To the Editor:
I am writing this letter in response to Rob Valet's column, "A Sense of Perspective" [The Dartmouth, Oct. 16]. Valet's columns are usually worth at least a guffaw or two (sometimes even a chortle). Usually ... but not this time. That may explain why the girl across the table was so pissed when my angrily discarded copy of The Dartmouth landed on her tray (though some could argue that the splattered fro-yo might have had something to do with it).
The column's intent, as I read it, was to disparage football in general, and the few raucous, spirited football fans who actually attend Dartmouth in particular. Valet points out the typical faults that academics usually find in football, including the participation of "more than its share of large, violent people," later blaming his apathy on a losing high school football team. I can understand this unenthusiastic attitude. What I cannot understand or accept is his criticism of those of us who actually enjoy the game.
Personally, I love football. I love it for its grace and power, for its emotional highs and lows and especially for its bone-jarring action. Unfortunately, at just over five feet, five inches tall and possessing only around 125 pounds of body weight (pre-freshman 15), I just can't cut it at the college level. Well, let's face it, I couldn't cut it at the middle school level. But does that mean I can't participate in the game? Hell no! Football, unlike miniature golf or table tennis (whose fans I'm sure Valet has no issues with), is a spectator's sport.
Nor does my diminutive stature preclude me from a negative attitude, as Valet insists it should. Of course I can't do any better than the players I'm criticizing; that's why I'm in the stands! I'm sure Rob has cracked his share of jokes at the President's expense, but he probably couldn't handle the responsibilities of world leadership, either. And I should point out that when we (yes, I use the word "we" to describe Dartmouth's sports teams) make a good play, I'm one of the first to: a) actually realize that the play occurred, and b) leap from my seat and shriek at the top of my lungs.
Now I could sit quietly with my friends, laugh about our pathetic inflatable moose and clap politely for every field goal, but I find that boring. I, for one, don't think all our cheering should have to come from the marching band. It's exactly that kind of half-hearted support that perpetuates the image of the Ivy League as the last bastion of geeks and nerds. So I'll stand up if I feel like it, and I'll scream, and I'll criticize, and I'll yell curses at the refs and their families. And if we fumble on fourth and goal, I'll cover my eyes and shout, "Mother of God, No!"
Maybe it's because that's as close as I can come to actually being on the field. Maybe it's because I have some school pride. Maybe it's because I'm just a jerk. I'm not really sure. I do know that it's not up to Valet to decide. So I'm going to keep making a fool of myself in the stands, win or lose, all the way to the end of the season. If you can't handle that, go play croquet.
