The Rules Reconsidered: Throwing The Towel
We were in the fifth inning. It was cold, what with the wind, and I, intelligent man I liked to esteem myself, suffered from the natural belief that during a Texas day in mid-April a jacket was unnecessary, and I was too prideful to accept the Barry Lewis' thrice-offered sweater.
The Horned Frogs were up 90-0. Or something like it. There were two digits above a zero on the board.
"Barry, dear man, I'm leaving. We're up by a football score. And this isn't football."
"You should stick around for the rest of the inning. See what happens."
"That could be midnight. And it's not going to get warmer."
"Suit yourself."
"I wish I had suited myself. A suit would have retained more heat than this thing," I said, pulling at my white TCU game shirt.
"I've never known you to wear a t-shirt."
"Yes. Laundry problems, long story, don't want to go into it. But curse for all eternity the landlord who devised the idea of providing laundromats in apartment complexes!"
"To say nothing of their tenants," The Barry, wit he was, added (unnecessarily, if you're asking me).
I stuck around to humor him--and did, with every shiver, as he, sadist he was, casually smiled. But I felt I owed him, as he had been magnanimous enough to lift my baseball ban--not sure about tennis, as of yet.
At which point yet another of an interminable line of our players approached the batter's box.
"Who's this guy?" I asked.
"Well, since you're so determined to read my articles . . ."
"Erroneous!"
" . . . that is Elijah Nunez."
"Sweet prophet! May he rise in a chariot of fire!"
And there was another hit and another run about the still, sandy merry-go-round we call a "diamond." A dusty diamond, lined with chalk.
"So how are we doing in the rankings since we dusted Tech?"
"Swept. Not dusted. And had you read a single of my articles, you would know."
"Honestly, dear man, if you busted my balls any more I would have ovaries."
"How was your day off?"
"Barry, it was a day off from jobbing. I have no days off. I'm a novelist. If you must know, I was reading Sophocles, a Greek playwright from 5th century BC . . ."
There was a smack, another fire-cracker volley of handclaps, some hollers, a bray of cheers. Our guy hit what I am told is a "double."
"I know who he was," the Barry said.
" . . .Oedipus at Colonus, about an elderly visitor to a great land called Athens. And this visitor happens to be the great Oedipus after whom the play is named . . ."
"I know the story."
"And he is old and blind and wants simply to sit where it was determined by fate to be his dying place, an old rock in Colonus. But his brother-in-law/uncle (a long funny story, how that works) determines that he is to return to Thebes as his presence promises victory in war. And he refuses. And so the good King of Athens, Theseus, protects him and his daughters/sisters (also a long, funny story) from capture, and in honoring this great old man, and causing him no harm, and abiding by the rules of Greek justice, Athens is promised victory in all military matters."
"What's your point?"
"My point is this game is obscene. They should throw in the towel, or we should voluntarily strike out. A defeat of this size is tempting the gods. Our visitors are like Oedipus. We should treat them accordingly."
"Seven inning rule."
"What?"
"If we're up by ten at the end of the seventh, game is over."
"So you say. What if we never make it?"
"We'll get there eventually."
And so it went, another inning, and I couldn't take anymore.
"Barry, dear man, thank you for the ticket and for lifting my ban from all TCU sporting activities . . ."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. The ban is lifted for baseball, as of now."
"I'll see you next week."
"Be seeing you."
And so I wandered back to my car, thinking of the article I never got around to writing, for reasons soon to be made clear, about the need for humane intervention in the case of an unrecoverable deficit in college sports.
In the car, I was now bound to Ye Old Bull and Bush on Montgomery 76107.
Only when I arrived there was a round space in the dart room, which was strange considering Tuesday was dart night. It was also hot. 75 degrees or higher. I found the Mike Cocanower, aka., The Cocaine Hour (though, to my knowledge, he has never done cocaine in his life), and asked him what was the score.
"None. We're having a change tonight."
"What dat?"
"Boxing."
"What you say!"
"Boxing."
"Boxing!"
And I looked at a ring of strapping lads standing in a circle, shirtless, with leather gloves they were knocking against each other.
"Was bullfighting not available?"
"Some people thought it would be fun," the Cocaine Hour said, shrugging.
"And are you among these people!"
"It's nice to see a change every once and a while."
There were hoots and hollers. Some beers were chugged, other were thrown. Indeed, one woman, a vibrant young lady, took my Guinness into her hand and proceeded to down it, right there in front of God and everybody, and I uttered a litany of curses such as no man in the history of Ireland.
"Bets are on!"
In a moment of inspiration, I took all the money on my person, ten dollars, raised it high in the air, and, revenge for last Saturday's tab, cried to the air: "I have ten dollars on the Stubbs against any and all contenders!"
And everyone in the room gave a cheer, save one, and that was the dear Stubbs himself.
"Are you ever going to quit making me a punch line?"
"What's to worry? You're a stocky fellow. You knock this guy out, we make a few bucks and we have a week's worth of tabs."
"But who's the opponent."
It was the Ned who announced our fate. "Bobby Stubbs against Little John!"
Out of the shadows came hulking the one man I know who could bareknuckle fight a gorilla without breaking a sweat. The man was 500 pounds if an ounce, and at each footfall, tables wobbled. He sported a purple shirt, and black shorts, and his bulk threatened to burst both at the seams. I shall put it this way: were King Kong and Godzilla to enter voluntarily a handicapped match against the Little John, aka., the Gentle Giant, my money would go to the John. Fortunately, he happened to be a very kind man.
Meanwhile the Bobby, wearing a hunter's cap, was shivering in his jacket.
"What have you done to me?" Bobby asked, fetching a cigarette.
"Save it for after. We don't have time!"
"So you say. What am I going to do!"
"Bobby, you want my advice?"
"What?"
"Throw the fight."
"Good idea. I quit!"
"What's that?" the Ned asked.
"Bobby capitulates! He forfeits! He grants John the ring!"
"No forfeits. The fight will end in either TKO, KO, or decision."
"But the Stubbs already made his decision!"
"It's not his to make."
"Well Bobby it looks like the gods, ie., the Ned, have spoken and they have determined you are to be royally screwed."
"What do I do now!"
"You're fine. Kick him in the balls. He falls to his knees, you sucker punch him. Ever seen Butch Cassidy?"
"Yeah. But Paul Newman had the Sundance Kid in his corner. And what have I got, huh, T? What have I got?"
By then someone tapped a Guinness glass with the brindled handle of a knife and the fight was on.
I say fight. The Stubbs took off his jacket and shirt with his gloves and muttered something and the John started laughing and at that point I thought I underestimated the Ol Stubbs. Then he jumped as high as he could and punched John's jaw as hard as he could manage, I've no doubt, arm fully extended.
The John stood still for a moment, dazed, then shook his head and inhaled through his nose, and the effect on the room was as if there were a great vacuum that threatened to suck into its vortex anything and everything near it.
At which point the Stubbs decided it was a good idea to follow my advice: run.
He got five paces but the John laid gently a trunk-sized arm square on his shoulder. For a moment I saw the panic on his face, his arms outspread as if to grasp me from five feet away. Then in a flash he was in the grip of the one man I know who could level Kong and all I can say of the poor Stubbs was his arms were where his legs should have been and vice versa. He stood and there was a punch and I closed my eyes and felt what I was certain was his head land at my feet. I opened my eyes, relieved to see it was only his hunter's cap. Meanwhile, the Stubbs lay, eyes closed, arms spread, on the floor.
"Oh my God! He's dead!"
At which point he began to rise. And then I knew what I had to do. I took off my shirt and waved it frantically in the air, then threw it in the middle of the floor.
"We throw in the towel! We throw in the towel! Dear great giant John, have mercy!"
"I don't have to," John said, smiling. "Ned counted to ten."
"John's the winner!" the Ned announced (somewhat redundantly, I thought).
"I'll buy you a drink," John said. "You've got some punch, Bobby. I didn't know you had it in you."
"Ugggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh!" the Bobby managed.
John took my shirt from the floor swept it once across Bobby's face and threw it to me.
"Here's your shirt back," he said, as I caught it, heavy in my hands, dripping red.
"Drinks on me," he said. "Made a lot of money tonight. Amy, a double for me and Bobby. And what for you?" he asked, looking my direction.
"Guinness."
"A Guinness for the guy right there."
Amy handed me a Guinness, and just before I could take the first sip, it was swiped, purloined by the young lady who teased me before.
So I made my sad way back to the parking lot. Then paused. On the windshield a piece of paper flapped like a flag of defeat, a parking ticket.
Want to join the discussion? Click here to become a member of the Killer Frogs message board community today!
Follow KillerFrogs on Twitter to stay up to date on all the latest TCU news! Follow KillerFrogs on Facebook and Instagram as well. Download the KillerFrogs app on Google Play or in the Apple App Store.