Impossible Feats And Broken Cleats

(or, I've never missed a recap of a friend visit or visit to a friend and I'm not about to start now)

So, without going into too much detail surrounding my relative absence from the blogging community of late, I will embark on this by saying that the unestimable Mr. L. of Cedarloo treated me to a much-needed respite from what has been an incredibly stressful, frustrating, and exhausting beginning to The Great Relax. Perhaps more on that later, time pending.

Last Friday:

Having finished my tenth consecutive ten-plus hour day at work (only one of which included a lunch break), I violently trust my wheeled office chair back into my cubicle locker. "To Hell with this," I snarled between gritted teeth as, ripping my earbuds out and flinging them into the open mouth of my stunned superior, I crammed everything on my desk I suspected I might need on a late night drive into Iowa territory into my shoulder bag. And I walked out of that office with the walk of a man who would not return without a healthy dose of non-work-related non-stop excitement.

It was an utterly uneventful drive, marked by a journey through an 18-song blues CD given me some years ago by a younger Aaron J., and a full pass through the unearthly, ambient sounds of a mysterious artist who goes only by The Fireman. Cory was right by the big picture window just as I pulled in, almost like he was expecting me. Taking only the time to bring a thing in through the door, we traipsed down the lane to this crazy bar which - face it - only gets our patronage because it's within walking distance. My request for a pitcher of a beer that was on tap seemed to meet with about as much understanding as if I had asked the server for a look at his Sanctus. We ended up each drinking two quality beers each, at quite excessive prices. Especially since I had eight beers of even higher quality already sitting in Cory's fridge. But it was all good. It's always good to hang out at a bar with good friends. Loud, obnoxious retelling of oft-told tales and brazen planning for the good times ahead do not rise above the general din of revelrie that surrounds your table. And the fact that some funky-ass gentleman got Bill Withers' "Use Me" going on the jukebox and then cranked it, was quite alright with me. Twelve tiny cheese curd nuggets for $6.95 was not so alright. Then it was back to home for a little quiet conversation (for you see, under the auspices of an utter lack of soundproofing, QUIET is the name of the game in the Bear Den, come nightfall). But going to bed was not so bad - we had a big day ahead of us, what with hanging out with the L kids in the morning and the much anticipated matchup against college-level athletes that were 10 years our junior.

Last Saturday:

Up shortly after daybreak for a big start to a big day. He fed me the breakfast of champions. Juice, toast, oatmeal (sans sugar, cinamon, brown sugar, or - well, really any staple you would find in an ordinary house), and a bannana. Then it was off to check out some good works by a good man. We saw the school where he teaches, the forest he planted, and the prairie which - desipte the obstacles of prairie seed-lovin' birds, needs only a good, controlled burn to sprout into a prairie such as would make a buffalo blush. Then, off to Hartman Preserve for a little hiking with young Jonah who has the moves of Adrian Peterson but, alas, the small hands of Daunte Culpepper; and the unsinkable, 12-year-old Emily, who is game for about anything and about an inch shorter than me. A little forest football was done, my love of dogs calmed the young boy and made him pet and enjoy a pit bull we met along the way, and then we realized it was getting nigh on lunch.

We ran the kids home, then went to main street in Cedar Falls - not too far away from Cory's house and - I gotta say - a real credit to the region. The type of eclectic, vibrant non-chain businesses that really make a community. Think: the types of places you might see in Stephen's Project 365. Well - I guess the common denominator is "college town." But it's a cool place. Cory was interested in taking me to Los Cabos (the restaurant, rather than the place - which I've already visited with a woman, and thus would be tough for him to top). Despite his great professed love of the Southwest, Cory has never been a fan of either Mexican food or the heat, and I've never had the heart to tell him that there's really not much more to the Southwest than those two things. But he was really doing a stretch for my benefit - a first-class host move, and I hope I told him how much he appreciated it. He locked his keys in the Sombrero (an episode during which he lost his appetite for Mexican fare), but then remembered he'd stored an extra one in his wallet (after which he got it back). We then proceeded to eat far more than two 36-year old men should eat before taking on two sub-26 year old former college football players. Did I mention one was a junior college All American?

Then, it was back to the ranch house for a change into football gear. Cory was upset that I was refusing to deck myself out in Vikings apparel (a choice I'd made for more reasons than one) and, in retrospect, it is my hope that he is just as thankful I made the choice as I now am.

Off for football. Now - over the weekend, the New England Patriots beat the Buffalo Bills 56 - 10. That's a team of professionals beating their peers by 46 points. During the course of our game, Cory pulled a floating groin and I ran (chased these two young fuckers around) on both sides of the ball, going out for most of the passes, and covering the receivers most of the time. For a guy that had (to Cory's dismay) a soberly realistic appraisal of our chances going into the game, I played my ass off, literally getting one of the spikes from my cleats shorn off on a rock-hard and bumpy turf upon which I skidded and landed innumerable times over the course of two hours.

(see New England v. Buffalo, above) I think the fact that we finished the game only down 36 points at the end of two hours (final score: 8 - 44) might be enough to vault this "moral victory" into the realm of being truly one of our greatest victories of all time. Yes, we scored eight. Can you believe it? A remarkable, by-the-grace-of-God-type of drive in which, during a rare role revearsal, the usually flappable arm of me led a quick march down the field consisting of a quick threading of the needle to a sure-handed T-Clog during a crossing route just short of the first down, then a "you wouldn't dare!" 30-yard bomb feet from the far endzone as these guys were expecting us to be satisfied with a chance for our first foray into enemy territory of the entire day. One last little shot into the corner of the end-zone, and then -oh yeah - the exclamation point of a two-point conversion to follow. I just about popped a boner. I hope these guys had a good time explaining to their former teammates - now in the NFL - how these two 35+ year old guys, both under six feet tall, neither of whom played organized football, marched down and scored on their double-team defense. Beeyatches.

After that - it was off to shoot baskets for a couple of hours (I know!), and then back to the L-household for a delectable dish of spaghetti with portabello mushrooms and some hanging out, drinking beer in the bitter, windy cold, sitting by a firepit placed in the easement next to a thoroughfare. What can I say? People were honking. They thought we were striking for the local 352. It was good beer. My beer I brought. I explained to Cory why beer is better from a glass, and why amber ale is a good place to start for someone who wants to try good beer.

Then it was inside, and time for the fast-paced action of the Return of the Jedi: Battle at Sarlacc's Pit board game, another beer, and off to bed.

In the morning:

Fond farewells, a stop at Happy Chef for a meal worthy of a man (me solo by this time), and a drive home during which I had time to think and reflect.

Today:

I was quite sore.