Where I was going to go to college depended entirely upon one thing: money.  Early in the process, my family sat down, had a long talk, and figured we could spend only X – a small fraction of what college typically costs – on my annual college tuition.  We then stayed seated for a very short talk about my sexual preference, which may or may not have left my dad "in shambles."  After our talks and once my dad stopped damaging property, I applied to eight or nine colleges, all in the Northeast, many Jesuit like my high school, thinking I not only had a good shot to get into all of them, but also a very good chance of getting a luxurious financial aid package as well.

The first school I heard back from was St. Joe’s University.  I considered St. Joe’s a safety school and figured it would give me a substantial aid package, if not a full ride (not that there’s anything wrong with St. Joe’s; it’s just that I was really fucking smart at the time – now, not so much).  I hastily opened the envelope and was distraught – maybe even devastated – to learn that, while I was accepted to St. Joe’s, their financial aid package left much to be desired.  If my family could afford to spend X a year on tuition, St. Joe’s was expecting me to pay 4X.  Um, yikes.

This sent me into a panic.  As mentioned, I considered St. Joe’s a safety school – and I was going to have to pay that much to go there (???) (!!!).  Logically, I concluded that my other non-safety schools would offer even less aid than St. Joe’s, which would mean that I’d have to take a job with one of my uncles for a few months and hope that something worked out the next academic year.  Or we would have to sell my little sister to a wealthy Thai gentleman.  Both options made me sad (the former much, much more so than the latter). 

About a week later, relief arrived in the form of an envelope from Boston University.  BU was a mid-level school; I figured I’d get in, but wasn’t sure what kind of money they’d give me.  Still, I was interested in the school, in no small part because the hipster-ish girls that I saw on the campus when I visited seemed like they’d give some vicious head if you bought vinyl or could say something reasonably intelligent about art.  When I opened the envelope, I saw that the good people at BU brought it – not only did they offer me a full ride, but I think I remember something about weekly Turkish bath treatments if I so desired.  Go Terriers.  F the Hawks.

A week or so after that, my whole college application process was over.  Boston College was on the upper end of schools I applied to, and I visited there with some high school buddies during senior year and had a blast. [Little known Jason Mulgrew fact: The person who bought the keg for the party that my friend's brother, at the time a junior at BC, threw for us that weekend: Liz Hasselbeck (nee Filarski).]  When the BC offer came and they were just a tad shy of what BU was offering, my family had another lil’ pow-wow, determined that we could swing it, and I sent in my deposit that week.  Fortunately, this time there was no discussion of my sexual preference.  However, there was still some property damage on the part of my dad.  It’s a disease, really.

The rest is history: I went to BC, dominated, was thrown out of housing two of my four years, was sued once, was almost personally responsible for a chlamydia outbreak in Rubenstein Hall (I couldn’t have done it without you, Erin), and still managed to get a job right out of college that paid me more than either of my parents made (God bless those halcyon days of 2001 when all one had to do to land a good job was to keep his pants on for the duration of the interview).  And sure, maybe now I’m a shallow and terrible person – I can’t even use the word "man" – who spends most of his time sitting in his shower, thinking about how maybe murder isn’t so bad, still questioning not only his sexuality but now the placement of his genitals on his body (maybe they’d look better just above my belly button? on my right shoulder?).  But all things considered, I’m ok with how I turned out after I made the choice to go to BC, a decision I based 95% of on economics.

But as I went through BC and now that I’m out of BC, I realize that there is an important factor in college selection that never entered my mind as a high school senior (nor was it a factor for any of my buddies).  Most high school seniors pick their college based on a number of variables like financial aid, prestige, location, academic majors, study abroad programs, alumni connections, and how easy it is to score coke.*  But now that I’m older and wiser, I’d like to add another factor near the top of that list: the importance of a decent athletic program.

[*Best school to score coke: Babson College. Trust me.  If it was 4am on a Tuesday and you needed a gram of coke, a brick of M-80's, and a monkey who could do your dishes, you could get it within the hour from someone at Babson.  Good lord.  No wonder they're "ranked #1 among all business schools for entrepreneurship."]

Make no mistake – I am no great fan of college sports.  I’ve written several times that I don’t care very much about BC sports.  This is based mostly on jealousy.  While at BC, I found it difficult on Saturdays to root for the football player who lived down my hall.  This is not only because he was a dick with the mental capacity of a meatball sub, but also because he was sleeping with all the white women in the whole goddamn dorm.  As I still have difficulty convincing white women to sleep with me, I still do not particularly root for BC athletes.  I can really, really hold a grudge.    

So it is not for the thrill of the competition that I extol the virtues of a decent athletic program (though of course that is a major plus for many).  My "love" of BC athletics is much more self-centered: Several times a year, BC athletics afforded me – and as an alumnus, still afford me – the opportunity to get embarrassingly drunk, often to the point of soiling myself, in a nearly consequence-free environment, while eating meat pulled from several different animals, slathered in sauces that will remain on my face, neck, hands and chest for up to a week.

I will not claim that tailgating at BC is like tailgating at Tennessee or LSU or West Virginia.  The monster tailgating that goes on at these schools is just one of several advantages they have over BC, among them offering a more varied roster of courses ranging from "English 207/Communications 202: That Get ’Er Done Guy Is Real Dang Funny" to "Sociology 409: So What If She Is Your Cousin – At Least You Ain’t a Jew."  But BC tailgating, though modest, is not without its charms.  All the elements are there: a campus packed with all types of vehicles, which in turn are packed to the gills with cheap canned beer; the smoke and scent from hundreds of grills wafting through the air; thousands of drunk fans, ranging in ages and rabidity; two buddies who will drink too much and invariably share their first homosexual experience after the game.  Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweetest of all.  

When I first got to college, I took this tailgating for granted.  It was a part of campus life, just as normal as going to class, eating in the dining hall and shamelessly masturbating in the shared bathroom.  I mean, whatever, you know?  It wasn’t until late in the first semester of my freshman year when I went to visit some buddies at Fordham University that I realized the importance and fun of tailgating for football games.  While there, I saw a Fordham football home "game" that was not quite as bad as a Special Olympics event but not quite as good as a celebrity football game for charity.  The "stadium" was mostly empty – girlfriends, family, perverts and drifters constituted the large majority of the fans, and it seemed they were only vaguely aware that an athletic competition was going on (not that I blame them).  Worst of all, my friends did not tailgate for the game.  Instead, we scored some coke from this spunky little Dominican guy who lived in the South Bronx.  It was awesome in its own way, but it was not tailgating. 

From that point forward, I realized how lucky I was to go to a school with a decent athletic program.  Not that BC is by any means a powerhouse, but what’s somewhat unique about the school is that it boasts good sports teams all year long – the football team is typically good for 8 or 9 wins, the hockey team is consistently nationally-ranked, and the basketball team is a tournament mainstay.  Sure, football is the only sport that features good old-fashioned tailgating, but any excuse to gather with friends to get drunk and increase your possibility of having unprotected sex is welcome in my life. 

Now, as a BC alum, tailgating has taken on a new angle, representing a mini yearly reunion for classmates.  Each year, I’ll go to two games – usually, like the past weekend, the first one of the season, and later the best match up of the season – and there I’ll run into old friends, recount stories from college, catch up on each others’ lives, and avoid eye contact with the girls (and guy and snake) I gave chlamydia.  If not for these tailgates, I wouldn’t have the opportunity to measure up old classmates and women who refused to sleep with me, and repeatedly point out to them that while they may live with their spouses in the suburbs, I live in New York Fucking City and have you heard of the internet?  Because I’m on it and I’m awesome.  That’s how I roll, homes. 

It is the friends I’ve made and these tailgates – not the education I received, not the connections I’ve been able to make, and certainly not the $4000 I was fined for myriad offenses that I had to pay before I got my diploma – that make me most glad I went to BC.  Six years out of college, I know:

- Knowledge is fleeting – I was a history major who studied Tudor and Stuart Britain, but yet every time I’m at a bar quiz night or watching Jeopardy and a question is asked about Henry VIII’s wives or even where Britain is located on a map, I get it wrong. 

- School reputation matters less the more one is removed from college – the only thing that matters in the real business world is how young the chick your banging is and how much your tie cost. 

- STD tests…man, they get old really quickly.  The inventor of the home STD test is going to be a rich man.  One more disapproving glare for my doctor’s secretary because once again Uncle Jason woke up with something new down there and I’m just gonna flip out. 

Once college is over with, you’re left with a very expensive piece of paper and some fond memories.  For me, tailgating represents a large part of these fond memories.  In addition, tailgating now allows to me relive some of these memories, albeit with much less hair on my head and much more hair on my back (nothing makes you feel young again like peeing next to your buddy’s truck while his wife screams "What are you doing? You’re splashing all over the tires!").  Therefore, dear high school readers, I urge you to learn from my experience and take into consideration your potential college’s athletic program.  Years from now, you’ll thank me. 

[Probably in person, because it's more than likely that I'll be with you at the tailgate, complaining about the toughness of the hot dogs and asking where the relish is.  One tip: make sure you have a lot of cool ranch doritos on hand.  I get pretty irritated when I don't have them.]