When Sparks Flew

I can still remember that warm summer night. The sky was almost cloudless as the moon shone on the two thousand strong crowd assembled at the Bellarmine Field. More than four years have passed, and yet I could still feel the butterflies in my stomach prior to making my move – and the triumphant exultation that followed afterward.

University tradition calls for a final grandiose batch party tinged with nostalgia, where graduating seniors gather, carouse and booze for the possibly the last time as a solid unit. The climax of the Blue Roast, as the event is called, is the giving out of aptly named Blue Roses to one’s college crush.

I was a naïve, oft-cynical twenty-one year old back then. I’ve never had a girlfriend (I still don’t). I was bereft of good fortune and the so-called “moves.” Each and every single foray into romance seemed destined for failure. I was resigned to my fate, content with wallowing in self-loathe. I channeled my energies towards more productive pursuits. All throughout four years of University, I was able to do well in my studies whilst juggling my responsibilities as a student-athlete. Looking back, I can say that I did relatively well. But deep down, there was a gaping hole.

I thoroughly enjoyed the night, as I split my time between several circles of friends. And yet beneath the stupor of alcohol, I was at a loss on whom to give my solitary Blue Rose. On one hand, there was my college track & field teammate. Things were awkward between us, thanks to my pitiful excuse of an overture. On the other hand, there was my Philosophy classmate. I tried to get close to her during the times we shared a class, but as usual, I was too stumped to ask her out.

Since I already gave the former flowers for Valentine’s Day 2006 (an experience I’d most rather forget), the latter seemed to be the obvious choice.

I had the entire night to muster enough courage to give the rose. There were windows of opportunity, because we shared a few common friends and were bound to bump into each other. We did not have much to talk about aside from the proverbial small talk. I was too scared to even try and hand over the damned Blue Rose. As the night drew to a close, the rose lay immobile and almost forgotten at our table. Amidst the festive atmosphere, my heart sank slowly – hauntingly – down to the deep bottom of regret.

On my way back from a washroom break, I saw her group leaving the party. I waved a lethargic goodbye from afar. She returned the gesture with a bright smile. Then we walked past each other.

My good friend and track teammate gave a mighty inspiring, now-or-never pep talk. This was my last chance to the give the Blue Rose, he said. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, putting on my game face. I felt my chest tremble and knees wobble as I reversed direction and made my way towards her. This was worse than pre-competition jitters, I thought. But I soldiered on, hiding the Blue Rose in the small of my back.

Fortuitously, she and her friends stopped to take pictures. In my best gentlemanly tone, I offered to go behind the camera. Amidst my inebriated state, I heard one of her friends utter “Wow, what a superman [referring perhaps to my timely arrival].” When I handed the camera back to her, I took the Blue Rose from my back pocket. I was oozing with a feeling of confidence previously unknown when dealing with the ladies.

I gave her the rose and we parted. There were no fairy tale twists in our non-existent story. The fireworks did not light up on queue, nor did the string quartet whip up a mean rendition of “The Way You Look Tonight.” But when I went triumphantly went back to my friend, I felt like the king of the world.

I haven’t seen her since that summer night. I am content to merely look back on the sparks that flew, however faint or brief.