The Zone
During my second year of law school, I went out a time or two with a guy named Mark. He was cute, in an introverted, quiet and bookish kind of way, extremely intelligent, and a great conversationalist. When I got to know him a little better, I discovered he was wickedly funny and could find dark humor in almost every situation. Above all, he was a nice guy and I liked him.
On our first date we took a chartered bus, along with a bunch of other law students, to New Orleans to watch the Saints play football in the Super Dome against the Dallas Cowboys. I remember the Saints squeaked by with a last minute field goal and won 13 to 10.
Mark had had several beers during the outing and I discovered he and another guy had the unique talent of having memorized each and every jingle from every commercial ever made, even in multiple languages. As corny as it sounds, most everyone else on the bus and I found it hysterically funny to see these two guys singing all these stupid songs all the way back to Baton Rouge from New Orleans. And, yes, alcohol was involved.
The second date involved a quiet meal; however, while my memory fails to tell me where we went, I do remember we stopped by one of the favorite watering holes after dinner. It was a place called Fred’s Bar in Tiger Land, not far from Tiger Stadium. It was a Thursday night and the LSU basketball team was playing with its star player, Chris "Mr. Fifty Points a Game" Jackson who has since changed his name to Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf.
Fred's was THE place to be during any LSU sporting event. The bar featured screwdrivers with freshly squeezed oranges, as well as plenty of TVs and pool tables.
After the basketball game was over, I convinced Mark to play a game of pool with me. I have to admit, I was a late bloomer in the pool playing department and did not actually "learn" how to play until I was in law school; however, I like to think I took to it quickly.
It was then, much like it is now, my pool game is pretty much all or nothing. Either I am on and in the zone or I absolutely suck.
My only advantage at the game is I am primarily right-handed with a dominant left eye. Thus, I'm a switch-hitter. I make power shots like breaking with the right hand and finesse shots with the left. Nothing special or remarkable about it, but it has taken an opponent or two by surprise when he believes he has left me with a "bad leave" thinking I could not reach a shot with my right hand.
Mark was very good at pool and admitted he had a pool table at home growing up. As soon as we started the first game or two a couple of very drunk frat boys came over and wanted to challenge us for the table, despite the existence of at least one other open table at the other end of the bar. It appeared the table at which we were playing was the favored frat boy table.
Suffice it to say, I was not then nor have I ever been a frat boy fan, drunken or otherwise.
While Mark was content to relinquish the table and attempted to cajole me into walking the length of the bar to resume our game at the other open table. I was not. I was in the zone.
Before he had the opportunity to do anything other than shake his head, I piped up: "Okay, pretty boy, you're on. You and your girlfriend (nodding toward his buddy) gonna play teams?"
Well, that damn near incited a riot.
I had three males pissed off at me simultaneously and one of them was my date for the evening.
The challenge was accepted and as table defenders we were allowed to break. Being neither meek nor mild, but the lesser player, I bade Mark to take the first turn. Unhappily, he did so. Two stripes went in. With a bright smile, I turned to the Frat duo and announced: "It would appear you two are low balls this evening."
While the wit may have been questionable, my timing was definitely off because the words "low balls" coincided with contact between Mark's cue stick and the white ball. He missed a perfectly easy "duck" shot because of my mouth. At that point, he was even less happy with me than he had been just moments before.
The first half of the Frat duo was a bruiser who stood well over six feet three or four inches and dwarfed both Mark and me. He had huge hands that reminded me of the fella in that Kenny Rogers song: "Lucille." You know the part: "The big hands were calloused he looked like a mountain…You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille." That was the guy I had just referred to as "girlfriend."
As big guy was preparing to take his shot, I started to say something else when Mark turned to me and put his hand over my mouth. With absolute seriousness, he looked me in the eyes and with great conviction said to me what many a man has said to me in my life: "Be QUIET! Do NOT say another word. I will leave you here with THEM if you say another word. DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND?"
"Yes, but we can take them." I started to reply from beneath his hand.
Mark shook his head vigorously. "Do NOT argue, just keep quiet!"
With that he took the pool cue from me and made short work of the rest of the game.
When all was done, he won the game, but relinquished the table anyway and quickly marched me outside to take me home.
He was another one who didn't ask me out again.
Men.
Go figure.
On our first date we took a chartered bus, along with a bunch of other law students, to New Orleans to watch the Saints play football in the Super Dome against the Dallas Cowboys. I remember the Saints squeaked by with a last minute field goal and won 13 to 10.
Mark had had several beers during the outing and I discovered he and another guy had the unique talent of having memorized each and every jingle from every commercial ever made, even in multiple languages. As corny as it sounds, most everyone else on the bus and I found it hysterically funny to see these two guys singing all these stupid songs all the way back to Baton Rouge from New Orleans. And, yes, alcohol was involved.
The second date involved a quiet meal; however, while my memory fails to tell me where we went, I do remember we stopped by one of the favorite watering holes after dinner. It was a place called Fred’s Bar in Tiger Land, not far from Tiger Stadium. It was a Thursday night and the LSU basketball team was playing with its star player, Chris "Mr. Fifty Points a Game" Jackson who has since changed his name to Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf.
Fred's was THE place to be during any LSU sporting event. The bar featured screwdrivers with freshly squeezed oranges, as well as plenty of TVs and pool tables.
After the basketball game was over, I convinced Mark to play a game of pool with me. I have to admit, I was a late bloomer in the pool playing department and did not actually "learn" how to play until I was in law school; however, I like to think I took to it quickly.
It was then, much like it is now, my pool game is pretty much all or nothing. Either I am on and in the zone or I absolutely suck.
My only advantage at the game is I am primarily right-handed with a dominant left eye. Thus, I'm a switch-hitter. I make power shots like breaking with the right hand and finesse shots with the left. Nothing special or remarkable about it, but it has taken an opponent or two by surprise when he believes he has left me with a "bad leave" thinking I could not reach a shot with my right hand.
Mark was very good at pool and admitted he had a pool table at home growing up. As soon as we started the first game or two a couple of very drunk frat boys came over and wanted to challenge us for the table, despite the existence of at least one other open table at the other end of the bar. It appeared the table at which we were playing was the favored frat boy table.
Suffice it to say, I was not then nor have I ever been a frat boy fan, drunken or otherwise.
While Mark was content to relinquish the table and attempted to cajole me into walking the length of the bar to resume our game at the other open table. I was not. I was in the zone.
Before he had the opportunity to do anything other than shake his head, I piped up: "Okay, pretty boy, you're on. You and your girlfriend (nodding toward his buddy) gonna play teams?"
Well, that damn near incited a riot.
I had three males pissed off at me simultaneously and one of them was my date for the evening.
The challenge was accepted and as table defenders we were allowed to break. Being neither meek nor mild, but the lesser player, I bade Mark to take the first turn. Unhappily, he did so. Two stripes went in. With a bright smile, I turned to the Frat duo and announced: "It would appear you two are low balls this evening."
While the wit may have been questionable, my timing was definitely off because the words "low balls" coincided with contact between Mark's cue stick and the white ball. He missed a perfectly easy "duck" shot because of my mouth. At that point, he was even less happy with me than he had been just moments before.
The first half of the Frat duo was a bruiser who stood well over six feet three or four inches and dwarfed both Mark and me. He had huge hands that reminded me of the fella in that Kenny Rogers song: "Lucille." You know the part: "The big hands were calloused he looked like a mountain…You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille." That was the guy I had just referred to as "girlfriend."
As big guy was preparing to take his shot, I started to say something else when Mark turned to me and put his hand over my mouth. With absolute seriousness, he looked me in the eyes and with great conviction said to me what many a man has said to me in my life: "Be QUIET! Do NOT say another word. I will leave you here with THEM if you say another word. DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND?"
"Yes, but we can take them." I started to reply from beneath his hand.
Mark shook his head vigorously. "Do NOT argue, just keep quiet!"
With that he took the pool cue from me and made short work of the rest of the game.
When all was done, he won the game, but relinquished the table anyway and quickly marched me outside to take me home.
He was another one who didn't ask me out again.
Men.
Go figure.
posted by Feisty at 7:24 PM
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