"And this, is what I do."

The sobriety binge ends tonight (I swear I just heard trumpets blaring). That’s right—tonight I put my clear vision back on the shelf where it belongs. Nick has three kegs leftover from his wedding, and in the interest of finishing them off, is having a beer pong tournament.

Beer pong. “The sport of kings,” as I like to call it (f**k you, horse racing). My alma mater, Washington & Jefferson College, is to beer pong what the University of Miami is to football: a factory. It is a breeding ground that consistently produces elite talent. I’ve played against hundreds of people from hundreds of colleges, and the best players are always the W&J men.

I really can’t explain it, but we seem to have an unrivaled program. Nick and I were asked (twice) to voluntarily leave the table during a party at Penn State, because none of the Staters could beat us. We had a tenth of Thiel College’s student body cheering on our opponents at a Thiel homecoming party some years ago, because none of the Thiel boys could beat us. I’ve had crowds gather at bars in Ocean City, because…well, you get the picture.

I’ve won a tournament while playing with a party full of people I had never met before that night. I had a game that went into 5 overtimes. I’ve had 11 game winning streaks, 13 game winning streaks, 14 game winning streaks. By the way, anyone who has ever experienced a winning streak over 10 games will agree: you start hoping to lose, usually somewhere around the end of the 11^th game. You find yourself aiming only half-heartedly. Maybe even trying to short-arm the ball. But you let it go and hear the telltale “thwock.” Nick always tells the story of the time he and Chief were teammates in a tourney in college: at one point near the end, nearing a blackout and drained from being on his feet for several games, Chief put his head down on a nearby mantle and threw the ball without looking. “Thwock.”

I went back to W&J a couple of years ago for an annual weekend-long party that my friends’ frat holds. The beer pong table was set up in a backroom in the basement, and there were parents and little brothers and sisters mixed in the crowd, along with the students and alumni. My buddy Zach and I (team name: Ebony and Zachary) got on the table, and after we had won our 3^rd straight game, people around the table started placing bets—parents included. Money was being thrown on the table from both sides as people took action on the game. Suddenly we were in “Bloodsport.” There’s nothing quite like sinking a cup to the simultaneous roars of cheers and dejection. I think someone even tipped me for hitting the winning cup, somewhere around the 8^th game. You just can’t make this stuff up.

So tonight, I once again step onto the field of battle, to further add to the distinct pong heritage of “The J.” And with the goal of defeating not just the opponents across the table from me, but my arch nemesis: “Moderation.” That son-of-a-bitch doesn’t know what he’s in for.