It wasn’t so much a request, but seemingly more like a dare. After hearing about the wonder that is ‘Name That Tune’ at RATT, she seems surprisingly interested, but I sense a small hint of disbelief, even a hint of sarcasm. So I delve further into the scintillating details of the weekly event: the dedicated, almost fanatical teams, the plethora of drinks, and the tunes and the passionate naming of them. She now grows considerately more interested in possibly attending another night, but she requires one thing before: a morning message. She wants to know all the details about the evening’s activities. Salacious or not, it’s the details that could change her outlook from curious fence-sitter to full-blown trivia zealot.
Like in some television flashback, complete with shimmering fade-out, my mind wanders back to just over a half-day past. My faithful friend Justin and I approached the U of A’s Stadium parkade with a sense of impending dread. We were late. We weren’t there at the start of the game. We weren’t there to confidently and assuredly announce our team name, Kathleen Turner Overdrive. Granted, we had teammates there, people trustworthy and dedicated enough to be there on time in our stead. But how many questions had been asked already? How many teams answered correctly? How many teams stole questions out from the grasp of others? How many questions had our team guessed, and guessed right? These questions swirled ferociously in our minds, but our fears were faintly soothed by the history of games played before. We’ve been down before, and we’ve come back to win. As the reigning champions, and team to beat, we do have a reputation of being a stalwart opponent, with sometimes almost limitless knowledge. That knowledge might have to be tested tonight.
As we ponder the uncertainties we’re faced with, we enter SUB with a quicker step in our stride. “If we are down,” Justin remarks, “then we’ve got to get in there. Now.” I couldn’t agree more, as I jet over to the bank machine located a few steps away. If we are down, and can’t recover, I’ll need to buy enough drinks to soften the blow. In this game, if you’re losing, sometimes the only way to save face is to be the drunkest one playing. The elevator sounds off with its familiar high-pitched ding, and its doors slide open, goading us into entering its gaping maw. We each take a deep breath, and accept the elevator’s invitation. The doors close with a nefarious coffin door-like creak, potentially signaling our approaching competitive fate. I almost don’t notice that I’m holding my breath.
I take a breath. Again, that high-pitched ding greets us, almost mockingly. I can hear the faint dim of the room through the doors, and as they open, I suddenly become completely surrounded. The noise is almost deafening. It’s crazy busy in RATT tonight. Every table is occupied. Tables of patrons, some playing teams, some college chums, some colleagues, are all immersed in conversations, anecdotes and jokes. Everything they’re saying is competing for dominion over the audible kingdom, but no-one’s winning. Amongst the clamor, I can smell the years-old beer-saturated carpet. I can detect the automated splash of the washing machine. RATT never changes, it never deviates from its goal: to provide seats and tables to campus travelers who simply want a safe haven to escape the rigors of school, work or both. Also, there are drinks. And plenty of them. “This could be the night of nights,” I say to myself.
I let my eyes wander over the field of humans before me, and I catch a familiar sight. A single, solitary hand is raised, signaling the location of my own sanctuary: my team’s table. Justin and I make some conciliatory gestures to the rest of the team, silently indicating our apologies for being late. We both maneuver to our respective saved seats, cautious to watch our movements while placing our coats, lest we do something unintentionally hilarious like smell ourselves. I have barely begun to get settled when I blurt out the question that needs to be answered, and needs to be answered now: “How are we doing?”
I do not get the answer I want. My teammate Alan, matter-of-factly tells me that our team has 5 points. Only 5 fucking points. My heart sinks for a second, but quickly regains its composure. I don’t need to know how far the game has progressed; I just know that we’ve got work to do and there’s no time to wallow in self-pity. A couple of teams miss their questions and we pick up a couple steals right away. The round ends, and the scores are announced: “And in the lead with 50, KTO”. I almost kill Alan.
Everything is gravy from then on. We’re not perfect, but it doesn’t matter. My team doesn’t relinquish a lead that easy, and we certainly don’t make it easy on the other teams. We yell. We laugh. We point at other teams and give the evil eye. We make fun of everything. We cry foul and shout “EASY!” when we think a question is too simple for another team. We don’t hold any grudges and it’s all in good fun, of course, but we cannot deny or ignore the competitive spirit we all have burning inside of us. We’re here to win and have a kick-ass time doing it. This isn’t competitive knitting here.
In the end, our gung-ho spirit leads us to victory again. Cheers erupt from our table, with smattering of claps and declarations of “Good show!” and “Well done, indeed!” We receive our conquest from the game hosts, a $30 gift certificate good for another night. $30 may seem paltry and there may be thoughts of whether that prize is worth the mental anguish, the nervous preparation, and the never-ending stomach butterflies that comes. Is it worth it?
If you come next time, you’ll know the answer.
