I write this, I’m listening to “Chronic 2001,” the big comeback album from Dr. Dre. I remember Dallas had this CD (presumably because gangster rap is huge in Creston) and I used to borrow it all the time to listen while I wrote at OU.

3 or 4 in the morning is when I did my best work, especially with Dre and Eminem kickin’ it in the background. Until I started writing this, I was old and going to bed by 11 almost every night. But this brought me back to the days of bumpin’ Dre and watching Cheers and Mary Tyler Moore on Nick at Nite…every night.

**I’ve done more than my share of traveling (going everywhere the Browns go sure sounds rough, doesn’t it?). But one day that really stands out came in December 2002. The Browns left that day for Baltimore, but I had to detour through Salem, Va., to watch the Division III National Championship Game. Rob Adamson, my best friend since we were 11, was Mount Union’s quarterback and this was his last college game.

I left Columbus at 6am. Slept ‘til landing in snowy Pittsburgh at 7. Left 40 minutes later for Roanoke on a plane slightly larger than an ’86 Chevy Caprice and went back to sleep. Woke up as we began the descent from Hell—through a bunch of mountains—into Roanoke. I swear to you, this is the only time in my life I thought I was going to die. I almost hit my head on the overhead lights on the first jolt. We swayed back and forth, then I went up again.

Grown women were screaming like little girls. One grown man folded himself into the corner of his seat like a grown man shouldn’t be folded. Bam! Big jolts. Big bumps. This was a nightmare.

Finally, we landed. People cried. People high-fived. I got into my carry on bag and checked to make sure that my bottle of Crown didn’t crack.

It didn’t. I high-fived the guy in front of me. I didn’t cry, but I thought about it.

Thanks to an assist from Brian Windhorst of the Beacon Journal (whose reputation will surely take a hit from appearing in these memoirs), I was at the stadium 20 minutes later. Brian could only shake his head as I got back into the bag and pulled out my purple #7 Rob Adamson jersey and a ridiculous amount of cheesy party beads. It was gameday, and I was geared up. Four hours, multiple spilled drinks, several cheesy (and unsuccessful) pickup lines and one lost ticket later, I was inside the stadium, obnoxious as ever.

Mount Union went on to do what Mount Union does, and that’s kick the snot out of the team on the opposite sideline. Rob threw two touchdown passes and tossed a gameball to his family in the stands. Afterwards, he held court in the media room like he was Joe Montana. What a day for him. What a day for me. What a great day to be alive.

About 5:30, Rob’s dad drove me back to the airport. By 7:30, I was back in Pittsburgh. By 11, I was in Baltimore. That’s efficiency.

**This is my obligatory shout-out to Seth Grady, the very first friend I ever made at OU. And one for you, too, Doepke. Haaaaaaaaaaaay Jaaaaaaaaaaaaay! And also one for Evan Novak, intramural teammate, Boyd Hall amigo and all-around good dude. Seriously. How is it that a guy never cuts his hair, yet is still unable to hide his ears?

**One thing about me: I have a crazy memory (in case you couldn’t tell by reading this). There was this place at OU (DP Dough) that delivered calzones ‘til something like 6am. And I was a VIP customer. I loved it.

In April 2002, almost two years after I left, I came back to see my friends for the weekend. And we went on this crazy all-night binge—the kind my body was no longer equipped to handle. So we stumbled home at 230am and I decided it was time for DP Dough.

To make a long and blurry story short, I remembered the phone number. What’s more impressive is that I remembered the menu number of my favorite calzone, the chicken and broccoli. Randy Limes was listening to me on the phone, and he was kind of in awe—I was officially a true sicko.

I then passed out on the couch, but Randy woke me up when the driver came to the door (probably so I could pay for both of us). I must say: That calzone was worth the wait.

** I visited a lot of colleges. And as far as I’m concerned, Bubba’s is the all-time world champion of college bars. Up on the mountain at Bethany College…doesn’t look like much from the outside…beat the clock before the clock beats you…22’s for like two bucks…wow. What a place.

Just like Tom Hanks says there’s no crying in baseball, there are no laws in West Virginia. And there’s no place quite like Bubba’s. You have to experience it to believe it.

**When you have the kind of fun that makes smile from ear to ear and laugh ‘till your insides hurt—but it’s only funny to you, and not to anyone who wasn’t there but later hears the story—that’s real fun. And that’s what real college memories are built on.

Chapter 7: Gettin' Educated

2005-05-01T18:54:00.000-04:00

“Me fail English? That’s umpossible?”—Ralph Wiggum

I was trying to think of something I left out of the memoirs. Then it hit me.

Education. Going to class. Learnin’ and shit.

Don’t tell my mom I said this, but class was kind of fun, too. The scenery was usually good. The subject matter was somewhat interesting. And there was nothing better than a 50-minute anthropology lecture to get my mind right and get some good thinking in on subjects that actually matter.

Learning and maturing? Yeah, those things are kind of important, too. After taking classes like public speaking, humanities, journalism law, and sociology, I could say that I was learning, progressing, putting two and two together. Not a bad feeling, really.

In the Scripps School at OU I learned that being a good writer was just that—good. But if I was ever going to be a great writer, I had to be willing to work my tail off and give big attention to little things. It took my ego a while to realize this, but two years in Scripps made me 25 times a better writer than I was before I arrived.

(Random but important side note: It’s June 1, 2004. It’s 4:30pm. I have to leave for class any second. But it’s raining. Hard. And I’ve skipped class for less in the past…)

(7pm follow-up to random but important side note: I tried to take a nap. I tried to find something else to do. But in the end I just threw a 30-second cussing tantrum and decided to go to class. I parked the car and walked to the building…to find that class was cancelled. Seriously. Lesson here, kids: Trust your gut.)

In fall ’98 I took African American Studies with a character named Dr. Rhodes. And learning became so fun (and funny) that I followed that up by taking the 200-level African American Studies class the following quarter.

Dr. Rhodes had stories. He had wisdom. There were days when he had liquor (a lot, I’m guessing) before class. I remember lots of things about Dr. Rhodes, but I consider one thing his trademark.

Dr. Rhodes would tell lots of jokes. And regardless of whether 45 people laughed or no one laughed, he would follow it up with a little snicker and “ha ha…shit.” That, of course, drew laughs from everyone.

I rarely missed his class. I rarely missed a minute, for that matter, because no one ever knew what he might say or share next. He’d tell stories about his days at Morehouse, about his time in Chicago, about his dealings with Coretta Scott King. One day a kid in the back spoke up and interrupted him. Called him a liar. Said “Dr. Rhodes, the only thing you did in the movement was paperwork.”

His response: “Ha ha…shit.”

I took a class at OU (Winter 2000) called “Info Gathering,” basically a crash course for aspiring journalists in doing research. We learned about background checks, about digging online for birth dates and e-mail addresses, about finding phone numbers and other vitals through Google. I’m not sure what I got in the class, but I do know my dating and stalking career really took off in the ensuing months.

Probably my most humbling class experience came in Winter ’02, when I had to take Freshman English 2 at Akron. Yep, I was 22. Yep, I was the head writer for the website that was voted best pro sports team website in North America. And yep, twice a week, I had Freshman English.

I remember intentionally writing crappy essays so I could fit in. And I also remember the humungous crush I had on this amazingly beautiful soccer player who sat next to me. If my calculations are correct, she should now be getting ready for her senior year. And if I don’t run into her in Akron sometime in the next few months, well, thank goodness for OU and “Info Gathering,” huh?

My microbiology class (Summer ’03) had 47 students, 41 female. This was like living a dream. I had lab on the first day of class, and I took scouting potential lab partners as serious business. Then the teacher decided to assign partners, which was still fine by me.

My partner had brown hair. My partner had green eyes. My partner was a dude.

Forty-seven girls. Six guys. Male lab partner. Only me. Only.Freaking. Me.

College is all about beating the system; all about people helping people. I remember Beth Sternberg asking me to help with a paper for her moral philosophies class. I said, “Sorry, Beth. I have neither morals nor printable philosophies.”

Things might not have worked out on that particular occasion, but the “moral” of the story is this: College is a team effort. Everyone has the same goal and the same bottom line. Show me one person who got through strictly on individual effort, and I’ll show you either a liar or one sad, tired, in-desperate-need-of-a-life SOB.

I remember helping Dallas and Gideon with basic HTML while basically learning on the fly myself. That experience certainly helped when the Browns’ opportunity emerged. I edited and rewrote papers for lots of people. Dallas got me through Economics. Bakota got me through Precision Language. John, a Sports Sciences major, missed all this fun. He was at the library studying for his “Duck-Duck-Goose” test.

Last fall I wrote a Freshman English paper on a movie that the “author” had never even seen. That’s how strongly I believe that “A Bronx Tale” teaches some of life’s most important lessons (that the “author” was gorgeous was maybe, possibly, also a small contributing factor).

And now, it’s over. Wow. No more buying books, no more chewing pens beyond recognition, no more late night drinking (a lot) and studying (a little) sessions. I’m excited. If I can see fungi dancing through a microscope and understand the subjunctive form of a Spanish verb, then dammit, maybe I am ready to tackle the real world. Thank you, college.

Chapter 8: Muchas Gracias

2005-05-01T18:50:00.000-04:00

“Count your blessings, come as they may,”—Pat Green

Speaking of thank yous, let’s do this…

Thank you to my parents for an infinite amount of wisdom, guidance, love, caring and everything anyone could ever ask for—friendship when I needed a friend, tough love when I needed to learn a tough lesson, and inspiration to chase my dreams, even the biggest and craziest ones. Oh yeah, thanks for the place to stay, too. And for paying the tuition. Year Five was paid for by the John S. Knight Scholarship, but with the exception of that they’ve been writing too many checks for too many years. It is much appreciated.

Thank you to Dan Arthur, formerly of the Browns, for taking a chance on a 20-year old kid with a little talent, a lot of big dreams, and a whole heck of a lot to learn. You opened a lot of doors for me and I will be forever grateful. You also played a big part in keeping me in college and working towards my degree, something that wasn’t always easy but was the right thing to do.

Thank you to Todd Stewart, my current boss, not only for help and guidance on an everyday basis but for being patient and understanding of my school situation and pushing me towards graduation. That’s something I just can’t say enough. Graduation, graduation, graduation, graduation, graduation, graduation, graduation. Whew.

Thank you to Mrs. Austin, Mrs. White and Mr. Smith at Manchester High School for making me a better writer and challenging me to learn different things and approach them in different ways. I know high school was an eternity and a half ago, but things I learned from all three of you continue to be valuable.

Thank you to my grandparents for sending me pre-paid long distance phone cards (those were the best) when I was at OU. I would call my grandparents and thank them for sending. I would call my friends at home and check in. I would call and talk to my mom about lots of things. Then my dad would get on the phone and ask if I’d met any rich girls yet. Priceless.

Thank you to Mrs. Fry at the University of Akron for lots of support and a big boost in getting the John S. Knight Scholarship in 2002. Thank you to Dr. Endres at the University of Akron for tons and tons of things—understanding my situation, most of all—and for all the help in speeding along the graduation process. It is appreciated more than I could ever express.

Thank you to my former classmates who took themselves so seriously that once they found a seat on the first day of class, they never wanted to relinquish it. This usually happened with girls who developed a routine and a buddy system. For example, Gina and Jenny would sit at the third table on the left EVERY DAY, Gina closest to the door, so they were in plain view of the teacher. Well, Gina, Jenny, and the rest of you tools who did this, I just want you to know that it gave me great pleasure to—once every five weeks or so—show up early and steal your seat, just so I could see the looks on your faces as you quivered slowly to the back corner, glaring at me as if I had just ruined not only your day but probably your week. Seriously, thank you.

Thank you, OU, for creating “Mom’s Weekend,” a truly unique event that brings 10,000 mothers to Athens for a weekend of irresponsible drinking with their irresponsible children. It’s glorious. Your mom sees you drink a 12 pack…and sees you drink a gallon of water in three gulps the next morning. That rich kid you hate down the hall? You get to see that his mom is every bit the surgically enhanced bimbo you hoped she was. And you get to hang out with your mom like an adult. It’s a big step, really. You go to dinner…you go to four bars…and you just have a blast. By midnight, mom is buzzed up and whispering to you about how she can just tell the brunette in the jean skirt at the next table is a tramp. And you sort of nervously laugh and agree, knowing full well that most Saturdays when moms are nowhere near Athens, that jean skirt just might be on the floor of your dorm.

Thank you to the greedy communist University of Akron bastards who charged more than 100 bucks per semester for a campus parking pass…but only charged 6 bucks per parking ticket. Let’s do the math: 4 tickets equals 24 bucks, plus 10 dollars in loose change for the meters every now and then, for a grand total of…drum roll…34 dollars. I don’t need to tell you where to stick the difference.

Thank you to Joe Carlone, who I knew of at OU but got to know well when he interned with the Browns. Joe, in many ways, showed me the light. Just when I was ready to retire and be content with being old and out of touch, Joe rescued me and reassured me that the college lifestyle is, like, totally, the only way to live. Unfortunately and by the grace of God, Joe graduated at the end of his fifth year in 2002, but he’s maintained his maturity level and outlook. How is he handling the transition from Joe College to Joe Real World? Put it this way: If there’s more to life than cheesy dances, fart noises and horny girls, then Joe doesn’t really want to live.

And finally, thank you, Sean Gideon, for the memories.

Gideon. The dude drinks three beers and his left eye starts to twitch. By number six, it's totally closed. And the one-eyed drunken monster is one unpredictable character.

Sean was better than any reality TV you could ever find. When he started talking, you never quite knew what he might say next. Conversely, when he made a bet—something he did quite often—you did know what was coming next. His team was going to lose. And his reaction was going to be classic.

Probably the most memorable thing about Sean is the way (ways, I should say) that he would finish his evenings. Sometimes, he’d stumble home and tell us that he met a girl and she was soooooooo hot and he’d be seeing her again soon (Sean had a vivid imagination). Sometimes, he’d stumble home with an actual girl he had met at the late-night pizza shop…but would proceed to let his mouth ruin any chances of a potential hookup. Another Gideon trademark.

Sometimes, he would show up with our buddy Matt Longano and tell some outrageous stories about some outrageous party they had attended. Sometimes, he’d be with both Bakota and Longano, and the stories would be doubly outrageous. One time, he showed up with Minnesota Timberwolves forward Gary Trent. File that one under “shit I couldn’t make up, not even on my best day.”

Sometimes, Sean wouldn’t come home at all, and John would have to skip class the following day to go pick Sean up at the Nelsonville Jail. Sometimes, the cops would just call and tell John to save his energy, that they’d give Sean a lift home—no sweat. Call if the frequent customer discount.

This game of “who will he bring home next?” became not only a running joke and a source of entertainment, but also a golden opportunity to hone my prognostication skills. If OU just had someone to book my parlay of Sean will be home (UNDER) 1:45 am and be accompanied by (OVER) one and a half male guests and will have (UNDER) one and a half open eyes and a blood alcohol content of (OVER) .20, I could have been rich.

Chapter 9: Turning The Page

2005-05-01T18:47:00.000-04:00

“I’m not old, but I’m gettin’ a whole lot older every day,”—Tim McGraw

I hope you’ve enjoyed the story. I figure my next release, coming late this summer, will be “25 Horribly Depressing Reasons Turning 25 Is Horribly Depressing.”

Rarely do I get asked for my ID. I get invited to a party and my first thought is “next-day hangover” instead of “let’s call some girls.” A road trip requires careful planning and at least a two-day recovery period. I’m not even good at video games anymore.

My mom said it best: “It’s time to be done with school.”

Oh, mama. It’s been time. Thank goodness it’s finally here.

The last year has been great. I stayed focused on school because the end was very much in sight. I got myself into some “college” situations and came out glad it was the last time I went through or participated in such things. Thanks to a lot of late-night phone conversations with a girl I actually cared about, I became a better listener. And I developed a real and true appreciation for some of the lessons I’ve learned.

(Hey, Zac. When you start saying ridiculous stuff like that, you know you’re getting old.)

Indeed.

You know you’re getting old when you start making distinctions between the good girls and the not-so-good ones. And it actually (gasp!) means something to you.

You know you’re getting old when your close friends get married and you’re not fazed. The first time is a big reality check. The second and third times make you scratch your head and usually lead to a pretty deep self-evaluation. By now, it’s old hat: Show up, wish ‘em luck, pound some beers, come to the realization that the bridesmaids want absolutely nothing to do with you, try to dance with them anyway, then pass out on someone’s couch (I’ve heard of that happening).

You know you’re getting old when you meet a girl two years younger than you at a college bar, and she tells you all about her plans for grad school in three months. This leads to you lying about your age (I never did it, but I heard of people doing it). This also could lead to a huge clarification and emphasis when you tell her “yeah, I go here PART-TIME because of my JOB and I’ll be done FOR GOOD in two months.”

You know when you’re getting old when you get together with your friends…and you don’t have to go anywhere. Sure, the thought of going out is tempting. And yes, Surge desperately wants to go to the Saddle Ranch. But when you’re old, you just genuinely enjoy each other’s company and each other’s stories, even the ones you’ve already heard 100 times.

You know you’re getting old when you’re talking with some younger friends who are in the prime of their college careers, and you tell a story that you think can top theirs. Problem is, you start to say “last year,” then you quickly change that to “two years,” only to give it some thought and eventually get bitch-slapped by the reality that it was FIVE YEARS AGO. Yeah. That always sucks.

You know you’re getting old when you finally get the balls to introduce yourself to the girl who’s been smiling at you all night…and when you say, “hi, I’m Zac,” she says, “yeah, that’s what I thought. You’re Brody Jackson’s brother, right?”

These things happen. These things have happened. This, my friends, is my life.

Glad you could come along for the ride.