Beer Pong for Beginners
New Yorkers always drive furiously towards Manhattan, as though it might not really be there at the end of the road. It’s 2005 and my fellow international exchange students, Greek George and Spanish Juan, have spent the four hour drive from Utica to the city showing off before they drop me at the hotel Deauville in Midtown at sunset. One problem: I got my days mixed up. The man at the front desk tells me the friends I am meeting for the weekend are due to arrive tomorrow. After months stuck on a foreign campus as a college exchange student, with no US license and months short of that magic 21, the busiest city is mine alone. But I can’t even survive Manhattan with a Manhattan cocktail. The man behind the desk smiles: “That’ll be $150 for the extra night.”
At this point I’ve lived in upstate New York for three months with cheerleaders whose ideas of social drinking are alien to me. Here it is literally a competition, in the form of beer pong tournaments. The first thing I want to do on my night alone in New York City is to sit in a pub and buy a G&T. The best tonic I can hope for is a hot chocolate at Starbucks.
I arrived at Utica, between Rochester and Albany, in the January. Eating doughnuts on the quiet train from Manhattan I wondered what US college would be like, after the unlimited freedoms of a Welsh student town – shops within easy walking distance, driving not an issue, pubs that accept anyone over 18 with open arms and a cold beer. It turns out my five suitemates are over 21, except the girl I share a large, bare room with, Kathleen. “I use my sister’s old license,” she says, showing me the card. She looks exactly like her older sibling; no bouncer would question it.
There’s no pub we can saunter to in our snow-wearied Ugg boots. Campus is isolated but for a gas station across the road. That first night we go upstairs to suite 210 – a boys’ dorm filled with posters of half-naked models, stolen road signs and packs of playing cards. I spot a rectangular wooden board: the beer pong table. Beer pong is not just a ‘sport’. It’s an institution. The boys set up the table. Barry explains: “You just try to get your ball in one of the cups at the other end of the table. If you sink it, your opponent drinks it.” Todd chimes in: “It’s a win-win game.” The cheerleaders perform a routine to Ram Jam’s Black Betty, and I play my first game, egged on by the boys.
A few weeks later, I’m heading to Boston with The Crazy Fools. Every Tuesday I join them for beer pong at a lax Utica bar but I’ve yet to see a gig. We drop off Ryan’s boxer puppy Dooley with friends and pile up in the van to the bar. “Just help us unload our stuff and they’ll let you in no problem – you’re with the band,” Sean tells me. I unpack instruments through the bar’s back entrance, smiling at the manager; he doesn’t say anything. The bar is dark, with plenty of Irish paraphernalia. I settle on a couch and chat with some of the girlfriends of the band. The grumpy Irish manager approaches. “IDs please,” he blusters. Ryan’s girlfriend is 19, but has a fake on her. My pal, keyboardist Garry, intercedes on my behalf: “Dude, she’s with the band. She forgot her ID but we came all the way from New York. Please let her order a Coke and watch us play.” No such luck; I’m literally shown the door. Ryan drives me back to the dorms, and to Dooley. “I’m really sorry Sarah – what a jerk.” Some bars in America are so scared of police crackdowns they won’t even allow an underage on the premises; I find it odd that I could drive, vote, or die for my second country, but drinking a soda while listening to a band is prohibited.
The Irish bar experience explains the popularity of beer pong; all you need is a table, plastic cups, a ping-pong ball and an older friend to bring a crate of Bud Light. It’s a completely American experience. At Easter weekend I’m with some friends at a house party in Coventry, Connecticut. This house is gargantuan, with three minimalist sitting rooms and an expansive dining room with an expensive-looking chandelier hanging above the table which, of course, sports cup triangle formations on each end, like pins at the end of a bowling lane. 25 college students dressed in baseball caps, drinking beer from plastic cups, look so out of place in this classic American home. With Garth Brooks playing on the stereo, it’s not long before a cup of beer is spilled. The formerly nonchalant host panics, rushing around to find a mop.
Back at Utica, socialising usually involves calling the boys down for a party and yet another tournament. Going out is tricky, but we manage it with flare; at Champ’s Sports Bar they pile me in the middle of the crowd, hoping the bouncer won’t notice me. He does, and my hand gets stamped: branded Underage. Inside the country music is loud, the crowd is thick, and jugs of beer are passed out freely.
Back to Manhattan: after a long day alone in Macy’s and Borders, my high school friends finally arrive to celebrate Ting’s 21st birthday. The rest of us are still 20. She orders a Strawberry Daiquiri at the Hard Rock Café on Broadway, and proudly shows off her passport as proof of age. The ever-present country rock is playing, reminding me of beer pong parties up on campus. I tug on my Uggs and imagine dunking a ping pong ball smoothly into Ting’s cocktail.
