Everyone Wants to Be Division I

Division I Boyfriend tells me to stop crying. To be quiet. To sit. He can’t be stressed now. If we lose to State, he might get angry. He might do something. Someone might get hurt. He doesn’t say it, but I know that someone might be me.

“That’s how important this is, Babe,” he says. He thrashes fists. “State’s no joke!”

I imagine how much better it must be with a Division III boyfriend, having no pressure at all. Like none, really. I know a girl who knows a girl at SUNY Canton who claims her boyfriend lives life stress-free.

“And if you can believe it,” she tells me, “he can read and often does so by choice, even with screens in reach. He’s not even on SSRIs—at least not anymore.”

From this, I surmise Division IIIs must not be so easily distracted by I formations and sidelines. They must possess quiet minds and uncalloused hands. Less coarse in speech and in thought. No use for those gargantuan buckets over their heads except as pillows for long afternoons of limp-lidded daydreaming, some gentle gazing across verdant acres of AstroTurf, sun-kissed boys more adrift in visions of Sommeridylle than in episodes of Friday Night Lights.

These Division IIIs sound almost lovable.

If only my Division I was a Division III.

Division I Boyfriend gets broody as a chicken in spring. Stays indoors. Mopes. Plays Mouthwashing on the PC, full volume up. Vacuums chips. Won’t let me up to pee.

“Can’t you see the shit I’m in the middle of, Babe? Christ. Sit down!”

I bet a Division III boyfriend would let me up to pee.

Oh, Division III—Division III Boyfriend—where are you?

At the Big Game, Us versus State, I spy him on a bench, surrounded by biology texts, a whole slew of them. Bacteria. Amphibians. Reptiles. All the best classes. I, too, love my animals scaly, and if truth be told, serpentine and whenever possible, cold to the touch—or better yet, untouchable altogether. I wave at Egghead, who could be a standee, cardboard or otherwise, for a Division III, nutritionally atrophied and probationally attentive—the sweetest of all sweet spots.

Yet still, it’s a garish display with Division I Boyfriend already at full force, in full focus, deep in the end zone, but fuck it! He cares even less than I do. After the Big Game Win, there will be snorts and shots, midriffed and fishnetted young fans from nighttime Sprinter van drop-offs, eyes looking the other way, all except mine. Yet I’ll be expected to assume the role of underling, compensated under the table, permissive of my boyfriend’s oh-so-necessary pleasures. Division I Boyfriend has earned his reward and he’s going to get it, one way or another.

I know I’m only in the way.

“Your man only gets one life,” his Entourage tells me. “Let him blow off a little steam. You don’t want him thinking he missed out on anything, do you?”

I’m sure he has not and never will. As Division I Boyfriend’s athletic career eclipses any expectation of a normal college experience, I realize I’m the one who’s missing out.

Egghead on the bench looks better by the minute.

Fourth quarter and Division I Boyfriend gets the snap, but before you know it, his neck gets snapped. I rush to the stretcher to join his side, but medics push me back like an unruly fanatic.

“Give ’em some space. Can’t you see he’s in pain?”

I chase after the stretcher to the ambulance, but I stop. I remember it’s me who could use a little space. It’s me who’s in pain. The 120-million-dollar Sports Program will give him good care. They’ll do a better job than me. It’s time I turn my back on Division I Boyfriend.

His cries of “Babe! Babe!—Babe!” sound farther and farther away.

The Egghead I spied is State’s Ball Boy, clipboard gripped and busying himself counting Styrofoam cups.

“Hi!” I say.

“Were you the one waving?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Sorry if I bothered you.”

“You did bother me. I was trying to follow the plays.”

“But why? Aren’t you just a ball boy?”

“You wouldn’t understand. If I show initiative, if I show tenacity, if I show grit—Coach’ll have to give me a chance. He’ll have to!”

“I don’t think it works like that,” I say.

“That’s what you have to do to be Division I. I told you—you wouldn’t get it. You’ll never, ever get it.”

And he was right.