“Y’all look normal!” observed an understandably surprised, amicably Southern member of Faulkner State Community College’s college bowl team, regarding the suave, yet understated look the Dartmouth college bowl team was sporting for Spring ’05 at last weekend’s NAQT Intercollegiate Tournament - which is the equivalent of NCAA March Madness for students who generally can’t throw a basketball ten feet or be found within a similar radius of a girl. As a rule of thumb, the 250+ college bowlers convened at Tulane did indeed fall outside the margins of a cruel, science-fiction-underappreciating society catered toward the “normal-looking.” But if you thought merely because I’ve just slandered the entire college bowl culture for a hundred words that I was here to make fun of people who’ve had one too many Ho-ho’s or one too few conversational interactions outside of a videogame, well, you’d only be partly right. You see, while many college bowlers are indeed united in their deficiencies, more still are united in a notable passion altogether disappearing from the American collegiate milieu today—a thirst for learning, a genuine desire to be academically knowledgeable about something even after the final exam.

Learning, which - as I understand - is completely antithetical to Dartmouth College’s mission statement (“RAAAAGE, PROFANITY OF CHOIIIICE!!!?”) and is only popular among East Wheelock tools and Sig Nu’s, is nonetheless alive and well on the thriving college bowl circuit. To see the best of teams face off in the finals (University of Michigan and University of Chicago, if you were curious) on questions from advanced theoretical physics to the most esoteric of literary works was - in a word - awesome. The amount of time and brainpower invested in reaching the pinnacle of college bowl competition is overwhelming; I genuinely believe some of these students to be some of the smartest in the nation (and Canada!).

This is difficult to convey to non-players (normal folks), though. Words like “tossup,” “negging,” and “power” signify about as much to the outsider as a team answering a question after only a few sentences of clues or scoring thirty out of thirty possible bonus points (both are impressive). Too obscure in subject matter and interest to be a spectator sport and, usually, too difficult to explain to the casually curious, college bowl draws a more fringe crowd. Perhaps this is the case at Virginia Commonwealth University, which fielded a team of one (most teams have four players, often specializing in different disciplines); it was all the more impressive, then, to see him single-handedly and decidedly defeat four Carleton players for the undergraduate champ title (the overall victors included grad students and beyond—one Chicagoan having played for more than ten years).

“Misunderstood” and “largely ignored” could, of course, describe the players as well as the game. Pasty and awkward, we (not “they”—if there’s one thing worse than being an asshole, it’s being a hypocrite) drew a marked contrast to the tan-and-double-popped-collar sported by every single Tulane student ever, most of whom were probably wondering why the Dungeon Masters convention chose to descend upon their school. One player inexplicably clutched a pink stuffed rabbit. Others donned shirts emblazoned with dork credos: “Talk nerdy to me” and “Bow before me, for I am root.” I’m not sure what the second one means, but I think it’s a joke for people whose love interests include elfish maidens and valkyries. Faulkner State themselves had an interesting team dynamic: three students in their late-twenties, some with wedding rings—the barroom trivia enthusiast types—and Jonathan, who despite his slightly confused grin and full suit-and-tie get-up, was one of top-scorers in the tournament. In the same vein, Dartmouth college bowl (that is, Ben Taylor ’07, Allan Jackson ’07, Daniel Belkin ’08, and myself ’07 - if The D is to be believed) saw exactly one other team out of the 64 who competed cruising Bourbon Street that night. The other midnight cruisers were composed mostly of Yale grad students and Alexander (or whatever his name was), who had informed a match moderator that he also went by “Drunkie” - as he would no doubt have been doming vodka in the Theta Delt basement or defenestrating himself, were he a Dartmouth student.

Most players, however, were unabashed in their divergence from the social norm. This is what I admire about college bowlers. Perhaps they—Dartmouth’s dashing gents excepted, of course—were not born with healthy complexions or American Eagle caps fused to their skulls, but at least they aren’t frontin’; they are more secure in their squareness than Mr. and Mrs. Sweet ever allowed them to be in middle school. Whether lanky or squirrelly, college bowlers have an outlet for showing off their African geography or Flemish Renaissance art history skills that would probably not score them ten points on the Chi Gam dance floor. More importantly, they have a community of serious enthusiasts who can appreciate their efforts. So, next time you see us practicing in Thorton, think of this.

And please don’t boot on us or steal our lunch money.