On my tour at U.Va. last year, I, like most of my peers, was dreadfully bored. I was only looking at the tour as a way to sleep in and avoid a math test. I listened vaguely to the history of the buildings and when is the best time to work out, but I was mostly thinking about what I was going to eat for lunch and how well-dressed everyone was. I was getting tired of walking back and forth until something caught my eye. I stopped and the tour group walked around me, chattering excitedly. My mom eventually noticed that I was missing and turned around to find me gawking at the wall. I was staring at a chalk drawing of the mark of the Deathly Hallows. "This is it," I remember saying to her. "Harry Potter approves of this school."
The memory resurfaced recently as I did something I never thought I'd be able to do: I joined the Quidditch team. I found the group online and paid my dues, my heart soaring as if I were on the back of a hippogriff. I felt like I had finally found my destiny. "These are my people," I whispered to myself as I eagerly rushed onto the field for my first practice. "I belong here."
I was wrong. I quickly learned that my premonitions of prancing around on a broom and giggling whilst spouting Harry Potter trivia would never come to fruition. The ideas of nights watching the movies for team bonding and making up cute Wizarding World nicknames? No, siree. As I was simultaneously tackled for the Quaffle and had a Bludger dealt squarely in the face, I wondered, "What have I done?" Where were the sparkling incantations and magical beasts I had decided would appear the moment I mounted my broom? Instead, they were replaced by gut-wrenching blows and scorching insults. It was not at all like I thought it would be.
You see, Quidditch is a much more aggressive game than one would ever think. Sure, in the movies, players face a few kicks, a few well-aimed Bludgers. In the Muggle game, however, it's as if the game is amplified by 10 for no reason other than to let off steam. Maybe they're angry because they can't really fly.
In the games, I found myself standing uselessly in the middle of the field, vacantly holding my broom and humming to myself as my teammates screamed at me to do something productive. My goal changed quickly from, "Get the Quaffle to the hoop," to, "Do not get smushed into the dirt."
In the first game, it was my job as Beater to take the Bludger from the other team's Beater. For those non-fans, a Bludger is a ball which, in the books, races around on its own accord and is hit by Beaters in an attempt to knock people off their brooms. In real life, they're dodgeballs. In theory, I was supposed to rush after the other beater roaring Wizarding curses and fling myself onto her, wrestling the ball away from her protesting fingers. In theory. What actually happened was that I waited for her to run within pleasant speaking volume and asked politely, "Ahem, excuse me? Ma'am? Ma'am in the yellow? Mind if I borrow that Bludger there for just a second? Please? If you'd be so kind. I mean really, you can have it if you want, it was just a suggestion." In the Stupified frame of mind which competition creates, I actually thought she was going to give it to me for a second, but she ended up throwing it at my face. In the form of good sportsmanship, I just laughed and waved at her retreating figure, saying, "OK, that's fine! Next time, maybe!" I could sense my captain throwing his clipboard into the mud on the sidelines.
I started daydreaming, unhelpfully, in the middle of the last game. I realized that, just as the chalked mark on the side of Bryan Hall had enticed me into U.Va., the idea of playing a Wizarding sport had enticed me into the game. And though it is different than what I anticipated - actual exercise, which I avoid on principle - it is really fun. Standing on the sidelines and getting to chant against other houses and getting to say things like, "I see the Snitch!" and "The Quaffle was so in! Come on, ref!" make it all worth it. And, hey, how many people can say that they spent their college years running around a field with a broom between their legs?
Emily's column runs biweekly Wednesdays. She can be reached at e.churchill@cavalierdaily.com.
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