The Morning of the Highway

            Let it be known, my associate, Lizard Gerrity and I work hard and take routine lickings from fellow savages like Dan ‘ET’ Wilson, Sean ‘Golden Lotus’ Madden and Alpha Ass Kicker/Master Chief, Tony Cummings AKA White Thunder. So when given the opportunity to cut loose and run wild through the streets of downtown Denver like Fetty Wap after three hit singles, we are going to do just that. This tale is in memoriam of one of our fleeting instances of last minutes and lost evenings that was coated in whiskey, rolled in bread creams and lathered in consequences.

            It started out as a fairly mundane trip to the city. Lizard and I had only one objective for the night—to talk to lots of girls. Unfortunately for us, we were both too chicken shit to do that. So instead, we threw up our metaphorical white flags as if to say “Okay, world. You win this round. We still have no game.”—and just like that, we parted ways expecting to see each other at practice the following morning.

            Here’s where things get dicey.

The details are unimportant—but long story short, I ended up waking up the next morning in the living room of a mansion in Highlands Ranch with an obese cat pissing on my foot. So I stole the cat and a chewy bar and silently exited through the main door without thanking the homeowner for her (his?) hospitality.

At this point in time, it’s about seven o’clock in the morning and I’m sitting in my Honda Google mapping the shit out of my iphone to figure where the hell I was in proximity to a bottle of Gatorade and some Motrin. When all of a sudden I receive a call from none other than old man Eisman:

“Steve-O, you gotta help your mother move a TV to main street this morning. She’ll call you with the details. Did I wake you up?

Fast forward three hours. I’m sleep-deprived, I smell like cat piss and tequila that was distilled in Kentucky… and I have yet to get my hands on some Motrin or Gatorade. Here is what I look like under the aforementioned circumstances:

350 pound TV in 700 pound Honda #blessed

Skip ahead another ninety minutes, it’s about 11:41 and according to my phone I’m about 25 minutes away from where noon team practice was being held… Challenge accepted. I brick-foot the hell out of the gas pedal and begin bombing down 287 like it’s Fury Road. When all of a sudden a phone call comes in from the Lizard herself:

Lizard: “Stephen! I’m destitute! The bus never came at the stop I always pick it up at!”

Me: “Where you at right now?”

Lizard: “About a quarter mile from 287.”

Me: “Start running in that direction as fast as you can. I’m gonna boost you up, son!”

Lizard: “Okay! Tears no fears, homie!

As I bombed down the highway with a complete disregard for other vehicles I see a figure on the horizon. Could it be? Yes it could. The Lizard herself in all her glory standing in the middle of the highway wearing Thai shorts with a pair of shin guards and gloves sticking out of her backpack like a true blue Western road ronin. The sun cast beams of light on her Kourtney Kardashian esque pompadour. She stood fixed in a double bicep pose as cars whipped past her blaring their horns and shouting things like

“Are you out of your god damn mind?!”

The image made me cry tears of joy. My companion was a triple OG.

I brake for no more than half a second as Lizard jumps through the window.

           “I just took 3 scoops of Jack3d. LET’S DO THIS.”

Her resiliency to exhaustion and eagerness to punch things are infectious.

We arrive at the gym at 11:59 only to be greeted by Coach Tony ‘White Thunder’ Cummings wearing a look of skepticism and hate:

TC: “You’re almost late.”

Me: “I’m sorry. We were… I’m sorry.”

It is at this time Sean ‘Golden Lotus’ Madden came through the door and took one look at myself and Lizard.

Sean: *with a delivery that implied he already knew what had transpired the night prior*

 “Stevie, how was the rest of your night?”

            After about a minute of Tony shifting his gaze from myself, to Lizard, to Sean and then back to me it was clear he knew all three of us had been up to no good.

            TC: “You’re all going to give me ulcers.” he concluded with the slightest of smiles.

            We all breathed a sigh of relief... until TC’s smile morphed into a look of utmost disdain.

            TC: “I’m fucking you all up today.”

            Practice starts and the focus of the day is on body-kick defense. I have the boxing prowess of a punch-drunk giraffe so I’m feeling pretty good on making it through the session in one piece. Because I am naïve-- very naïve.

            TC: “Okay look in. Stevie, come here fucktard.”

            *Everyone circles around us expecting the worst.*

            TC: He throws the switch-kick kick at me.

            *I oblige*

            TC: I catch the kick, followed by an attack on the back leg.

            *TC shoots me a devilish grin as my left leg is stuck in the crutch of his arm.*

           
            TC then promptly sweeps the leg and sends me spiraling through the air before allowing me to land right on my face/ass. I am dazed.

            As everyone is hooting and hollering while I make an attempt to reclaim my dignity I am 88% sure I caught Tony subtly throw up a set of gang signs and mutter under his breath:

            “That’s what’s up…”

Don't let his boyish good looks fool you-- TC is savage AF

            After about 54 minutes of this rinse and repeat cycle of abuse the squad called it a day. We all went and got chicken and waffles at Post Brewing Company (highly recommended), Tony called me a girl for not ordering a darker beer, Lizard remained strung out on caffeine and life for the remainder of the afternoon and we all learned a valuable a lesson in the process:

If you’re five minutes early, you’re ten minutes late. OSU.