We are not big “sports” people. Never really have been. The exception is baseball. Larry and I love to go to games, visit ballparks…experiencing the sights, architecture, hotdogs and beer in each locale…we also love to watch our beloved Padres on TV when we can’t attend…we create our own little home ballpark…he in his chair, me on the floor by the coffee table…load up on tortilla chips smothered in melted sharp cheddar cheese, homemade guacamole (I have a “secret” ingredient), and beer (Sam Adams for Lar, Killians Irish Red for moi)…and enjoy the game.
That being said, we have friends (yes, it’s true…we have friends)…we have friends who enjoy various sports. There’s Rick who sprinkles each sermon with St. Louis Cardinal references. There’s Tim and Dana (with whom we share our Padres Season tickets) and who love football so much they names their youngest son Peyton. And there’s Tony, who loves a good wager.
So, with Tony and Callie in town visiting, how could we not do something for the last game of the Final Four?
We started the evening by leaving the kids in the able hands of Grandma Andrea and Landen then cruised to a nearby pub for a pre-dinner/ pre-game drink. Right before the game started we pulled into the local Buffalo Wild Wings and secured our spot before the big screen, eagerly waiting to see how much money we would win (or in my case, lose).
When it came time to order Larry just could not resist ordering the blazing sauce for his wrap. Now, he’s done this before. It’s not as if he went into this situation ignorant or naïve. He knows the consequences that come with making this choice. Nevertheless, he was compelled by something I will never comprehend. He turned his back on wisdom and experience and spit in the face of danger.
I will never know the pain or agony that comes from choosing “blazing” over the wiser, more delicious choice of “parmesean garlic” but I can say that I did have the privilege of sharing in the cost of such reckless behavior. For as Larry’s eyes welled up with tears, his nose began to run, smoke started pouring from his eyes, he delirious reached for his IPA (Indiana Pale Ale) to subdue the raging fire in his mouth. His senses entirely consumed with survival, it is no wonder that his desperation and fervor caused the glass to tip precariously, drenching the table in a wondrous display of a beer tsunami. For the rest of the evening I had to walk in a slighting sideways, surreptitious fashion as the evidence the beer tsunami left on me resembled a stain of incontinence.
Good times. Good times.