As we enjoyed our dinner in the Student Union there was a buzz about the campus as we discussed what the first significant snowfall could mean. Then it happened, word spread the Golden Knights had marched their way onto our turf. It was official, winter was here—Clarkson vs. Potsdam in the fight of the year.

No, this contest would not take place on the court, it could never take place on the ice. It had to take place in our backyard and eventually theirs. It was every man and woman for themselves.

As we stepped outside, we were greeted by an onslaught of white, packed powder flying through the air. Students were running all over taking cover behind trees and parked cars—some even brought lunch trays from the Union to be used as a shield for added protection.

GLOVES OFF
As we withstood the initial attack, it was time to regroup and take the offensive against our cross-town rivals. To do so, more snowballs and a strong charge would be needed. Of course the gloves would not do as they hindered the ability to make the proper snowball. Bare hands were used for the quick one scoop, pack and throw.

Targets were near and far. Some throws were right on with the kind of splat that would make you laugh because of where they hit or because of the wet marks they would leave. Some throws were way off the mark and just as funny. Others were frustrating misses with targets less than 20 feet away! I blamed my beet-red, dripping wet hands which started to fail me in the midst of battle as they began to throb (you know the kind of throb that later would turn into numbness and end in a painful thaw).

But there was no time for the pain, because this was too much fun. With pockets bulging with packs of snow, we began to push the Green and Gold through the academic quad past Pierrepont. Clarkson’s retreat was on. Laughter, shrieks of fun broke the silence of a cold winter’s night as we blew on our hands trying to warm them up—preparing for that next throw.

The chase continued into Ives Park—a great battleground with lots of open space, trees and untouched fresh snow. Eventually we made our way over the bridges, pushing Clarkson to the base of the Hill.

We were cold, wet and out of breath from running and laughing—it was a great moment. No one knew how long the battle would last, but we knew the memories would. It was tradition, after all, and a wonderful one too!

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