Where Men Became Boys

Borrello's washer tournament was a big hit. The event that put it over the top though, was the intense schlitterball game that took place after much of the washer field had been eliminated.

That day began with me waking up at an early hour. I can usually sleep-in pretty good, but I guess I was too excited about the tournament. My stomach was hurting, no doubt from inhaling a whataburger at 2 a.m., and I began to feel my stomach rumble. I needed to expel a cloud of methane to relieve the pain. I did. Little did I know I had opened Pandora's Box. It was the kind of stink that would make paint peel. I was amused and amazed with it's potency...Lee was not.

We met up with Beerman a while later to grab some breakfast at the Pancake House off Midway. It was a good meal, the eggs were shitty and cold, but the bacon was good as well as the pancakes.

Afterwards, we headed out to Ft. Worth. Lee began to feel sick from what he thought were bad eggs. The entire trip consisted of one of us farting, and the other trying to get their window down quick enough not to smell it. You're beginning to see the relevance of the title.

We arrived at Borrello's a little after noon and began to drink. People were slowly arriving, so we took the opportunity to catch up with folks we hadn't seen in a while. Borrello had his house looking top notch, as top notch as a Borrello house can get anyway. His grass was a nice green St. Augustine, freshly cut, with plenty of shade provided by a number of large trees. Lawn chairs and ice chests were scattered throughout the yard, and the lesbians' house was in plain sight. Former "hardass champion" and murderer of the beloved Smokey, Coburn, greeted me with a man-hug. At the time, I was not drunk enough for man-hugs, but whatever.

Soon, the tournament was began. I had been paired with Keene, a good draw for both of us. Our first match was against the combo of Fretty/Borrello. I had my fears because Borrello had built the pits, and therefore had a good feel for their layout and tendencies. However, that thought of doubt quickly dissipated when we jumped ahead never to look back en route to a first round victory. Hands were shook and chest bumps were dealt out at the end as a sign of good sportsmanship. The second round began to get a little blurry. I had gotten drunk waiting to play the second game and had a hard time adjusting right off the bat. But before I knew it, we had built an insurmountable lead and finished the game with little effort. We were one game away from the finals, but had a rematch with the Fretty/Borrello tandem. They had clawed their way back from a humiliating loss in the first round and had made it into the semi-finals. A good deal of time passed between our second and third game, so needless to say I was in an inebriated condition. Feeling ten feet tall, I approached the pits with a swagger equal to that of Johnny Unitas, however, I did not count on Fretty Namath the giant-killer. A drunk Keene and I, handed the first game to the scrappers from the losers bracket. I didn't really know we were playing until about halfway through the game. The second and deciding final game was one for the ages. One team would take a small lead, only for the lead to change hands on the very next throw. Fretty sank one in the closing throws to put us away. We had fallen two games in a row and were now out of cash prize contention. We did make it to the third place game but we were all too drunk to give a damn, so we sent a scout party out to locate a volleyball so we could play Schlitterball.

It seemed like a great deal of time passed before the volleyball task force arrived back at the house. I spent the down time shoving beer and various dips in my face. I also had to make multiple bathroom stops, as the eggs were making themselves known to my digestive tract. I'm not sure what time we started playing Schlitterball, but we were all blasted out of our minds. Coburn had remained sober because he is not a fan of alcoholic beverages for one reason or another, and had subsequently won the washer tournament. None of this mattered to me because I was feeling stud and eager to whoop an ass at Schlitterball.

The game was underway, I had been selected as handman and was doing a great job. By this point everyone was drunk as shit. I mean really really drunk. There were 12-14 guys in a backyard kicking a volleyball around, screaming, swearing, running, and slamming beers. It reminded me of a kindergarten recess, however in this case the kindergartners were drunk and hairy men. I was too sloppy to be a good handman. I spent the majority of my time drinking and if a ball got close I'd punch it, usually out of bounds. Something got me stirred up and I hit a three point stance, ready to explode out of it and do some damage. But, as most stupors go, I quickly forgot why I was in the three point stance in the first place so I just returned to my station over the cup. The few women who were there (all except one were either wives or fiances) sat over in a shady corner and watched with disgust the recessing maturity level of the partygoers. All the work they had done on their respective mates had all gone down the drain in a matter of hours. I felt bad for those chumps Sunday morning and the kind of ass-chewing they would have to endure. The game continued. Every point was challenged and every beer was drank. All of a sudden a "Mystery Man" came out of the woodwork and began to tear down the nig-rig Schlitterball net. This incited a riot, as everyone started running around kicking over the cups and throwing empty beer cans at one another.

After the excitement had died down, everyone began to go their own ways. I went and got more beer, a Gatorade (to combat dehydration), and some smokes. But the party was clearly over for the day. I was slightly relieved that it was over, because I was starting to feel like shit. We had all put in a full day of work, and that was something we could all be proud of.

Indeed, it was something we could all be proud of.