On Fire

It’s September. The first winds of fall are in the air, and college students nationwide awaken every Saturday with dreams of victory in their hearts. They leave their dorms and run across campus in a beautiful mass of school spirit until they reach their campus’ football stadium, where they join their peers at tailgates, forming lifelong friendships and memories as the smell of burgers and hot dogs fill the air.

Meanwhile, your pioneering On Fire correspondent is joining his fellow Emory students in making a similar coming-of-age trek across campus: the Saturday evening stroll from Harris Hall to the legendary “KOLLEGE” party. It’s esteemed traditions like these, formed across centuries, that make Emory a bastion for collegiate tradition and pride.

“But you’ve never experienced a gorgeous early-autumn afternoon in Michigan’s ‘Big House!’” you cry.

Your sagacious On Fire correspondent smiles and responds: “Ah, but have you ever strolled from the hallowed halls of Emory’s Sigma Chi to the stunning green lawns of Alpha Tau Omega, watching 150-pound white dudes in Chubbies throw a frisbee to the soaring melodies of Post Malone’s “Beerbongs and Bentleys,” while they repeatedly glance across the street towards the sorority lodges?”

Yes, friends and disciples of On Fire, college football season has returned. And with it, students across the nation are teaming up to cheer on their comrades on the gridiron, and Emory students are doing the exact same things that they were doing last week, with slightly cooler weather.

Alas, 2018 marks the 182nd straight football-less year at Emory. But why should we let other schools steal all the spotlight? Emory, of course, is located in one of the nation’s most fertile recruiting areas. It has natural local rivals in Georgia State and Kennesaw State (Ga.). And, believe it or not, it is already home to some incredibly qualified footballers.

Contrary to popular sentiment, your stunningly athletic On Fire correspondent is not referring to himself or herself, though it has been rumored that he or she throws a mean spiral.

No, your cannon-armed On Fire correspondent refers instead to a number of promising players scattered throughout the Emory campus.

After all, who better to play quarterback than Dooley herself? The undead skeletal demon and part-time Emory mascot already has a built-in offensive line in her security guards. Some scouts have expressed concern about Dooley’s brittle bones not being able to stand up to hits in the pocket, but the whole “immortality” thing should help her withstand the rigors of a full college football season.

How about a head coach to lead the newly-minted Emory football team? There are too many choices to count. The best coaches are people who can make tough decisions — people who can evaluate the numbers in front of them and not be bogged down by any emotional connections — aka the entire Emory administration.

Emory infamously cut their journalism, education and visual arts programs in 2012, which left a sea of students alone and rudderless and sounded the death knell on a few of Emory’s finest programs. But your economically savvy On Fire correspondent applauds the administration for its foresight and inability to let things like “the interest of its students” and “campus-wide protests” stop them from ensuring that more money is funneled into the Goizueta Business School.

The proof is in the numbers, after all. Since the school-wide cuts in 2012, Goizueta has skyrocketed from 19th in the U.S. News and World Report rankings all the way to … 21st.

When reached for comment, Emory’s head football coach reportedly blamed SEC bias.

“Don’t blame it on the sunshine, don’t blame it on the moonlight, don’t blame it on the good times, blame it on the Boogie.” — Jackson 5

The No. 6 seed New Orleans Pelicans completed their first-round sweep of the No. 3 seed Portland Trail Blazers 131-123 at the Smoothie King Center in New Orleans on April 21. And yes, that’s the name of their stadium.

Your On Fire correspondent believes there are many reasons for this surprising sweep. Pelicans center Stretch Armstrong — whoops —  Anthony Davis played like the MVP candidate he is, averaging 33 points and pulling in 12 rebounds per game for the series.  Then there was Pelicans point guard Rajon Rondo, who gave slightly more than minimal effort for the first time since 2008 and dished out 13 assists per game while still being unable to hit a jump shot.

But there was a notable absence from this series: Pelicans four-time all star center DeMarcus Cousins, whose season ended with a torn achilles on Jan. 26. Cousins was in the midst of a fantastic season, averaging 25.2 points, 12.9 rebounds and 5.4 assists with a true shooting percentage of .583. Over the past three seasons, ESPN’s estimated wins added (EWA) had Cousins adding anywhere between 14-17 wins a season, making him (statistically) one of the 10-15 most valuable players in the NBA.

When the Pelicans added Cousins, many thought that the dynamic duo of Boogie and The Brow would be the kind of one-two punch New Orleans needed to compete in the Western Conference. Boogie was the peanut butter to Davis’ Jelly; the socks to his shoes; the John Legend to his Chrissy Teigen.

But with the Pelicans absolutely demoralizing a higher-seeded Portland team, Boogie suddenly seems more like a third wheel than a bride-to-be. Davis don’t need no man — he is the strong, independent superstar Kentucky fans have been telling us since they started recruiting him out of fifth grade. Davis doesn’t need Cousins’ peanut butter because Davis isn’t just some jelly — Davis is Nutella. Davis doesn’t need socks — he’s Crocs. Davis doesn’t need a John Legend — he’s Oprah.

The numbers bear this out. Losing Cousins and adding power forward and Theodor Herzl doppelganger Nikola Mirotic, shouldn’t make a team better. But it did. Seemingly, his gaudy individual numbers don’t translate to team success.

Throughout his six years in Sacramento, the one city in California you couldn’t pay this On Fire correspondent to live in, Cousins never led his team to more than 33 wins. Even without markedly better talent, the Kings’ current dumpster fire team only won six fewer games compared to the Boogie led train-wreck two years ago, Cousins’ last full season with the team — a far cry from his 14-17 EWA.

But how did the Pelicans improve after losing a two-time Second-Team All NBA player?

With Cousins, the Pelicans defensive rating was bottom-10 in the league. Over the last 34 games without him, their defensive rating has been in the top five.

Per the Ringer, without the slow-footed Boogie, the Pelicans have trapped the pick and roll much more aggressively with Holiday and Rondo. The quicker Mirotic can recover to either the shooter or roller in a way that Cousins can’t with cinder blocks for feet.

Ultimately, this should all amount to just a barbershop conversation about Cousins with my hairstylist Katya. Except, Cousins is about to be a free agent this summer. Seeing green (no, not the WEED Stephen A), Cousins expects to receive a max contract. Unfortunately, coming back from a torn achilles is always difficult and unpredictable. Even assuming he is 100 percent healthy, should New Orleans offer a max contract to a player who wins as rarely as Cousins?

There’s nothing more American than grabbing a hot dog, heading to the ballpark and watching nine guys from the Dominican Republic make magic on the field.” — Will Ferrell

With the conclusion of March Madness and subsequent desire to bet on all things sports-related to win back the $10 buy-in you lost after Virginia fell first round, have no fear: a new sports season is fully underway. Baseball is back and ready to be the source of all your disappointments as you follow a team for 162 games that last three hours each, just to find out your favorite team has no chance at making the playoffs.

Regardless, your On Fire correspondent is ready to give you an all-encompassing season preview so you can be prepared to make small talk with that one relative who is oddly obsessed with the game.

As much as it is fact that Wednesdays follow Tuesdays, carrots are healthy, Emory is better than Oxford, etc., nothing has changed with the long-held practice that the New York Yankees will spend every possible dollar to build a superteam. Instead of taking strong analytical efforts to develop young players, the Yankees have continued to be the Alpha Chai Latte Brads from Long Island, N.Y., who simply buy their way to the top. By acquiring GQ poster boy Giancarlo Stanton to guarantee the team even more home runs, the Yankees are once again ready to be the most hateable team.

While the Yankees did everything they could to improve, the Miami Marlins did everything they could to tank. By selling every star player, including the aforementioned Stanton, the Marlins sit at the level of a student who flunked out of “baby bio” and are now taking full pass/fail classes on the basket-weaving track. Most shocking with this Marlins development is the divorce between the organization and the “Marlins Man.” Laurence Leavy (78C), the Emory grad turned successful lawyer, became a fixture at all top sporting events by rocking a bright orange Marlins jersey at prominent seats at the World Series, Super Bowl, Kentucky Derby, etc. Now, by not renewing his season tickets, he is the biggest free agent in baseball willing to take his talents away from South Beach, Fla. Maybe, just maybe, he will next be spotted as the sole fan at Chappell Park for an Emory baseball game.

As a change in the game this year, MLB Commissioner Rob Manfred has led the charge to pick up the pace of baseball play. By shortening the amount of mound visits and considering instituting a pitch clock, Manfred may in fact speed up the game so much that games will be more short-lived than your freshman-year desire to be pre-med (still improbable).

The 2018 season should ultimately be one of no surprises: Yankees will be good, Marlins will suck and top-down decisions will ruin the national pastime.

However, if the owner of Maggie’s can take an active role in campus elections, then I guess anything may be possible this season.

“If you ain’t first, you’re last.” — Ricky Bobby

In the annual lull between the the regular football season and the start of March Madness, the 2018 Winter Olympics in Pyeongchang, South Korea briefly turned every American into a self-proclaimed ice dancing expert. But your On Fire correspondent’s heart is broken not for the termination of the all-too-quick Winter Olympics, but for the United States’ dismal performance.

Before I criticize my beloved country, a few notable victories are worth mentioning.

  1. Red Gerard won the United States’ first gold medal in the men’s snowboard slopestyle. Maybe just as importantly, his family won my heart by shotgunning beers at 8:30 in the morning in celebration of his performance. Few things are more American than claiming supremacy in a sport as arbitrary as sliding down a mountain on one fat ski, but beer for breakfast with your kin is definitely one of them.
  2. The U.S. men’s curling team took gold. A team that looks like a group of dads who finished last in fantasy football and had to join curling as punishment defied all odds and trounced Sweden, a heavy favorite leading up to the event.
  3. Shaun White is still alive? Apparently. White earned us another gold medal, but wow, I haven’t heard of this guy since he starred in the 2007 American Express commercials.
  4. Women’s hockey won gold. In a glorious shootout victory, the women’s hockey team defeated our northern neighbor Canada in a test of whether universal health care covers broken, maple-shaped hearts.

In spite of the glorious performances, the U.S. finished fourth in the overall medal count, falling behind Canada, Germany and wait, that can’t be right Norway?! (To be honest, your On Fire correspondent probably could not locate Norway on a map.)

The U.S. has 64 times the population of Norway, and they nonetheless destroyed us in the medal count (39 medals against our 23) and pushed us off the overall podium, which is absolutely unacceptable. Don’t even get me started on Iceland, which qualified for the 2018 FIFA World Cup despite having a population smaller than Wichita, Kansas. The United States didn’t qualify for the World Cup on purpose, but if we were trying to earn a spot in the field, that would have been a huge embarrassment. Regardless, Norwegians probably enjoy winter and going outdoors or something freaks. Fortunately, the 2020 Summer Olympics (the only Olympics that actually matter) in Tokyo, Japan, are only two years away. Hopefully we garner 64 times the medals of Norway.

While your On Fire correspondent is forever quick to criticize the United States’ lack of even a bronze overall medal, he or she is just as quick to advocate for stomping some probably socialist Scandinavian country into the snowless ground.

“One: Is this or is this not the XFL? Yes it is. Two: Do I or do I not currently have a pulse? Yes, I do. Let’s play football.” — Former XFL Quarterback Jeff Brohm on playing six days after a concussion.

With the post-Super Bowl flames in Philadelphia reducing to an ember and Kevin Hart’s celebratory drunkenness turning into a treacherous hangover, a world without football is starting to feel like a sick joke. In Super Bowl LII, the Philadelphia Eagles defeated Tom Brady and the Patriots — thank God and all felt right in the world. But now, a week and a half later, the abyss in the hearts of football fans everywhere is gaping. The next games of either collegiate or professional form won’t be played until late August.

But the football lull will soon be a thing of the past: WWE chairman Vince McMahon announced Jan. 25 that the XFL will return in 2020. Yes, the anti-establishment football league that operated for one season in 2001 during the NFL’s off months is returning. Without an official name, it can only be hypothesized that XFL stands for Xtra-Fun-League, contrary to the NFL colloquially standing for the “No Fun League.”

The XFL supposedly seeks to make football a fast-paced, easy-to-understand entertainment league that reinforces family values. Truly, patriotism is at the forefront of the league’s priorities and player safety is at the back — and your On Fire Correspondent is more pleased than Ron Swanson at a free breakfast buffet. It is rumored that players will be mandated to stand for the national anthem and respect the flag in all capacities. After the anthem, which will most likely include bald eagles circling the stadium, the league uses the “scramble” to determine possession, in which two opposing players fight to gain possession of a loose football rather than simply engaging in a polite coin toss. Furthermore, if the league follows its tradition of deregulated football as it did in 2001, the fair catch during punt returns will be banned, thus permitting all returners to become first-team Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE) candidates.

The NFL has become the epitome of sports adulteration in America, where it can only be foreseen that Commissioner Satan/Roger Goodell will cover all players head-to-toe in bubble wrap and resort to two-hand touch competitions (No pushing, guys! Gosh!). The return of the XFL’s near-anarchic form of football is sure to restore the sport to glory. With provocatively dressed cheerleaders, hard hits, less rules and more patriotism, this is the league that reinforces all stereotypes of American sports culture. Rumors have it that former Heisman winner and most frat quarterback of all-time Johnny Manziel will be launching a return with the XFL — ensuring that every Brad in Alpha Chi Latte will order a fake Money Manziel XFL jersey shipped from a sketchy website from China that only accepts PayPal or Bitcoin. It’s #comebackszn, y’all.

With the revamping of the XFL, the no-fun monopoly of the NFL that limits player celebrations and unpatriotically cares for player safety will finally have viable competition. While critics may say that the XFL will simply lampoon the sport, your On Fire correspondent says give America what it wants. Are you not entertained?

We care about people’s feelings, we’re respectful when anyone is offended, but we have this 80-year name that we love.” — Lanny Davis, Washington Redskins lawyer

In an unforeseen act of non-idiocy, the Cleveland Indians announced Jan. 29 that the team planned to finally abandon the Chief Wahoo logo on their uniforms by 2019. The logo, first developed in the late 1940s, depicts a Native American chief with red skin, huge teeth and nose and a large feather sticking up behind his head. With the logo serving as the Robert E. Lee statue of sports logos, the removal is a win for non-racists everywhere.  

However, your On Fire correspondent is a bit shocked by the change. For the longest time, he/she anticipated that Cleveland management would address the predicament by altering the logo with maybe a less offensive shade of red. Perhaps even the Washington Redskins will finally respond to criticisms about their team name, perhaps to something like “D.C. Redskins.”

Some Cleveland baseball purists believe this is the first battle in a war towards changing the name to something other than the “Indians.” The audacity. It would be utterly unfair for the team change their name to something — dare your On Fire Correspondent say it — politically correct. Absolutely nothing is more American than using the national pastime as a platform to market stereotypical imagery associated with the people whose culture and very way of life it completely destroyed! I guarantee you that loyal subjects of ‘The Land” are more than ready to go to battle covered in war paint purchased from Hobby Lobby as they march to the beat of their tribe drum bought at Guitar Center.

Obviously, “Indians” captivates the culture of the the city; Native Americans comprise 0.3 percent of Cleveland’s demographic makeup. It’s about the equivalent of the Los Angeles Lakers bragging about all nine of the lakes that their storied NBA franchise glorifies.

While a total rebrand is far from happening, it can be hoped that Cleveland fans can swallow their loss of the Chief. Why not rally around the letter “C”? No one else in baseball is doing it.

All kidding aside, it is truly commendable that the Cleveland organization is taking a step towards progress in spite of backlash from some of its fans. Although it has not fully eradicated its race-based image, the organization is finally starting to become aware of its controversial mascot.  In a city where pollution is so bad its river has caught on fire (no pun intended) 13 times, the removal of Chief Wahoo is a positive move  towards cleaning up Cleveland’s image.

“The team’s fans are known for being passionate and are still remembered for pelting snowballs at a man dressed as Santa Claus during a losing game in 1968.”

—- Jacey Fortin, The New York Times, on the Philadelphia Eagles

Your On Fire correspondent has been anxiously awaiting the world’s greatest sporting event and America’s single greatest invention, the Super Bowl. However, following the conference championship weekend, your On Fire correspondent could not be more disappointed in the matchup. As an unabashed fan of small-market sport teams, we came so close … so teasingly close to a Super Bowl matchup between respectable teams. The Minnesota Vikings, hailing from a city that blessed us with the deals of Target, the music of Prince, and the beauty of Marshall Erickson, almost became the first team to host and play in the Super Bowl. The Jacksonville Jaguars, a team that has been in the NFL for a shorter time than that super-senior who never passed QTM, almost achieved the impossible in their matchup with the monstrosity commonly referred to as the New England Patriots.

Rather, this year’s Super Bowl will play host to two brute east coast football organizations, the New England Patriots and the Philadelphia Eagles, both with reputations for cheating and destroying everything in sight, respectively. The New England Patriots advanced to the Super Bowl by the grace of God, and more importantly, the grace of the referees. Guilty of “Spygate” in 2007 and “Deflategate” in 2015, the mere 10 yards of penalties called against New England in the AFC championship may as well be “Penaltygate.” Who knows what surprise bit of fortune the Patriots will see in the Super Bowl. Will it be as simple as stealing their opponents’ signs, or as complex as planting an informant on the other team who has been destined to help the Pats’ cause? Could “The Departed” actually be Mark Wahlberg’s way of warning us about the Patriots’ future plans? Who knows: only the Pats, the officials, Robert Kraft, probably Roger Goodell and intelligent football fans everywhere. So a few football fans.

On the NFC side, the Eagles absolutely embarrassed the Vikings in the conference championship. With two weeks to go before the Super Bowl, Philadelphia may have just enough time to rebuild everything in their city before destroying it on Super Bowl Sunday. Despite measures taken by city officials to deter rioting, Crisco-covered street poles could not stop the most loyal Philadelphia fans from demolishing their very city. Maybe try peanut butter next time. After witnessing fans throw beer cans at the Vikings bus, light fires in the streets and drive a dune buggy up the Rocky Balboa stairs, we can officially confirm that the brief government shutdown, paired with an Eagle victory, equals pure anarchy. Fortunately for Eagles fans (and unfortunately for their cars and anything flammable/softer than diamond) the recent budget passed by the government is only temporary, which could easily result in a full blown post-Super Bowl purge.

The last time the Pats and the Eagles faced off in the Super Bowl, former President George W. Bush was just re-inaugurated and “The Office” was yet to be released. The Pats came out on top then, and 13 years later, your On Fire correspondent predicts that they will win again. Marked by an improbable 28-3 comeback last season in the Super Bowl, it can only be assured that the NFL is fully ready to commit another inside job to ensure a Pats victory. Given that the probability of the referees inventing a rule just for Tom Brady’s protection (*cough* tuck rule *cough*) is greater than the probability of Nick Foles appearing remotely competent, one thing is for certain: Philly cannot buy enough Crisco.

“You are the kindest country in the world. You are like a really nice apartment over a meth lab.”

— Robin Williams on Canada

Disclaimer: Your On Fire correspondent once spent some significant time up North. No, not like Tennessee North, but a magical land known as Michigan North, a strange place where sunlight is forgotten and life goes on when it snows more than a quarter of an inch. Thus, when your On Fire correspondent was asked by a Southern student whether or not there was such a thing as professional hockey league, it took immense strength and poise not to gag in horror.

“Yes,” your On Fire correspondent responded, eloquently choosing to vocalize the sole non-expletive word that came to mind. At a school in the South where many students cannot differentiate between a Kaldi’s line and a blue line and think icing is what you put on a cupcake, your On Fire correspondent should not have been surprised at such ignorance. Nonetheless, hockey is the greatest gift from our Canadian neighbors that isn’t named Robin Scherbatsky, and it deserves more respect than it’s currently being given.

The truth is, hockey is the least Canada could do after the long list of painful exports it’s forced across the border. Nickelback, Sarah McLachlan’s voice over commercials of abused dogs, old Justin Bieber and an Odyssey-esque siren allure of universal health care are all serious crimes against the World’s Greatest Country we all know and blindly adore like sheep led to the slaughter. And it’s not as if Canada really has anything else to offer. Perhaps Drake, but, in times like these, Meek Mill needs all the support he can get. Maybe the maple syrup supply is nice to keep in reach, but really that’s what we have Vermont for, so honestly Canada better be on its best behavior. Otherwise, the Mexico border won’t be the only one with today’s most advanced border technology — walls — right after we finish the walls around the Atlantic and Pacific coasts, of course, because Fox News is bound to show “Sharknado” sooner or later.

Hockey combines grace and grit, and puts it on ice. Imagine The Nutcracker on ice but with body checks and goals. Name a sport that wouldn’t be better on ice — oh wait, there isn’t one. Hockey is a fast-paced, full-contact sport that allows each Stanley Cup-winning player to spend a day with the championship trophy to do whatever their heart pleases: like Chicago Blackhawks forward Andrew Desjardins, who ate Lucky Charms out of the goblet. Can you imagine what would happen if the National Basketball Association (NBA) just let J.R. Smith roam around with the Larry O’Brien Trophy for a few days?

Let’s be clear: The United States is objectively superior when it comes to assertiveness, gross domestic product and sheer world domination, but the U.S. can learn a lesson or two from Canada’s national sport.

Flopping in American sports culture is far too prevalent. Athletes like Draymond Green and LeBron James are all-too celebrated for faking injuries. This wussification is nowhere to be found in hockey: Dallas Stars forward Rich Peverley literally died on the bench, came back to life and asked to be put back into the game. That’s the sort of passion that’s missing in American sports culture.

Maybe most critical to hockey’s status as an elite sport is its stance on fighting. Charge the mound in baseball? Receive a fine and suspension. Hit a player after the whistle in football? Fine and suspension. Chuck knucks in hockey? Receive a standing ovation and spend five minutes in time out in the penalty box. Instead of spending $100 to stream Floyd Mayweather vs. Conor McGregor, save your money and watch a hockey game, where the fighters actually land punches and simultaneously balance on ice skates.

Although Atlanta has been the failed host of two separate National Hockey League (NHL) franchises (moment of silence for the Thrashers and the Flames), one should not turn an eye to the glorious sport of the North. Even if you think zamboni is a type of pasta, hockey is for all. So, freshman friend who does not know about the existence of the NHL, hockey is in fact real — and it is glorious.

“There is not a lot of school pride.” — Ari, a freshman

(Found in comments section of the first result when searching “Emory School Spirit” on Google)

Withdraw that transfer application to the University of Michigan to join your best friend at Alpha Chi Latte where you get sh*tfaced every Saturday for game day: Emory University might finally have school spirit. The dearth of school spirit that surrounds our Division-III athletic scene has never been a point of pride, but maybe — just maybe — there’s reason for hope.

This past weekend, men’s soccer advanced to the Sweet Sixteen, tying their best postseason finish in school history. Emory volleyball dominated in their home regional, refusing to drop a set on the way to the Elite Eight of the NCAA D-III tournament. What’s surprising here is not that these teams found success. Emory has won 23 NCAA championships in its storied history. No, the real shock came from what filled the stands: people.

For the first time in your On Fire correspondent’s tenure at Emory, some noise disturbed the aching silence that has traditionally been Emory Athletics’ No. 1 fan, and it wasn’t the faint reverberations of frat stars slamming barbells to the floor after completing their first rep in 15 minutes. Hosting the NCAA South regional tournament, Emory volleyball drew living, breathing fans to put on an absolute show that would have put “Hamilton” to shame. In the three-game, single-elimination tournament, they didn’t lose a single set. In the championship game against Berry College (Ga.), not only did the team defeat another school with ease, but there was an actual student section. Your On Fire correspondent was flabbergasted.

To be fair, the fanbase was about the size of any given high school’s student section minus the presence of vapes, angst and whatever else high schoolers are into these days. Nonetheless, people actually showed up to watch Emory Athletics — a feat as unlikely as beating Emory’s most popular team: our undefeated football program. So for perhaps the hottest take in On Fire history — hotter than suggesting steroid use be mandatory or that the 2018 FIFA World Cup is a ploy to brainwash impressionable American athletes with Soviet propaganda — Emory finally has school spirit.

It’s time to shake off the dust on that bookstore Emory shirt you ordered back in high school when you were naive and cared about things, because school spirit is kind of trendy now. And while it’s not likely you will approach an Emory athlete (only recognizable by the blue powerade bottle they carry like Drake’s relationship baggage) for their autograph, it is finally socially acceptable to casually watch one of their games.

Believe it or not, your On Fire correspondent was voted most school spirited in high school and has long since contemplated whether that $485 Emory enrollment deposit might have been better spent toward football season tickets at a state school. That deposit decision has haunted your On Fire Correspondent throughout the years of Saturday mornings spent in the confines of the Robert W. Woodruff Library rather than in a football stadium densely packed with 100,000 drunk, screaming fans. Thanks to Emory volleyball, that long-desired release of school spirit has finally been achieved.

With basketball season underway, the WoodPEC likely won’t offer quite the same experience as that of Cameron Indoor Stadium at Duke. However, if just a hint of what was experienced at the match against Berry is present at basketball games, then perhaps Emory can finally be considered a top-20 school.