Preface: This post mentions the fact that I was one of the captains for the varsity baseball team at the Academy of Holy Angels in 2004. It does not go into detail regarding why I was used most often as a pinch runner during my stint under the [insert "glowing" adjective here] Coach Page. But after reading this, you may understand a bit better. Also, I kind of dig county fairs, and not in a wholly ironic way, either. It's a great expression of what it means to be an American. Both good and bad.
I had the opportunity to stay at my high school friend's cabin in Wisconsin this weekend. I had a lot of fun tubing, wakeboarding (actually being dragged through the water in a fruitless attempt to wakeboard -- more on that later), drinking, grilling, and Sing Starring. But the most enlightening experience was the Sawyer County Fair.
Watching the demolition derby, avoiding lewd carnies, and riding the Ferris Wheel are all pretty typical Wisconsin county fair things to do in my book. We did them Saturday. Some of my friends did spinny rides. I did not. I did, however, pay $2 to make an ass out of myself. Was it worth it? Probably not.
Since I didn't partake in any of the vomit-inducing rides, such as the multitude of centrifuge-inspired monstrosities that must make your internal organs mushy or smushed to the side of your body cavity, I spent some time engrossed in another wonder of the county fair - the games. Now why anyone would want a stuffed animal large enough to qualify for the HOV lane or a goldfish certain to be forgotten (while walking that thin line between floating upright and upside down) the instant it leaves the child's hands is beyond me, but hey, some of the games are fun.
I stood in front of the guess-your-speed baseball game and thought to myself, hey, I could do that! After all, I played baseball my entire life, how hard could it be? The country boys with their wide-eyed girlfriends were taking turns making elaborate, herky-jerky throws to the red painted box 15 feet away while a morbidly obese carny smoking a skinny cigarette and holding a radar gun in one hand and a 64 oz Big Gulp (for when you absolutely, positively have to consume four pounds of pop) in the other took their money and looked otherwise wall-eyed at the target. Two dollars for three throws; two warmup throws and a third that you had to guess the speed. Time and again, it went 54 mph, 54 mph, 55 mph -- fail. Ha, I thought, I can do better than these high schoolers - after all, I was captain of the famed Academy of Holy Angels varsity boys baseball team of 2004 (see preface).
So when I came back to the game with my group of friends, the gaggle of teens had moved on to greener pastures (probably the goldfish toss) and the fat carny and his carny friends were standing in a circle smoking and chatting. Slow night, apparently. I gave him my $2 and loosened up my arm to hurl a smoking fastball probably straight through the plastic banner but 15 feet away. The game was set up like a 3-walled cage, with stuffed animal prizes hanging from the ceiling about 10 feet above the ground. In my head I was already picking out my prize. Surely I would not fail. I couldn't.
I did. Epically.
My day thus far had, as I mentioned, consisted of attempting to wakeboard. My drag-friendly body couldn't get out of the water and for twenty minutes, the effort of strained lurching through the water, the wake frothy yellow, my face grotesquely expressed and red, meant my forearms were shot. I could hardly open a can (a situation upgraded to crisis level for the weekend's necessary activities). A moment of temporary forgetfulness or rather twentysomething invincibility/masculinity overtook me as I gripped the worn baseball in that familiar way, ready to fire.
A friend's flash lit up the scene -- me in a modified full-windup, my law school sweatshirt casually (of course) rolled up to my elbows, the carny smoking a cig/drinking Mountain Dew/holding the radar gun/staring off into space, my friends watching off to the side, the high schoolers suddenly all around me. It was all going so well until I felt nothing when I should've felt the ball being released from my fingers. I realized, to my utter mortification, that my hand had involuntarily released the ball when it was still by my ear, thanks to my useless forearms. The ball thankfully stayed in the game pen, but just barely. It hit a stuffed monkey. That got the carny's attention.
"You killed the monkeeee!!! Hehehe" [said through pursed, sugary, tobacco-y lips]
I looked at my hand, the traitor, like golfers look at their malfunctioning putter after missing a tap-in. I couldn't believe it. One sheepish grin and a shrug later and it was time to throw another ball -- technically still my first since my errant toss was apparently out of the radar's range. Suddenly mindful of my physical inadequacies, I took it more slowly this time and managed to hit the very top of the banner, still out of range for the radar. The carny was still loving it and his friends had joined in.
I thankfully got the last three throws within radar range and, needless to say, did not win a stuffed animal. I did, however, win the prize of having the carny take down the stuffed monkey I hit and proceed to heckle me as I walked away casually still (of course), but with some urgency into the cacophony of sounds, gaudy lighting, and questionable smells that is the Sawyer, Wisconsin County Fair.
Sometimes it takes a carny to put you back properly in your place.
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