Sooner or Later, It Had to Happen

It finally happened. I played a full four-year college career, and had experienced a HOF-worthy 6½ year pro career in this drinking game. Countless parties—whether hall, frat, hotel, bachelor, super bowl, holiday, after-, or pre-. I have conquered bars and clubs, many of which are probably no longer in existence, in a multitude of cities. I have dazzled crowds with my wit and blood-alcohol fortitude, as well as my drunken stammering and uncoordinated crash landings. I have won over the hottest girl at the party, and been rebuffed by the chubbiest. But never, ever had I been shamed.

Circle January 18, 2008 on your calendars. Your kids are going to want to know where you were the day “it” happened.

The night started great. Tony and I arrived at Nick’s house around 7:45 pm to find a steadily-swelling party scene, complete with snacks and preparations for the beer pong tournament. A bracket was drawn; I signed up and threw down $10 along with 11 brave souls.

Two game tables were set up in the garage, and the adjacent den served as a lounge, where players awaiting their turn on the tourney tables (and a large number of people who had no interest in the pong of beer—commonly known as “wives”) played pool or Tecmo Super Bowl on the Wii. I quickly dispatched my 1^st round opponent, and then faced off with Nick in the 2^nd. Ten minutes later, I had advanced to the round-robin finals. Then an intermission was called, because the pizzas that we had ordered had arrived. And nothing disperses my friends from a room like announcing that there is fresh, steaming pizza in the kitchen. Hey, if you work hard, you play hard.

We returned to the tables 20 minutes later, where I quickly took down Tony and Zach in successive matches, and Tony beat Zach to set up the final bout. I had an early lead, but slipped and missed on 3 successive opportunities, during which time he pared my cups down to two. I connected to tie it, but missed on my next throw. Tony threw; “thwock.” I rolled the ball back, and he aimed again. “Thwock.” The sound of 2^nd place.

Upset as I was that I had snatched defeat from the jaws of victory (and cut my winings in half—from $80 down to $40), I soon found a new problem looming: I was really drunk. “This isn’t going to be pretty”-drunk (I may have even uttered that sentence at one point; it seems vaguely familiar). And the night was only starting. We decided to forgo another pong tournament, and someone suggested that we head over to Todd’s By The Bridge. In my now sloshing brain I heard a garbled, “hi Lauren.”

I don’t know if it was my recent time spent on injured reserve, the rapid pace of the tournament and all of the chugging involved, or if I just had too light of a dinner (six pieces of square cut pizza is really more of an appetizer than a meal). Maybe it was all three combined. But my memory of the rest of the night plays like a scratched DVD. I know only two things for sure: (1.) Lauren has a boyfriend, and is of such low character that she will not even entertain the idea of cheating on him with me (I sent a drunken text to TJ that involved the word “whore” after discovering this piece of news); (2.) I awoke on Nick’s couch at 5 am with a large drawing of a penis on my cheek.

*sigh*

For those that have not experienced this phenomenon, trust me when I say that you have never scrubbed anything the way you do when you find yourself staring at an artist’s rendering of male genitalia on your face. The image of Al Swearengen scrubbing a blood stain on the floor of The Gem flashed through my mind.

And, of course, my friends documented the historic occasion with cameraphone pictures, which were then sent to all of those who couldn’t be present to witness it firsthand. My hangover on Saturday was accentuated by text messages like the one I got from Chief, which simply said “Hi dickface.”

The name of the act is perfect. Shame is the first and foremost emotion you feel when you flip on the bathroom light and glance in the mirror. However, anger runs a close second. I know the identity of the person responsible, and I will be seeing him again. If you’re out there reading this buddy, I have two words for you: “sleep light.” Sooner or later, even the great players drop the ball. But you’d better believe that they come back and play even harder the next time.