Voluntary meeting at the old-favorite
Watering Hole:
The ambient noise of the place played in the background like a soundtrack to a Quentin Terintino film. Snippets of conversation, video games, and juke box music blurred to become a kind of white noise as the two old friends sat down and ordered a drink.
“So what’s this all about, anyway, Ron?” the tall blond asked his companion.
“Dunno, maybe just getting together for drinks.” Ron leaned back in his seat and took in the scene as he answered,
Ron was shorter than Jordan but yet pushed six feet. Both were still considered young, just hitting thirty. The bar was none too crowded. It was early in the day, around two o’clock on a Friday. Not many people were in the place as of yet. Half-Day Fridays were on the wane as corporate America realized that with the job situation the way it was they could treat employees as they saw fit and pleasantries and employee perks were the first to go. These two had taken a half of day of vacation at another’s request. “You probably know as much as I do, Jordan.”
“Christ!” Jordan shot back. “We haven’t all been together since that company picnic.”
“Which one?”
“The one Harrison put out Charlotte’s windshield with his foul ball line drive.”
“Jesus! That’s right. I forgot about that. That was what… seven years ago?”
“Yep.” Jordan leaned his elbows on the table as the waitress brought their drinks. “Run a tab, hun,” he told her. He took a long pull on his beer and quickly swallowed as his eyes wandered out the window.
“Remember Hilda and her poodle stroller?”
“And the hairy casserole she brought.”
“Hairball with your tater totts?” They both broke into uncontrolled mirth. After regaining their senses Jordan asked, “Still pushing Bobble Head Bill as a concept?”
“Not really much anymore. Good for a joke on the bulletin board at work, though.” Ron replied. Bobble Head Bill had been a cult hit Ron had dreamed up back when they had all still worked together. Bobble Head Bill was a goony looking cuss shilling everything from ballet dance lessons to guitar lessons, deer gutting to deep sea fishing excursions. He even came up with a bogus bobble-head doll one could order via internet. All of it a fake, of course.
“So how many shirts are you up to?”
“Sixteen. Latest four are Houlihans, Bennigans, TGI Fridays, and Chili’s.”
Ron had a peculiar quirk. For some odd reason in his spare time, even though he did not need the work, he would start part-time employment at a restaurant, staying just long enough to get a T-shirt with the company logo and his name on a name tag. Once acquiring these, he would invariably quit.
“Hey, there’s Martin.”
“Martin!” Ron called and another drinking buddy joined them.
Martin was on equal footing as far as height, weight and looks with Jordan. In fact they were the same age. School chums from way back. “Jordan! Ron! Good to see you. Howard call you too?”
“Yup,” they both responded as he took a seat.
“Whatchu drinking?” Ron asked.
“I’ll have a Bud Ice.”
Ron waved to the waitress and when he caught her eye he mouthed “Bud Ice!” and she smiled and nodded her head.
“Still the lady killer,” Jordan teased.
“Puh leese! I wish!” He paused as he took a drink.
“Still hitting on terminal patients?” a sardonic grin lit Jordan’s features.
“Nice…” his smile was just as sardonic at the friendly dig.
“Who else is coming?” Martin asked, deftly diverting the conversation.
“Dunno,” Jordan responded.
“Howard just said to meet him here. Sounded like his old self, though. Recovered,” Ron answered cryptically.
“Sounded to me like he has something in the works,” Jordan added.
Martin’s beer was delivered and after a quick gulp he replied, “Always the Idea Man! Bet we’re in for a surprise whatever he’s got up his sleeve.”
“So, how are the pages coming?” Jordan asked his long time friend.
“Busting my balls over deadlines. Fucking editors answer their e-mail on time I might get ahead of the game.” Martin had recently broken into the comic game, penciling pages for an imprint of Direct Current Comic Publications.
“Working on the Primus Project still?” Ron asked.
“Yep. I was surprised it finally got off the ground.”
Ron was people watching and as his head was turned toward the door he spied the others. “Shit! There’s Linus and Henry. Look here come the rest: Frank, Harrison, Rob, even Dirk! How’d he get Dirk to show up?”
What followed was a general malaise of chaos, a melee of meetings, as everyone greeted everyone and caught up on each separate life in as brief a span as possible.
“Wife let you out?”
“How’d you work in a night off from the kids?”
“I don’t care what you smell, get in there!”
“So, you drink Hastings dry yet?”
“Ah, I see the restraining order finally ran out?”
“Still working at…”
“Hafta go to Bed Bath and Beyond after this…”
“You’ll be frozen to death before you reach the first marker.”
“Then I’ll see you in Hell.”
“Cops let you out for the night?”
“Obi Wan never let’s me do anything!”
“And I used to watch the squirrels, and they were married.”
“Show her my OH Face, oh, OH, OH!”
“Pod race, pod race, Pod race…”
“Mediclorians, Mediclorians…”
“Meesa boom bad beer drinker!”
“That’d be great, Mmm’kay?!”
“PC Load Letter?! What the hell does that mean?!”
It was the generic good natured nonsense peppered with movie quotes and light-hearted personal digs common to all. Banter welcomed after long partings.
Reminiscing could be for later. Right now there was serious drinking to do.
“Let’s see if we can get a patio table.” Howard suggested. “Who’s our waitress?”
“The leggy brunette,” Ron said. “Think she said her name was Janet.”
Howard waved her over. “Jeannette, can we get a table outside?” Indeed her nametag did read “Jeannette.” None of the others caught this fact, however.
She looked at the crowd at the table and smiled. “Sure.”
“Preferably one in your station,” Howard amended. “If it isn’t broke don’t fix it, as the saying goes. Besides, I like your smile.”
She beamed at him. “If you’ll follow me,” she said as she winked at Howard. She led them out the side doors as Martin whispered to Jordan, “Who woke him up. ‘I like your smile!’ Since when did he turn into the lady killer?!” Jordan just shrugged and they followed their waitress outside. Two tables had to be pushed together to let all ten sit comfortably but they provided the muscle as Milady Jannette supervised.
“All set?” she asked.
“’cept for drinks and maybe some nachos,” Howard responded, beating everyone else to the punch. The drink orders were taken down and the waitress promised to have them delivered before anyone became thirstier.
After she had left pandemonium broke out. Everyone wanted to know just what this blatant display of Suave Rico was all about.
“Jesus! What the hell was that? She’s about half your age!” Dirk blurted into the melee, quieting everyone else down.
“Probably not, just looks young for her age. But I do like her smile. I could tell by the set of her shoulders that no one had told her that in quite a while. Look at the time. Three o’clock. Her shift’s probably just started, she’s looking at a long day and the bunch of us rowdies in her station was probably not how she wanted to spend a Friday afternoon. Especially on a day like this; the weather’s perfect. A compliment thrown her way is easy and cheap, an honest observation she can appreciate and she’s in a better mood now. Her day was made and our service will be better for it. No harm no foul.”
“Jesus!” Dirk replied. “When did you turn into Sherlock Joyce Brothers?”
“Sherlock Joyce Brothers! You are such a TV slut!” Rob shot at Dirk as he grinned.
“What? was that Seinfeld?” Harrison also jibed at Dirk. His deadpan derision was his own brand of humor.
“No, that was my own.” Dirk replied sheepishly.
“I LOVE IT!” Howard busted out. “Sherlock Joyce Brothers! Seinfeld! TV SLUT! You guys are too much! It’s been too long!” His laugh was infectious and soon all at the table were cutting loose and cracking wise about themselves, their friends, and life in general. Self deprecating humor was the majority. Gracious acceptance of good natured insults received was generously sprinkled in also. With friends such as these egos took a back seat to good humor. Through the course of their stay Jannette had nothing but the smoothest and easiest time waiting their table.
After a round of nachos had been demolished Martin finally put forth the question everyone was thinking but had not found the words for. “Okay, Howard. Whatchya got going on?”
Howard downed his beer in a dramatic pause, watching his friends over the rim of his glass as he prolonged the drink. His eyes sparkled with barely restrained enthusiasm. Setting his glass down and wiping his mouth in an exaggerated, staged gesture, combing his mustache with the back of his hand he finally took a breath and said, “I’ve had a brainstorm. Actually it was a dream inspired brainstorm.
“We, my friends, are going to form our own sports team!”
The statement hung in the air like thick cigar smoke. It curled about everyone’s consciousness and teased at their sensibilities. Like a fog bank lifting off of Golden Gate Bay what he had just said finally penetrated through the surprise to sink into the gray matter, and then hit them all at once.
“Man!” Frank protested, “I haven’t shot hoops in years!”
“I don’t know if I could even run the bases anymore.” Linus said to no one in particular.
“My knees are shot.” Rob admitted to the crowd.
“You know I’m not a sporto.” Dirk sheepishly told the assembly.
“I haven’t played football since High School!” Martin said.
“Me either!” Jordan echoed.
“Baseball and hoops were my game but I haven’t touched a ball in years!” Ron mused.
“I could probably get back in shape for baseball.” Harrison pondered.
“Most I could throw anymore would be a Frisbee,” Henry admitted.
“That’s good!” Howard exclaimed enthusiastically, quelling each and every denial, drawing silence from them all. “We’re not playing any of those!”
“What are we playing, sweets?” Jeannette asked. She had returned to see if anyone needed anything. She leaned against Howard’s seat and put her arm around his shoulders. “Another round for everyone? My treat.”
Jeannette nodded at the bar tender and indicated the entire table with a circling motion of her hand. Then she looked at the guys seated at the table.
“Did you tell ‘em yet, hun?” she asked Howard.
“Which?”
“The game, silly.” Their waitress replied.
“Not quite yet. You spill it.” Howard said as he pulled an empty chair up to the table. “Are you off yet?”
“Just now,” she replied as she pulled over a chair and sat next to him becoming one with the crowd.
“What the Hell is going on?” Jordan asked as silence settled in upon the gathering at their exchange. Everyone was looking at Howard and Jeanette.
“Did they all make their excuses?” she asked Howard, by way of answering.
“Yep. Too old to play”
“No good at Basketball, Baseball, Football anymore? Frisbee and thumb wrestling the remote all they’re good for?” she queried the gathering. They sat staring at her like frightened deer in the approaching car’s headlights. What, did they all wake up in some parallel dimension?
“You’re not going to play any of those.”
Jordan gathered his wits, tossed his shot of tequila, and looked at the assembly. “Okay, lemme rephrase my question. What the Fucking Hell is going on?” he reiterated, his voice climbing in decibels.
“Oh, we’re an item. Been going together a couple of months now.” Howard replied offhandedly. “Met at work, first date was at a screenwriter’s workshop.”
“And the sports team is for what?” Rob added.
“He’s organizing Team King of the Hill competitions!” Jeannette answered as she took Howard’s hand in hers and squeezed it gently; a beautiful smile lit her pleasant face.
Stunned silence reigned on the throng.
Mandatory practice and training-
Two weeks later:
“How you feeling?” Martin asked Jordan.
“The knee’s still a bit tender but overall sore and stiff and wonderful!”
“Yeah, it’s great isn’t it?” The two had taken the reigns and had run with them. Once they understood the very simple rules of the game Howard intended, and saw the layout of the playing field they were the inspiring force behind the team.
“The court has an awesome layout.” Jordan mused aloud.
“I love the moat of soft beach sand. Give the legs a burn before hitting the hill.”
Harrison moved over to join the two. He was in his sweats and cleats. “These rules are so easy anyone can play, and there’s hardly any chance of anyone getting hurt. I bet this takes off.”
“Where’d Howard get this abandoned golf course anyway?” Martin wondered.
“It was left to me,” Howard said as he joined them. “Inherited from a forgotten uncle. How we feeling?”
The rest of the team followed behind Howard.
A general consensus of sore but super was the response.
“So, what do you think of the uniforms?”
Simple sweats and cleats but matching blue and gray. They weren’t showy but they were dignified. It was probably the hardest decision the founding team of this new sport had to tackle before the opening tournament.
“I think we just might be able to win at this thing,” Dirk told the gathering. “I might even allow myself to have fun.”
“When does play commence?” Hank asked.
“About half an hour,” Howard responded. “Once all the teams are here and the ref’s show up. We’ve got seven more teams to show. Yeah, I’d say another half an hour.”
“Who hired the refs?” Frank asked.
“The bar league hired them. Comes out of our dues,” Howard again with the answer.
“But we only paid five buck apiece.” Ron mused.
“Yes, as the sport founders. The other teams all paid twenty-five apiece. It works out in the end. The wives gonna show?”
“They’re already here,” Rob said as he pointed to a side of the field. Sure enough the woman stood in attendance, Jeannette in amongst them.
“She fit right in, didn’t she?” Harrison mused.
“Yeah,” Howard replied. “Guess I should be scared.” They all chuckled.
“Well, we all set? Dirk, as Anchor you watch the sides and make the calls. Keep ‘em short but strategic. It’s your ass on top.”
“I remember. I may not be a sporto but this is so much like full-contact chess it’ll be a blast. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Okay then, let’s go do it!”
End of summer:
Six wins, three loses, one draw and a forfeit:
“I think we have a good chance of winning the championship!” Ron was almost beside himself with excitement. He fairly danced just standing still.
“I can honestly say I have never won a sports trophy my entire life!” Dirk was in a state of bemused but ecstatic shock.
“Those guys from Escanaba last week were the toughest of the lot so far, and we beat them.” Jordan added his enthusiasm. “Check it out! Dudes, Food Network wants me to do a few articles on what a winning team of K O H survives on!”
“D’you see my interview in Maxim last week?” Harrison bragged.
“Tell me about it!” Dirk shot back. “I’ve been asked on Tom Arnold’s show”
“Sweet. I’ve been asked to do a one-shot special comic adaptation of the first tournament!” Martin added.
“This is too much!” Ron shouted. “I’ve got first shot at the HBO screenplay!”
“A toast!” Harrison called out. “To success!”
The others were too busy wetting their thirsts to respond at the moment. Then Howard showed up and the mood plummeted drastically. He wasn’t in uniform!
“What the fuck?!” Martin was incensed. His anger rose and colored his face. “You started this mess. You quitting?”
No one had taken notice of the individual in the polo shirt next to him until Howard pointed him out. “Fellas, this is my legal wizard, Jeremy. Jeremy; the guys.”
“So what the hell is this?” Jordan asked, his voice soft but dangerous.
“I’m afraid we’re gonna hafta forfeit the rest of the season. Conflict of interest.”
“How do you figure?” Rob was looking as deadly as Jordan.
“K O H competition has gone public. You remember those dues I had you guys pay at the beginning of the season?”
“Yeah, paid for the refs. We wanna finish the season!” Linus countered.
“We got a chance of being the champs!” Frank added.
“Would it make any difference if I said I sold the sport to Nike and ESPN?”
“You sold us out?!” Ron sounded devastated.
“No, I made it possible for me to buy you out.” The grin on Howard’s face was totally out of place. It took the rest of the team aback. They simply stood there and tried to comprehend how he could feel joy at their defeat.
“Let me, Howard,” Jeremy stated motioning for him to stand back and allow the lawyer to have center stage. He stood composing himself until he had all of their attention. “Howard took your dues and bought stock on the bottom floor in this teamed sporting competition. The growth of the game during the summer and the increase in that stock, which Nike and ESPN bought out at face value, gives each one of you a healthy check of fifty two thousand, eight hundred and twenty seven dollars and thirty seven cents.” A wayward breeze ruffling the blond curls hanging long on the back of Jordan’s neck was the only sound heard.
“Fifty two thousand, eight hundred and twenty seven dollars!” Howard shouted in their faces, jubilance now unrestrained.
“And thirty seven cents.” Jeremy smiled into the silent throng. The silence stretched, tension on a hyper extended rubber band, a guitar string about to break.
“I guess I can go without a trophy,” Dirk chuckled softly into the late summer afternoon.
The whoops and hollers that followed were deafening.
