"I might be too strong out on compliments, overdosed on confidence, started not to give a f*ck and stop fearing the consequence ..." Believe it or not, those words, so dripping with savory audaciousness, were not penned by the rhyme guru Bill Shakespeare, the brazen Ernest Hemingway, nor Dartmouth's favorite pseudo-son Theodore Geisel '25. Nay, these words of wisdom come straight from the mouth of Drake (Ca$h Money Records, shout out to Weezy on the track). "Headlines" will surely prove to be one of this fall's hallmark tracks (along with revival of Kevin Lyttle's 2003 classic, "Turn Me On" trust me, it's already begun) in no small part to the steadfast message of unbridled confidence it espouses.
Central to its mass appeal is the universal desire for swagger. Taken a step further, swagger for some is not simply a want, but a worldly necessity. Those who possess swag are not guaranteed success, but they are entitled to it. Those who lack swag gravitate nearly subconsciously to those carrying it in spades. For the truly swagged out, what they desire is theirs for the taking, regardless of whether they attain it or not.
Proper swag is a hallmark of any good athlete. Whether it be for Ty Cobb, Mohammad Ali or Chad Ochocinco, swag not only increases an athlete's entertainment value in many cases, it allows athletes to feign relevance long after their abilities have shifted into a precipitous decline. Cobb believed every day of his life that he was the greatest ball player who ever lived. Ali also proclaimed himself the world's greatest. Ochocinco may have dropped a wide-open catch in the endzone during the fourth quarter of a week-three matchup against the Buffalo Bills, but he still found time to tweet at Manchester United's Wayne Rooney after the game, challenging him to, "play me in FIFA 12,I'd love the opportunity to beat you as I did Ashley Cole n Thierry Henry."
The advantages of swag are undeniable. It provides a shot of confidence that can undermine the competitive psychology of any opponent. It fuels any type of gloating exponentially. Given, an athlete with excessive amounts of swag who fails in his or her endeavor is at risk of being even more humiliated, but this can easily be overlooked if that athlete operates with the right amount of self-depreciation.
In Hanover, our athletes decidedly lack any meaningful kind of swagger but not by any fault of their own. All NCAA athletes play under a higher amount of scrutiny because of the emphasis placed not only on the individual, but on the scholastic institution they represent. Athletic administrators are adamant that any sort of frivolity or excessive celebration cannot be tolerated if it risks tarnishing the name, as they like to say, on the front of the jersey.
While I respect and understand that notion, I believe the ties can be loosened to allow Dartmouth by all accounts a hallowed, venerable and proud tradition to develop a sporting individualism that may grant us an athletic edge, or at the very least wholesome enjoyment, in competition against our Ivy League opponents.
The psychology of the Big Green is a fragile one. I don't think I'd be alone in saying that athletes at the College suffer from a certain "little brother" complex when put in direct comparison with some of our more brand-name rivals, such as Yale, Harvard and Princeton. In many sports, when Dartmouth faces any of the "Big Three," it's hard to ignore the underdog sentiment we unwillingly take on in the face of their massive endowments, larger enrollments and semi-cosmopolitan campuses. We are the ragged band of deprived rogues from the North, uncultured and even uncivilized in comparison to our bohemian brethren from the likes of Cambridge.
Instead of trying to fight this complex, we should embrace it. Let's accept the role of rough and tumble woodsmen, who spend our spare time letting out primal yells and felling trees in the forests of the Upper Valley. And when we succeed, let's show how dangerous we are. Like a wolf crying in the wilderness, let's send the Red Riding Hoods of Yale back from the Starbucks from whence they came.
We have the potential. Imagine the dreads of Lucky Mkosana '12 blowing in a Hanover wind as he rips a shot past the Princeton keeper (as he did twice last weekend), yelling a roar of raw emotion in the direction of hundreds of loyal hooligans at Burnham Field. Picture Nick Schwieger '12 wearing no other flashy accessories apart from medical tape as he runs over a Harvard defender, then takes a second too long to linger over him as the referee singles for first down. Indulge for a second at the thought of Peter Williamson '12, the Ivy League's best golfer, winning the Yale Invitational (which he did last weekend), and then unleashing a furious Tiger fist pump on the 18th green.
Yeah, we're naaaaasty.
