Most people will tell you lacrosse players are assholes. That they have a sense of entitlement that makes up for their lack of basic intelligence toward anything that doesn’t revolve around a small white ball. That they treat girls like shit, spread STDs and rarely have any ambition in life after college other than taking up an assistant coaching position at like minded institutions that promote like minded teams. Basically, ninety-five percent of this description is true. Somehow, I overlooked this unfortunate truth and found the goodness in most, if not all, of the 48 or so guys who helped mold my freshman year as one of the best college experiences I could have ever had.
When I became manager/trainer of my college team, I met the members of the team in increments. The first guy I met really set the bar low for every other interaction. Wally happened to be in the health center the same day I was. While I was legitimately seeking a prescription for cough medicine stronger than NyQuill, Wally was probably looking for a prescription for penicillin for some nagging burn he had. Just guessing. When he sat down next to me in the waiting room, I wouldn’t have cared if he had been having gender reassignment surgery. He was pretty hot. Tall and built, bright blue eyes that were emphasized by the blue baseball cap that covered a mop of messy but thick (I judged guys by how bald I thought they’d be by thirty) brown hair.
“Hey,” he said, as I sat filling out my paper work.
“Hey,” I said. This will literally be one of the most intelligent conversations I will ever have with a lacrosse player I hooked up with. One of the only conversations where I haven’t turned my head slightly and thought “does that even make sense?”
“Are you a freshman?”
I blushed, wondering if it was that obvious. Of course, at the time, I thought a short denim mini skirt, a bright orange Lacoste polo shirt and a ribbon in my hair screamed “sophisticated upper classman”. Looking back, I was surprised people didn’t think I was a twelve year old child prodigy taking classes. I tried to think of a way to lie about my actual answer, or make it sound better, but I came up short.
“Yeah,” I said. I was obviously showing off how intelligent and witty I was.
“Me, too.” I looked at him surprised and relieved. I was not the only novice here. He looked about twenty five.
“Where do you live on campus?” I asked.
“South Hall,” he said, and immediately, my inner mind alarms began ringing.
“Do you play a sport?” I asked eagerly. This question would come define every first date I’ve had since then. Depressing that this came before “do you have a criminal record? Do you have children? Do you do copious amounts of drugs? Do you have weird sexual feitshes?” These were questions that I should have been asking all along. Because to those ones, I’d have gotten a lot of yeses.
It was well known that the freshmen athletes were afforded a much higher standard of living than the lowly, boring non-athletic students. You can cure cancer? Congrats, you and ten billion other Asians. To the unairconditioned North Hall dorms with you! You can shoot a ball into a net with a stick? Please, allow us to offer you better living quarters than the Mayor of this lovely college town.
While my colege housed some students in a Best Western way off campus my freshmen year due to overcrowding in the dorms, and while I sweated my ass off for a month sleeping on ice packs because my dorm room had no air conditioning and fluorescent lights that could bake a ten inch thick cake, athletes were privy to the South Hall apartments, where they had a living room, a private bedroom with a full sized bed, and an easier walking commute to classes they rarely attended.
“Yeah, lacrosse,” he answered.
“I’m your manager!” I basically flung myself at him, so eager to get the words out of my mouth, like I thought he was going to run somewhere (and he probably should have, the psychotic look I had in my eye), I drooled on myself.
After Wally and I finished our limited conversation, most of which I carried, all the while wondering what it’d be like to kiss him, he was called into an examination room. I gave him my number and watched him walk slowly and confidently in front of the nurse, despite the fact that he might have been about to be told he had something unwanted on his penis.
“I just met my future husband,” I said the words quietly out loud as I text them to my best friend.
Two weeks later, when Wally was absolutely burn free we orchestrated a hang out. I would never even think of calling it a date, because that would have implied Wally actually was interested in something other than sex. No no, I would never give myself that kind of credit.
But when he showed up at my door, I was just as excited as I would have been had he proposed to me with a five karat diamond.
I sat on my bed, and he sat on the chair adjacent to my desk. We watched exactly fourteen minutes of The Real World, and then began an awkward session of twenty questions.
“Where are you from?” I already knew the answer, having stalked his roster page.
“Ridgewood, New Jersey.” This would later explain his disgusting amount of money, his perfectly color coordinated closet, and the personality that never truly fit in with the rest of my misfit laxers.
“What’s your favorite movie?” he asked.
“What’s your favorite band?”
“I think we should just hook up now.” Looking back, I have to give him credit. My God, he had such balls. Even having lived in New York City for three years, I could never find an asshole as forward as Wally.
“Oh, okay,” was my lame answer. Because at eighteen, this was an acceptable thing to say to me, and this was my only acceptable answer.
He crawled on top of me on the bed and we made out, just as awkwardly. We bumped heads a few times. He tugged at my clothes and when he couldn’t undo the buttons on my fly, I sat up, pushed him off me and undid them while he watched, my fingers shaking. The TV was on mute now, but the light flooded across the room and made my head hurt a little bit, like a strobe light. I began to panic when I couldn’t get the button undone. I began to sweat as though I was trying to diffuse a bomb and couldn’t remember if I had to cut the yellow wire or the blue one.
Wally took the opportunity to take his own clothes off. And when I looked up from undoing my buttons, I froze.
“That is not going to fit in me,” I said out loud, then clasped my hand over my mouth, mortified that I had actually said that out loud.
I’ve seen a lot of penises in my life. But at eighteen, that was only the third I had seen in person. And it was equivalent to the other two combined. And I was a tiny girl. I mean, I weighed like a hundred in college. His penis might have weighed more than me, honestly. I stared at it as though he were holding a gun to my head.
“We’ll make it work.”
We’ll make it work? I mean, why would I ever trust that? If a guy took out a double bladed sword and asked me to put it down my throat, then assured me we’d “make it work”, I would have probably kicked him in the balls, then called the cops. But apparently, Wally's assurance that his third leg would fit inside of me was more than enough for me to give it the old college try.
“Are you crying?” he asked as I struggled to grind against him. I sat on top of him, my bra was still on, and I was staring at my Collin Farrell poster on the opposite wall, trying desperately to think of anything other than the pain. I felt like I was giving birth in reverse.
“No,” I lied, looking up, trying to suck the tears of utter pain back into my eyelids.
That answer was enough for him, and he kept going. It wasn’t convincing, by any means, but at least he could say I never said no if I ever decided to accuse him of rape (an ironic comparison for future lacrosse stories). I bet he felt like a gentleman for asking.
Finally, after seven more minutes, we finished. Or rather, he finished. At least I think he did. Maybe he got bored because I was moving in the most limited ways possible, not looking at him, and barely making a sound, because I was afraid if I made any sounds, it would be a strangled whine or cry of pain. So I basically just sat on him, moving my hips as lightly as I could to inflict as little pain as possible. I feel like this is how Christians have sex. And if it is, I now know why they don’t do it.
“I’ll see you later,” he said, standing at my door with his hand on the knob. That was it. He had basically just impaled me, and all I got was a “see ya later”. Not even a kiss.
“Yeah, see ya,” I said in one breath, forcing a smile, mentally struggling with my hand’s impulse to cup in between my legs.
He shut the door and I rolled over on my bed, wondering if I’d ever be able to go to the bathroom again. I saw a piece of paper half concealed under my bed, and I pulled it out. It was a torn condom rapper reading “Magnum”.
“I hate you,” I said out loud.
Wally set the standard for ninety-nine percent of the situations I would find myself in with other guys on the team that year. The awkward sex, the pain, the embarrassment, oh yeah, this would be the cloth seats and driver’s side airbag standard of this car called the lacrosse team.
(Sidenote- Wally was NOT a Duke player, but I have limited picture editing options and that picture seemed to work. Though, I DO know a former Dukie that had a little bit of a "i won't talk to you for two days" issue with Wally. ;)