“Oh, I wish I had a barrel of rum and sugar three thousand pounds,
A college bell to put it in and a clapper to stir it ’round.
I’d drink to all good fellows who come from far and near.
I’m a ramblin’, gamblin’, hell of an engineer.”
Ramblin Wreck – Georgia Tech Fight Song
So this past Saturday, I got invited to go to the Braves game with Anna and some of her friends. I’ve hung out with a couple of these folks a time or two, but for the most part, this was my debut. I thought it might behoove me to make a good impression, so I made sure we had an ample supply of beer and I brought extra coozies in case anyone forgot theirs for tailgating. I left work at Lilburn Tire and Martini Bar at about 12:30 and Anna picked me up at The Narnia Harem. She made me drive her Exploder (Ford Explorer) because I guess she figured it’s the man’s job to drive.
We headed down Freedom Parkway and hopped on the connector to get to our tail-gating spot, the I.B.E.W. union building because it’s got bathrooms or some nonsense like that. The Turner Field area is not the greatest area to be hanging out in, so I don’t know my way around it that well. I always just drive to the stadium parking lot, pay my $10 to park, and start drinking my cold adult beverages. Not this time though. I had to navigate my way around the land of gypsys and freeways and go around my asshole and my elbow plus go precisely the wrong way down a one way street to get to our tail-gating spot. At which, we still had to pay $10 park. Shrewd…
We pulled into a spot by the group, got our chairs and our beers and made the necessary introductions. While we were sitting around eating and shooting the shit, we heard someone yell, “call 9-1-1!” We all jumped out of our chairs to see what was going down. Evidently, the parking attendants were sitting around playing dominoes and one of them started stroking out and twitching and such. One of the guys in our group, Rob, is a physical therapist or a chimney sweep or something like that at the hospital so he has some medical training. He rushed over to help the guy and pronounced him dead at the scene. Although, he was still throwing up, so I don’t think that was an appropriate proclamation. I don’t know, I could be wrong. I didn’t have my official dead-guy poking stick so I can’t say for sure.
A few minutes later, the ambulance showed up and they got the guy taken care of. It seemed to me as if he just had a bit of the heat stroke and couldn’t throw up because he was leaning back in a chair. This is exactly why you make sure your drunk friends pass out on their side, so they don’t drown on their vomit or choke on it Jimi Hendrix style. After a bit he seemed to be doing better so they left, oddly enough, with the back doors on the ambulance wide open, swinging back and forth as it went down the road. Next time I stroke out, I’m calling Rob. I don’t trust those guys from Grady.
After a few more beers, it was time to make the mile-long walk to the game. Each of us had a few “road beers” and the girls had some flasks hidden in strategic places. The Atlanta cops are fairly lenient on open containers while along the route to the game, but they do frown on you walking in the road with a beer. Unfortunately, this is exactly what I was doing. So, as I was dance-walking down the street, I had to discretely crush my beer and put it in my pocket. It remains to be seen whether this was actually necessary, but I did it, and in the process poured beer into my new cellphone. Thankfully, it still works.
We took our seats and overpriced beer and settled into watch what turned out be an excellent game. About midway through the third inning, a group sat down behind us that was at least as intoxicated as were were. And they were UGA fans, we’re all Georgia Tech fans. Oil and water, my friends, oil and water. It’s at this point of the story that I should explain something about the rivalry between the University of Georgia and The Georgia Institute of Technology. There is a very good reason that it is referred to as “Clean Old-Fashioned Hate.” That reason is because it’s true. Everyone is cordial until there’s mention of the annual battle for The Governor’s Cup, the football game between UGA and GT. Georgia Tech won this past year’s battle 45 to 42 and believe me, that severly wounded every UGA fan’s pride.
Do ya feel lucky, Punk? Well, do ya?
I don’t know who first brought up the issue, but as soon as the words “45 to 42, Bitches” were mentioned, the plot definitely thickened. There was an awful lot of hollering and a Hiroshima-sized explosion of F-bombs, but no fisticuffs as of yet. Then security showed up. She got everyone to shut-up and explained to us that if we didn’t keep it down and quit cursing we would be asked to leave. I believer her exact words were, “Y’all have to watch your mouths. This is a family atmosphere and you can’t say things like ‘suck’ and that sort of thing.” What actually got the security guards there though, was a rather large tattooed Dodger’s fan proclaiming to us that, “He had his fuckin’ kids there and we needed to shut the hell up.” One of our crew then politely told him to, “get his fuckin kids some earmuffs.” Probably not his finest hour.
Now, I learned a very important lesson about messing with authority figures at an early age. I had a run in with The Law in my high school days that resulted in a reckless driving ticket mostly because I ran my mouth. Perhaps one day I’ll blog about. It’s mostly Roman’s fault anyway, but I digress. Ever since that incident, whenever The Law and I cross paths, I immediately shut-up. Whether you are right or wrong in the situation, your chances of getting out unscathed decrease greatly once you’ve antagonized the officer.
One of the girls in our group who wasn’t even involved in the argument decided it would be a good time to insert her two cents. “So we can’t even say ‘suck’ now?” She incurred the wrath. She wasn’t asked to leave, and somehow managed to end up with a gameball, but still, why would she even do this? Once The Law arrives, the point you set out to make is already moot. Do you continue to speed after the cop pulls up behind you? No, you pull over. Do you keep on sassin’ Dirty Harry when he levels the old .357 Magnum at your skull? Nope. You smile and tell him what he wants to hear. Arguing with security about whether you’re out of line (which you obviously are, or else they wouldn’t be there) at a Braves game in which you are cursing up a storm is typically not a winning proposition. She had to go sit in timeout while the rest of us (UGA fans included) entertained ourselves by threatening to throw out anyone in our vicinity who said any word that started with an ‘S.’
Alcohol: Helping people totally disregard decision making since Jesus’ formative years.
