My teeth actually chattered as the wave of beer crashed over my red face. Clothing had fallen under the jurisdiction of a tree-climbing rugby hobbit. A circle of large, hairy trolls stood complicit — I in the center — as they chanted “ZULU, ZULU, ZULU.” These things just happen so fast…

Some people want an identity, some miss high school football, others are masochistic by nature — I just wanted to blow off some steam. So, I headed down to check out a practice. They took one look and had me pegged. I was way into the wind sprints; the mud; inflicting pain. Ah, but the pesky rules brought back memories of chess…maybe battle chess. Still, the strange mix of unbridled rage and lawlessness mixed awkwardly with stipulations and puzzling geometry that would have baffled Mr. Wizard peaked my curiosity all the more.

My forearms were blue and bulgy; all my shirts went v-neck; my skin turned scab; I stalked campus like a caveman — an open wound; adrenaline seeping from every dirt clogged pore. I loved watching the hair stand up where coach’s neck used to be — all four foot, ten inches of him waddling up and down the line with the whistle in his mouth…grimacing like he just inhaled a razor blade.

I threw my body around like a stunt man — my only goal to cause as much pain as possible. My massive forehead head sailed like a missile into noses, balls…the ground. I still remember the crack of bones, the stench of asscrack.

It was all a part of being alive. I scored my first tri against Bowling Green and the gang went berzerk. Won the game — hoisted like a hero. I was surrounded by whispers…chuckles. On the bus, they arranged the party. Both teams — according to tradition — would drink together. At nightfall, the festivities began.

I could drink with best of them. I was ready. Yet, an anxiety around those whispers popped around in my chest. I paced around — delaying the inevitable. I showed up late, hoping to slide in like a Geo Metro. My arrival was met with drunken cheers.

“ZULU, ZULU…ZULU WARRIOR…ZULU!”

The hooker staggered up and grabbed me by the arm. Not the hooker you are imagining. See? I told you this game was confusing. He proceeded to explain:

“As a part of the uuuh Zulu Warrior ritual, you’ve gotta run naked around the neighborhood. You ring the doorbell, stand there until they answer, and then…run like hell.”

My eyes grew to the size of walnuts and the cold air scraped my lungs. Riotous laughter erupted as a circle formed around me. Emboldened shouts came from all around.

“TAKE OFF YOUR CLOTHES NOW, ROOK!”

“LET’S GO, BITCH!”

“COME ON, ZULU WARRIOR!”

I noticed pitchers of beer in their hands — the countdown commenced.

FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO…ONE!”

Beer doused me from head-to-toe as I hastily disrobed. My eyes stung badly and I lost my bearings. When I was fully nude, the last shower of liquid refreshment struck my chest. I rubbed my eyes and to my surprise saw my smallest teammate scurry up a tree with every last garment…even my shoes.

Slowly, I headed across the street as the mob looked on. I rang the doorbell and inside, they were waiting. I ran down down the street with John J. Stripeshirt sprinting and heaving behind. Lucky for me, I was sober and in good — albeit naked — condition.

I escaped the potentially humiliating beating and returned about fifteen minutes later for my clothes. My naked threats did not impress tiny conspirator. He snickered and swayed drunkenly behind the keg — pointing to my shivering shrinkage. A kind soul brought me a towel and some clothes. He explained that this was indeed an initiation ritual.

Two weeks later, I tore my calf muscle in half. I took it as a sign — glad not to participate in the proverbial tarring and feathering of the next lucky warrior — I joined the injured reserve.