I went about college visits like a sloth with both legs broken. I dragged myself out of bed for early morning drives to godforsaken parts of the state, watching tiny bits of urban life disintegrate into thick wilds of wilderness; or confident townies walking the streets, eager to explain to groups of potential freshmen why Millersville was just the place to pop that collegiate cherry–maybe even have some of that promiscuous sex you’ve heard so much about.
DeSales was one of the first campuses I stumbled onto; dazed, cold and wearing a wrinkled pair of khakis that my mom assured me would make a better impression than the jeans I was wearing when I fell asleep in the recliner holding a vibrating Xbox controller.The campus itself was a collection of windswept buildings surrounded by an army of arboreal knights, standing rigidly at attention, prepared to release creatures rife with insanity at any moment. Our enthusiastic guide informed us that the bus to town ensured communication with the outside world, but to what town it actually went to I have no idea.
We all sat in an auditorium and listened, half-awake, as a priest explained that they were very excited about learning, had a plethora of distinguished programs, and there were no people of the opposite gender permitted in your dormitory quarters after 2 am, because I didn’t know it at the time, but that’s when all the sex happens.
We proceeded into the arts department, where I believed my hours logged reading movie trivia and watching trailers could be transformed into a bullshit degree of some kind. We were lucky enough to have one of those idiots in our tour group whose parents used every opportunity for questions to announce all the accomplishments their clearly friendless daughter had done even before being accepted to any schools.
“You wouldn’t find her in my quarters after 2 am,” I muttered to my dad, giving him a knowing elbow to the ribs.
He interpreted this as a physical challenge and would spend the rest of that week stalking and tackling me whenever possible, and often at the top of a staircase.
How I eventually got into a college is beyond me; and the fact that I apparently applied to a safety school is a miracle, despite not needing it. It should probably concern me more that I have a large chunk of late high school memories that seem to be blacked out in my head, but I’m willing to assume it was the previously mentioned and often deserved domestic assaults.
Anyways, the Phillies will be visiting DeSales in January. They can’t say who will actually be there or what it will entail, but they can inform us that tickets will be at least $80 per person, and hey! Open bar!
So check out Phillies Caravan, and maybe send your kid to DeSales. Or don’t, and focus more on the “tackling” portion of parenting, which is more fun, builds more character, and causes more pain. And as we all know, pain is far more memorable than a school in the middle of the woods.