Editor’s note: The following is a continuing journal of a fictional college student. It is intended to be a humorous and enjoyable feature about an average Joe. Though written by Iowa State’s own Scott Jacobson, a Daily staff writer, people, places and events detailed below are not analogous to a real student.

March 31, 2000

So there I was, limping up our back stairs at around 2 a.m. wondering how I had once again let myself get so messed up, when I realized that I’m not a vibrant, young 21-year-old anymore.

After all, that’s how old I was the last time I tried to fool myself into thinking I could play broomball, and it quickly became clear why I had retired for six years.

Broomball is Iowa State’s quirky combination of hockey and soccer. It can only be played on a big slab of ice in the middle of the night, and though I’m not quite sure why, I agreed to play when Walt’s brother Ted asked me to join his team. I tend to blame the decision on guilt and nostalgic memories.

A dozen different times Ted has asked me to be on some sort of intramural squad with him.

However, since that incident in the innertube water basketball championship where I lost my trunks and got called for a foul on the same play, I’ve been hesitant to sign on.

This time, though, he got me when the rest of my boys were around to help plead his case.

You see, back in ’94 a group of us banded together to make it to the Class D championship game and we were all set for SportsCenter highlights when we ran up against the ISU all-star team and got beat 10-1.

Anyway, after that majestic run through the brackets and the embarrassing loss that ended our season, I hung up the camouflage pants and leather work gloves and vowed never to play competitively again.

Luckily, there haven’t been many pick-up games of broomball around town to tempt me to return.

But once Ted asked if I wanted to come out of retirement for one last run at the title, all of the fellas threw in their 2 cents as to why I needed to return to the ice.

Granted, when I agreed to play, I assumed by their enthusiasm that they were all ready to join my crusade. I was sadly mistaken when game time rolled around at 1:30 last night. Or this morning as the case may be.

That’s another thing. Why do the games have to start so late? It’s almost as if the law says, “Well, we can’t sell alcohol anymore, might as well get some broomball started.” Any time I’m heading out to compete in an athletic event, Chet and Eddie are just rolling in from a night at the bar, there’s something sick and wrong going on.

So there I was, trying to brave the stench of my tight-fitting helmet, when I was told by the refs to sign in.

I wasn’t quite sure what our name was, but when I saw the sexual innuendo referring to small mammals I knew it was a sign of Ted’s creativity inspired by “South Park” and Animal Planet.

Once the game began, I realized that my body doesn’t move like it did back in the day. Within thirty seconds I was laying flat on my back with pain shooting through my extremities.

I rambled back to my feet just in time to swing and miss the ball by less than three inches, which pretty much means that by the time I came to rest, the ball was nestled safely in the out-of-bounds net.

The officials baffled me as Ted got yelled at for getting the ball out of the net moments before I fell again and got whistled for not sliding on my knees.

This is what gets me. I broke the rules by not sliding on my knees. Now, if I had any control over which part of my body was in contact with the ice, I probably wouldn’t be sliding in the first place.

The pace of the game frustrated me the most.

The action looks like NHL highlights in super slow-motion and it takes a couple minutes to get any momentum going. By the time you do get moving, it’s in the wrong direction.

Somehow, though, despite all the falls and fouls, our naughty-named team emerged victorious, and we continue our late-night run for the title next week.

Broomball is more painful than bowling and more pointless than bocce, but as long as the helmets stink and the ice is hard, I’m ready to slip and slide my way to victory.

Knees-first, of course.