Tailgate

What’s that stench of smoke?  The last time I had a cigarette was back in college.  Which was only two years ago, I realize with both exuberance and nostalgia.  I’m a classier, savvier lady than those rambunctious times.  However, today I’ll be going into remission.

As I peruse the sprawling gathering, I become increasingly excited.  Having spent the past 18 months far away from my homeland, 700 miles to the south, it feels like I’m back amongst my mid-Atlantic comrades.  And immersed in noticeably brisker fall weather; this pair of sensory experiences are quite welcome, at least in the short term. 

There are definitely more recognizable jerseys here than at the sports bar which accommodatingly changes the channel to my desired team every Sunday, granted on the smallest TV in the corner.  When I do see a fellow fan down in the Carolinas, they’re usual sporting a brand-new uniform: unweathered, unused, and unfettered. 

The dedicated lot amassed in this parking lot are clearly old souls.  If you don’t have bright yellow mustard, patchy dark beer, or glossy grease stains on your kit, you aren’t a real fan.

That initial whiff of dry char has quickly transforms into a complex aroma of charcoal briquets, hickory wood, and lighter fluid.  Everyone has their own approach to remote cooking: low and slow, savory and smokey, fast and furious.

Food isn’t the only focus at this extensive tailgate.  When people aren’t stuffing their faces here on the pavement, their building their confidence.  Cornhole.  Flip Cup.  Stump.  Ladder Golf.  Funnels.  All the equipment required for these challenging games of skill has been transported in, and will be carried out, of this makeshift city-central coliseum. 

It’s hard to argue that these faux physical exertions are good for one’s health, especially considering the associated alcohol intake, but at least the movement promotes digestion of the heavy foodstuff served up over the past several hours.

I’m eating up every element of this party, both literally and metaphorically.

I grew up in this town, hence my connection to the local squad, established in 1996, before I was born.  However, since moving south, for better weather, and better work prospects, I’ve been fiending to get back to an NFL battle here in the Inner Harbor.

Conveniently, the Thanksgiving holiday, and the Ravens schedule, aligned this year, allowing me to venture home, and attend a home game, on the same long weekend.  I’ve survived the journey, a lengthy bus ride, with flights too expensive, and trains too unpredictable, for the required travel from Charleston, SC to Baltimore, MD.  Unfathomably, for anyone with even a basic grasp of American geography, my route took me inland, with vehicle transfers at Augusta, GA and Charlotte, NC.

I should have brought a passport to get stamps in each state traveled through.  Or just started swimming up the Atlantic Coast, then into the Cheasepeake Bay.  While I was able to remain dry with this mode of transit, the power outlets and internet service aboard my shared ride were spotty at best.

At least I was able to network with a few key friends on game day tailgate plans via text along the 16-hour jaunt north.  It looks like I’ll be eschewing my family the entirety of Thanksgiving Day.  That’s fine, I’ve spent plenty of holidays with those crazies over the years. 

I appreciate the turnout, and effort, of the local fans, for this holiday game.  Sure, the traditional outfits, Edgar Allen Poe mustaches, and his namesake Poe raven mascot costumes, are in full force.  But the Thanksgiving spirit is also personified in the crowd, via monochromatic puritan garb of yore, and hilarious turkey suits representing the tasty dinner fowl of choice.

I wander from parking area to parking area, a seemingly endless maze that wraps around the entire stadium, and extends outwards several blocks at many points.  Aside from eating and drinking at will, leveraging the shared wares of generous attendees, I have another important activity in mind.  A task which requires being more discriminant on selection.

There’s a cute looking lad.  Well-manicured, yet still organic, from his brown leather boat shoes to his untamed blond hair.  Chiseled jawline evident on a clean-shaven face.  Muscular legs, thighs, and calves, visible through tight-fitting jeans.   Taller than me, but not enough to hinder certain enjoyable acts.

The only worry is the guy’s torso.  Not the body itself, which I’m sure is composed of groomed chest hair and 6-pack abs.  The issue is the shirt covering this sexy physique.  A football jersey, not displaying the purple and black hues dominating this gathering, but instead yellow and white tones.  The road garb of our arch nemesis in the AFC North division.

I don’t care if this is the sexiest man in the world.  Based simply on our conflicting football fan preferences, there’s no way this relationship will work out long-term.  Or even for a one-night stand.  Apparently, I’ll need to expand my discerning standards.  It seems like many of Baltimore’s finest have already been claimed.

The best part about mooching off other folks’ tailgate operations is that there’s no clean-up required.  Our nomadic crew of gals can simply toss spent plates and pints, cans and cups, in the multitude of garbage bins, then move along.

Gametime is just moments away.  But my young friends and I have no interest in going into the stadium.  With our limited financial resources, there’s no way we can afford an actual entry ticket, especially for a premium match-up, on a prime weekend, as is the case today.

No worries.  Some of my favorite times, after getting a fake ID at age 19, are watching the Ravens at the local watering holes.  The proximity is close enough where the roar of the live crowd can still be heard, and felt.  The booze is cheaper, and easier to order, without missing a single play.  The game action viewing is better, close-ups on the big screen, as opposed to binoculars in the nose-bleed zone.

Most importantly, my ladies and I can move from bar to bar uninhibited, seeking out our mate of choice.  Who wants to be stuck in the same seats, with the same people, for 3 hours anyways?  Dating requires mingling.

Kickoff

My body quivers with anticipation.  The Sunday night NFL game is about to start.  The result of this heavyweight battle will have a substantial impact on the playoff seeding, and my bankroll.  Since it’s now Week 18 of the regular season, I’ve placed a wager much larger than my usual menial bet on the underdog tonight.  It’s always more fun to get rather than give, points in this case.

Granted, I’m by no means a high roller, living here in the semi-finished, sparsely-furnished, basement of my parent’s house on Long Island, NY.  Still, it never hurts to dream of being a professional gambler, or even more exhilarating, a professional athlete, like the beasts I watch on television every weekend.

Viewing the coverage leading up to kick-off, I’m continually reminded of the sexual innuendos associated with this manly pursuit.

Sideline reporters, almost always women, who are typically all done up with substantial make-up, as they provide on-field insights.  Candid shots of female fans in the stands; camera crews have an uncanny knack for finding individuals who are much more attractive than the typical demographic for a sporting event.  Not to mention the sexy cheerleaders, clad in iconic pleaded short skirts, which have occupied the imagination of schoolboys for decades.

Fortunately, I have a weekend routine that allows me to quell these carnal desires.

Every Sunday afternoon, there’s a break in the football action, ranging in duration anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour, depending on how many contests from this late slate drag on or go into overtime.  This window provides a convenient period to satisfy the masculine urges that inevitably build during a day of adrenaline-inducing football action.

I’ve got a few curated web searches, quickly accessed via cellphone, which allow me to quickly execute my task in the narrow bathroom, then get settled back onto the saggy futon.  Since hitting puberty, a late bloomer at 16 years old, I haven’t exactly been a model of self-control on the masturbation front.  Maybe I’m still learning how my natural endowments work.

Worried about my deviant habits, a few weeks ago, I did a little research on this odd behavior.  It turns out, I just one of many excited adolescents.

Per my web knowledge-seeking exploration, which admittedly wasn’t fully comprehensive or appropriately cited, porn site activity increases between afternoon and evening NFL games every Sunday.  I’m apparently just another anonymous participant in the seedy underbelly of the internet.

Tonight, with a short turnaround, time was of the essence, requiring performance efficiency.  I’m always a sucker for women in uniform.  Now, post release, I’m relaxed and ready to enjoy the next gridiron match-up unincumbered.

The major metropolis I’ve spent my entire life in has the highest density of humans, and profession sports teams, including multiple NFL football franchises, in the United States.  Unfortunately, most of these line-ups, especially on the pigskin front, are inept, especially in recent decades.

As the football, basketball, and hockey seasons have ramped up, at both the collegiate and professional levels, the opportunities for gambling have grown rapidly.  And become exponentially more enticing.  Any time I open one of the several bookmaking apps on my phone, there’s a contest about to start, or already in progress.

I should probably concentrate on a single, specific wagering platform.  However, the relentless deposit bonuses and targeted casino perks keep me bouncing around between numerous online betting sites.  Plus, there’s the minor detail of depleted balances, and credit card locks, when using the same provider repeatedly. 

At this point, most of my social media interactions involve trash talk, related to irrational wagers on any volatile activity willing to accept my money, from sports, to cryptocurrency, to politics.  I know I’m down, but not certain how much.  A few big wins will quickly get me back to even.   

With the new kick-off rules, returns are more common than they used to be.  But a touchback is still the norm.  Which is why I’ve placed a prop bet on the initial outcome of the contest.  Why not start my profitable session with win on the first play of the game?

With no TV down here in the dungeon, I watch the broadcast streaming on my laptop, this folding computer appropriately sitting atop my sweat pant-clad legs.  Some pieces of modern technology, like headphones and tablets, and are surprisingly self-explanatory from a functionality standpoint.  I’m still a little sketchy on the cellphone origin, even though this device dictates essentially every element of my daily life.

In pixelated graphics, an oblong brown projectile arcs through the illuminated night sky, rotating end over end with rapidity.  It seems like the ball is in the air forever, with the final result of the trajectory impossible to ascertain until it returns back to earth.

The pigskin reconnects with the ground, just as desired, 7 yards deep in the endzone.  However, the object doesn’t land on the painted turf logo of the home team I’m rooting against all night, but instead in the hands of this team’s aggressive returner, who is already moving forward with purpose.

My exhilaration quickly switches to depression, as is often the case in my current menial existence.  So much for that bet.  Hopefully, my luck, and life, will improve as the game progresses.

Punting

I shuffle through the makeshift corral, created by an assemblage of metal rail fences jammed in the gathering snow.  Each adjacent lane is so crowded that movement proves sluggish and intermittent.

As the collective meanders back and forth through the maze, various cries of anticipatory anguish are emitted by participants in the queue.  It feels like being in a cattle line on the way to slaughter, a common occurrence here in Wisconsin.

I’m not happy to be in attendance.  Not just because of the unruly crowds, but also because of the impending unpleasant experience.  I’m about to take something I love and make it miserable.

I’m much more of a football fan than my husband, having grown up here in America’s heartland, albeit on the northern extremity of this standard geographic definition.  However, his job in finance affords us with a pair of free Packers’ home game seats twice a year.  Unfortunately, these assigned posts are not in the posh enclosed suite the corporate bank rents, but sitting outside with the commoners, fully exposed to the elements.

I would much rather be watching this crucial divisional rivalry contest against the adjacent Minnesota Vikings from the comfort of my own home.  I love hosting; my open and expansive kitchen allows a clear view of our big screen TV, mounted on the far living room wall, and covering most of it.

Not to mention my menagerie of football-themed dishware, which become covered with all manner of cheese-based concoctions on game day.  If it wasn’t for my spouse’s work obligation, I would be stirring pots on the stove, and pulling trays from the oven, right now.

Still deeply religious, just as my mother, and her mother were, my allegiance with God has shifted over the years.  Football has taken over for church as my pursuit of faith, as it has for many of my friends.  Watching the ebb and flow of the Pack, success and failure, victory and defeat, requires just as much physical strength and emotional fortitude as any historic pilgrimage.

Even more importantly, this constant weekly struggle mimics my own life experience, raising a trio of perpetually rambunctious, sometime obnoxious, sons.  I probably should have started the family expansion process earlier in life.

Just another decade, and the last one will be out of the house for good, Lord willing.  Maybe I’ll even be granted a brief reprieve from my husband to celebrate this empty nest achievement?  I could use a vacation, with room service delicacies, and relaxing spa privacy, in a warmer climate.  Some day.

We finally pass through security, an invasive process that results in my ass getting groped, and my bottle of hot tea getting confiscated.  Unfortunately, my multiple layers of clothing are insufficient to avoid either imposition.

I refuse to purchase one of those absurd clear bags, which expose all the possessions inside.  As an aging woman, having just crossed half a century in age, there are certain elements of my bodily function that are best kept secret from the general public.

Finally in the arena, and able to move freely, aside from the hordes of fans also anxious to get to their seats, we work our way around the perimeter of the structure, navigating through various tunnels, hallways, and stairwells.

This journey eventually results in us returning to the exposed outdoors, at the very top, extreme corner, of the facility.  Exiting the protected archway, a pair of new atmospheric elements immediately become evident.

There’s way more snow accumulation up here than was present on the road when we drove in.  And the brisk wind has turned fierce, without the benefit of the protective walls.  Apparently, in this flat landscape, any change in elevation is meaningful to the climate conditions.

At this altitude, the visibility is so poor that it’s impossible to tell what form factor the current precipitation is taking.  Is it rain, sleet, or snow?  Who knows, as we seem to be engulfed in the cloud itself.  Which isn’t really that much of a hindrance from a viewing standpoint. 

I’ve sat in this same location on a perfectly clear day, and still have a hard time following the action on the field far afield.  From this remote spot, in the deepest expanse of the stadium, the player movements look more like a discombobulated rugby scrum than a coordinated offensive line maneuver. 

Which is why I prefer to watch the run of play from the comfort of my own house.  At least there’s plenty of empty and comfortable chairs to choose from. 

The challenge with clearing off our own assigned area is that there’s nowhere to put the slushy accumulation. Using my heavy mittens to push the weighty slurry downhill, onto the row below, I come up for air, and realize the folks above us are doing the same thing, shoveling their excess downhill, and downstream, to our zone.  No wonder my feet are now standing in a mixture with the consistency of a virgin margarita.

No self-respecting Green Bay football fan would argue that Lambeau Stadium should have a full roof.  But as the oldest facility in the league, a few basic amenity upgrades wouldn’t hurt.  Like functional drainage when precipitation does occur, which isn’t exactly an aberration during Wisconsin winters.

At least we get these seats for free.  I can’t imagine paying for an overpriced resale ticket that requires me to do the cleaning work myself.  This policy would never work in the Broadway theater or Disneyland rollercoaster realm.  Granted, the weather in both those coastal locales is much more accommodating than my northern Midwest home.

Just as I get situated, with half of the first quarter having already elapsed, nature calls.  This seems to be an increasingly frequent occurrence as I advance in age.  Aggravation simmering to a boil, I fire an icy glare at my husband, along with a subtle nod towards the concourse tunnel.

Begrudgingly, I rise from my frosty plastic seat, and proceed to climb across the fans who have filed in adjacent, while we were shoveling off our allotted post.  Which happens to be right in the middle of the row.

Making it to the isle, I slog up the slippery stairs, huffing and puffing, from a combination of frustration and exertion.  Near the top of the ascent, I lose my footing, despite the heavy rubber soles of my winter boots, causing a jarring impact on my already weak knee.

After navigating the inevitably busy public restroom, we’ll see if I return to my spouse, and his crappy cold assignment.  I may just punt on watching live football, and head to the covered concessions area.  Or the parked truck, offering up conductive seat coils, and robust heater vents, powered by a reliable V8 diesel engine. 

My old man may be finding his own ride home tonight, since I have the keys stashed in the inner pocket of my thick green parka.  Go Pack go!

Halftime

Make a fucking call!

My voice is hoarse from badgering the refs all day.  And it’s not even halftime yet.

This verbal onslaught, like numerous previous outbursts, is impossible for the back judge to hear, as I’m positioned over 50 yards above the customize turf.  However, my perch, right at midfield, with a panoramic window of polished glass, gives me a debatable better view than these inept officials on the ground below.

Despite paying the salaries of every player and coach on the home sidelines, my monetary reach only extends so far.  I still haven’t been able to buy off the independent arbitrators of the on-field action, but not for lack of trying.

At least my opinion carries substantial sway at the annual owners’ conference.  These absurd quarterback protection rules are definitely going to need a tweak next season.  I’ve been fined many times in the past for public complaints about officiating, and have the financial means to incur many more such levies for the good of the game.  The fans deserve the best possible product.

This privileged observation position hasn’t come without effort.  Recently surpassing 80 years of age, I’ve amassed substantial wealth, and spent a significant portion of it, to watch my acquired team improve.  Incrementally, progress occurring in fits and starts.

I was introduced to the Cowboys by my grandfather, back when padding was smaller, jerseys were tighter, and rules were lesser.  Those were simpler times.  Which required less yelling of slurs, and throwing of items.

I never thought I would own a professional sports team.  Now, I have a full portfolio of successful cash generating operations.  This Dallas Cowboys franchise is the crown jewel. 

Granted, my professional career hasn’t advanced in a straight line.  I invested in many failed business ventures, ranging from a pizza chain to commercial real estate, before striking it rich as a wildcatter in the oil industry.

Few people can provide an investment track record where a single asset increases from $140 million to $10 billion, over the course of just 35 years, equating to a compounded annual growth rate exceeding 20%.

This value was created by growing the popularity of the Cowboys, through securing national TV rights, and expanding merchandise sales distribution.  The iconic navy-blue star, outlined in white, often displayed on a silver background, has become popular, not just across Texas, but the entire United States, and even globally.

The path to success with this famous football franchise wasn’t easy.  I bought the team from one of the most legendary philanthropists in Dallas.  Then promptly fired the extremely popular and only coach the fan base had ever known, Tom Landy, quickly followed by the rest of the management team.

For a brief moment, during those first few years, at the start of the 1990’s, I was on my own, over my head, and teetering on the edge.  But I persevered, eventually attaining grandiose success, in the form of 3 Super Bowl titles over just 4 seasons.

Multitasking is one of my specialties, as it is for most savvy business owners.  Conveniently, professional football offers up plenty of downtime, rivaled only by the bore that is baseball.  American’s pastime, maybe, but not home to America’s team.

Between downs, viewed with one eye on the field below, and the other on the big screen TV mounted above, my attention instantly drifts to other tasks.

Checking emails related to important financial transactions on my laptop.  Berating the catering waitstaff for their food service ineptitudes.  Texting my front office personnel regarding player management and trade offers.  Shmoozing with the rich donors seated in this posh box with me.

A ruthless micromanager, I have control of, and power over, every element of the in-game experience.  Aside from the live action on the field, unfortunately.  Instinctively, after yet another 3-and-out by my squad, I check the real-time sales metrics for the day.

It’s amazing how much money this stadium makes on concessions.  It helps when the input costs and retail price for foodstuffs are an order of magnitude apart.  Add in minimum wage labor on the perpetration and service side, and this catering operation becomes quite profitable.

It’s a sad reality that the products we provide, greasy fried snacks, foamy warm beers, limp steamed meats, and sugary concentrated sodas, are all unpleasant and unhealthy.  Yet this is what our consumers demand.  And pay for.

I’m always tinkering with gameday rituals.  Sure, we have historic performative staples: “Rowdy” the goofy cowboy caricature mascot, the piercing train whistle followed by a spirited rendition of country song “Texas When I Die” after every touchdown, and of course, our famous Cowgirl cheerleaders.  These ladies are the true stars of the show.

This relatively new stadium, built in 2009, is still a state-of-the-art facility.  At a cost of $1.15 billion to complete, no expense was spared.  Which is probably why the final bill came in nearly twice the initial construction quote.

The highlight of this structure are the overhead electronic displays, a pair of 175-foot-long monstrosities, hung above the field parallel to the sidelines.  Spanning between the important 20-yard lines, a multitude of new entertainment options have materialized from this installation.

It’s amazing how engaged folks get with videos on the big screen.  Sometimes, I wonder if a decent percentage of fans are more amused by the images on the digital boards above, as opposed to the movement on the field below.

There’s a decided irony that families pay a pretty penny to get a seat in the stadium, only to completely ignore the players they dropped cash to observe.  During downtime between plays, addiction to the screen is even more stark.  When individuals aren’t doom scrolling on their phones, they’re yelling aimlessly at the happenings on the Jumbotron.  Granted, with high resolution graphics, and finely tuned sound, this entire experience is very compelling.

I started out simply projecting replays and highlights of the football action.  But my entrepreneurial mind quickly took over.  Why play free footage when I can offer up paid commercials.  The latter scheme is quite lucrative from an advertising standpoint.  Plus, the lemmings in the stands are going to stare at the screen regardless.

On that note, the huge numerals on the scoreboard show the home team Cowboys down by 10 points, as the final seconds of the 2nd quarter tick away.  Not the desired outcome thus far.  Maybe I’ll move down to the sidelines for the rest of the game.

I’ve seen the curated halftime performance that is about to start up already, at least each element of it, though not if the final order and extent.  Again, my entrepreneurial micromanaging tendencies run deep.

Despite over half a century having elapsed since I won my own NCAA title at the University of Arkansas, I still find the feverish energy down on the field exhilarating.  As one of the few owners in the league who actually played football at a competitive level, I’m more comfortable than most mingling with the hulking beasts who make this carnal sport so exciting to watch.

Plus, my physical presence, as supreme leader, and check writer, for all these athletes hopefully provides additional inspiration.  Time for a rally.  “How bout them Boys!”

Touchdown

I don’t usually use my phone while sitting on the toilet; there’s something both unsanitary and creepy about such a practice.  However, according to the random online polls my social media addiction keeps pushing me, doing one’s business in the physical and virtual realms simultaneously is becoming quite common.

At least, in my case, the seat and lid are both down, and my pants are up.  I just need to take a break from the dull activity in this homey house to check a few scores.

Naively, I just assumed that any party held on a Sunday in the winter would have the TV tuned to NFL football.  How wrong I was.

Potentially, now that the video montage of dating, wedding, and pregnancy pictures is mercifully complete, maybe I can get the assembled gaggle of ladies to change the channel.  It’s worth a shot, to avoid continued inundation with images of doggies and babies.

Rising off the porcelain throne, top cover adorned with a fluffy pink cloth sleeve that’s surprising comfortable, I execute the obligatory handle flush and sink hand wash to make sure my bathroom ploy is complete.  Back to the feminine misery.

Passing back through the kitchen, I peruse the assembled food spread laid out on the counter.

Sliced deli sandwiches, on hearty wheat rolls, fillings of avocado, tomato, and skim-milk mozzarella, but devoid of any meat.  A salad, relying on a base of couscous, or maybe quinoa, I can never keep these fancy grains separate, combined with minced microgreens.  A veggie plate, carrots, black olives, celery, and red bell peppers, neatly arranged sections of various colorful offerings, but with tasteless hummus for dipping as opposed to my preferred rich ranch dressing.

Was this catered fare created for a collection of growing rabbits or indiscriminate goats?  I’m pretty hungry, but not for any healthy superfoods.  This bland smorgasbord is a far cry from my normal gluttonous football Sunday meal.  Just another boozy drink then, to embolden courage for the favor I’m about to request.

Remarkably, 15 minutes later, I’m able to finagle the television tuning to my pigskin match-up of interest.  Apparently, these gals are more interested in sports than they let on.  As it turns out, their intrigue in the game has little to do with what’s happening on the field of play.

When not oohing and aahing at the presents being opened, the collective is oohing and aahing at the famous folks in luxury boxes being flashed across the broadcast.  With Kansas City, representing the most popular power couple in sports, playing in Los Angeles, the epicenter of entertainment, there’s no shortage of celebrities in attendance.

What’s even more annoying are the commercials.  First, these merchandise-pedaling offerings are incredibly loud, seemingly twice the volume of the live game action.  Then, there’s the repetition; in just a quarter of play there’s been half a dozen skit repeats.

Regardless, this compiled crew of addicted consumers eat up the pandering content.  Scanning QR codes and navigating websites on their phones; I’m confident additional baby shower gifts are already headed this way.

How about less filler content and more football?

As the conversation in the room progresses, waffling between pink and blue, Samantha and Sam, Barbies and GI Joes, ponies and puppies, I become increasingly disconnected.   If this group wasn’t yelling so much, I’d have a much better chance of following the football flow.

My focus on the game intensifies, with the home team, one of two claiming this new shared venue, seeking a touchdown to take the lead.  Having grown up in Southern California, I’m happy to see any NFL team return to this locale.  Especially a squad competitive enough to keep up with one of the league’s perennial juggernauts.

As time ticks down, the drive continues to progress nicely.  Crossing midfield with 3 minutes remaining.  Entering the red zone just after the 2-minute warning.  Achieving a first and goal in the final 30 seconds.

A field goal earns a tie and overtime, but this is our chance to go for the jugular, and the win.  As our star running back dives across the pylon on a toss sweep, I blurt out a loud verbal celebration, tossing my foo-foo drink, a cloyingly sweet pink lemonade and vodka concoction, into the air.

I knew the Chargers golden bolt adorned thong I’m wearing underneath my navy blue dress would bring the crew good luck.  

These reactions are completely innate and instinctive, which would be fine if I was at home on the couch.  However, here, at my friend’s baby shower, using vulgar sexual slurs, and wasting good booze, is not kosher behavior.

Even worse, it appears my enthusiastic outburst was awkwardly executed right in the middle of an emotional speech by the sister of the preggers.

Who the hell cares?  It’s probably better if I don’t get invited back to one of these motherhood-pending gatherings.  My status as a single woman probably isn’t going to change any time soon.  Especially with my lack of tact in social settings.

Safety

I think I’m going to puke.  Usually, I can handle my liquor, but the recently consumed sequence of shots was not a standard combination.

A trifecta of liquors, mixed to create a trio of vibrant colors, all forced down my gullet in the past 30 minutes, makes this unsettled stomach understandable.  That’s the price which must be paid in our unique fantasy football league.

I hang out with this same crew of 8, at this same bar, every Sunday, for the calendar half which straddles the New Year.  Here in Florida, the fickle winter weather across most of the country isn’t relevant. 

The sunny scenery has additional perks.  Literally.  In the form of the scantily clad waitresses who obligingly serve us at this cantina on the beach.  Sun and sand.  Drinks and divas.  Fun and football.  What more could we ask for?

Granted, our octet is composed of two gay men, a lesbian with bisexual tendencies, and one friend who we, and they, are still trying to figure out from a gender standpoint.  The busty hostesses are just a means of service, with no one in the crew trying to build a superficial friendship, or weasel into their pants.  Pleasant social interaction when ordering, and our lack of overt sexual advances, is what make us so popular at this joint.  And often affords our collective much appreciated discounted drinks.

There’s a decided irony that this group of sexuality and gender deviants spends every Sunday at an establishment which personifies American feminine flaunting of the highest order.  Maybe that’s why we all get along so well in this complex yet comedic space.

This haunt is where we held our original fantasy football draft, making it a sentimental spot.  This group was not formed through the typical masculine intramural athletics networking means.  In fact, the interactive blog post that drew us together was completely the opposite, simply titled “What is Fantasy Football?”.

With the hindsight of a few years getting to know everyone in person, I’m convinced a few participants in this ragtag league were looking for content that had nothing to do with the actual sport of football.  Other irregular human pursuits were clearly being researched at the time, in the seedy corners of the interweb.

Another hilarious quirk of our weekly NFL tradition which has developed over time is that we all wear jerseys and attire supportive of the closest professional team, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.  As most didn’t follow football beforehand, and had no ingrained city affiliation, this seemed like as logical a choice as any. 

What became evident, and added to the fiasco, is that as folks ventured out to purchase relevant garb, they discovered how differing the Buccaneers branding and colors have been over the years.  For an operation that hasn’t yet existed for half a century, there’s certainly been a lot of wardrobe changes.

Just perfusing the engaged folks on stools seated around our tiki table, the divergence is stark. 

A pair of iconic red uniforms from the Super Bowl XXXVII win back in 2003, the franchise’s first NFL title.  The letters across the back spell out the names of two key players, a defensive tackle and a strong safety, who anchored the dominant Bucs defense the entire season; a squad that scored 21 points of their own in the finals blowout.

A much older jersey, originally debuted in play, and sold to the public, way back in 1979.  This particular article, purchased secondhand online, has been washed and faded to the point where the orange and white hues have blended together in a swirl pattern reminiscent of a creamsicle.

A t-shirt adorned with the artist rendered face of “Captain Fear”, our Caribbean pirate mascot, whose black bearded visage falls somewhere between creepy and sad.  Fittingly, “Skully”, his excitable parrot sidekick, is silk screened on the right shoulder sleeve.

Three retro hats, orange mesh back color matching the revamped fancy-feather-in-cap, dull-knife-in-mouth, swashbuckler image embroidered on the white foam front panels.  These items were a giveaway at the bar last year during the playoffs, as opposed to actually being purchased, fortunately.

We’re quite a colorful crew to behold, in both attire and personality.

Back to the topic at hand, or more appropriately, in hand.  Which currently for me is luckily just a bottle of Mexican lager in a clear bottle, with the obligatory lime slice added.  Hopefully this water-adjacent concoction will help settle my innards before the next impending alcohol onslaught. 

Our collective does specific shots for each type of unique football scoring activity.  The more obscure the fantasy points, the more obscure the drink order.  Since half the participants in this league had no idea what the rules of American football were, or key players at each position, when we started, this was the only way to proceed with an equitable draft.   

The team that benefits most from the earn points on the TV must buy the next round.  In the last quarter of gameplay, we’ve already tallied a two-point conversion, pick-six interception, and missed field goal off the upright.

The latter activity, which is way more entertaining than simply far wide right or left, from both a coverage microphone and bar banter noise standpoint, forced me to choke down a limoncello Jello cup.  The yellow color of this concoction is very intentional.

Someday, the NFL will have an openly gay quarterback, female coach, and transgender kicker.  Until then, our octet of amusement will have to be the bridge between masculinity and femininity, sexuality and sexism.  One shot at a time.  Bring on a safety, and the sambuca.

Blowout

Taking the last swig of stale beer from my plastic cup, I slam the empty vessel into the cylindrical holder built into the seat in front of me.  This performance is a complete debacle.

Who calls consecutive running plays with the team down two scores?  What’s the record for most offensive line false starts in a single game?  How is it possible that we can’t even get multiple first downs in a row?  When was the last time a team end up with more sacks allowed than points amassed?

I blame the head coach as much as the players for this execution, or more accurately, lack of any.  While everyone else is recruiting young and confident men to run their operations, we ended up with the oldest play caller in the entire league.

This senior citizen, while very experienced in the NFL, is aged enough to be a grandpa, which he apparently already is, according to media materials distributed when hired.  Hopefully, he was able to get an early-bird senior-citizen discount at the buffet before this late-afternoon match-up.

I’ve committed my football fandom life, shedding substantial sweat and tears, to the Raiders.  This franchise was located in my Oakland homeland, back when I discovered sports as a safe outlet for escaping my troubled teenage experience in the ghetto.

5 official jerseys, 3 large tattoos, and 1 set of season tickets later, over the course of the past decade, complete commitment is clear.  Now, this on-field debacle is how I get rewarded for my diligent dedication.    

Earlier in the day, I had grandiose plans of staying late after the game ended, sneaking down to the tunnel entrance, and high fiving a few of my favorite players as they exit the field.

An hour ago, several beers in, this scheme had expanded into getting a picture with the star running back, whose uniform I’m sporting, as I hold up my phone showing the player prop bet on the over for total rush yards he achieved.

Now, all these fantasies are coming crashing back down to earth. The Raiders are losing by a substantial margin, being whooped in every facet of the game, so key players will clearly have no interest in hanging around to mingle with commoners. 

These professional slackers have already packed it in for the day, so I may as well do the same.  The Las Vegas strip, full of drunkenness and debauchery, offers countless opportunities more entertaining than this blowout buffoonery.

Rising with a bluster, I bounce my way down the narrow isle, rigid seatbacks and boney appendages keeping me from falling over, and potentially tumbling down the steeply sloped stands.  I’ve had enough of this dump.

Eventually making it to the stairway, I climb upwards towards the main concourse, half walking and half crawling, levering both the metal handrail and the concrete steps with my hands to maintain stability.  Apparently, I’ve imbibed a little more than planned over the course of this frustrating game.

Hopefully, I’ll be able to depart this new and unknown venue without collapsing, or embarrassing myself.       

After a lengthy piss break stop at the stainless-steel urinal, and a few harsh shoulder impacts with the sturdy cinder block wall, I’m able to navigate my way out of the stadium without any further bodily issues.  Considering the others streaming out of the gate, clad in silver and black, on their feet, torso, and even faces, I’m not the only committed Raiders’ fan who has conceded defeat.

Exiting into the evening warmth, not as stifling as mid-day here in the high desert, but before the nightly cooling effect, I contemplate my travel options.

My car is parked half a mile away, at a grocery store so far from the stadium that they don’t identify and tow gamegoers.  Provided I could stumble that far, there’s no way I should, or can, drive, in my current inebriated state. 

One benefit of my early escape is that there should be plenty of rideshare vehicles available.  Provided I can find the designated pick-up area through the cracked screen on my battered cellphone.

Cutting diagonally across the expanse of flat pavement, I leverage the arrow on my mobile’s map, along with the multitude of unique structures dotting the Vegas skyline.   

On most days, with the benefit of full sunlight, no rows of parked cars, and relative sobriety, this would be an easy journey.  However, the current landscape is littered with obstacles.  It looks like a bomb went off in the parking lot, with all manner of equipment, accessories, and assorted other random garbage strewn around, hindering my path.

Did I miss the memo on some sort of dystopian yard sale?   If it is, there doesn’t seem to be any prices on the products, or vendors guarding their wares.  I don’t want to be charged with vandalism or petty larceny, but may as well have a little fun while waiting for my ride.

As I meander across the grounds, incorporating the true definition of a random walk, I arbitrarily scoop up items of interest.

A huge flag, adorned with the classic Raiders helmet and sword logo, that I roll up around the PVC pipe on which this banner is mounted to via zip-ties.  A sloppy crock pot, first emptying the remaining BBQ meatballs into my mouth, then dropping the glass lid inside the ceramic bowl.  A crazy costume accoutrement, black plastic shoulder pads with pointy metallic points attached, which I immediately don for ease of transport.

Completely overburdened, I’m eventually forced to shut down my haphazard acquisition scheme.  At least this blatant theft has gotten my adrenaline up, and helped sober me up, allowing improved corporeal functionality, and increased speed to the designated destination.

As the hired car pulls up, I realize I may have bitten off more than I can chew from a transport standpoint.  That’s the problem with this ridesharing scheme; you never know the size of the vehicle that’s about to arrive.  Unless you proactively choose, and pay extra, both actions that I’m not capable of doing in my current smashed state.

As a result, I’ve ended up assigned a glorified golf cart with doors.  It looks like I may need to lighten my load of collected merchandise.  With only two seats, this vehicle barely has enough room in the rear for a tiny spare tire, let alone a full collection of tailgating paraphernalia.

Pop the trunk please, I’ve got some gear to load up after a blowout of acquisitions.  I can’t wait to listen to the harsh Raiders talk radio coverage on my rented ride back to the hotel.  Provided I don’t pass out on the way.