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!
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!
posted by DavidKraus at 11:17 AM
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