I grew up in Chicago. I remember rooting for Walter Payton, Will “The Refrigerator” Perry, Jim McMahon, and the rest of the 1986 Bears. And I lived in Indianapolis, Indiana, for a year (my father still does). Still, once the beer pong competition turned heated, even Super Bowl XLI couldn’t command my attention.
Sure, I was interested in the pouring rain, the sudden first quarter touchdown, the numerous turnovers, the Buffalo wings, the ads, and all the rest, but until Chris and Meg busted out the plastic yelllow cups, well, it was just another Sunday night in front of the boob tube.
Chris and Meg, as it ends up, take their beer pong seriously. Their dining room table comes equipt with green felt (well, paper) and a rock solid surface. I needed just one match, just one tete-a-tete, to be drawn in completely.
You may not know this, but I’m really not much for games. Call a competition, though, and I’m in. (It’s not like I watched any football games this year anyway.)
Abbi and I were having a quiet evening with our newlywed friends. At first, the evening was quiet: a sweet recollection of the couple’s honeymoon in South Africa. Soon enough, though, the two challenged Abbi and I to Beer Pong. Soon enough, though, there was an audience. Soon enough, though, I was hooked.
Chris and Meg? Beat ’em. Peggy and Meg? Beat ’em. Samji? Beat her. Nicole? Beat her. Tony? Beat ’em.
Three hours, five wins, and a few yellow plastic cups later, I am the undisputed champ (including one head-to-head competition with bassist Tony Maceli). Sure, I danced on The Abad’s couch with my fists pumping high above my head, but more importantly, I won.
Oh, and I hear the Colts did too.
But they’d played football before last night. And they didn’t have to chug a beer every time the other guy scored.