A civil sports conversation

I ran into my old freshman roommate in the tailgating fields last weekend after IU’s maddening loss to Illinois. I caught him unhinging a propane tank off someone’s abandoned gas grill. He never could be mistaken for someone with good character. \nOther than the sunburn streak that ran down the left side of his face and the receding hairline, Horten K. Grib hadn’t changed a bit.\nUpon recognition, an awkward silence hung in the air like a Kellen Lewis spiral.\n“Tough game today, huh?” I said. “We’ll get ’em back in men’s basketball.” \nWe had had our differences living on the fifth floor of Briscoe Gucker – particularly when it came to the cesspool that constituted his half of the room. But no matter how many skin infections Grib brought home, we could always have a civil sports conversation. \n“You getting men’s basketball season tickets?” I asked.\n“Getting tickets?!” he asked incredulously. “Of course I am getting tickets. As soon as I get the money.”\nGrib, like most college students, was always hard-pressed for money, partly because of his obsession with anime, partly because of his penchant for betting on the Chicago Bears.\n“You’re working these days?” I said. \nHe laughed in my face. Grib avoided work like Ron Artest avoids common sense. \n“Well, how do you plan on making $278 before the group ticket deadline in like two weeks?” I asked. \nGrib smiled. I could see remnants of the Doritos he had for breakfast stuck in his teeth. \n“It’s easy,” he said. “I started donating my plasma. That’s $65 a week right there.” \nHe showed me the dark bruises on the undersides of his arms. \n“It took a couple pokes,” he said.\n“What about the rest?”\n“You’re so baka,” Grib said. He couldn’t resist insulting me in Japanese. “Psychology experiments, man. I signed up for as many as I could. You know they will pay you to watch porn! It’s almost like stealing. I also decided to sell every article of clothing that had black or gold on it to Plato’s Closet. Don’t want to be mistaken for a Boilermaker, you know.”\n“You’re quite the Sampsonite,” I said.\n“You don’t know the half of it,” he said. “After I sell this tank, I’m going for a swim in Showalter Fountain. Every penny counts.”\nI couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The only other time I’d known Grib to show this much perseverance – even if he was stealing – was when a Krispy Kreme got stuck between the mini-fridge and the wall.\n“There is no way I am missing a single home basketball game this year,” Grib said. “I don’t care how many trash cans I have to sift through for aluminum. I saw Eric Gordon driving a golf cart on campus the other day, and as he passed I shouted, ‘I’ll be inside the Hall, Eric! Horton K. Grib won’t let you down!’ I’ve never been more sincere about anything in my life.”\nGrib’s arms flailed as he spoke, and little pools of white froth began to form in the corners of his mouth. I knew he meant every word.\n“So, see you in November,” I said.\nHe rolled his eyes before answering: “Does a Hoosier bleed crimson?”