I love you guys, I truly
do, but I have to tell you: Put down the juiced-up jet fuel.
Today we are at my
youngest kid’s college so he can play in the annual alumni vs. current player
lacrosse game. My son, who is now an
alum, arrives with his former teammates, and they’re all getting primed from
their own coolers. They’re in the big
league now, ready to play with a little buzz on like we used to see the older
guys do early mornings when we traveled to lacrosse tournaments in the summers.
To be fair, these young guys
all dragged their butts out of semi-comatose sleep early this morning to play
indoor football, so 10:30 is the new noontime.
Drink away, my young friends. In
truth, they are drinking just slightly more than are we on the sidelines. Someone who shall remain nameless (Phil)
brings a bottle full of homemade orange something – it isn’t juice, at least
not anymore. One person who sips it
refers to the drink as juiced-up jet fuel.
After the game we have a
tailgate right there at the field, and this is a wonderful thing.
Until … One big-ass gray
cloud decides to hover low overhead.
The wind suddenly picks up
and the temperature plummets. Empty
cups, errant napkins, and Frisbee-like paper plates take to the air. People start heading to the safety and warmth
of their cars as a cold, wet precipitation begins to fly around.
“It’s hailing!” somebody
yells.
Hailing?!
“Frozen pellets are
hailing down on us!”
Oh, for cryin’ out loud. Miniature
droplets of frozen rain falling from the sky that’s light enough to blow around
sideways is not hail.
That’s SNOW my silly, drunken friends.
Now, put down the
juiced-up jet fuel and step away from the weather map. Winter’s coming, children. Run away; run far, far away!
