Homecoming. So many choices. Do I fork over money for yet another collector’s edition, limited-run Dartmouth t-shirt? Or do I celebrate by partying my shirt off? It’s an easy answer. I do both so that I can get a cool shirt and justify ordering EBAs at 1:50 in the morning without looking like a chubs. Choice is nice, especially when you can have it both ways, but imagine if we had to choose between two of the most critical events in our Dartmouth career—and choose only one. I’m not talking about choosing between enrollment into Socy 35: The Making and Unmaking of Eye Contact or Bio 4: Introduction to Alcoholism. I’m talking about deciding between touching the Homecoming fire or rushing the field at the big game.

My answer? Rush the field. Trust me. I’ve thought about it long and hard, and I’m certain rushing the field is the better option of the two. Not convinced? Hear me out.

Fire’s pretty hot. Sure, we all like to think we’re pretty hot(t), but understand that fire is toootally hot. Fire doesn’t sit there looking in the mirror convincing itself, “I’m hot, and can you imagine how hot I’d be with 6 beers in me.” Instead, fire just incinerates all matter lying in its path - from trashcans to the lame parts of the west coast. Do you really want to subject yourself to third degree burns, just so you can go tell your parents, “Ma, dad, I touched the fire. I’m your biggest accomplishment in life. I’m your kid who touches fire”? Probably not.

Even worse, do you want to end up becoming that one kid who tries to touch the fire, messes up, and ends up in Dick’s house with fire burns on his face? Not only will you have a lonely winter full of no hookups with members of the homo sapiens genus, you will also have to lay on an air mattress as your roommate sexiles you to shack up with yet another babe as you sit there wishing you hadn’t gone for the fire—chicks dig scars, not disfigurations. If you had rushed the field instead, then the worst injury you might have incurred is a broken rib or possible bruising - both of which do not significantly alter sexual appeal or performance. But no, you had to go for the one thing that would fight back. And all I can say is this: It serves you damn right.

But what are the advantages of rushing the field? We’ve established that touching the fire is only for those idiots trying to recover their glowsticks that got tossed into the flames. What about us normal, intelligent, humble, and pretty hot(t) people? Let’s run on the field. We don’t need fire to make us warm. We already have booze.

First, let’s play the odds game. How many of us are ever going to be on the football team at Dartmouth? Unless you feel like filling water-bottles for a living (hi Associate Life Editor MacArthur Elatab!), the closest you’ll be to running a true forty is streaking across the Green with random words written on your ass. Why not initiate a massive field-rush, played out to the phantasmagorical screams of giddy youths? It’s the closest thing you’ll have to an orgy here while not having to get nailed by the random hideous person who burned his face in the Homecoming Fire. The Spaniards have it figured out with their whole running-of-the-bulls thing. Running purifies the soul, and makes you new again. We need to run from our parents, from our high school lives, from our adherence to conventional society, and from S&S. America’s greatest ballad of all time: “Born To Run.” Running is as red, white, and blue as hating on the French. So, let’s rebel without having to pierce our eyebrows and dress in all black while building an altar to Taking Back Sunday.

The next appeal lies in the awesomeness factor. How awesome would it be if, at the end of the game, you were one of the ballsy, Jason-masked few to flout lame-o New Hampshire “laws”? Members of the opposite sex would never forget you. You’d be like the girl every year who, during the hypnotist show, accidentally reveals herself as the easiest girl on campus. You’ll never have a lonely night again.

Finally, let’s just think of it one last way. You must choose. Do you rush the field at the biggest game of the year, or do you touch the fire? It’s not like you’re sitting at a restaurant putting out the candle with your fingers. It’s touching a really big fire. There’s really no point. If you care that much about touching fire, next time our bathroom in Bissell catches on fire, I’ll call you. Otherwise, rush the field. If you don’t, though, have fun being just another stupid freshman as you walk back to East Wheelock on your own.