Partly Cloudy, 64°
Brown probably took home the Ivy League Championship last month in a game against either Cornell or Columbia. Or if it wasn't one of those, it was definitely Penn or Yale. Or Princeton, Harvard, or Dartmouth. Wait, Stanford's not in the Ivy League, right? Okay. Then it was definitely one of those 7, for sure.
Literally tens of fans cheered as the Bears began to crush the opposing team in the first, second, third or fourth quarter of the game. The key play filled those in the bleachers with as much adrenaline as if they had been attending the slam poetry showcase held that same afternoon in Salomon 101, an exhilarating event which this reporter definitely doesn't know anything about, because he was at the football game all day.
Bruno headed into the game with a league record that must've been somewhere in between 7-0 and 5-2.
"The football team? I think I heard they were doing pretty good the whole season," said this reporter's roommate about the team's performance. "Why did you accept this article assignment anyway?"
Senior quarterback and Co-Captain Scott Randall's stellar performance in the game gave him the leading number of league touchdowns for the season. maybe. Randall said of the game, "Uh.I'm not Scott Randall. I'm not even on the football team." (In this reporter's defense, he was standing near the Theta Delta Chi house and wearing sweatpants.)
When asked how she feels about Bruno's victory, Nan Scarbo '11 said, "That's nice, I guess. How amazing was that poetry slam, though? And did you catch the Janus Forum debate last night? It was really empowering." In the end, reeling off trivial details like the passes, yardage (that's a football thing, right?), or score of the game would be a journalistic disservice to the spirit of the Bears. What will really live on in the hearts of those of us lucky enough to have attended are the intangibles: The triumph of the fighting Brown Bears for the third time in a decade (I'm over 86% sure that statistic is right); the glory of being a little less awful at football than the rest of the Ivy League; and the memory of sweet success warming our souls on a day so freezing cold that we almost skipped the game altogether to go to a poetry reading and then play Halo in our dorm room. (Almost! I said almost. Because
we did go to the game. Honest.)
