"Last night I received a text from Xmas asking if I knew a certain former Columbia runner who is now apparently coaching at whatever school is affiliated with crushing grapes. (You guys probably don't know that the only reason Xmas chose to continue his jogging career at your school is because he missed the purple uniforms we used to rock in high school while losing 4X8s to inferior opponents).
Anyways, let me tell you about my relationship with your current assistant coach. I have never met him: we have no relationship. That said--The summer after my freshman year, after getting mugged and eventually losing around 350 bucks in one very long day, I acquired a very unconvincing Portland, Maine piece of identification. For eight months it served me well, gaining me entrance into very crowded/mostly underaged establishments where people went to shout at each other over bad music and get into fights for no reason. Then I made one of the bigger mistakes of my life: I took a shit in a semi-public bathroom and (pocket-less) left my wallet in the stall. Half an hour later I sprinted back, but my shit (and wallet) was gone. One hopeless police report later and I was no longer a debit card holder, Michigan resident or Maine resident. Alcohol procurement was out of the question.
For weeks I prayed for a miracle, and it came in the form of an expired Portland, Oregon ID with a picture of some blonde doof who was/is about six years older than I am. Never mind that it had expired in '07, in New York all you need is a laminated flash card and you're usually money. I embraced my new pacific northwest-identity and returned to the best that NYC's nightlife had to offer, mainly in the form of decrepit byob restaurants and cheap corner stores.
Whenever I asked a former runner or older guy on the team about the true man behind the license, they would usually just shake their head and include adjectives in their descriptions like "unpopular," "doof," "fucking idiot," and "one good season." On a team where pretty much everyone gets along well (usually better than well), this was surprising, but given that jackass grin on my ticket to drinking, I wasn't too taken aback.
I had the ID taken away in Memphis. Tennessee is shockingly hard on authenticity, and some huge guy with an eye-patch took the license and told me and my friends to get the hell out of town. After several twitches from his pectorals, one very pathetic request to get our IDs back, and a few minutes of standing around feeling like shit, we obliged. I hadn't thought about J Marc until I got the text from Xmas. So basically, yeah, this is just a really long way of saying that your first impressions of the bro are probably accurate and if any of you want the address of the house he grew up in, I still have it memorized."
No comments:
Post a Comment