BRUNSWICK — The annual Spring Gala brought a delightful opportunity to dress to the nines, dance to creatively mixed music, and make eye contact with Bowdoin faculty and staff—shit-faced and cross-faded—as though this were perfectly normal. While students claimed they attended to “celebrate Spring” and “make memories,” a more sinister motive was at hand: to catch a fucking balloon.

Preparation began early. Heels were swapped for sneakers under the cover of “hurt feet,” sacrificing elegance for agility. Others enlisted backup—significant others, friends, prospective hookups—to gain a tactical edge against the competition. 100 balloons. 300 competitors. Some would go home victorious. Others would go home empty-handed and spiritually defeated.

When the clock struck twelve, an anticipatory hush fell over the crowd. Gazes floated upward. 

Then the foghorn sounded. 

The student body transformed into a barbaric herd like a stampede of rapid wildebeest. A vicious hierarchy established itself immediately as the weak were trampled underfoot by alpha competitors. Hair was pulled. Eyes were scratched. Fake lashes were torn clean off. Casualties were evacuated in numbers. Brave medics entered the crowd like Allied soldiers returning for the wounded on the beaches of Dunkirk. 

One student, Barry Hogan, described the mentality required to survive: “I became ruthless. See here,” he motioned toward his hand, now missing its pointer finger, “this was torn off by someone trying to steal my balloon. The pulling was so violent the whole finger detached. Proudly.”