The team that happy-hours together...

Yesterday my intramural squad got our first victory in soccer. Our team is called the guardians and we pretty much stink. You can tell it's us playing from a mile away because our shirts are yellow. We played the Hustlers, who wear red, which I imagine refers to the red-light-district frequented by Hustlers and pimps. I don't know why there's a team here called the Hustlers. I could understand if Larry Flynt were an alum, but I can't imagine that he's read a book, much less the Great Books. The important thing is we stomped 'em and although not a goalie, I got my first shut-out in goal. My knees are still shot from the marathon last week, so I could hardly play in the field. It was goalie or go home. After the game, during the huddle, just before we all put our hands in and shout "Go Gold!" I told everybody we should have Miller-time. I quoted the captain of the last hockey team I played on, "The team that happy-hours together scores together." I meant it too.

To this effect, I ran home and threw together a miscellaneous assortment of beers, a can of olives, some toasted soy nuts, a coupla cokes, a flask of Bourbon and a bottle of so-called "hard lemonade" that I found in the refrigerator in the apartment where I live. When I got back to the field not ten minutes later, the only guys left were Mr. Irons, Lee Goldberg, and an Armenian kid called Ara who is on medication of an unspecified nature which prevents the consumption of fermented beverage. More for the rest of the team--such as were left.

I had hoped to write about the ebb of the windy Sunday afternoon, sitting on the sidelines, soaking up the autumn sun, watching the game after ours (the Green Waves stomped the Druids--don't axe me where they come up with these names. This school is older than the U.S. and I reckon they consider themselves entitled to their eccentricities) sipping various drinks and above all, savouring the the glory of victory--what Homer might have called kleos if he'd been a soccer fan. But I can't write about all that. I've got to get on the road to meet up with Mr. Patton for tonight's gig. Kleos or no, Bono waits for no man.

It was a sparse, but good happy hour while it lasted. Wednesday is the intramural football championship game and I'm already thinking of investing in a 12-pack of cheap domestic swill. Go Gold!

Agamemnon -vs- U2

So I'm sitting in this auxiliary seminar on American short stories tonight, discussing Billy Budd and my cell phone rings--vibrates, really. It's Mr. Patton, a friend from my Math/Sci tutorial and seminar this summer. I'm curious. He's a cool guy, but he lives in Baltimore and it's not like we were in the habit of hanging out much over the summer. Why's he calling me on a Sunday night?

Hang Billy Budd. I get out of there and although the voicemail is a bit garbled, I make out the sounds -ou too -iladelphia -orrow night -stra ticket. I like the sound of those.

I call him up and yes. It's all true. He has an extra ticket for the U2 concert tomorrow night in Philadelphia! Ah crap! I have class tomorrow night. Two poems by George Herbert in tutorial and Aeschylus's Agamemnon in Seminar. I set to thinking and before I even furrow my brow, the answer: Agamemnon can kiss my ass. Clytemnestra too. Now, I don't want that to be taken as an equivocation in my views on mariticide, but when the choice is between U2 and plotting housewives...

I'm not only against mariticide, either. I equally denounce regicide, fratricide, sororicide, patricide, suicide, matricide, theatricalaside--pretty much any kind of cide. Except applicide. Apple juice doesn't compare. That reminds me of another kind of cide... euthanazing small animalsicide. I'm not categorically opposed to that one either.

In fact...

I'm tempted to detail my own foray into this last cide, pacifically cause one a my reading public requested it on this very blog. But I think that'll be for another day when I got no other material to work with. U2 and Agamemnon will suffice for tonight.

I've got to get a few more listens on "How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb." I don't want to show up tomorrow night without doing my homework.

Resurrection

I was recently asked a simple yes-or-no question: "Do you have a blog?"

I intended to begin the answer with the usual qualifications, stipulations, & gesticulations, but instead I hemmed. Then I hawed. Next, I stammered, muttered, cleared my throat, and when I finally opened my mouth, the word "yes" came out of its own accord. Even a bad blog is a blog. "I do."

Thank God I wasn't axed why I have a blog or questioned about the kind of tripe that passes for a post.

The resurrection post is here at last. It could barely be called a claim of ownership-more of a failed denial, really-as if someone entered the room demanding, "who farted?" and casting about in a panic I saw no one else there, not even a dog. Yep. I have ay uh, ahem, a blog.

Now that everybody knows, I may as well post something.

Three days ago I ran in a marathon. I completed the Chicago marathon. I even got a finisher's medal, along with 33,XXX others. I wore it the entire day on Monday: partly out of pride, partly so as not to be thought drunk since I staggered all over the place. This was my second marathon in the past 11 months. Marathoning hurts. It's a very satisfactory species of pain, however, as it is inextricably wed to a sense of accomplishment.

I'm taking ancient Greek this term and in what we have translated to date, one of the recurring themes is "what is beautiful(noble/good) is difficult" or "the good path is not easy." You get the idea.

Thirty-three thousand people turned out to run 26.2 miles. Some smaller number of people made the attempt, but failed. The largest number of people lined the streets and cheered, held up signs, looked individuals in the eye and said, "You're looking great! You can make it! Go for it!" I saw signs that said, "We love you, Chip!" or "We're SO proud of you Amy!" and of course, "You are ALL Kenyans!" I was on the verge of tears because some stranger looked me in the eye and said, "Keep running! Only three more turns and you're there!" I would consider it a favour not to get bumped in the shoulder if I encountered the same person walking down the sidewalk. So why does he care? Who am I that she is cheering for ME? What is it about this run that gets thousands of people on their feet, screaming and clapping, hoping a runner will reach out and give a high-five?

If marathoning is hard, the rest of life seems impossible. In the days of blog-stagnation, I visited my sister and brother-in-law in South Carolina. My sister is a mother. 26.2 miles of a Sunday morning is a cake-walk. Mothering is 24/7. I can barely take care of my self and she's looking after three others--two of whom crap their pants on a daily basis! There's nobody giving her Gatorade along the way, either.

What if we all gave each other marathoner's encouragement? To the bagger at the check-out: C'mon! Only a loaf of bread and a bag of tortilla chips left! You got it in the bag! (high five)

Just one more paragraph to go! You're gonna get this post done! (crowd roars)

Emboldened by the cheers, I surmise that it is possible that there is some link here, some connection between limping my way across the Chicago finish line and resurrecting an erstwhile defunct blog.

You're gonna make it! (high five)