- Joined
- Aug 29, 2011
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I was talking with a middle aged former looker who still brought on looks from the stool jockeys and the cheaters. Back in the day, she was Bo’s um… go to gal. Her brother was a 3rd string OL who carried his jock on the bench beneath 320 lbs of saggy flab for 4 years including a Rose Bowl, a fortuitous coincidence that he’d forever milk into conversations behind a worthless smile. Their Dad was a very big donor.
Swinging her cognac between her thumb and middle finger, the first two of ten alternately blue and maize-nailed digits, she asked me if I was excited about UConn joining the B1G but spell/pronounced it B.I.G. Did she ever pronounce it. With a sly and tight smile, I said, "Yes, the B.I.G. excites me… the way you say it.”
She said, “I just love football. The players are so, you know, b.i.g.”
I somehow straightened myself out at this point. The roiling inside snapped me back to reality. Past my thirtieth birthday, I have come to appreciate the so many blurred lines of relationships. A little play talk with an older stunner cum cougar had made my insides smile. Serious now, I had surreptitiously started our conversation because I had it on the extremely good authority of the Michigan alum I was having mass quantities of shots and beers with that this gal was the daughter of a donor so famous that his name couldn’t be said aloud in public. Now that was Big.
Rerouting the conversation, I casually but so obviously, as if to test her savvy said, “I heard that it’s just a scheduling thing to count UConn as P5 games. Have you heard anything more than that? Or, do you know someone that might have heard?”
Heh, right?
She said nothing as she gazed at me with two of the deepest sweet pea green eyes I had ever seen. I immediately drifted into them, looking for the thoughts that lay behind, but alas it was not to be that I could tell if she had contrived that I was just using her at this point.
She had given me nothing new either way you look at our short relationship so I went for it. Risking all, abandoning the just tapped potential of the near future with her, the near future being the one that would occur if I survived the jeopardy I was creating , I asked her the ‘your father is a donor’ question, blaming my tip on a guy who said “She’s really fine and her father knows stuff about the Big Ten. And, she’s really fine.” I know, good one, eh?
She gracefully corkscrewed her neck down to my feet and reversed the turn slowly on the way back up to my eyes. I was in her power now.
“My father! Is this what you wanted from the beginning, to get the poop on UConn and the Big Ten? This interests you more than I do?”
Stunned and afraid I’d blurt out something irrational, I said nothing.
She said, “My father is my love! My father is loved by millions! My father is a great man!”
I said, “My father is a mail man.”
She gasped into a smile, her quietness a lace white flag of surrender.
We drank and laughed and sang and shouted as we finished off the night in that Michigan bar. For me, a great Conference Realignment contact.
For her, I doubt she even remembers what she did that night.
Swinging her cognac between her thumb and middle finger, the first two of ten alternately blue and maize-nailed digits, she asked me if I was excited about UConn joining the B1G but spell/pronounced it B.I.G. Did she ever pronounce it. With a sly and tight smile, I said, "Yes, the B.I.G. excites me… the way you say it.”
She said, “I just love football. The players are so, you know, b.i.g.”
I somehow straightened myself out at this point. The roiling inside snapped me back to reality. Past my thirtieth birthday, I have come to appreciate the so many blurred lines of relationships. A little play talk with an older stunner cum cougar had made my insides smile. Serious now, I had surreptitiously started our conversation because I had it on the extremely good authority of the Michigan alum I was having mass quantities of shots and beers with that this gal was the daughter of a donor so famous that his name couldn’t be said aloud in public. Now that was Big.
Rerouting the conversation, I casually but so obviously, as if to test her savvy said, “I heard that it’s just a scheduling thing to count UConn as P5 games. Have you heard anything more than that? Or, do you know someone that might have heard?”
Heh, right?
She said nothing as she gazed at me with two of the deepest sweet pea green eyes I had ever seen. I immediately drifted into them, looking for the thoughts that lay behind, but alas it was not to be that I could tell if she had contrived that I was just using her at this point.
She had given me nothing new either way you look at our short relationship so I went for it. Risking all, abandoning the just tapped potential of the near future with her, the near future being the one that would occur if I survived the jeopardy I was creating , I asked her the ‘your father is a donor’ question, blaming my tip on a guy who said “She’s really fine and her father knows stuff about the Big Ten. And, she’s really fine.” I know, good one, eh?
She gracefully corkscrewed her neck down to my feet and reversed the turn slowly on the way back up to my eyes. I was in her power now.
“My father! Is this what you wanted from the beginning, to get the poop on UConn and the Big Ten? This interests you more than I do?”
Stunned and afraid I’d blurt out something irrational, I said nothing.
She said, “My father is my love! My father is loved by millions! My father is a great man!”
I said, “My father is a mail man.”
She gasped into a smile, her quietness a lace white flag of surrender.
We drank and laughed and sang and shouted as we finished off the night in that Michigan bar. For me, a great Conference Realignment contact.
For her, I doubt she even remembers what she did that night.
