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The Big East Tournament Is Decadent And Depraved - Part IV

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I picture every UConn student & alumni to look like this toolbox. (Photo by Chris Trotman/Getty Images)
I picture every UConn student & alumni to look like this toolbox. (Photo by Chris Trotman/Getty Images)
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SU Grad and "self-hurt" guru Aaron Goldfarb is on the ground in NYC this week for the Big East Tournament. And I mean that literally, he is lying on the ground after a debauchery-laden evening in the Big Orange. These are his tales... (Read Part I here, Part II here and Part III here)

I knew it was going to be a bad game-watching experience when the UConn rube in front of me quizzically asked the Garden concessionaire: "What’s a knish?" (Ed. Note: Ugh...) Unsatisfied with her explanation, he went with a beer which he promptly put a straw into.

I too ordered a beer. Not because I wanted one; cause I needed one. My body is all out of whack. I crave bad things: beer, greasy foods, lack of sleep, high-fives from people from Utica. It’s the fuel of the week. Morgan Spurlock could have never handled "Big East Tournament Me." Attending the tournament lies somewhere between work and fun, closer to work though, most like a boot camp.

I’ve been neglecting my life. You almost have to. At 4:00 PM, after my shower, after a day of laying around on the couch doing nothing, I noticed I had no clean underwear. I had to sprint out and buy some, not in the mood to go commando to Mecca. But at that hour, in my neighborhood, with so few hours til game time, I had to opt for a nearby Duane Reade where I nabbed some store-brand boxer-briefs. Their shoddy design squeezed my balls all game. I wish Kris Joseph was as good at squeezing balls, he’d come up with more boards in traffic.

I always have admired how Sean can do this. How he can quickly, lucidly, and dispassionately write recaps of Syracuse losses. Well I’m nowhere close to the man he is. I like to watch games semi-drunk, and after a loss, rant about them even drunker. The only thing I feel like writing is my name on a giant bar tab. I’m even mad I have to recount things in written form this morning. So I’ll just use this space to irrationally bash last night’s UConn fans.

When you have a artistic product to sale, like say a book ("How to Fail: The Self-Hurt Guide," on shelves and online retailers everywhere), you become a bit of a sell-out, forced to act overly nice to everyone as "everyone" is a potential costumer. I even had some fans recognize me at Feile yesterday and instead of giving the prima donna Hoya Suxa treatment and blowing them off, I was very gracious and deferential. Well, to my knowledge, a UConn fan has never bought my book, and after dealing with them yesterday, I’m not sure they can even read, so I’ll continue to bash.

I don’t know how I found myself in a UConn section but unfortunately I did. I never realized how stupid of fans they have. I attended the epic Syracuse/UConn BET tilts in both 2006 and 2009, but I must have been in friendlier sections as I don’t recall mingling with Husky fans at all. Certainly not being annoyed by them. Not so this time.

Three huckleberries sat behind me and immediately began laying into my friend for wearing a "Marathon Men" t-shirt.

"What kinda loosah team makes a t-shirt for one game?"

Immediately on the JumboTron, Huskies women’s player Maya Moore was honored and the entire UConn section stood and gave her a standing ovation. You can’t write that kind of comedy.

And, UConn fans can’t write any sort of comedy. I’m not necessarily saying your typical Syracuse fan could write for Colbert or Stewart, but at least most of them can deliver an occasional zinger ("Hey Calhoun, use a timeout to call Geno Auriemma so he can tell you what to do!"). Not so for UKaaaahn. Huskeeeeeees. fans.

The preponderance of their non-zingers oft revolved around derogatory punnery.

"Nice brick Poop Jardine!"

"Good matador defense Dick Jackson."

"Way to foul him Flab Melo."

"Flab Melo? More like Fat Melo."

"More like Fag Melo."

Guffaws all around.

They easily replace Georgetown fans as the most homophobic in the league (a lot of "The Orange are Fruits" signs dotted the Verizon Center crowd this year). Someone call the anti-defamation league. Someone call animal control.

Their voices are so grating. Like nails on a chalkboard. Every time the JumboTron cut to a UConn fan in the crowd, I swear they were using file footage from the 1980s. Poorly dressed in oversized sweatshirts, most of the women with curly bangs, the men dipping cans of Skoal and spitting onto the floor. And mind you, I am no fashionista, I come from a fanbase who will always find an excuse to put a white turtleneck under something. But UConn fans are the worst. My eyes are still bleeding and ears are still ringing. There’s no worse feeling than leaving the Garden after a loss and having some rival team bozo go, "You wanna sell me your tickets for tomorrow?" Insult to injury. At least he has to ride the Metro North home.

Alas, I’ve finally escaped the miasma of the week. There’s no better place in the world to be when your team is rolling; no worse place to be when they’re not. The Garden is packed, cramped, muggy, sweaty, and stinky. Perhaps not in the seats Nick Faldo bandwagons in, but always in mine. Like watching a cockfight during a Mexico City summer. It boggles the mind these fans of teams that have lost that still gear up and attend future rounds. That’s fun?! I am impressed though by how many spots they’ve found to stitch a Pitt logo onto.

As for me, I can get on with my life, enjoy my Saturday, ignore basketball until Selection Sunday. I’m sure I’ll be at a restaurant tonight, or a bar, and accidentally glance up at the TV to see the UConn/Louisville game. I’ll be as revolted as if stumbling upon some amateur video of someone fucking my girlfriend.

We should be in that game. Oh well, there’s always next year. I have 51 weeks to recover. It’ll take me most of them.


  • Doris Burke’s calves (MVP)
  • The overworked ginger bartender at Feile
  • The white-gloved Pinstripe Bowl trophy wrangler
  • St. John’s male dance team member 
  • The Reese’s corporate mascot
  • Nick Faldo
  • Nick Resavy

Aaron is the author of How to Fail: The Self-Hurt Guide, the world's first self-hurt guide.  He was a 2001 SU graduate, lives in New York, and has attend the last 11 BETs.  Follow him on Twitter: @aarongoldfarb