Ever notice how the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue always comes out this time of year? If you are a regular reader of this site, I already know the answer to that question is yes, so no need to respond. But there is a pretty good reason for the issue being released this week, and it isn’t just because of the awesomeness of boobs.
I’m talking about the fact that there is absolutely nothing interesting going on in the world of sports this time of year. Sure, college basketball is great — but we’re merely getting a taste of the nirvana that comes starting with conference tournaments in a month. We’re not fully enveloped in it yet. And while pitchers and catchers are about to report, they aren’t quite in camp yet. Plus it’s kind of lame not having any position players around, even if they are guys like John Jaha and Craig Grebeck.
But we still have an obligation to serve you fresh new content here at Rumors and Rants. So, since Phillips already alluded to it in his post yesterday, I will spin you a tale from the “romantic” life of Hick Flick. With Valentine’s Day right around the corner, I’d like to dedicate this story to all you lonely hearts out there. Because if you keep trying, something this awesome may happen to you.
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The story begins on a frigid January night in Chicago. My friend Todd and I went out for a bite to eat and some drinks before meeting up with two of my old high school acquaintances, Erik and Steve.
Things took a turn for the strange when the four of us arrived at the bar. One of the first people I ran into was a buddy of mine from my days working at the college newspaper and radio station at Indiana. Oddly enough, this wasn’t the first time we ran into each other that night — both of us happened to be covering a high school basketball game in the suburbs earlier in the evening.
Then, our group engaged in an effort to play the worst song possible on the jukebox. We figured the jackpot had been hit with a seven-minute tune by Celine Dion — but to our surprise, literally every female on the second floor (and one guy) started singing along. I mean, these chicks were belting it out. All of us used the world “surreal” in our description of the event.
Things only got more interesting when Steve and I headed down to the first floor to see if there were any girls that didn’t sing along to Celine Dion. Luckily, I found one. And surprisingly, she talked back. This girl was cute, not to mention interesting.
And then she dropped the bombshell. This wasn’t just any girl. She was the girl who played Julie “The Cat” Gaffney, the female goalie in Mighty Ducks 2. She was also the love interest of Henry Roewengartner in Rookie of the Year. She also assured me “I don’t usually tell this to people,” giving the impression that I was a guy she was trying to impress.
Needless to say, I was floored. It’s not every day that I run into an E-list celebrity who I may have had a crush on 14 years ago. Things got even better when she bought shots for Steve and I. Unfortunately, she had to leave shortly thereafter, but not before giving me her phone number. There was some sort of invitation extended for her to join us for breakfast on Sunday, but I think it is fair to say that all three parties were fully aware that no one in the group was waking up before noon.
At any rate, I was ecstatic. I had The Cat’s phone number! In my drunken ecstasy, I ran — yes, ran — upstairs to tell the other guys the news. In fact, I told complete strangers. I even upgraded her to a “C-list celebrity” in my description.
Word soon traveled ’round to many of my friends that weren’t on the premises, who shared in the excitement. I have had more than a bit of bad luck with the ladies, so it would only make sense that I strike the gold with a former child actress who played such a vital role in our formative years. People excitedly wondered whether I would “score” on The Cat. (Please hold all jokes about slipping one through her five-hole).
But there was one catch. She had said that her name was Maddy, short for Madison, since her dad worked on Madison Ave. when she was born. A cursory check to IMBD.com showed that her name most certainly wasn’t Maddy. But modern photos indicated that this was in fact the girl I had talked to, so I chalked it up as no big deal. After all, my college roommate Justin always used to tell girls at parties that his name was Marty McFly.
I gave “Maddy” a call on Sunday night. Sure, it wasn’t the three days that you’re supposed to wait, but it’s not every day that you get the phone number of someone who has done extensive work with Emilio Estevez. Much to my surprise, she picked up the phone on the second ring.
ME: Hello! Is this Maddy?
HER: (pause) Yeeah.
ME: This is Alex from Burton’s Place last night. I met you with my buddy Steve.
Checking my phone to see if she hung up. Surprisingly, she hasn’t. Better think of something to say.
HER: Uh, right now isn’t really a good time for me. Is it OK if I call you back later?
ME: Yeah, that’d be great.
HER: I can call you back at this number, right?
ME: Yeah. I’ll talk to you later.
Three more days passed. I figured, what the hell, might as well try calling her again on Thursday. Once again, she answered the phone.
ME: Hey, how are you doing? This is Alex from Saturday night.
ME: Um, Alex. From Saturday night. We met at Burton’s Place in Old Town.
HER: I wasn’t there on Saturday night. Someone must have given you my number.
ME: Oh. (nervous laugh) Well, that’s understandable, I guess. Not the first time that’s happened to me.
I could have called her out on these shenanigans, since I obviously had already talked to her on Sunday night. But I decided to let it go. This story was over. Or so I thought.
On Friday, Steve called to see how it went with the girl. I related the story above, which sufficiently demonstrated that it went about the way I would have expected it to (only she answered the phone instead of letting it go straight to voice mail, which exceeded my expectations).
That’s when he told me THE REST OF THE STORY. (That’s a Paul Harvey reference, for those readers under 75 years of age).
At some point during our discussion at Burton’s Place, Steve needed to go to the bathroom. Unbeknown to me, he was followed into the bathroom by The Cat shortly thereafter. And it goes without saying that seeing a female in the men’s bathroom caught him a little off-guard, particularly with his wang in his hand.
So all he could think of saying was “So, are you here to help me put my dick back into my pants or something?”
To which she responded, “Your friend is cool, but I really like you.”
Steve proceeded to talk up all of the attributes that made me awesome, and told her that she needed to go on a date with me. While several other guys walked in and out of the pisser with both of them still in it. He also jokingly said he would kill her if she broke my heart. That, my friends, is a wingman.
So what is the moral to this story?
I have no idea. Perhaps it is “Be a good wingman, so as to assure that neither you nor your friend will get laid.” Or maybe it is something even deeper. Just something to remember if a former child star follows you into the john.