2007

My feet are glued the floor, by a paste of semi-dried watered down Coor Light. Justin Timberlake’s "Sexy Back" is pounding over the oversized speakers for the 9th time tonight, but I’m hardly aware of it. The air is stuffy with the scent of stale beer and vomit,  body odor and piss, wanton farts and shit. From across the room, someone is shouting about some bitch that he will fuck sideways tonight. The wood paneled rooms reek of immense wealth, and the huge  Beer Pong tables themselves bear the insignia for Prestige itself: The Immaculate Frat.

My best friend stands nearly as stoic as I do, staring at the cup across the table. We have been here many times before; in fact this is how the last 4 games have gone. Our opponents have sunk the final cup on the table and have given us the customary rebuttal shots. We are, hands down, the best closers of the game, and we have owned these tables since we joined the frat as sophomores. We rarely lose, and are never intimidated. We think highly of ourselves, and know everyone else to be shit. With 10 games and many more beers under our belt for the evening, we are invincible.

I’ve missed my shot, badly. From the moment it left my hand, I knew it was wrong. I approach my shot in Beruit as a golfer approaches his putting...Calm, steady, consistent, fluid motion. I’ve made a mess of this one though. It’s down to my buddy.

“I’m bringing sexy back. I’m bringing sexy back” pulses on and and on and on, and our opponents, two boys who are looking to rush  in a few weeks hold their breath.

“Gentleman,” my partner suddenly says, in a quiet voice that forces our opponents to lean in to hear him, “I wish. You had. More time.”  

This is my buddy’s sign off line. It comes from the movie “Man on Fire,” just before a maniacal Denzel Washington blows an enemy of his to smithereens.

“JUST SHOOT IT,” demands one of the sophomores, hardly able to stand the tension. A win against us would mean oh so much for him and his partner’s reputation.

My friend’s motion is pure. It is clean, and it never changes. It has a clear arc, and a beautiful follow through. As the ball drops into the cup, it hardly even makes a sound.

I am beside myself. Even though we haven’t won outright (we have merely forced a playoff), I fist pump and am shouting as though I am Tiger Woods winning the Masters for the 5th time. My buddy is on the ground doing his customary celebratory pushups, which he always begins around 2 or 3am  after we’ve been playing for hours. We are drunk. We are happy. We are young.