1. It was wet
2. None of us had ever watched/played/expended a brain cell thinking about water polo
3. We did not know either of the teams
4. Did I mention it was really wet?
If you just looked at that list and thought, “Yes! Best idea ever!” then you are absolutely correct (and should probably seek medical attention). It’s been a while since I’ve had that much fun without butchering my calves. For the record, for some reason, the damn things still hurt from MR (she thought as she danced her third Viennese Waltz). We got to the match a little late since we had been caught up in pancake-making at Smokin(g) Sarah’s apartment. Lesson: Don’t make peanut butter, raisin, and cinnamon sugar pancakes unless you have time and belt-holes to spare, or unless you absolutely have to see Melanie-not-Mel enthusiastically demonstrate the difference between belligerent (OM NOM NOM) and passive (om nom nom) consumption, which is certainly a valid reason.
Now, the problem with arriving to a water polo match “a little late” is that a quarter in water polo lasts approximately one nano-eyeblink (convert to forint!). Fortunately, this match ran on Hungarian time, so the quarters were about 12 minutes each, and we arrived in the middle of the second one. Mel-not-Melanie had arrived earlier with her friend (I never got his name, so he is just Mel’s Engineer Friend) and had decided that in the white-on-blue game, we were rooting for the blue team. Melanie-not-Mel coldly informed her reverse counterpart that we were in fact rooting for the Hungarians, and was able to keep a straight face for a record .5 seconds before informing Mel that actually, both teams were in fact Hungarian. We think Melanie (insert epithets here, my fingers are getting tired) may soon be ready for her job as international spy.
It’s a good thing we decided to root for the Hungarians because a. it meant we would certainly be on the winning side and b. the only cheer we knew was ‘Hajra Magyarok!’ This cheer was not fully appropriate, however. For starters, I suspect that when pronounced properly, it sounds a little less like an angry Japanese grizzly bear yelling at squirrels (or maybe a little more; Hungarian is a strange language). Also, it translates roughly (nothing in Hungarian translates smoothly) to ‘Go Hungarians!’ This does not seem like a problem, until you consider that in BSM, there are no such things as just ‘Hungarians.’ The official BSM term is ‘Actual Hungarians,’ as in, “The nice thing about the bar is that there are Actual Hungarians there,” or, “It’s really cool that you made friends with Actual Hungarians,” or, “I think this semester I’m going to take Actual Hungarian 101.” I promise you this is not just me. Thus, a proper BSM cheer would be “Hajra Actual Magyarok!” but then one team may have thought we were suggesting they were not Actually Hungarians and then started and international incident and you know how I feel about international incidents before finals week. That, and ‘actual’ is not an Actual Hungarian word. It’s not even a fake Hungarian word, really.
In truth, our “Hajra Magyarok” was not really aimed at encouraging the teams to play better. Among other things, none of us knew anything about water polo, so we’d be hard-pressed to say what exactly “playing better” entails. So really, “Hajra Magyarok” was aimed at getting the players to continue doing what they were doing, which included:
1. Lounging around in ill-fitting Speedos (whitey-tighties, as Melanie accidentally called them. We suspect she puts her underwear on backwards)
2. Taking off said ill-fitting Speedos while still in the pool, throwing them to the side, and putting on another pair, all in barely-obscured view (thank GOD the rain clouded the pool water; there are things (@@) I really don’t need to see)
3. Attempting to swim straight through each other, puzzled by their lack of forward movement. Apparently they don’t teach the rule of solid objects in Physics for Jocks.
4. When the above failed, swimming OVER each other. Physics win!
5. Wearing funny caps. Ear cages are the new black!
We were able to kind of figure out what was going on since, before leaving Sarah’s apartment, we had looked up the rules of Hungarian water polo. The page had also included the referee’s signals so we knew that doing the Monkey (WHICH NEEDS TO COME BACK, BTW) meant a major foul, the One-Handed Monkey was a minor foul, Conga Arms/Rolling Stone meant time (maybe?), etc. I realized I could never be a water polo referee because I would just be too tempted to rock out the entire time (“Will someone please remind the ref the Running Man is not a valid signal?”).
After the game, Mel and Melanie asked the coach of the winning team (Hajra Magyarok!) if we could get a picture with them. They seemed pretty bemused, but it turns out it doesn’t take too much convincing to get a bunch of young guys to snap a photo with a bunch of smiling American college girls (and Lucas, who for some reason did not share our enthusiasm to be photographed with a bunch of be-Speedoed men, even after we assured him we could find a Speedo for him too). This despite the fact that it was STILL raining and bloody cold outside (did I mention that we had some really attractive girls on this outing? I wonder if that played a role). The photo turned out, well, see for yourself:
Clockwise from lower right: Leah, Me, Melanie, Mel, Sarah, Bridgit, Lots of nearly-naked guys
Also, I climbed a tree in socks.* I thought you’d like to know.
*best ambiguous modifier ever
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