This term “jersey chaser” appeared in my life at the beginning of fall semester. I kept hearing it in conversations or reading hash tag this and hash tag that incorporating the term into my everyday news feed. My initial reaction was that it had to do with some Jersey Shore reference. I created this mental picture of make-up-caked women flocking to semi-Italian, super-pumped “guidos” made desirable by the white trash of America. I was trying to figure out who is actually attracted to men who look like that (obviously I’m not, but your preference is your own). Finally after having an epiphany moment, which brought my quaint mental image of overly tanned meatheads tumbling to the deepest depths of my over-caffeinated mind, I realized that I myself am a “jersey chaser.”
The way this all started is the fact that I am undoubtedly obsessed with myself. I’ve just learned to accept it as fact at this point. I’m twenty years deep in a life where I hate to share, and my friends have just learned not to ask for pieces of gum from me unless they want a cold-betch stare, complete with eye twitch. Anyway, back to how this jersey chasing began. My favorite number is 63. It always has been and always will be. My birthday is June third…6/3…hence the obsession with myself. One day during February 2010 (freshman year) I found myself bundled up on the Drillfield walking back to my dorm room to execute my lovely plans of sneaking in a just a miniature power nap from 2-4pm. All of a sudden I realized I was walking behind a massive human being. I mean seriously, this person would have been an effective speed bump, and he was being a speed bump due to the fact that he was loping along as if he had all the time in the world. Hello, move it or lose it buddy, this is the Drillfield, not organic isle in Kroger. Than all of a sudden my heart pitter-pattered on its own accord because I realized on this huge person were Virginia Tech football sweats with the number ‘63’ cleverly printed on the back collar.
First thought— am I allowed to ask him for a jersey straight up, just right there on the Drillfield? Second thought—I look like sh*t, and I don’t want to be eaten for lunch by the tractor-trailer that I was in fact trailing. Third thought—I have to get a jersey with my favorite number on it. It was imperative to my entire Virginia Tech experience. Fourth thought—Oh well. He had veered off to the left, and I was left sullenly walking off to Pritchard for my afternoon nap.
Long story short, I ran into mister mysterious at a party in Pheasant Run a couple weeks later. It’s not hard to recognize a speed bump, and not to mention he was rocking a light up earring, a.k.a a lighthouse like beam that was radiating out over the dance floor. As I beckoned him over to talk to me, I knew I had to take advantage of the opportunity. Go for the kill, or in this case secure at least a VT football t-shirt with my favorite number. Over a year and a half later and we’re still together, but I have yet to get a t-shirt… let alone a jersey, and the kicker is they changed his number. I guess I’m not a very good jersey chaser after all.
Sources:
Image of Virginia Tech scrimmage taken from Hokiesports.com