By Albert Samaha

Columnist

As the nostalgically wonderful days of summer break wear on, incoming recruits from all across America are lifting weights in garages, running laps on knee-grinding dirt tracks, and pushing through wind sprints on fields more yellow with weeds than green with grass.

This message is for them:

You incoming freshmen represent the future successes and failures of your soon-to-be-schools.

You understand this fact, of course, as it has been recited by college recruiters ad naseum. Coaches have talked you up like used car salesmen.  As a result, unbounded confidence flows through your vessels like the venom from a snake bite.

Certain acquaintances may be attempting last minute jumps into your posse, hoping to score the fame and coolness by association that comes with becoming the Turtle figure in the group. These guys will talk you up even more than the coaches- expect random Myspace messages asking for workout tips and copious Facebook wall posts of contrived familiarity.

You’ll most likely re-watch your highlight tape at least 47 times a day between now and fall camp reporting day, constantly dazzling yourself with your own remarkable prowess on the gridiron. You will even invite all your friends over to watch the spectacle and they will begrudgingly comply.

But beware, I say. College sports are a different game. Do not let these external pressures make you think that you’re ready to hang with the Big Boys. I made that mistake once, and paid for it dearly. Here is my tale…

I made a recent weekend trip to visit my boy Javie in LA. Jav splits rent with like seven other guys in a two story, well-spaced, high ceilinged house, nicknamed “The Jungle” by them and “The Junkyard” by me, just down the street from Occidental College, where they all go to school. That’s right, it’s a tailor-made party place.

For the past two years, Javie has recounted to me numerous anecdotes of debauchery and adventure. Smashed car windows. Maple Syrup. “I thought it was a small animal curled up on the couch.” “He pulled his pants down in the middle of the driveway, took a squat, and…”  It was about time, I decided, to experience all this for myself. After all, it was my duty as a journalist.

I like to think I’ve enjoyed some pretty crackin’ times down in Daygo. I’ve even conveyed a few in this very venue. Javie’s stories of mayhem did not intimidate me.

Night One was a relatively chill evening of roaming from kick back to bar to kick back with some freestyling peppered in between.

I can handle this.

Night two, started in the day time, at around eleven am. Javie and his roommates had recently purchased an awesome inflatable kiddy pool. The morning’s mission was to blow it up in preparation for the afternoon’s planned barbeque. One of Javie’s friends, Drew, was able to access a high powered pump of confidential origins in an undisclosed location a few minutes away.

So after pumping up the pool, there we were, three guys in a pickup truck, frantically trying to keep an abnormally large inflatable pool from flying off the roof by reaching out of our respective windows and grabbing on with an urgency unbeknownst to mankind.

Bystanders all had the exact same look on their face: “Wow, it’s not even noon and these guys are already drunk!”

We were not. We were just getting ready for a potentially epic day.

By three o’clock the pool was filled, the dogs were on the grill, and the beer pong was set up.

The next few hours were defined by two things for me: excessive food and beer pong dominance. I was like MJ in game one of the ’92 Finals. I couldn’t miss. I even gave Javie the shoulder shrug Jordan gave to Marv Albert.

The thing about beer pong, though, is that winners stay to face the new and hungry challengers. It works as a pseudo-Darwinian mechanism to prevent excessively extended runs. The more you win, the more you play. The more you play, the harder it gets. So after a pair of three game win streaks bookending a short food break, I was more than ready to forfeit the next game and concede the table. Yet while my mind and stomach begged me to quit, my heart forced me persist.

I could hang with the Big Boys.

Fifteen minutes later I sank the always-deceptively-elusive final cup—another win, baby. My friends stormed me in jubilation just like the Cavs did to Lebron after he hit that last second 3 against Orlando.

But I couldn’t hang with the Big Boys.

I escaped the emotional embrace and meandered my way back into the house, up the stairs, and onto the air mattress in Javie’s room. The vile concoction of malt, cheap vodka, and Natty Light in my system knocked me out within moments.

It was 8:30pm.

Weak Sauce.

I was soon awakened by a terrible feeling. I rushed to the bathroom, inexplicably overcome by the urge to regurgitate my lunch back into the toilet. Unfortunately College Party Rules officially state that one must throw up no more than two seconds before reaching the toilet. That’s just the way it is. It’s a fundamental tease of adolescence.

No need to express the subsequent sordid details.

As I attempted to collect the shattered pieces of what used to be my dignity, I began to slowly acquire cognizance of my surrounding environment. I heard music blaring. I heard mingling. I heard a cornucopia of girls laughing. There was a party going on downstairs.

I looked up at the clock. It was 12:30.

I had passed out Before the Party Even Started. I was not ready to hang with the Big Boys.

And that’s the truth, that’s the gospel, that a muthatruckin’ fact.

But, young athletes, it is possible to hang with the Big Boys. The key is to understand your limitations and accordingly adjust. For me that would have been to stop after the third or fourth round of Pong and maybe avoiding the 40 ounces of Raccoon Piss- basically to pace myself for the night. I was used to my Daygo party schedule of pre-game at 9:30, party at 10:30, Santana’s California burrito at 1, and NBA 2k9 with Dane until 4. I was not ready for these marathon sessions lasting from 3 in the afternoon to God Knows When.

Similarly, you incoming recruits may be accustomed to succeeding based on pure physical superiority. Or being the Big Man on Campus. Or not ever receiving criticism from coaches. As important as it is to gain the respect of coaches, I firmly believe the most important foundational factor in a newcomer’s success is gaining the respect of teammates. An incoming recruit, no matter how heralded, starts at the bottom of the locker-room hierarchy. Hence, you must be accordingly adjust.

Dust off that humility you shelved after making varsity your sophomore year. Maintain the quiet work ethic that led to your All-League junior year. Rehash that coach-ability you lost after being named pre-season All-City before your senior year.

Respect from teammates makes it easier to go to work every day. Nothing cures a poor performance like a sympathetic pat on the back from a teammate. Nothing erases the memory of a shouting coach like the gentle ribbing from a teammate. Nothing pushes you to finish that last rep than the supportive exclamations from teammates.

There’s your blueprint for hanging with the Big Boys.

Because you don’t want to end up knocking out before the party even starts.