Last Saturday, I rounded up a group of my nearest and dearest and headed to TK’s for a long afternoon filled with Miller Light, honey-barbecue wings and, of course, college football.

At about my ninth beer, 23rd wing and second game of the day, I began to get a little sentimental, which of course had absolutely nothing to do with the beer.

With misty eyes, I looked ahead to The Game — Yale’s seminal collegiate rivalry and what will be my last Harvard-Yale as an undergraduate. Oddly, it seems not so long ago that I sent in my Yale application during my senior year of high school. I was then contemplating my chances of becoming an Eli. Needless to say, they did not look good, especially according to my wicked, mean-spirited, fat-and-ugly college advisor.

No hard feelings.

Now, a mere four years later, I am instead preoccupied with Yale’s 2-to-1 chances of beating Harvard, our star quarterback’s 62.8 percent chance of completing a pass on any given play and the chance that we Huck Farvard. Or, more importantly, my chances of Hucking anyone from Farvard.

During any given college football game, dozens upon dozens of passes are attempted, and yet, only a fraction of those are completed. At any given bar, on any given weekend night, in the same way, hundreds upon hundreds of plays are run, yet how many of those are completed? In short, what are our chances of scoring?

To answer my question, I took it to the experts; actually the only expert — my friend Bob. Bob is that guy; yes, that guy at the bar, who throws down pickup lines like it’s his J-O-B.

Bob will say or do anything if he thinks he has the slightest chance of scoring. In fact, that is precisely how we met. It was freshman year, in Olde Blue’s glory days, when it still went by “Tucker’s” and had the whole bar-mitzvah vibe. Bob marched right up to me at the bar, leaned into me and whispered in my ear.

“Fat penguin,” he said seductively.

“What?” I replied, confused.

“Fat penguin,” he said again.

“Huh?” I answered, this time fearing for my life.

“I just wanted to say something to break the ice,” he responded with a grin.

To his great surprise, his charming line didn’t work, but it didn’t matter. He used it over and over again without hesitation that night, until it did.

Hey, it was freshman year, it really doesn’t take much.

Regardless, Bob is the Rudy of spitting game. He yearns for his time to shine. He never stops hoping for the day that he finds himself in the end zone, waiting with outstretched arms for the Hail Mary pass that’ll win the game.

Hail Mary. Hail Suzanne. Hail Donna. Hail Lequisha. He’d hail your mom if she went to Toad’s on Saturday night.

Bob could hit on 50 girls, only to be turned down by every single one of them, and never be discouraged. After all, he told me with confidence, there’s always the chance that number 51 will say yes.

But not everyone has Rudy’s cute smile or Bob’s huge balls. So what’s a girl to do?

The real secret is upping your chances; stacking the odds in your favor.

If you’re a male freshman, I’m sad to report that you have not a chance in hell for any kind of action this weekend with anyone but the Porcelain Goddess at the end of your hall. Do not be discouraged, because the tides of fortune will soon turn. One day you will become a sexy post-pubescent senior, and the ladies will come a-flockin’ like the sparrows of Capistrano. You too, will be able to prey on helpless freshman girls and heed astounding results.

If, on the other hand, you are a ho-down-lovin’ young freshman girl, the world is your oyster — make a pearl necklace. You’re walkin’ on air. Flyin’ away on a wing and a prayer. You are Charles in Charge. Men will worship you, and trust me, women will hate you. I know this, because I am one of those women. You remind me of the days when I was still lithe and thin. And hadn’t hooked up with everyone I know yet.


For seniors, it seems that this is our last chance — the last straw we have to go hog-wild crazy and get the getting while the getting is good. This sentiment is only helped along by the fact that Yale’s campus will be teeming with alumni. Alumni who have gone beyond Yale and onto bigger and better and richer things. Young alumni who have personal trainers and — if you’re lucky — Porsches and hair plugs. This is only magnified by the fact that just about everyone is putting their best foot forward this weekend by getting dressed to impress. Not to mention the double-digit beer count we’ll all be ingesting. Nothing helps putting your best foot forward like a drunken stumble.

Well, it helps put something forward.

I guess the best advice I can dispense this weekend comes from a learned 24-year-old sage (class of ’01) who I know quite well and knows a thing or two about chances and odds. After all, he is a world-class poker player (and, I hear, a world-class lover). When I asked him what words of inspiration I should leave you, my readers, with, he paused for a moment and looked off in the distance. Finally, he gazed into my eyes and replied, “Take her easy. And if she’s easy, take her twice.”

Here’s to hoping that this weekend, Harvard is easy.

Natalie Krinsky is back and better than ever — in bed. It’s like a fortune cookie.