So now I'm gonna tell it. Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story: The Tale of Bucknell & The Bridge
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Paul, Fundy, Noles, Schne, JV and I were in Indianapolis for spring break, attending first and second round games at the RCA Dome after stops in Chicago and Louisville. (Aside: this was the only spring break trip I took in college. Why? Because the first and second rounds of March Madness always fall during spring break, and I didn't ever want to miss them. When we were 19, Paul, Russell and Fundy went to Cancun, and I declined to go with, not because I couldn't afford it, not because it didn't sound like fun....because it was Kirk Hinrich and Nick Collison's senior year, and I didn't want to miss any of their final tournament games. So it's fitting that the only time I went anywhere during spring break, it was to attend games in person. I am a weirdo.)
So we're in the hotel room, eating a combined 700 buffalo wings and having some beers and watching games. The KU game wasn't televised, but I wasn't too concerned. I mean, it was Bucknell, right? As the game went on, though, and KU was failing to pull away, I started to mini-panic, and at halftime Fundy and I headed to a bar to watch it, while Paul and Noles stayed behind to rest their vaginas.
Blah blah blah, I get progressively drunker and angrier as KU fails to pull away. When Wayne Simien missed his best Christian Laettner impression (how did that shot not go in?) I literally crumple to the floor of the packed bar and lay there for a solid ten minutes-- my second most embarrassing moment as a sports fan, #1 being when Aaron Boone hit the walk-off in 2003 against the Red Sox and, fueled by a case of beer in my belly, I destroyed our parking lot with a hammer as terrified bystanders looked on.
After I got up and sat wordlessly at the bar for a few more minutes (Fundy knew not to say a word the whole time; he didn't even attempt to get me up off the floor) some drunk guy saw my KU shirt and started heckling me. I ignored him for a while, then turned to him and said something like "Look. I know you're bigger than me, and I've only thrown 3/4 of a punch in my entire life, and you'll probably kick my ass, but if you say one more word to me, we're going outside and settling this." He looked extremely confused and his friends dragged him off-- we learned later that it was his 21st birthday and was so drunk he pretty much didn't know where he was.
So a couple of his friends, some pretty attractive girls from Wisconsin, came over to apologize and buy Fundy and I a round of shots. I was still in "get the fuck away from me, I'm not capable of interacting with humans" mode, but they wouldn't be denied, and soon they were buying round after round of patron for everyone while they talked me off the ledge. I don't think I paid for a drink in this bar.
Fast forward a couple hours, and this Wisconsin group (three girls, one regular guy, and the original drunk heckler, who is pretty much my best friend by this point) has talked Fundy and I into going dancing. I've kinda latched onto one girl in particular (I remember only two things about her: she was Hawaiian and her name started with a K. To use a famous quote from Dunph: I couldn't pick her out of a lineup of two. For purposes of the story, we'll call her Kahlua) and we are tearing up the dance floor. All of a sudden, Fundy comes sprinting through crowd, literally elbowing people out of the way. They're bumping 50 Cent pretty loud, but I can still hear him coming from a distance: "Jaaaaames! James! Ron Artest just walked in! Jaaaaaaames!"
This was about four months after the infamous melee in Detroit, so after a few minutes of us making the obligatory "I'll give you 100 bucks to lob a beer at him and see if he starts another brawl" jokes, we attempt to talk to him. We're quickly pushed aside by his giant entourage, and while we're regrouping, Artest notices "my" girl and beckons her over. I say "my" girl because while I was pseudo-dating a girl at the time, and wasn't about to bring Kahlua back to our hotel or anything, it was pretty clear that she was down for some just the tip, just for a second, just to see how it feels.
Kahlua is terrified to talk to the craziest player in the NBA, in the middle of about ten massive bodyguards to boot (weird right?) but we eventually convince her to go, hoping that she is our ticket into partying with Ron Artest and his posse the rest the night. Alas, it has the opposite effect, and we don't see Kahlua again, and eventually leave the bar to walk back to the hotel.
Here's where my personal plane crashed. The memories of dancing with my Hawaiian beauty and the thrill of seeing Ron Artest start fading, and the memories of KU losing to Bucknell seep back in. I get more and more depressed the longer we walk, and the last conscious memory I have is changing into a hooded sweatshirt, loading as many beers as my pockets will possibly hold, and leaving the hotel again.
The next morning I wake up on a bridge near our hotel, a pile of empties around my body, some more floating in the canal below (sorry city of Indianapolis) and absolutely freezing my balls off.
Why am I telling this story now: I was creeping around Facebook a while ago and found this picture belonging to JV's sister, who was visting Indianapolis:
That's right friends. To the right is the hotel we stayed at, in the foreground is the glorious Indianapolis Canal, and off there in the distance is my sleeping bridge. I know, you have to squint a bit (Enhance. Enhance. Enhance.) but I promise that is it. I laughed for like half an hour when I first saw this picture. No word on whether or not it's been renamed after me. One can only hope.
I declare this meeting of the Midnight Society....closed.
