One of my friends I’ve known since college, Melanie McClure Gibson, recently posted a photo of her and some of her Pi Phi buddies from when we were in college, probably 1977-ish. It was a photo I keep returning to, and not just because of the Daisy Dukes. It brings back memories, all good now, even though if I think really hard, I can come up with a few not so pleasant ones – one of which happened early on, in my first semester when I was a student in Yocum Hall. In those days, the boys stayed in Yocum and the girls next door in Humphries.
Before I rehash the bad memory let me throw in a good one. It was at the beginning of college life – I don’t even think classes had begun yet, which, as my father constantly reminded me, “It’s why you’re up there.” Anyway, some of the girls from Humphries had set up some games between the two dorms, next to Brough Commons, with the intention of getting us all together. The games were a good idea but not really necessary. It was late August and they just had to make themselves visible in their anti-humidity attire (see previous comment on Daisy Dukes).
So my friends and I (a contingent from Catholic High who never planned to get a haircut or wear a tie again) ventured out to participate in the events. A girl I knew from back home pulled me over to an area where they had some watermelons. The event was seed spitting, which I won, with a distance of over 22 feet. My prize was lots of attention, not a bad thing considering the attendees – and later a poster with my photo and some artwork about being the World Champion Watermelon Seed-Spitter.
Five girls delivered it that evening and taped it on the wall next to my dorm door. While they were there we planned a party for that night, either because it was Tuesday or that the grass was green. I was liking college so far.
So the party happened, with the only casualty being one of our CHS guys, who was never much of a drinker in high school. He tried to make up for it that night, and we spent some time with him later as he got acquainted with the bathroom facilities. As we walked him up to his room on the ninth floor, he turned to me, white as a sheet and asked, “What time do you want to get breakfast?” I pushed him through his door and told him he had four years and needed to pace himself.
Seven weeks later, we were well into the college groove. It was Texas Week. There had been a little bit of trouble between our guys and some other guys on our floor from Memphis, but up to that point, only words.
After the game (an 18-24 loss to the hated burnt orange) we stepped off the elevator onto our dorm floor. It was Kathy and me, my roommate John, and his date, Ashley. Suddenly, two guys came out of a room toward us. One I recognized from our floor. He was one of those Memphis guys we hadn’t really hit it off with. The guy with him was bigger and menacing and stepped forward and uttered some insult. John moved toward him, which he was always willing to do.
In a flash the stranger swung one of those fraternity paddles and caught John upside the head. Then he hit him again and blood was everywhere. The girls screamed and other guy and I grabbed each other. We wrestled around, throwing mostly harmless haymakers. More guys joined the melee, for both sides, and soon it was chaos.
Somehow we fought our way down six flights of stairs, to the lobby. I saw John, covered in blood, but giving it back to paddle boy, who we later found out was an ex-con from Memphis and the brother of the guy I was tangling with.
It soon came to an end in the lobby at the insistence of about six of the Department of Public Safety’s finest.
Days later there was a Judicial Board hearing, which my dad attended. That’s the bad memory I referred to earlier.
The felon had disappeared. Some of our group was suspended and some, like me, were put on double-secret probation. We also had to move out of the dorm into an apartment off campus for the rest of the semester, where different fraternities rushed us. Apparently they didn’t mind our checkered past.
Looking back, between the two, I’d have to say I prefer seed spitting to fist fighting.